Teaspoon

"Dad, chuck me the box of tissues beside your chair."

I do as requested and add, "Oh look, there's a teaspoon as well."
I don't recognize it.

"That's mine!" exclaims Surfer Dude, "Chuck it over here."

"You need it right now?" I say incredulously.

After a short pause to think, he adds, "Yes."

"So I'm guessing, for weeks now, you've been emptying your washing up bowl and not found a teaspoon at the bottom, and you desperately miss it."

I knew she wanted me!!

I think Kate Beckinsale is stalking me.

Dance Powder

"What do you mean 'Dance Powder'. What is it's proper name?"

She stops manipulating the white powder on her makeup mirror and swings her hair out of her face as she turns to look at me.

"Amphetamine."

"amphetamine is highly addictive!" I advise.

15 minutes later she's getting ready to go out. She dumps her makeup bag beside the fire hearth and brings a full length mirror into the room.

"Jesus Christ! How much 'Dance Powder' did you buy?"

2 Missed Calls

You have 2 missed calls from Trevor Truelove.

"Hi Trevor, what's up?"

"Hi Tickers, what happened last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Christmas piss up, what happened in the end?"

After a short pause to think I reply, "Nothing, We ended up at Flares. You were drunk. We went home. Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering why I woke up this morning with a black eye and a split lip."

Wrapping Presents

"I hate wrapping presents, It's so boring."

Little Miss looks down at me from her vantage point on the computer chair. MSN messenger and Myspace.com have held her complete attention for the last 15 minutes.

"Did you just wrap a pair of leopard print shoes?"

"Yes."

"Daaaad." she says, shaking her head in dismay, "They were the shoes I came here in."

I pass the package to her, "Merry Christmas."

Christmas Shopping.

Wandering through Cwmbran shopping mall with Little Miss, I see a tall portly gentleman. His hair is long, wavy and snow white, matching his impressively long beard. He's dressed in a manner one might expect from Johnny Cash.

I nudge little miss and exclaim, "Oh look, the anti-Santa."

Christmas Doo.

I'm at the bar waiting to be served when a young lady in some sort of animal suit joins me.

"Excuse me for asking, I'm trying to work out if you're a bunny of a cat?"

"I'm supposed to be a sheep."

"Ahh," I say in instant recognition, "I'm from the valleys, so that may explain why I find you strangely attractive."

Christmas Spirit.

Little Miss is at her best when she has a new challenging project. I ask her to spray snow the front room window with the words,

Santa is a house breaking hoodie.

She knows it has to be written back wards and evenly. As I anticipate, she does an outstanding job.
A couple of weeks later, my landladies, teenage daughter tells me her school friends think it's 'Wicked!'.

Eventually, I get an anonymous but polite note through my letter box on the lines of, "It would be appreciated if you'd clean your front window as some of the locals with younger children feel it may be upsetting to them."

After some thought, I conclude that they may have a point and clean it. That wasn't my first reaction.

Abe Repeat Has a Mischievous Side.

Mrs Roberts felt immediate annoyance when she heard the heavy rapping sound on her conservative roof. In her hurry to get to the scours of the annoyance, she stumbled over the back door step, falling face first into the back yard. She stood up, dusting herself off and checking for damage. Check complete, she came face to face with Abe, the village idiot, who lived next door.
Abe stood behind the garden fence, erect as a sentry, with a huge grin on his face, supporting a ten foot long, steel, clothes prop*. The prop was long enough to reach Mrs Roberts conservatory.

"It wasn't me that rapped on your conservative roof Mrs Roberts." he quickly explained in his defense.

"Why would you say that Abe, I didn't even mention what I was annoyed about?"

Abe's grin remained unchainged. He was thinking fast.

"If I catch you tapping that pole against my windows again, there'll be trouble!"

She indicates to the pole with a sharp nod of her head.
Abe follows her eyes and looks at the prop standing vertically beside him.
Then, as if he'd suddenly noticed it was infested with ants, he thrusts it to the ground.

*Clothes prop = A long device usually cleft at one end designed to lift a clothes drying line away from the ground and up into faster moving air.

I Swing Both Ways.....Apparently.

Since I gave up smoking, drink has started to become a problem. Not in it's self. As long as I can afford it and still get to work, I don't see anything's wrong. It's the tendency I have, to talk total bollocks and email when pissed, that's the problem. Sunday mornings are the worst. I check out my 'sent items'. Cringe at some of the things I've typed. Sometimes I realise I've not only written total tosh but I've then sent it to the wrong person.
I ought to have a breathalyzer fitted to the computer. Can't log on unless the alcohol level is safe.

Saturday night. I've promised to take a lady home. Even though I didn't know she was moving on to a different pub, I still keep it. It's an unusually warm for a wet winters night and I don't mind. The uphill wander is pleasant.

"....but you sometimes like having sex with men right?" She muses on the way home.

This took me a little by surprise.

"No." I said. It was probably time I clarified things. Whilst I enjoy sexual ambiguity, I ought to explain to people I choose to hang out with.
"Even if the entire female population of the planed evaporated, I wouldn't have sex with men."
I'm guessing some rumor is circulating the village. It may have been fueled by my regularly answering the question,

"Are you gay?" with a flirtatious flick of the eyebrows and the reply, "I might be."

My Englishness is often interpreted in Wales as camp.

Later back with the girls at my local, Nutty, the lady next to me asks, ".....but you sometimes like having sex with men right?"

Twice in one night and with identical wording. Something going on. I put her right and resolve to investigate in the morning.

Sunday morning looking through the sent items, there is one to Nutty in which I sign off,

'Tickersoid the poof.'