Thank you for the musings

Wasn't that the name of an ABBA song? No? Ah well.

Anyway thanks indeed for the musings about the previous posting about the jar of cock rub. I was up at the house again tonight and it has moved from the kitchen table to the top of the fridge-freezer. Winston reckons this might be dangerous. You're right, what with it being uncannily similar to a travel-sized jar of Nutella. Yuk. But not as yuk as wine coming out the nostrils. Hope it wasn't a vintage bottle of Blue Nun!

Anyway I was tempted to ask about it but decided against doing so. Either way me and the mother were off to the electrical store, yes the same one where I worked for 8 years as a child labourer/teen worker. The mother was buying a tumble drier because the old one was crocked.

Nowadays you can bring and old appliance back and they have to take it in for recycling. When I pulled it out from under the kitchen counter it was manky. Enough about that. Mission accomplished. New drier at home in the kitchen. Old drier on it's way to the electrical equivalent of Bovine University.

So I was in the shop in work today and noticed the headline on the Sun newspaper. It said:

We are all sex mad!

Ireland is a nation of randy bed-hoppers.

I examined this closely and apparently, according to a "red-hot survey", Irish people are all completely sex mad.

Granted there wasn't much sign of this madness at that time of day but presumably the good people of Ireland all head home and tear off their clothes as soon as they get through the hall door.

How on earth do they survey this stuff.

"Excuse me" (to person walking on Grafton Street at 3 o'clock in the afternoon).

"We're conducting a survey about Irish people. Can I just ask you if you are a randy bed-hopper?".

"You are? OK, I'll put you down as a yes so."

Now I know this would go some way to explaining the jar of cock rub but I have to say that my sources inside the family tell me that this is in fact a remnant of a stag weekend. I should add that another remnant of such a weekend, a dashing red pair of "love cuffs" (also from Ann Summers) also does the rounds in my mother's house and is regularly offered to the grandchildren to "play with".

Yeah. I can hear it now. What kind of godforsaken place is that house. It's not your usual mix of paraphenalia but what the heck.