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REVOLUTION KITE MAKING

 

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STORIES BY HATTYMENDER  

STORIES BY HELEN WORRALL

 

STORIES  AND EBAY SALES

1     AN OLD LAND ROVER
2     EBAY
3     SELLING AN OLD LAND ROVER  
4     SELLING WHEELS AND TYRES
5     A NEW JOB AT THE FUNERAL PARLOUR
6     SELLING VIDEO CAMERA
7     MY BIRTHDAY TODAY
8     WITCHERY PART ONE
9     SELLING CANVAS HOOD
10   WITCHERY PART TWO
11   SELLING CARAVAN HITCHDRIVE 
12   WITCHERY PART THREE
13   SELLING RATCHET STRAPS  
14   WITCHERY PART FOUR
15   SELLING GOAL POSTS  
16   WITCHERY PART FIVE
17   SELLING A HI VIZ COAT
18   WITCHERY PART SIX

19   SELLING 3 TONNES OF CLAY    
2O  WITCHERY PART SEVEN
21   SELLING A WHEEL CLAMP
22   SHOPPING AND THE HESITANT DOORS
23   SELLING AN OLD PAIR OF BOOTS

24   THE REAL DE VINCI CODE

25   MY GUITAR AND AMP

26   SELLING MOTORBIKE PANNIERS

27   HALLOWEEN

28 SELLING A HIGHWAY CODE

29 ZEN AND THE ART OF  LAND ROVER MAINTENANCE

30  SELLING A CIGARETTE LIGHTER AND A TRIP TO SCOTLAND

31  CHRISTMAS LIGHT RAGE

32  METAMORPHOSIS

33 SELLING AN AMBER BEACON

34 THE UNIVERSE IS A  BIG PLACE

35 SELLING A  BLOW LAMP

36 SELLING BOOTS UPDATE

37 SELLING A  TORCH

38 SELLING A MOTORBIKE JACKET

39 SELLING A POWER JUICER

40 SELLING A HORSE WHIP

41 THE BOAT

42 SELLING LAND ROVER SIDE STEPS

43 SELLING A  TOW / RECOVERY CHAIN

44 SELLING LAND ROVER BULL BARS

45 SELLING THE FOGGYDAVE CARRIER BAG

46 CARAVAN RAGE OR AGINCOURT DEUXIEME PARTIE

 

 

 

 

  STORY 3  SELLING AN OLD LANDROVER ON EBAY 

A nice tidy motor a Landrover Stage1 V8 3.5litre

 

The advert for the Land rover was placed on Ebay and the description was, I thought accurate, but I had described the tyres wrongly, a fact that some eagle eyed bidder had spotted and was eager to tell me about.

So I replied and this is where the story really starts.

 In answer to your question on why the mistake was made

I got this wrong because both my wife and I have bad eyesight, and being so poor can only afford one pair of spectacles between us. We used to have one lens each with a patch over the other eye. This arrangement worked well, but one day our parrot settled on the wife’s shoulder and with the eye patch, lank hair, six days growth of beard, wooden leg, and her perspiration problem, my malodious one looked uncannily like that the old time actor Robert Newton, who played Long John Silver in Treasure Island. I found this so disturbing and frightening, (I shiver at the thought of it to this day), that I insisted that we now wear glasses as they should normally be worn, two lenses in the same frame, but, share the glasses on a weekly basis. This brings me to the reason for the mistake; it was her turn to wear them this week. Although after so many years of marriage, the lank hair and stubble, (I talk here of the wife) I let her wear them most of the time, as Magoo like I can look at the wall when I speak to her and she to me, which I find is far less depressing. I do apologise for the mistake and having put the glasses on I now find there are 4 Challenger Invader tyres and one Goodrich. They are 31X 10,5 R15 on colour matched wheels and have approx 7mm tread. The problem with them is they are delaminating on the inner wall and are borderline for the MOT. I MOT with the standard wheels and tyres 750 X 16 Lassa, and run around daily on the Challengers as they give a far better ride. The choice is yours. (All very technical I must say).

Note added to the listing on Ebay

A bonus for the lucky winner of the auction, if wanted, is my treasured collection of approx 3 years worth of Land Rover/4x4 magazines. My wife insists they must go, to reinforce her argument she uses the syllable hitting technique beloved of old time jailers i.e. YOU whack WILL whack GET whack RID whack OF whack THOSE whack MAGA whack ZINES whack whack) it would not be so bad but she uses her wooden leg to hit me with. I will though have the last laugh as one years worth of magazines is holding up a corner of the bed. My wife who smokes and does other obnoxious things in the boudoir, tapped out her still burning Tibetan dung pipe on her wooden leg, which smouldered and caught fire. In a fit of temper she ripped the bedpost off, whittled it down with her teeth and made another.  She says the magazines can be used as ballast in the Land rover. (I know whom I would like to use as ballast, preferably in the Titanic).

 

                    

Note 2 added: to listing on Ebay

 Someone has asked and you may be little curios as to why my wife has a wooden leg. She was born on the now lost island of Sarekian, which was or is a volcanic cone (think of a dunce’s cap or one of those pointy bra things worn by female artistes) The island sat alone in the middle of the sea. There was not a single flat surface and everything sloped either down towards the sea, or up to the pointy bit at the top.  So over the years, with interbreeding and the plentiful supply of long hair black sheep for those dark winter nights, the islanders, so that they may stand upright, developed one leg shorter than the other. This has always been the right leg on females and the left leg on males. This meant that to stay upright the males went anti

                                                 

                                           

                                                   

     Sarekian wreathed in smoke during a dung

        pipe smoking competition

 

 

     

  

            Sarekian as I first saw it

clockwise and the females clockwise around the island, (still with me, good). Therefore, one sex was always facing the other. (This is important in lots of ways that with their deviant practices I will not go into just yet, but will wait until after the nine pm watershed). My wife with her stubble and hairy arms etc is a bit, shall we say, sexually intermediate, and although female she had the left leg shorter as the males did. This meant that she never met any men, and as she was always facing the wrong way could not indulge in the many erotic island practices. This disparity also caused much chaos at the local dances, hopping competitions, and sheep skudging championships.     

Sheep Skudging is the sport of kings. A pair of sheep chosen for their sturdy legs and sexual prowess are strapped roller blade style to each foot. At the command they are whipped to a frenzy and hurtle barely in control around the island. (They also have two legs shorter than the other). They go round the island on an upwardly sloping spiral course which eventually takes them to the summit. The winner’s sheep are then impaled on the pointy bit at the top and a great feast is had. These races are electrifying. Not electric as in exciting, but more in the sense of 60000 volts applied to the sheep’s posterior by means of a large cattle prod, this gives a certain impetus and direction. The art is to “energise” each sheep evenly to make them both go faster; or more on one than the other to steer. Applied wrongly you hurtle out of control down the hill to watery oblivion, or straight to the top, which attracts instant disqualification and possible demotion. (De motion is a cork up the backside. This plugging coupled with the robust digestive system of the islanders gives rise to much internal pressure and great pain ensues. This gives a whole new meaning to the term “I’m filling up” when tears come to their eyes).

 

 SHEEP SKUDGING THE SPORT OF KINGS

                                                                         

 

A question from a reader “How did I meet my wife”

Thankyou for asking kind sir although the rememberance is painful. I happened to land on Sarekian when on one of my many sea voyages, and took pity on the poor defenceless mite, who because of her body hair I took to be a stray island sheep, and thought it may be companionship on those long lonely nights at sea. (Whatever floats your boat is what I say). Imagine my horror at finding out the truth that indeed she was (to put it very loosely) one of us. However, those were happy days. I used to sail with the wind on the quarter so that the deck would heel over, and she would feel at home standing upright, unmoving on the sloping foredeck. Her bell tent of a dress made for a fine spinnaker sail. I kept her as a figure head on the prow of the boat for many years. (This accounts for the salt encrustations on her chin and the barnacles on the chest.) Then one day doing the honourable thing I made her my wife AND LIFES JUST GONE DOWNHILL FROM THERE.

 Note 3 added to listing

Questions, questions, questions yet another, “Is my wife an ogre and as ugly as I make her out to be”? Wait while I put my white stick down. I would say she has more of a craggy beauty; the sort of beauty you see on a Lakeland fell, in a Scottish glen, or down the coalmine. She has a face that has been not unkindly, sculptured by the gentle rain the soft breezes, the occasional lightning strike, and the odd tornado. She has had a hard life and this shows itself in her features. I often remember the times when I parked my first Land rover whose hand brake was more ineffective than usual on a hill, and she would place her head under the wheel to act as a chock. Ah what loyalty!! The tyre indentations on her cheeks are still visible despite the use of forty-grit sandpaper trying to erase them. Below is a short explanation of Chocking.

 A diploma in Chokology is something to be proud of, to frame, put on the mantle piece and admire. In its highest art form what you or I would see as a rather intricate arrangement of matchsticks in front of a rock teetering on the edge of a precipice; would in fact be a chock, the only thing stopping the monolith from rolling down hill and crushing all before it. There is a grand master who uses only spiders webs tying the object down, some purists say that this is “holding” not chocking. Holding as opposed to chocking is using the force of equilibrium. Imagine two people on a sloping roof each on the opposite side roped together, if one side walked up the roof the rope would slacken on the other side, and the opposite person would go down. When applied to the island in the past, “holding” involved being mated at birth to a person on the other side of the island whom you were then tied to by a rope. This passed over an intricate unidirectional pulley system at the summit. The bonding lasted for life, so if one put more weight on than the other he would slowly go downhill whilst the opposite one would rise. During the course of evolution the need for holding decreased. Holding also caused regular mass extinctions, as one side tiring of being subject to the other side’s whims and diets would tie boulders of equivalent weight, and go for a few years vacation to a neighbouring island. On their return having gained or lost weight they would re-attach themselves to the opposite partner, the outcome invariably meant that the heavier party plummeted into the sea, and the lighter party was dragged screaming to the summit.

My wife can often be found scrying; this involves throwing the bones, rune stones or reading the cats entrails. She used to read hen’s entrails but it got rather expensive and messy, therefore we had a zip fitted to the stomach of our cat, (a sort of cat flap). So that when she needs to scry she just unzips, pokes about for a bit, and reads the convolutions of the tubes. I would at this time like to warn the eventual winner of this auction that when you come to collect, DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT, look into my wife’s eyes directly. (This is rather difficult any way because they are so widely spaced and skewed that to see them both without flicking your gaze is very difficult.) When I say her eyes I mean the bloodshot eye, her scrying eye, this is the one she takes out occasionally to scrape and polish, the all seeing eye, the evil one. You have been warned.                           

Note 4 added to listing

Well today’s the day. I sit here on the porch listening to the moaning of the wind and watching the occasional tumbleweed go rolling by. When I should be hearing the clatter of keyboards, I hear only the deafening roar of silence. Four bids and one of those changed their mind. But on a more positive note, or not, depending whether you are standing downwind. As the auction progresses my wife is getting excited, this means she perspires more as her pulse rate increases, and increased pulse rate as we know can lead to heart failure. Though my wife built like an Ox, and looking like one from the rear view, will no doubt confound medical science and live to be a 100 years old. My beloved has been studied by many doctors and anthropologists who, on first meeting her were jumping up and down mentioning something about a link, a missing link, and Neanderthal where ever that is. It sounds like a lost Norwegian golfcourse.         

 Oh no, she has now come up with the idea of having an auction party. This is a bit like a new years eve party. But instead of listening to Big Ben strike in the new year on the old valve radio, we all sit around the computer screen waiting until the auction ends. Then let off those party popper things, drinking bubbly getting merry and having se!!!! .No lets not go there, I shudder just at the mention of the word; it’s put me right off my breakfast.

 The Landrover sold to a person from Amsterdam who flew into East Midlands Airport. He then drove the twenty six year old V8 Landover up to Hull and on to Holland, without ever having seen the motor before. I found this rather worrying. This person had put so much faith in my honesty that what I was selling was fit for purpose. I would not have taken it more that twenty miles away from home for fear of malfunctions. Also at ten mpg the cost must have been impressive to say the least. I sold a Twenty five year old motorbike a few months back to a man from Lochness. (Who on seeing my wife remarked on how familiar she looked, and that he might have seen her before swimming in the Loch. My dearest thought he was talking of mermaids, I did not have the heart to put her right as she looked so pleased). Now this was an old bike costing, with many spares, which his mate took in his estate car, £300. To pick up a bike so old and expect it to go 400 miles in one trip was a great leap of faith, but it did it and did not miss a beat, and here is me thinking it was ready for the knackers yard. Oh ye of little faith.

I must say at this time I find telling this tale very therapeutic and cathartic. (I seem to be getting bad case ic,s again). They say a trouble shared is a trouble halved, although just half is a great burden. I think also that upon learning of my life, its trials and tribulations, the reader may, by weighing his troubles with mine find his load lighter by comparison. One would hope this makes the reader feel more blessed than I, and consequently feel uplifted and optimistic. So the story continues.

Copyright © David B Forrester 2008

edited 08 2010