Love Doll

Everard- "The nearest I ever got to having a girlfreind was a woman I saw for some five years , she told me she was in the WRENS but unfortunately she no longer had her uniform."

Everard works as a computer technician. He has lived alone for much of his life-- this is on TV right now (Guys and Dolls).

"Although there are plenty of women around and some are very attractive I have my real woman at home and she keeps me going."

Everards' real women is a £4000 rubber and laytex doll with interchangable tongues (and apparently faces).

Everard has an insatiable appetite for women of different types. He has Lauren and Rebecca. He dresses them in diffierent outfits and takes pictures of them and puts them in an album. It gives him a family history. Everard takes them out on trips in his car. They picnic at the beach. She watches while he hang-glides (yes-really!). Everard then shows us the room his mother used to sleep in before she went to the nursing home. He keeps it as it was for the memories really. He keeps her clock going and her watch wound. Mums' bin has a note that says put nothing in it and do not empty it. Everard thinks his mum would prefer that he had the dolls rather than no female company at-all.

Perhaps Everard's mum prefers the dolls to real human company.

Everard makes and paints model aeroplanes (generally war planes) which hang from strings around his house.

Everard lives in your street.

The american equivalent of Everard has a gun collection. His mother bought him a claymore (Sword) for Chirstmas. He likes his doll because she will never give him a disease. The sex is good but the peace of mind is even better. Gordon suspends his girls (yes, he has two as well) from a chain above his bed.

Gordon, fortunately is 2000 miles away.

Desolation

Many bloggers out there may appreciate the opportunity to spend their days on a desert island, writing, wandering and roaming but then again poor old Sagar.

How would you live with yourself, transported from the heavenly paradise that is war torn Iraq to the inhospitable South Pacific, with only care free islanders and Australian Government officials to keep you company.

If, upon leaving Iraq I had been given a choice of Australia, rainy old UK or an underpopulated south pacific island guess which I would have plumped for. I guess being sent there instead of choosing it as an option makes the difference, as does being unable to leave to go anywhere else, but hey the sun is in the sky and the fish are in the sea.....

Neighbours

Neighbours- No not Kylie and Jason the real ones, the people over the fence. We all have them and many of us live in conflict with them. Don't. Its not worth it. Some of the disputes involving rotten chickens, hedge trimmers and shotguns get to a stage where committal of both sides is required to ease the situation.

To some extent you can't really choose who you live next to. One would think that with houses of similar size and price etc that neighbourhoods would be homogenous paradises of like minded people but no, it never works out like that.

You do still have to live next door however and tolerance, a great word not widely understood is required!

I am probably a crap neighbour, I drive my cars across my neighbours verges, have several small but imensely powerfull loud-speakers called children, have equipped them with a trampoline, bikes and footballs, I stumble home in the middle of the night kicking over milk-bottles or falling out of taxi's and generally create a nuisance in the street. The dog chases their cats and barks at their visitors.

It is however a freindly street, many of the houses are filled with similar families, some have hundreds of cars, others teenage sons with loud stereos, and many with totally different life-styles, the elderly couple opposite (ambulances have been an issue!) the foster care parents three doors down and their naked streaking charges (and his dog that craps on our lawn every night); Barry and Gary next door with their romanesque statuary (definately with no children); the taxi driver opposite and his car sales business; the teenage daughters down the road and their persistent trail of dogged suitors in super stylish Peugeots (is that Peugits) roaring away through day and night; the builder next door with his vans, trucks and plant in the front garden and the perennial extension with skips, materials and sand permanently outside the house on the end.

We do all grumble about each other but a couple of times a year we get together and get bladdered and that tends to sort it all out. No judgements, some gentle jibing about our complaints and then back to normal.

Tolerance. Hating the neighbours must be so time consuming, frustrating and ultimately depressing. Open warfare with them would build into daily pressure and conflict and ultimatley anger. Anger is bad. So relax, cut tehm some slack, invite them in for a drink at Christmas, feed their dog in the holidays. Enjoy, laught at their stupidity, cringe at their taste, but never let them know.

Not knowing th eneighbours is sometimes worse than disliking them . Once you know them you can measure how much you dislike them, it wont be so bad.

Finally, if you know them and only slightly despise them, then when everything goes tits up and you need someone to wait in for th ewashing machine man or the wine delivery you wont be embarrassed to ask them and the advantages of our much vaunted communities (rose tinted fifties bullshit) come sback, even to suburban semi's and blocks of town houses.