Posts Tagged ‘Danube’

Get ‘Rock-hard’

March 6, 2015
Our kitchen of 'give and take'

Our kitchen of ‘give and take’

If you thought the road to getting old is easy and paved with gold, think again. Some time ago I wrote an article about getting old and even praised some of the benefits often overlooked in magazines for the ‘senior.’

Many of the senior magazines seem to feel it their duty in pointing out, ad boring infinitum, that old age needs not result in a soft age and that a slackening off on a firm ‘useful’ erection need not be a foregone conclusion. As if!

Ever since I wrote this article I have been getting spam e-mails exhorting me to take tablets for the correction of any possibility of erectile wilting. ( how would they know?) This is while women line up trying to make the best of things with face peels or wrinkle free necks. Men’s only thought is to their holy dick (penis). Why is it assumed that all an ageing man ever wants is to be ‘rock-hard?’

I have lifted my security from medium to strong on my computer but as I get up each morning, (soft as eider-down) and make my weary way to the computer, I have this melancholic task of deleting those endless posts that vary from; ‘she will scream for more’, to ‘you will last like a teenager again’, for ‘swell with size and confidence, to the grand finale of ‘get rock hard’. All they want is to sell pills.

Is that what it is all about? Is that what has driven me? How sad a comment on men. What a dreadful plight, blight and burden on men. Just when I have arrived at an age to contemplate going to a travel night with video-slides of ‘trip down the Danube’, I still keep getting those spams. I am actually in the market for ‘reduction pills’ or ‘moving gaze above navel’ potions, see the ‘true opposite sex’ tablets with ‘and how to ‘engage in nice conversation with women’ unguents.

Surely, we deserve to be left alone and calmly allowed to age, enjoy a stroll around the park, sit on a bench, observe the glint in crow’s eye, the black raven’s cry and quack of ducks. Give men a break. Some deserve it.

“Could it be that advancing age is blessed with well hidden benefits of not having to be driven by those ridiculous up and downs, up and downs again? It is not as if, afterwards, one ends up in Kalgoorlie, back of the black stump or Vienna. No, we are still is in the same spot and our partner will soon be snoring, a bit tired and the ‘Rock hard’ Viagra now is calling for a revenge but will settle for a solid bout of thirty six hours of indigestion.”

The Haircut.

November 2, 2014
our 3 grandsons

our 3 grandsons

The most avoided event for young boys and perhaps girls as well was the looming of the haircut. That’s why I cannot remember this ever happening when I was very young. I am sure it was done and most likely by my mother or perhaps even dad. There were vague references to a terracotta flower pot being used to snip around the perimeter after it was placed on the hapless victim. Money was scarce and seen as a waste spending it on kid’s hair.

Adults would go to a barber and a women’s hairdo were referred to in French as in coiffure or bouffant to give it a special and heightened sense of feminine importance. With men it would be a shave and a cut. A flick knife with a frighteningly long blade would be sharpened in front of the victim on a leather belt before the stubble or beard would be tackled. You would not want to have a violent disagreement with the barber and politically savvy positions would be taken at all times. The barber would politely ask ‘brush good and warm today, Sir?’ The reply was always a mumbled, ‘yes, very nice and warm.’ The brush would be soaped up in warm water and rubbed around the palm of the barber’s hand or a special dish to get a nice lather, not too sloppy nor too firm. There were skills involved that seem to have got lost.

However, my last haircut a few days ago, those lost skills were re-discovered. I had held off as long as possible but after Helvi’s remark I looked like a Hottentot, I felt I should really get a cut, especially as our fiftieth marital milestone had been reached. I decided to try a new barber shop. It looked rather snazzy and had a computerised system with special rewards for loyal customers. Now-a-days, any business has to have some gimmick and what more gimmicky than having some connection with the electronic world, especially a computer. I punched in my name and phone number. Out came a ticket with a number and I sat down waiting for my turn.

I was immediately struck by the performance of one of the cutters. He was hair cutting enthusiasm incorporated. He had a dark complexion and with a full head of pitch black hair, always a major plus in my opinion. I mean a bald hairdresser doesn’t quite cut the mustard in the world of hair. I don’t know why; perhaps an odd prejudice on my part?

He displayed a barber agility I had never seen before except perhaps in the world of gymnastics or even ballet. He danced and jigged around the man he was haircutting. The amazing part was that the customer did not have much hair to cut. He was an elderly gentleman of slim proportions with the only hair available at the back of his head creeping towards the lower part of his neck. Even so, the hairdresser was clicking his scissors as if approaching a fully fleeced Merino. The customer’s wife was sitting next to me, giving gentle instruction to this dancing and swiftly darting about hairdresser who, in full flight, was giving every strand of his remaining hair full and undivided attention.

photo Gerard

I could not wait for him to do my hair. I was fully rewarded. He was overjoyed to work on my still fully bouffant head of hair and soon got in his stride. Fever pitch would be an understatement. It turned out his darkness was not Spanish but originated from a Philippine mother and Australian father. He learned his considerable skills on the job and did not go to a technical college. Towards the end he rubbed some fragrant pomade between his hands which he did by holding them above my head. I felt I was getting some kind of laying of hands, it was almost religious. He looked at my head and turned it a bit here and a bit there, almost like an architect contemplating a new opera house on the banks of the Danube at Bratislava. He finally rubbed it on my hair, gave a sigh of utter satisfaction and was finished. I must say it was the best haircut I ever enjoyed.

An improvement on the terracotta job of so many years ago.

Be gentle:photoselfie 2

A more provocative one. I am the one at the front.

Brkon’s salvation by his Nana in the Cow shed.

October 16, 2014

Ukrainian house

On the banks of the brooding Danube, Brkon was holding the condom wrapped message pondering over its meaning. What was its significance? In his alcohol addled brain he fought desperately for an understanding and the possible profoundness of its message. The streets, back alleys and loose women with reckless imbibing the plum slivovitz had taken their toll. He was overwhelmed by sadness and re-read the message ‘breed Leghorns’ over and over again. Bratislava’s morning lights were still twinkling in the distance. The distant roar of the casino’s ribaldry now dying out.

His only connection to Leghorns chickens was his beloved Nana who had some of those in her backyard on the outskirts of town. As our readers might remember, she also supplemented her meagre income from distilling slivovitz at the back of the cow-shed. In winter the shed held four cows which made her get up each morning at 4 am to milk. The milk she sold to the co-op which in return gave her butter, cheese and whey. It was a hard but simple life. Her husband had died many years ago after having wandered inebriated into the frozen forest. Even so, she missed him. He was good at splitting firewood for winter. He was found in spring, an empty bottle of slivovitz in his gnarled hand defiantly sticking up through the thawing snow like a signpost asking a forgotten God for some redemption.

Brkon’s thoughts dwelled on the good times he enjoyed as a child with his Nana. He especially remembered the brightly orange yoked Leghorn eggs she fed him as a child. He was still innocent and as pure as her lovely whey and curds. How did the innocence travel to the debauched without him knowing? Tears were now streaming down Brkon’s face. She held a special place in his heart.

He stirred himself into clambering up the Danube’s embankment and decided to visit her. The sun had broken through a difficult dawn but was now bathing the willows in gold and yellow. He made his way to her humble wooden cottage and noticed she had plugged the weathered logs with moss and a neat well stacked supply of fire-wood near the brightly red painted door. His spirit lifted already. She was overjoyed to see him, put on the coffee as she had done each time on his infrequent visits.

He confided to his Nana all that troubled him and she understood. “You are welcome here,” she said. “You can milk the cows, split the firewood and help stoke my ripe plums and watch the dripping results into bottles, cork them and make sure the money comes in.” “Deal with those customers owing me.” His Nana was no fool. You can sleep with cows and there is a comfy stead with straw mattress, you’ll be warm.” “You have slept there before, remember?” Also remember, “one sip and you are out.”

And that’s how Brkon became again, regained the sweetness of life. The Leghorns keeping him and the cows company. Even though he was within earshot of the bubbling tempting liquid. Never a drop again. He often wondered about his Nana making a bit of an earner from a liquid so beloved but also so bedevilled to many. He knew the answer! He withstood the agony of temptation year in and year out. He buried his beloved Nana behind the cow-shed when old age finally won out. She was a month over ninety four.

The leghorns kept on pecking.

Brkon too lived a life.