The wall

No, not pink floyd***. This wall:

It's an ordinary looking wall about a mile away from my house. But it has a dark secret that means it appears in the local paper every 5 years or so. 'Cos what happens is some cute kiddie or drunken fool climbs over the wall, to say hello trees, and perhaps to water them.

If you look over the wall you see this:

Have you worked out what the problem is yet? (walk left a bit)

Ah.. it could be something to do with the 40 foot vertical drop if you walk more than a yard away from the wall? Yes indeedy.

This wall once had a part in my life.
No, I wasn't one of the people who has appeared in the chronicle after going wheeeee! splat! and then nearly dying from hypothermia while you wait for someone to realise where the argh help! noises are coming from.

Nope, this wall was important, 'cos one day I looked over it. There, hidden in plain sight was a carrier bag. A carrier bag full of rather good tins of beer. As a youth this was quite the Brucie bonus, and was snaffled poste haste. If I was a certain blogger it would be round this point I'd add in "then I was sick ina hedge", but I'm not, and wasn't.

I'm also not actually that sorry at all if I stole your beers. Cheers!

*** I had that there Idiot Girl in my car recently. My cd player had "dark side of the moon" playing. I don't know if you'll have heard of it, it's a very obscure record by a band no one has really heard of. So of course it's totally understandable that she would say "Is this that war of the worlds shit again?"

I confess: bongo translation

~Insert wibbly lines as we go back to secondary school~

Back then C'riz was a swot. So I got put in the group that was learning both French and Spanish at the same time, while most people just got landed with learning how to ask for a croque monsieur.

One of the group of mates I used to hang around on street corners with had the (mis)fortune of having his dad do a runner one night leaving everything behind. Everything. Including, it turned out a collection of gentleman's literature brought back from Torremolinos. He shortly had a fine business running based on his new bongo mags.

Then, one dark night I was asked if I would like to perhaps have a look, free of charge. Oh, go on then, after all, I'm sure they are full of artistic poses in the best possible taste. Underneath the dim orange glow of a street light the collection is examined. This is before the days of teh interweb, so no midgets, donkeys, golden showers or fisting, but by eck, there was everything else. If it could be inserted in an orifice, it was. For someone who had previously only seen a razzle stack it was quite the eye opener.

Er, lads, why do you need me? 'Cos there was speech balloons on all the filth. Even the ones where the lady in question clearly had her mouth very full. It was like a hardcore version of the beano. And they wanted translations...

Do I
a) tell them school Spanish is ideal if you would like to buy train tickets and do shopping?
or
b) make it up as I go along?

I just may have gone for b).
Sorry....