Hah!!! It's alive again!!!
For future reference: Ctrl + f5 to clear cache and magically restore wysiwyg!
Why? How? It's a mystery.
Easy when you know. Like swimming in treacle when you don't.
Meanwhile, back at doc 2 be or not .....
Monday, December 04, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
new blog
Couldn't access blog again yesterday. Eventually logged on but couldn't transfer to beta. Sheesh. Decided to evacuate doc to be or not. Toby's new blog is at doc2beornot.blogspot.com where I might try a flashy new template and list my favourite sites of the past year. Or not.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Lucy in a lather
Major huff triggered by my slip of the tongue. Spot the mistake:
Lucy: 'What film do you want to see?'
Me: 'I don't mind.'
She: 'I chose last time. You decide.'
Me: 'There's the new Bond film.'
She: 'Ooh yes! Daniel Craig in those tight shorts!'
Me: 'Or Borat. If you fancy a laugh.'
She: 'Not sure. His humour is a bit cruel sometimes.'
Me: 'The clips I've seen were hilarious. I thought you'd like his liberal agenda.'
She: 'Is that a joke, Toby? Remind me to laugh next time.'
Me, grasping her ticklish midriff: 'It wasn't a joke, Suzy. But I can make you laugh any time I want.'
It took an hour to lure her from the bathroom. Nothing I said could improve her mood. We watched the Bond film in icy silence. We would have watched in silence anyway but the quality of this silence was glacial.
Apologised as best I could. Slow thaw. She tried to maintain her froideur but couldn't hide her happy-shag face as we parted.
I bought her flowers for the first time. Don't know what she likes so I ordered a bunch containing one stem of every flower in the shop. They will probably look hideous. Should be at hers tomorrow. If they don't arrive in my post the next day as mulch, I will consider that a good result.
(Didn't spot the mistake? Must be a bloke.)
FILM REVIEW
Casino Royale - Craig is best Bond since Connery
Bond girls - outstanding
Lucy: 'What film do you want to see?'
Me: 'I don't mind.'
She: 'I chose last time. You decide.'
Me: 'There's the new Bond film.'
She: 'Ooh yes! Daniel Craig in those tight shorts!'
Me: 'Or Borat. If you fancy a laugh.'
She: 'Not sure. His humour is a bit cruel sometimes.'
Me: 'The clips I've seen were hilarious. I thought you'd like his liberal agenda.'
She: 'Is that a joke, Toby? Remind me to laugh next time.'
Me, grasping her ticklish midriff: 'It wasn't a joke, Suzy. But I can make you laugh any time I want.'
It took an hour to lure her from the bathroom. Nothing I said could improve her mood. We watched the Bond film in icy silence. We would have watched in silence anyway but the quality of this silence was glacial.
Apologised as best I could. Slow thaw. She tried to maintain her froideur but couldn't hide her happy-shag face as we parted.
I bought her flowers for the first time. Don't know what she likes so I ordered a bunch containing one stem of every flower in the shop. They will probably look hideous. Should be at hers tomorrow. If they don't arrive in my post the next day as mulch, I will consider that a good result.
(Didn't spot the mistake? Must be a bloke.)
FILM REVIEW
Casino Royale - Craig is best Bond since Connery
Bond girls - outstanding
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
One of those nights
Busy, bolshie punters, short-staffed. Maggie, the Iron Lady pit boss, pressed her breasts against me as usual. I'm not bothered anymore. She has become an amusing diversion on tedious nights. My response varies between cold indifference and sarcastic innuendo, which I suspect she misinterprets as flirting. Why do I think that? Because she does that eyelid batting thing which can be attractive in a younger, prettier female. Maggie's wide-eyed blinking has a vampyric quality. A hungry vampire at that.
She told me about a night when a man died on roulette. It's an indication of the humanity of the average filthy-rich punter. He had a heart attack so massive that he was thrown backwards onto the floor. The other punters just stood looking down at him. The dealer couldn't abandon the chips on her table so she called her inspector who summoned a pit boss. A manager and security guy were quickly on the scene but neither knew how to help the stricken man. While they fussed around him, and with his dead legs still under the table, other punters demanded the dealer 'spin up'.
Don't know of it's a true story but I believe it.
On nights that I go straight home, I usually take a taxi. There is no tube at that hour. If I time it right, I'll try for a bus. This morning I went for the bus. I had to walk briskly through the dark streets. Nobody around except a lone policeman, who stopped me and asked what was in my rucksack. Then I had to show the contents. Then he asked to search my pockets. I didn't want to be obstructive, nothing to hide, so I acquiesced. He asked a lot of questions too. All very amicable. But unpleasant. Strangely invasive having a policeman's hands rummaging through my clothes. Maybe because it was unexpected. At airports or similar, ok. On a dark London street, just him and me, not ok. It's the second time I've been stopped and searched on my way home. Perhaps they were looking for someone who matched my description. Perhaps I have a guilty face.
Then, of course, I missed my bus. I wonder if I can bill the Met for my taxi fare?!
She told me about a night when a man died on roulette. It's an indication of the humanity of the average filthy-rich punter. He had a heart attack so massive that he was thrown backwards onto the floor. The other punters just stood looking down at him. The dealer couldn't abandon the chips on her table so she called her inspector who summoned a pit boss. A manager and security guy were quickly on the scene but neither knew how to help the stricken man. While they fussed around him, and with his dead legs still under the table, other punters demanded the dealer 'spin up'.
Don't know of it's a true story but I believe it.
On nights that I go straight home, I usually take a taxi. There is no tube at that hour. If I time it right, I'll try for a bus. This morning I went for the bus. I had to walk briskly through the dark streets. Nobody around except a lone policeman, who stopped me and asked what was in my rucksack. Then I had to show the contents. Then he asked to search my pockets. I didn't want to be obstructive, nothing to hide, so I acquiesced. He asked a lot of questions too. All very amicable. But unpleasant. Strangely invasive having a policeman's hands rummaging through my clothes. Maybe because it was unexpected. At airports or similar, ok. On a dark London street, just him and me, not ok. It's the second time I've been stopped and searched on my way home. Perhaps they were looking for someone who matched my description. Perhaps I have a guilty face.
Then, of course, I missed my bus. I wonder if I can bill the Met for my taxi fare?!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Penis ache
Break from essay. Food, drink, blog.
If I was female, I would discuss the phenomenon of penis ache with my girl friends but blokes don't do that. Most blokes don't. Most blokes who I know, don't. You'd think male medics would be pragmatic enough to broach such a topic among themselves. Not so.
Ache is not an accurate description. There is no pain. The sensation is more like that of an over-exercised muscle being stretched to its limit; masochistic discomfort.
I first became aware of the phenomenon as a teenager during a mixed sleepover in the presence of bodacious babe who I fancied. Unfortunately, she was wrapped up with a mate. They'd zipped their bags together and were tongue wrestling for hours. It was ok while the chat and jokes swirled around us but when silence fell, it wasn't silent enough for me. Quiet snores and sleep breathing did not hide their smoochy noises and her occasional squeaks.
That erection lasted most of the night. I couldn't sleep, couldn't risk off-loading and couldn't switch off the image of her in ecstasy. Thought my penis would explode. Engorged to bursting point it was. Is there such a thing as a penile haemorrhage? Eventually forced to grit my teeth and toss into a sock. Nobody noticed, but putting on a wet sock in the morning ..... that's another story.
Some time later, me and bodacious babe got together. She was generous with hands in pants action but unwilling to receive same. Frottage was as close as I was permitted which, luckily, was enough to light her fire. Once, my finger strayed inside her knicks. It was the gentlest of touches but it triggered a squeal of pain; a reaction which alarmed me more than her ..... but that's another story.
Anyway, this penile ache thing seems determined not by frequency of shagging but by duration of tumescence. Could it be a build up of lactic acid, as with other muscles? There is a condition of permanent erection (unless it's a medical myth). My god, that would be uncomfortable.
Right. Back to the essay. "Biochemical changes that occur with long-term diabetes". Almost done. Then off to work. I hate Thursdays.
If I was female, I would discuss the phenomenon of penis ache with my girl friends but blokes don't do that. Most blokes don't. Most blokes who I know, don't. You'd think male medics would be pragmatic enough to broach such a topic among themselves. Not so.
Ache is not an accurate description. There is no pain. The sensation is more like that of an over-exercised muscle being stretched to its limit; masochistic discomfort.
I first became aware of the phenomenon as a teenager during a mixed sleepover in the presence of bodacious babe who I fancied. Unfortunately, she was wrapped up with a mate. They'd zipped their bags together and were tongue wrestling for hours. It was ok while the chat and jokes swirled around us but when silence fell, it wasn't silent enough for me. Quiet snores and sleep breathing did not hide their smoochy noises and her occasional squeaks.
That erection lasted most of the night. I couldn't sleep, couldn't risk off-loading and couldn't switch off the image of her in ecstasy. Thought my penis would explode. Engorged to bursting point it was. Is there such a thing as a penile haemorrhage? Eventually forced to grit my teeth and toss into a sock. Nobody noticed, but putting on a wet sock in the morning ..... that's another story.
Some time later, me and bodacious babe got together. She was generous with hands in pants action but unwilling to receive same. Frottage was as close as I was permitted which, luckily, was enough to light her fire. Once, my finger strayed inside her knicks. It was the gentlest of touches but it triggered a squeal of pain; a reaction which alarmed me more than her ..... but that's another story.
Anyway, this penile ache thing seems determined not by frequency of shagging but by duration of tumescence. Could it be a build up of lactic acid, as with other muscles? There is a condition of permanent erection (unless it's a medical myth). My god, that would be uncomfortable.
Right. Back to the essay. "Biochemical changes that occur with long-term diabetes". Almost done. Then off to work. I hate Thursdays.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Knock me down with a flagellum! You read my posts!
How do you do, Mr Askinstoo?
I thought I was surfing stealthily beneath the radars of the blogosphere; plain template, no links, no bells or whistles, no chance an acquaintance stumbling over my ruminations. But according to the theory of six degrees (or is it seven?) of separation, Mr Askinstoo knows someone who knows someone etc..... who knows me. Blimey! A random hit of comment spam and I am exposed.
Or not.
Whatever. On with the blog. "Entertain" is an excellent word. I should use it more. If it's good enough for Samuel Pepys, it's good enough for me. An example from his diary entry of Wednesday 12 August 1663:
".....I found my wife, not knowing, I believe in what temper she could expect me to be in, but I fell to kind words, and so we were very kind ..... and so to bed and there entertained her with great comfort, and so to sleep."
Nicely put. But there is some doubt about how much "comfort" his wife enjoyed while being entertained by Mr Pepys. There is no doubt he derived "great comfort" from all his amorous liaisons.
Decided to donate my stethoscope to Inese and Tanya. Rampant entertainment left me with empty balls and satisfied ache in penis.
Inese: 'Tobye darling, maybe you can get another stethscop? Then we have one each.'
Like I said, give them a little and they'll take whatever they can get.
How do you do, Mr Askinstoo?
I thought I was surfing stealthily beneath the radars of the blogosphere; plain template, no links, no bells or whistles, no chance an acquaintance stumbling over my ruminations. But according to the theory of six degrees (or is it seven?) of separation, Mr Askinstoo knows someone who knows someone etc..... who knows me. Blimey! A random hit of comment spam and I am exposed.
Or not.
Whatever. On with the blog. "Entertain" is an excellent word. I should use it more. If it's good enough for Samuel Pepys, it's good enough for me. An example from his diary entry of Wednesday 12 August 1663:
".....I found my wife, not knowing, I believe in what temper she could expect me to be in, but I fell to kind words, and so we were very kind ..... and so to bed and there entertained her with great comfort, and so to sleep."
Nicely put. But there is some doubt about how much "comfort" his wife enjoyed while being entertained by Mr Pepys. There is no doubt he derived "great comfort" from all his amorous liaisons.
Decided to donate my stethoscope to Inese and Tanya. Rampant entertainment left me with empty balls and satisfied ache in penis.
Inese: 'Tobye darling, maybe you can get another stethscop? Then we have one each.'
Like I said, give them a little and they'll take whatever they can get.
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