Don’t Slash The Hand That Feeds You

June 9, 2021 1:57pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 15 Comments


Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I would have written this last week but that would have meant typing with one finger. 

The sleight of hand happened last Sunday which just so happened to be a bank holiday weekend.  Blessed with glorious sunshine and the promise of hope. The sound of birds chirping, children playing in gardens, lawns being mowed, and barbecues being prepared as the Great British Public eased into the re-opening of the country with a gin and tonic in each hand.

I was invited over with the hounds to an evening in the garden by family members to partake in fine wine and lasagne al fresco. Lovely. Be there by 6.30. 

I got myself trussed up, cos this was an event. I’d forgotten how to do that. Piecing clothing together suitable for sunny afternoons, fluffing hair and tending to eyelashes. The art of self-sensationalising seems like a lot of effort nowadays when you’ve only worn your jeans or leggings and put your hair in a bun for the last year.  Anyway, I managed to get through it. 

When One Door Opens…

So, I got my first mad wolfit on his lead to take to the truck because this is a one-at-a-time process since they weigh about 90lbs each and have that youthful exuberance that crazy pups have when they think they’re going somewhere exciting. No matter how much training you’ve done, the wilful wolfit is easily distracted by adventure. I opened the middle door from my kitchen to the hallway and my Tyrannosaurus-Tex took off like a lunatic taking my arm with him. My hand caught on the door with a bang and it hurt like hell. You know when you bang something really hard and it makes you feel sick as the pain sears through you? Like that.

“What a silly doggy you are!” I said. He must have heard something entirely different and a lot louder as he shot under the table to hide from me. 

“Why is there blood everywhere?”

Turns out my hand caught on the metal door plate with an inch of metal sticking out from the architrave which caught my forefinger and knuckle. I ran to get kitchen towel because that’s all I could think of and yanked the first-aid kit out. I found some sort of tape and wadding and patched it up. Bloody hurt, it did. Still, fun times beckoned so I continued to get the pack in the truck which involves picking one of them up because jumping onto a tailgate is too difficult. Sheesh!

Party Pooper

I stopped off at a friends house to collect something and then went on to the house of wine and pasta. The hounds ran around the garden whilst I cooed over the beautiful sweet-pea flowers that were growing there and how magnificent the garden was looking. British people do that sort of thing.

“Sorry I’m a bit late, I hurt my hand.”

“Would you like me to have a look and clean it up? Maybe get a better plaster on it?”


“Ummm. I think you need to go to the hospital. That needs stitches.”

I didn’t look. I find looking at wounds just promotes hysteria. “It’ll be alright.”

“Err, no. Take her to the hospital now, please.”

“Bloody hell! It’s a bank holiday, it’ll be snided!”

I got driven to the walk-in centre which is like a satellite version of the main A and E. I gave my information and the cause of the accident and got told to wait. The current waiting time was 4 hours. 

That’d be the bank holiday fun up the spout then. 

NHS Keithwittery and the Dropped Bollock

I got called in by a triage nurse first to assess the damage. 

“Jesus, that’s nasty. I can see your knuckle. Can you call Dr Jonathon to have a look at this as this needs some stitching,” she said to the other nurse.

How to instil fear. 

I had to have X-rays to make sure I hadn’t chipped the bone. Eww. I had to wait for these to be analysed by the main hospital before any stitching up could take place so I was bandaged up with a wet cloth and put back in the waiting area.  As I was sitting there, bored out of my mind, more people were coming through to the main desk with ailments. The receptionist was pure evil and definitely not a people person. To be honest, I can’t say I blamed her.  A chap came hobbling through and went up to her desk.

“I have a bit of an issue…”


He gave his name.



“Well, it’s a bit of a sensitive one…”


The poor chap looked around sheepishly, a little ruddy in the face. “I have a swollen testicle.”

Ha! That took my mind off my knuckle dusting. I never did find out what happened to him. He disappeared into a room and was never seen again. Poor sod.

Shortly after that, a nurse came up to me looking all flustered. “Your X-rays are fine and we really need to get you stitched as soon as possible but we have a bit of a problem…”


“We can’t find the key to the special cupboard. We call it special, it’s the suture cupboard. We’ve just sent a message out to all staff.”

After half an hour of drama it turned out that some twollop called Keith had gone home with the key. 

“I’ll take a look at it anyway,” she said. “Come through. Someone’s trying to prize the cupboard open but it’s not looking good.”

I went off to her medical room and she shook her head at my hand. “I’m sorry, this really needs proper sutures so you’ll have to go off to the main hospital and get stitched there.”

“No. Please, no. I’ve had enough. Can’t you just glue it up?”

“Hmmm. No. It won’t hold and could get infected.”

“Please! PLEEEEEEEASE don’t make me go there. I’ll take the risk. Just put loads on.”

“I’ll give it a try but if it doesn’t work you’re going to have to go.”

A nurse and a doctor set about glueing and sticking about 20 steri-strips to my wound. Then they needed to go and find some inadine pads. “Keep your hand up here and don’t move.” 

When they came back I’d managed to glue my thumb to my finger which they weren’t too happy about as they had to get some solution to prize my digits apart before carrying on. After the inadine pad, a wad over the top, a padded square and a bandage followed.

“I think we need to put it in a sling. You really cannot move this and it must stay elevated.”

“If you give me a sling I’ll just take it off. I don’t like them. I’ll be good, I promise.”

“If you’re not you’ll open it up and then you’ve got problems. No driving, no getting it wet, no moving. No life,  no fun, no drugs, no wine, it’s dark…

Go back to your GP in 5 days to get it checked and re-dressed. Do you want any pain relief?”

“Nah. I’m gonna go and have a glass of wine.”

On my return, the person who looked at my hand and made me go to the hospital was in a state of shock. They said that they had tried to remain calm in order to not make me panic but when they saw the wound it looked like my hand had been unzipped and revealed a juicy pizza. They are still having flashbacks. 

For ten whole days I have behaved. I’ve had it re-dressed twice and now I’m down to a pad which I can remove tomorrow so long as I’m careful.

I’m going to have a wicked scar which I will tell everyone was caused by Lucifer or by playing with wolves.  There’s mileage in that.


Turning Japanese

May 12, 2021 11:27am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 16 Comments


Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I’ve found that I’m fascinated by most things Japanese. There’s a simplicity and perfection to things that they do which is so alien to me that I find it captivating.  

Look how they make sushi. How beautifully perfect and precise is this bite-sized food? So far removed from shoving sausages in a pile of mash with beans. 


The girl who does folding up for a living, Marie Kondo, whom I have spoken of before with her magic art of tidying up is another shining example of this determinate conduct. You wouldn’t for one second think that folding stuff up would make you a fortune but even I got hooked into that one. It’s the delicate, precise manner that she organises and appreciates her belongings from start to finish. Her immaculate appearance, her measured delivery, how she can fold a t-shirt into a perfect little bundle of loveliness leaves me astonished. 

Just. So. Orderly.


And refined.  


Even Japanese wrapping. This is so pretty you wouldn’t dare to open your gift, and let us not overlook the art of Origami where a tiny piece of paper can turn into a flock of birds travelling through a sunset over the ocean. 

We’re having a party. Bring me bunches of fresh pink sakura and some rice paper – I must make a million swans. This is how I imagine their barbecues going down with hanami and Sake.

Tea. I know about tea. But here in Blighty, there ain’t no Geisha girl delivering it and turning it into an artful event. That doesn’t work with PG Tips. 


So, the other week I was on t’internet looking for Japanese paper because another thing I am obsessed with is beautiful papers. As usual, I got distracted and saw something called ‘Suminagashi’ which means floating ink. I was instantly hooked and spent the next few hours watching videos of Japanese masters and artists meditatively creating these visions of beauty. Obviously, I felt compelled to do it but decided to wait a few weeks and try and be a bit more Japanese minded rather than impetuous. I shall wait a while and let the idea settle, I told myself. Maybe the itch will go away and like all my other passing fancies, won’t end up in a crafting drawer full of things that are going to be my next new hobby and route to freedom. 

 After a week of torture, I realised that patience isn’t my forté.


However, once at the art shop, I forced myself to buy cheap alternatives rather than expensive calligraphy brushes and marbling paints. I got started with a few acrylics, inks, a plastic tray, and some cheap brushes for kids. The art is in the process. 


I couldn’t wait to start. The table was cleared and I sat ready with paints and brushes being still and calm. That lasted a nano-second when one of my wolfits tried to drink the bloody water. Hounds removed, I sat again and took a deep, meaningful breath. The water must be still or the ink goes all over the place due to ripples. 


I tucked my chair in a little more because I couldn’t reach the tray with enough comfort and ease to commence the very methodical process. Nudged the sodding table and caused a tidal activity in the tray. 

And breathe. 

Eventually, the water settled and I got ready to commence my first masterpiece. One brush loaded with soapy water and one with ink, ready to dip alternately and created hundreds of concentric circles floating perfectly on top of the water. 

And this is what happened.



‘Kin ‘ell




Dip more gently


This is stupid





I could not make this work at all. I was incensed. This so-called meditative practice had me raging and atrocious. Patience is a virtue of the bored!

I immediately went online to find out why it wasn’t working. and found that my water needed thickening.  Starch being one of the options, some woman said. Excellent. I have liquid starch in my laundry cupboard. I used it once many years ago to make canvas flowers! I set up my water tray again and calmed myself. 



I went back online and ordered a seaweed component that thickens water for next day delivery and went to make Cheddar and Marmite dough balls instead. Marmite never lets you down. 

The next day I snatched the thickening agent from the delivery man and read the instructions. 

‘Leave for 6-8 hours before using’ 

What? I hate this hobby. 


The day after I tried again with my new solution and watched as the paint spread beautifully across the water. Mesmerising. It took me several attempts to get it right and quite a few hissy fits but now I’m well on my way to mastering this technique as you can see through this blog post. I have pretentiously named each print for amusement.


If Jackson Pollock created these they’d sell for millions. I’m happy to accept a cool 250K.

There’s Always A Price To Pay, Pal

March 31, 2021 4:24pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 20 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Let’s just start with the fact that I was tired. Very tired. Sunday morning after the clocks had gone forward the night before which always gives a jet lag effect. Not to mention that I’d got up at 5 am which in my current state of mind was 4 am. Still in my dressing gown, trying to make a cafetière of coffee. Forgot to grind the beans the day before so my little ground coffee pot was empty. Had to go through that rigmarole. Spilt coffee grains everywhere. Bollocks. 

Sat down at my little kitchen table, watching the news but not really listening because it’s the same old story. Groundhog Day. Stuck in a loop.  And then a banner alert flashed across my iPhone screen. 

“There has been unusual activity on your PayPal account. Please change your password now”

I did that eye-rolling thing up to Heaven and followed the instructions to set a new password. I sat there for ages trying to think of something I wouldn’t forget because I’m sure, like many others, there’s a handful of passwords that you use and can’t ever remember which one goes with which site or app. Get’s right on my nerves, to be honest. 

I get into the site and have a quick nosy around. All seemed to be OK so I didn’t know what that was all about. I scroll through this year’s purchases and it all looks legit. And then I spot the villain.

Ishmael Vanderbik.

The devious little delinquent had taken £297.84 from my account. 

And then another amount for 80 odd quid on the same day for something from eBay

Two days later, another two ridiculous amounts again to eBay.

This continued until I noted several transactions amounting to around 600 nicker.

Boy, did that make my coffee taste bitter. Resentment does not go well with the dark chocolate and cinnamon notes of an Italian roast. 

Felon and On and On

I had to fester for a couple of hours, pondering on the devilry of evildoers and rapscallions and winding myself up into a frenzy about everything that is wrong with this kind of people, and, how I think they should be dealt with. 

We’ve even got dognappers going around the area now, nicking desirable hounds from back yards and gangs rolling up in vans taking your dog off you on the street. Apparently, since lockdown, your pet pooch has become a much-valued commodity fetching more than 100g of crack. Because I’m already a highly-suspicious-of-everyone individual, this now has me being rudely aloof and ready to take action with anyone who starts paying attention to my dogs, which is a frequent occurrence.  Don’t think that just because you’re a doddery old granny I’m not on to you, lady. I bet you’ve got a ring of grandkids and great-nephews running this gig for you why you rake it in. Back off from my hounds or I’ll have to use the attack word. 

But, aside from these reprobates, who are the blockheads buying stolen pups from them? 

Where’s a pandemic when you need one?

Mithering the Middle-Man

Anyway, I eventually got chatting with a PayPal Robot. That was a waste of time because robots can only deal with 1 transaction at a time and not several layers of fraud. I gave up and went to look for a phone number. Like a bloody maze.

When you ring Paypal you have to input a special pin-code before they answer. Of course you do. Why make it simple?

I eventually get to speak to a chap with an Irish accent. 

This got me on the defensive straight away because being English he’s bound to hate me and not want to help. I’m already despising the Jewish clog-hopping Ishmael Vanderbik that’s right royally ripped me off and I don’t need an anti- English Irishman giving me any shit. This was the sort of mood I’d got myself into by 9 o clock on Sunday morning. Anyone not directly related to me at this point could go to hell in a handbasket. And even then, relatives weren’t necessarily safe.  

“My account has been hacked. There are numerous fraudulent transactions dating back to October 20. Now, before you start asking why I didn’t notice them back then, let me tell you that I’ve had a very complicated year. Plus, I fully expect to get overdrawn near Christmas because I’m loving and giving. So, I won’t have noticed stuff leaving my bank account. Anyway, I’ve been too busy protecting my dogs from mongrel-smugglers. I want my money back.”

The Irish bloke was very helpful and accommodating. 

“Ah, I see this rather large amount that has been taken from an Ishmael Vanderbik.”

Now we were mates, I could relax a little.

“Right? I mean talk about made-up names! He may as well have put Mickey Mouse and be done with it. I mean, come on – as if I’d pay someone all that money with such a fabricated moniker”

“Most of these have come from your eBay account so it looks like that has been hacked.”

“Well, it must have been because I rarely buy anything from there.”

“You need to call them on the number I give you because we will need to liaise with them. And make sure you change your password on there. Once you’ve done that we will refund all of these fraudulent transactions back into your bank account.”

I left the call feeling a lot happier with mankind than when I started.

Consign to Oblivion

I went on to eBay. I changed my password. Before I called them I thought I should check these supposed transactions against the PayPal ones. If at all they were there. I opened up recent purchases and scrolled through.

Rustic oak table made from reclaimed planks – £297.84


Second-hand oak antique chairs – 80 odd quid.

Looks across at chairs…

All other transactions for household goods stood defiantly in the morning sunshine gleaming through the window and lighting up my lunacy.

Turns out it was in fact my very self that bought all of these things including the rather lovely table from Ish. 

I felt like such a muppet explaining my mistake on the return phone call to PayPal. Thank God for gin in a tin. 


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