It is light again long into the evening and I am feeling less like a demented Cinderella frantically trying to get home before darkness. Last weekend I went up to in Kinross in Scotland to catch up with a friend from an old (and very weird) boarding school. She returned from Australia a few years ago with a whole family of her own and now they live in a pretty close in a controlled riot of musical instruments, skate boards, school books and fridge lists. Oh and wine bottles! Anita and I haven’t spent time together since we were 18 and stay up all night drinking cava (as you might tell from my pallid visage) and slotting memories back into each others brains like a game of Connect 4. On the Saturday we groggily float over the grass between lazy pheasants and ghosts on the beautiful and spooky Loch Leven Castle Island. Mary Queen of Scotts was interred here from June 1567 to May 1568, and its the place where she was forced to abdicate in favour of her infant son James 1V on 24 July 1567. …now the castle roof is open to the bluest sky and thousands of midges sparkle in the sunlight.
photos: LochLeven 2009: Tanvir Bush (c)
Back in Cambridge and I have launched into a bizarre relationship with a massage chair that my local gym has installed. Now, as we all know, most women of a certain age have wide ranging appreciation of things that vibrate however this takes the experience to a whole other level.
The chair looks like a very well padded leather high backed lazy boy. One sinks into it and presses a button at which point there is a buzzing and some of odd prodding as, apparently, the chair, using infrared, ‘checks you out’ for any bits of the body in particular need of deep massage. At the press of another button the chair shifts backwards and sort of…scoops you up into its leathery warmth. Your legs and bare feet are squeezed and pinched gently, released, squeezed again.. the motors start motoring, massaging firmly in throbbing circles from the scalp down the back and into the seat, even under and between the thighs…ahh… and then all the way back up again. One is thrust gently upwards and pulled downwards …and …. Err..how can I explain this? It’s highly erotic.
I don’t think it was intended to be. It is designed to be ‘therapeutic’ which is not a word one associates with languid moaning and it definitely does not seem to be having the same effect on the men. They walk past looking rather baffled, in fact slightly nervous. The long line of women however waiting for their 15 minutes with ‘the chair’ are trembling slightly. They disappear behind the screen and then emerge quarter of an hour later hair tousled, glazed expressions on their faces, floating. There are whispered conversations in the changing rooms. Those that know wink and exchange tokens. I give the chair another couple of weeks before it explodes.
I have been awarded another blog award, the Noblesse Oblige!! Dad da daaa!!!! I am thrilled and proud and very grateful. Thank you Val http://mokeysontheroof.blogspot.com/ who nominated me for this. I am really touched
In my next post I am going to chat more about this award and Val and my writing and nominate some others. Its a lovely award and I hold it close to my heart. As I said to Val, its been hard these last few months and these things make me smile and smile. Thank you so very much and to all of you who read my ridiculous ramblings! Thank you!
Its summer and I know this not just because there is actually sunlight! Not only because everyone is out in vest tops even though there was a frost this morning. Not only because someone actually nodded a greeting at me but essentially because my neighbour opposite has begun to ‘share’ his music. He does this each summer placing his speakers carefully in his windows and pushing the dial up to G20 riot police mode. Luckily his taste is not as bad as the Status Quo fundi down the road or the ghastly fizzy popped mass produced puke flooding from most radios (At the moment it’s Red Hot Chili Peppers; last summer it was endless Mark Ronsen remixes. )
Annoyingly it is still loud enough to overpower my TV even with all the windows and doors shut. There will be reaction. There is every year. Most of my neighbours have small children and after 9pm a lone voice will begin screaming at the neighbour’s open window. Sooner or later there will be screaming back and then potentially – should he not turn the volume down- the low explosion of an air rifle fitted with a nappy silencer.
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I’m keeping a low profile today as I also upset my neighbours this morning by stomping in a showy kind of way around the block several times holding onto a man who in turn was wearing a dog harness. A nice thick leather harness with a sold lead and chunky silver studs…..and a long yellow handle. Fetishism and all before lunch time…
Luckily I had already been through this ritual humiliation back in 2005 when I first thought about a guide dog so I was ready for the gasps and tutts, the dragging away of the children, the stifled giggles of the crowds around the supermarket. The idea is that the Guide Dog Man (or woman – they call them ‘beetches’) knows the guide dogs are worth a phenomenal amount of dosh what with all the breeding, training and vet bills and so before handing one to a ruffian such as myself they do an assessment of MY walking speed, ability to learn basic instructions and –obviously- ability to ignore a taunting mob. This is to ensure the dog doesn’t end up with the wrong human.
‘Wait.’ I say firmly holding the yellow handle and therefore the nice Guide Dog man. The man waits by the kerb. A passing granny falls off her zimmer frame. I take a step back, raise my arm, gesture . ‘Forward!’ I command, my voice ringing out above the ice cream van and the open mouthed children. I tug the harness and the nice man crosses the road. ‘Good boy.’ I say. He is well over 6 foot tall or I would pat his head.
‘Straight on,’ I call and on we go, a trail of curious teenages following. He is walking too fast. A sharp tug on the harness and a warning ‘Steady’. He slows and I reach for a biscuit. You think I am kidding. I am not.
I can see the pavement at my feet in a clear oval of sight, pale, yellow, paving stones, some cracked and dirty, some shifted and sticking out of alignment. My oval of sight is about ten inches across right in front of my nose. Like all tunnels it expands outwards and by the time it has extended to the pavement it is about five to ten feet across.
That’s enough to see paving stones, edges of pavements, white lines on the road but to see who is coming I need to relinquish my grip of sight on the pavement and like a mountaineer snatch a visual handhold of what is going on ahead. I straighten my head and I can see all the way to the horizon. All the way to the horizon but down my restricted tunnel of vision; thousands of feet of streets and leaves on trees and … a cyclist explodes past me on the right emerging from my clouded peripherals. Traffic booms on my left. I scan trying to grab that visual handhold but my vision slips. I stagger and stop, pretending to look over the bridge at the river below. For some reason I am so tired today I feel like sitting down right here on the wide, pale pavement of the flyover bridge. I could lie down. The paving stones look warm..not too dirty. I know I would sleep.
Its been like this on and off whilst I try and adjust to my changing vision. It is a lot of work walking along a pavement when you can either see your feet or ‘ahead’ but neither of the two together. If I were a cyborg I would have constant data flooding across my monitor. ….humanoid 50 metres ahead…collision possible… possible canine attached..warning warning loose toddler alert loose toddler.. BICYCLE…abort! Abort!… I find myself rubbing at my neck where the tendons have tightened, constantly rolling my shoulders to loosen them. Sometimes I get home and crawl into bed fully clothed too tired to even undo my shoes – just leave them sticking out of the duvet, fall into deep unmoving sleep for 40 minutes and then get up adjust make up and get on with the evening.
Easter weekend: part two:
On Friday night my Dad’s partner rings from Zambia. She sounds fraught, her New York vowels rise. ‘I tol’ him! He won’t listen…I’m putting you on. You gotta tell him T, he is driving me crazy.’
My father voice comes over the phone line, clear but with a double echo. ‘I’m fine!’ he snorts. I did a malaria test. Its not malaria.’ He is shaking so much he can’t hold the phone. ‘Call a doctor.’ I shout. ‘I am a doctor’. He hisses.
The next morning he is on an IV line battling septicemia bought on by a gum abcess. He is still insisting all is well. ‘Ok, yes I was sick..but I am FINE now.’
‘I tol’ him. I’m tellin’ you, I told him..’ His partner’s voice echoes on the line. She is relieved but still furious. It was a big scare for everyone.
In the background I can hear him ringing the little bell she has given him from the bedroom. The ringing is insistent.
By the next time I call she has confiscated it.
Easter weekend: part three:
‘Why can’t I see the village? According to this map we should be in a village.’ There is no village. We are standing in a wide, stubbled field without a barn, let alone a village in view. I am walking with my aunt on Easter Monday. We are both wincing slightly as we stride. I, trying to impress a supercilious Australian gym instructor, over did my weights in class and pulled something in my thigh. My aunt went horse riding out of the blue after many, MANY years and her butt is..well… you get the picture. Undeterred by our twitching muscles, we have been walking for a couple of hours and are happily lost but running out of ibrufen and in need of a pint.
The sun shines hazily, flickering through the budding trees, glittering along the river by the ancient mill. The open fields are almost empty of other people, grassy and lined with trees with paths disappearing off into the distance. There is so much beauty here that my eyes cannot grab it all fast enough. Taking out my camera slows us down, gives me time to look up from my feet and watch it all.
Look. Isn’t it lovely?
And the pint? We find Horningsea and the pub has just opened and has golden ale on tap and ready salted crisps. (All Cambridge/ Hornigsea photos (c) Tanvir Bush 2009)
Over the past couple of weeks I have started at least five blog posts…I tried writing about my interview at Bath Spa University, the week of training workshops in London, the film I saw the other night, the fact that my local supermarket has started selling the incredibly delicious bison grass vodka for a mere £15 a bottle. But no matter what I wrote I have felt it to be silly and weak. My writing has been sulking.
Stumped on Saturday I went to visit my dear friend C, 88 years old blind and partially deaf with razor sharp wit and vampiric astuteness. We had been talking for about ten minutes when she stopped me and leant in close to my face, peering. ‘You look ten years old today,’ She said.
Amazed I realised that that was how I felt. Confused, baffled by the world, child-like. Not in control of my destiny.
‘I have writer’s block.’ I said.
She nodded and patted my hand.
‘How did she know that?’ I wondered.
C is pretty remarkable. Previously I had been telling her about my hopes and fears for the workshop I thought I might be facilitating, teaching blind and visually impaired people in London about photography and last week she suddenly announced that she wanted to have a go.
‘I keep seeing fences I want to shoot.’ She told me firmly.
Given that C is marvellously fierce I wasn’t sure if she meant with a camera and breathed a sigh of relief when she accepted a trial with my digital point-and-shoot Sony as opposed to me having to go out and score her a Colt revolver.
We went for a walk around the block. She gripping her wheeled Zimmer frame with my camera slung around her neck and shoulder like a gun.
‘There.’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I need to take its picture but just look at it. It…it ..makes me …’
She couldn’t finish but she didn’t need to. We both stood blinking at it.
The white picket fence gleamed in the sunlight- all sharp lines and severity. A dark shadow stretched tentatively from a nearby tree edging into the open gate.
In our conversations we often touch upon how dispossessed she feels by age and mostly by her deafness. How people talk across her, tell her what to do, what she can do, pat her and tell her ‘you’re a good girl’ when she is an 88 year old woman.
And this picket fence seems to capture something in its bright perky rigid gleaming.
She felt the edge of the fence to get an idea of distance and balancing the camera as we had practiced on her chest she took a couple of shots. Then we discovered the Zimmer frame had a seat so she could sit and get a lower angle.
C can only manage the walk around the block but in that short 40 minutes we saw so much and as the light in that soft, spring afternoon changed so everything changed. I knew we could come back here a hundred times and each photograph would be different. Back at the house we were both energised and inspired. I rushed home to load the pictures on to my computer and I asked her if I could show you all couple.
The beginning of some really remarkable dialogue with light and emotion I think. Thanks C.
Please do not adjust your sets…normal transmission will begin again shortly. I promise.
Inspiration got sucked away last week in a flurry of London commuting and misguided miscommunication but have ordered some more on the internet and am told it will take 3 to 5 working days.
In the meantime, as I cannot show you MY interpretive dance, here is a photo of a Makishi dancer to convey my current mood! I’ll be back as soon as possible!
It’s been a funny old week. That bloody lorry I talked about in my last post was still deafeningly loud behind me and making things a little sticky. I’ve been a little….self obsessed. A little elbows and angst. A little more irritable then, say, Genghis Khan.
To distract myself I try to be useful. I volunteer to help a PhD student with his research on the correlation between visual impairment and depression. He is a gangly, morose young man dressed in dark brown with some ghastly shiny tie. I smile brightly and the brightness is absorbed into the brown shirt like ink into blotting paper. No wonder this kid is an expert in depression.
First off I have a hangover so the obligatory eye tests are dazzling and make my head throb. The grim-faced young man is used to doing his research on the elderly and so puts me through a dementia test – ‘because it’s the rules.’
‘What day is it?’ he shouts. ‘What month? What year?’
‘Well. I know its spring.’ I twinkle, batting my eyelashes. Turns out he has no sense of humour and I nearly get my dementia box ticked.
An hour of daft and intrusive questions later and I stagger out. I have the impression that he has already decided on his thesis results even with a year still to go. He thinks that visually impaired people are usually depressed and therefore think they see less then they can. He gives the impression that we are all fakers and wasters of the precious time of optometrists. He has not taken into account the vagaries of different eye diseases, the effect of light and serotonin, the differences between degenerative, chronic and constant. How on earth is he allowed to be so blind?
Midweek and I head off to London to support my lovely photographic charity who are recruiting more blind and visually impaired people for a workshop. In my head I have a picture of myself and the other visual impaired facilitators, a cosy darkened room and a slide show but as it turns out there are no other VI facilitators; just myself and the photovoice organiser, M. Upstairs 20 blind and VI people have crowded into a room that is too full of sunlight. I can’t do my talk in my sunglasses though and by the end of the near two hours my eyes feel stretched and swollen. But we win. Even though I think my off the cuff wittering is shouty and confusing, even though no one can see the slides because it too bright and they are too blind, it doesn’t matter. People are fascinated, enthusiastic, energised. Everyone wants to sign up. A great success! I want a hug, a bunch of flowers, applause, a check.
Instead I get Kings Cross at rush hour and a cold walk home. This of course makes me dwell on the fact that I have just done an 8-hour day for £13 train ticket and a bowl of soup. My ‘up’ crashes down. Bring on Genghis.
Well you get my point. The week ends with me howling to my homeopath. ‘I fell like bits of me are dropping off!’ I wail. ‘As my sight is taken so is my sense of humour, my femininity, my self-respect. I am graceless, tongue-tied. I am disintegrating.’
He writes this all down and strokes his beard.
‘Did I do this?’ I ask. ‘Am I making this happen – somehow making myself blind? Its all my fault isn’t it.’
I realise I sound ridiculous. I stop wailing and get the giggles.
He writes this down too nods, tuts and in a wizardly manner opens a heavy, leather bound tome and begins to expound on a potential remedy but actually I feel better already from just being allowed to howl.
I walk home in the glittering, spring light, noting the daffodils on the edge of Parkers Pieces, the shy wave from a toddler on the back of her mother’s bike. The looming lorry falls behind; its engine idling and I feel a weight has lifted.
You may recall that I had a hospital visit just before my trip to Lusaka and they said I had lost more vision. They meant ‘losing’! Holy shit people! I went out a couple of times last week and was completely off balance. Bits of pavement missing, people emerging magically in front of me, invisible cars. This all gets a little unsettling when trying to have ordinary conversations with people in cafes or at the supermarket. One doesn’t just turn desperately to people and share .
‘I must apologise for my twitching and jibbering..it is just that I seem to be losing my sight rapidly on a daily basis and it is so terrifying that I feel like I have a massive juggernaut truck thundering up behind me and I can’t escape. I am sure you understand.’
No that would never do. Instead one says things like;
‘Thank you I’ll have a mocha.’ Or ‘Please would you assist me with the self scanning machine. Its rejected my bean sprouts.’
It is the fear though – that articulated lorry screaming down the road towards you – that comes from knowing something as precious as sight is leaching from your life and there is nothing to be done but swallow hard and buy more magnifiers. I presume the terrible fear is there too for those of us with other encroaching disabilities. I have a wonderful friend with MS. We talked a little about that monster truck we can see if we look over our shoulders. We both came very quickly to the conclusion it is best, for the moment, not to look, just to keep running.
Just an aside about hospitals. If you have to go in for anything I would recommend dressing as a consultant. I did so the other day and got marvellous treatment. Power dressing gets you both attention and respect. (Although perhaps the stethoscope was going a bit far…I ended up doing a ward round.) I once had an ongoing battle with a terminally rude, distant and seemingly bored ophthalmologist. I could never be sure he was giving my eyes full attention. I won the battle by wearing a red push up bra and the lowest cut soft ruffled black top I could squeeze into. At close quarters I could watch the cold sweat dripping from his forehead as he desperately tried to keep his eyes away from my sumptuous bosom (trust me on this one). To prevent a potential sexual harassment case he was forced to concentrate and focus on my eyes at all times. I actually got a coherent and detailed eye exam as opposed to the usual cursory dismissal. Small victories and potentially unethical but I couldn’t think of any other way of getting the little sod to do his job properly.
The kid is looking at me. The whites of his enormous eyes glisten in the gloomy room. He is three and beautiful. He has been picking his nose for the last ten minutes with one hand whilst squeezing a banana to gluey mucus in the other and is now looking for a place to wipe his fingers. He grins up at me with sudden gleeful inspiration.
My face must be a rictus of polite horror – a truly British expression- but I am counselling his mother, am midway through a complex problem and have no training in non familial toddler wrangling.
The child’s mother waves a hand vaguely in his direction murmuring something unintelligible but the child doesn’t even pause and I suddenly feel his small warm palms on my kneecaps. I close my eyes and thank various gods I am wearing jeans and have tied my hair back.
Sticky fingerprints are on every surface in the room including the computer monitor, my magnifier, the walls, the telephone and now me but its not the kid’s fault. We are in the dingiest counselling room in the Citizens Advice Bureau building . It is also the smallest. To be frank it has pretensions to be a stationary cupboard but the charity is desperate for space so somehow someone has squeezed in three chairs and a battered computer desk although the room is too small to actually pull out the keyboard from the sliding drawer. Two adults can barely fit – add a rampaging toddler and things will get sticky.
We are in the room for over an hour, opening the door every now and then to let in oxygen and allow the small boy to race frantically around the waiting room. Its been a long day. I have seen one other case, debt, but its complications took up the entire morning and this one is no better. Cambridge at the moment is a particularly joyless place. Debt, redundancy, domestic abuse, mental illness…
I slouch homeward and as I walk through the desolate shopping centre I note how people’s eyes slide away from others or rise in challenge and anger. I walk faster and stumble and get my cane out. The sky is low and grey, the light harsh. Crossing the road I feel as if everyone in every car is staring at me People are every where, looking tired, anxious and I am sick of the endless concrete, the smell of piss and old cigarette ash.
At home I look around my flat and make a decision. It is time to move again. I don’t know where and I don’t know how but I know another year here won’t work. Having made the decision I feel better. I take deep breaths and whatever it is gripping my heart lets go. I look down and notice the tiny sets of fingerprints on the knees of my jeans. Two perfect sets, five prints on each knee where the little boy came over and leaned on me, looked up into my face and smiled unaware of the grotty room, the distress of his mother, the tension in my face. I remember the smile now and it makes me grin too. I remember I am an idiot. That all this will pass and that if you look for misery you will find it. Sometimes ones perspective needs a good tweaking by a snotty, banana encrusted three year old. Ta kid.
I felt for the last month as if I was charging towards something important. I felt heroic, gulping down hope and inspiration, speeding like a bullet towards something huge and exciting just ahead….and then pooffff…. The thing I was chasing evaporated. I find myself scrabbling hard but beginning to fall slowly backwards into the pretty padded cell that is my life in Cambridge. Jobless again. Lonely again. Bollocks. I miss the Zambian sky.
(c) T. Bush Lusaka Skylines
I stare grumpily out of my window at the very stylish ,squirrel proof bird feeder I have just erected. The squirrel (Dennis of course..little sod) has been running up and down it as if it is a squirrelly plaything. Now he is standing on top of it pretending to be King Kong, pounding his little chest and throwing all the peanuts at the wood doves. Squirrel proof my arse
My bleakness is due partly to the ear and chest infection I bought back from my trip. Its rather flattened me and I am beginning to smell faintly of amoxicyllin. It does not make me feel alluring.
It must be time to write another book.
Ok – as I am obviously in an non-witty blur of winge I shall instead direct you to the writing of the five people I would like to nominate for the blog award so sweetly passed to me by Val from Monkeys on the Roof. (Thank you again Val!)
In the words of the person who created it:”This award acknowledges the values that every Blogger displays in their effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values with each message they write. Awards like this have been created with the intention of promoting community among Bloggers. It`s a way to show appreciation and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.”
So I nominate: 1. The bittersweet musings of NMJ http://velo-gubbed-legs.blogspot.com/ 2. The hysterical and yet often moving travel blog from my mum the artist Ruth Hartley and her partner John Corley – 28 countries in 18 months and now a move to France! http://epicblogue.blogspot.com 3. The ebullient, charming and soul affirming Nao, the Tea Time Traveller, http://teatimetraveller.blogspot.com/ 4. My Cuz , Up the Hill Backwards, who has a ton of these already but still writes one of the funniest and most disgusting blogs ever about raising children in New York. Not for the faint hearted. http://upthehillbackwards2.blogspot.com/ 5. Tinku of tinku gallery who writes with such insight and intelligence about the intricacies of art and the cross-cultural experience. http://tinkutales.blogspot.com You all rock!
The Chilli-Elephant man has returned from an overseas business trip and been in bed on his chilli farm in Livingstone for a mere four hours. The phone has rung and now he is trying to make some sense of the farm manager’s frantic shouting.
‘Mr. M! Mr. M! Come quickly! . The owl is on fire!!’
So begins the tale told by the red hot Chilli-Elephant man one steamy and sticky night in Livingstone town last week. Chilli-Elephant man is telling the story to myself and two very gorgeous dear single woman friends of mine. We are eating Indian food at a restaurant called, bizarrely, ‘Armadillo’. All of us ladies are slightly agog, a little breathless and a tad giddy because Chilli-Elephant man is not only breast-achingly handsome but courteous, seemingly exceedingly intelligent, thoughtful and what tops it for me..bloody funny.
Chilli-Elephant man is one of the Executive directors of the Elephant Pepper Development trust. Basically they figured out a way to bring an end to the endless conflict between marauding elephants and rural farmers in Southern and Eastern Africa whilst bolstering local economies, fighting poverty and teaching conservation. Not bad eh? The solution? Capsicum! The very versatile hot pepper. Elephants hate chilli. Grow it. smear it on fences, or wear it around your neck and you are pretty much guaranteed an elephant free lifestyle. Combine this with the fact that chill pepper can be grown under difficult circumstances and in harsh environments and then sold as a cash crop and ….da daaaa. Yep..everyone wins. Okay I have simplified this but have a quick shifty at the websites http://www.elephantpepper.com and http://www.elephantpepper.org and you’ll get the picture.
(Note you can also donate directly to the project or sideways by buying endless supplies of exquisite hot sauces!)
Anyway back to supper and the Chilli-Elephant man’s story…
‘Mr M, hurry, hurry the owl is on fire!’ Blearily and presuming he has completely misheard his farm manager, Chilli-Elephant man heaves himself out of bed and heads outside where, indeed, the owl is on fire,
It is a very large and once distinguished barn owl that has sadly tried to roost on the top of an electric pylon. This being a Zambian electricity company pylon however the poor beast has been whammed with 1000s of volts of electricity causing it to instantly and most dramatically, ignite. It is stuck, feathers flaming, at the very top of the wooden pylon. The fire service is called. They arrive eventually crammed into the back of what looks like a taxi, gripping a few rusty hand pumps. Unable to do much given the bird is flaming over 20 feet up, they shrug and end up standing next to the Chilli-Elephant man and the entranced farm staff all scratching their heads and watching the fire with its gouts of black smoke and sparks or electricity getting gradually bigger and more threatening. (Owls are associated in Zambia with death and witchcraft and there is much stroking of chins, eloquent nodding and nervous tutting.) Police too join the crowd, notebooks in hand, gazing up at the flames.
At last to the firemen’s delight and Chilli-Elephant man’s horror the entire pylon crashes to the ground. Several small fires start up on the ground and electric pylons spark and flash in the now very dark night. (The electricity is..well down). The firemen however are thrilled and leap into action finally able to use their hand pumps.
Chilli-Elephant man is stumbling around trying to make sense of it all, jet lag blurring his vision. He notices that the police are solemnly picking out the remnants of the owl (who unlike the phoenix is never emerging from these ashes). A large bag is bought forward and delicately opened and the smouldering bones are carefully slid inside. The bag is marked…and here Chilli-Elephant man pauses for emphasis…the bag is marked ‘Culprit.’ At this point I slide off my chair in hysterical giggles. It is such a truly surreal yet gorgeous Zambian story. …though you should really have heard it from the marvellous man himself….ahh,girly sigh. How did he win the hearts of three women in one evening? I am beginning to think he has invented some kind of chilli elephant aphrodisiac aftershave. Now THAT would sell!
And so and so….I arrived back in UK yesterday. No chillies here folks. No flaming owls or monstrous, heavenly, stormy skies but plans afoot to find a way to return. More stories soon..and thank you so much to Val from Monkeys on the Roof for my new blog award. I have to nominate five others and so will make my pick for next post when I have finally (and grumpily) unpacked.
igh backed lazy boy. One sinks into it and presses a button at which point there is a buzzing and some of odd prodding as, apparently, the chair, using infrared, ‘checks you out’ for any bits of the body in particular need of deep massage. At the press of another button the chair shifts backwards and sort of…scoops you up into its leathery warmth. Your legs and bare feet are squeezed and pinched gently, released, squeezed again.. the motors start motoring, massaging firmly in throbbing circles from the scalp down the back and into the seat, even under and between the thighs…ahh… and then all the way back up again. One is thrust gently upwards and pulled downwards …and …. Err..how can I explain this? It’s highly erotic.
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