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Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:45:54
тред ЕОК!
есть один кун. были 7 лет вместе и вдруг расстались. зачем я тебе это пишу, двач? затем, что мне очень хуево и пусто на душе. и выговориться могу только тебе.
я верила, что будем вместе всегда. пусть и бывали ссоры конечно, истерики тоже. но это казалось такими мелочами мне. а для него это было фатальным. а теперь его нет рядом. пиздец.


Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:47:26
Почему расстались после такого срока?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:48:49
видимо из-за этих мелких ссор. характер у меня вспыльчивый. но ведь быстро успокаивалась.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:50:03
>>44527078
не грусти, времена просто смутные

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:50:08
>>44527053
давай сегодня как-нибудь без этого

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:50:35
>>44527078
Ты не из Пензы?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:50:54
>>44527078
Алёна, это ты?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:52:15
>>44527125
времена то смутные, но наоборот в такие времена должны держаться друг за друга еще крепче

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:52:33
>>44526941
>это казалось такими мелочами мне.
>а для него это было фатальным.
>казалось такими мелочами мне
>казалось
>мне

Вся суть тупых мясных дырок. Выпились, сделай милость.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:55:42
>>44527234
выпиливаться не буду.
но согласна, что это было глупо.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:56:02
>>44526941
Просто найди себе хуец потолще. Или попробуй групповушку с несколькими парнями. Должно помочь.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:56:40
>>44527131
Нет, ты знаешь правила.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:57:26
>>44527216
По-моему, это лучше, чем он бы просто начал ходить налево, изменять, а тебя избивать или еще что-то вроде того, что постоянно происходит в Рашке.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:57:31
>>44526941
Не то чтобы я был против, дело твое, но ты действительно думаешь что тебя здесь приободрят, предложат чаю с тортиком, после того как ты написала о себе в женском роде?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 01:59:19
>>44526941
2ch.hk/dev

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:02:01
>>44526941
>есть один кун. были 7 лет вместе и вдруг расстались. зачем я тебе это пишу, двач? затем, что мне очень хуево и пусто на душе. и выговориться могу только тебе. я верила, что будем вместе всегда. пусть и бывали ссоры конечно, истерики тоже. но это казалось такими мелочами мне. а для него это было фатальным. а теперь его нет рядом. пиздец.

А ты больше с предателями встречайся. Я вот ни одну из своих тянаж двух не бросил, они сами уходили. Одна хотела взамуж, а мне как-то не горело с этим, вторая считала, что ей нужен более весёлый и безбашенный кун-тусовщик, а не целеустремлённый и серьёзный я. Такие дела.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:02:15
>>44527415
нет, просто надо было с кем-нибудь поговорить. а уж в ответ мне все равно что выслушать. на дваче лет 5. так что знаю, что тут не приободрят

всем спасибо за внимание.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:04:05
>>44527590
Радует, что видишь свои ошибки.
Как он хоть тебя бросил? Просто сказал: "Пошла нахуй, заебала" или что-то еще?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:04:24
>>44527590
Сколько я таких стори слышал. И все, ВСЕ они заканчивались одинаково: ебались с другими и все проходило. Шлюхи, чего с вас взять.
Щито? Ты НИТАКАЯ? Ох, детка...

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:04:36
>>44526941
Так сложно предложение с большой буквы начинать? Уебывай.

И это не ббпе, просто нехуй на моем дваче как угодно писать

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:08:08
ДАВАЙ ПОДНИМЕМ РУКИ И БУДЕМ ТАНЦЕВАТЬ ! НУ ГДЕ ЖЕ РУКИ ГДЕ ЖЕ ВАШИ РУКИ !

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:09:15
>>44527669
да не. все культурно. просто последнее время все чаще слишком жестко реагировал на всякие мелочи. ну и я сама спросила, мол давай ты определись - вместе или нет. а то тут уже было два варианта 1) замуж, 2) разбежаться. он выбрал второй. а я думала, что он мой навсегда. так то.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:10:33
>>44527685
скрой тред. проблему тоже нашел.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:11:46
>>44527841
БА ДУМТссс

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:11:50
СУП БОРЩ НЯНЯНЯ МИМИМИ ОНА ТАКАЯ НЯШЕЧКА ПОМОГИ У МЕНЯ ТОЛЬКО ТЫ И ТРИСТА ДРУЗЕЙ В КОНТАКТЕ ВЫРУЧИ БРАТЮНЮ ХИККУ НЕ СОЦИОБЛЯДЬ РЕДКО ПЬЮ В КОМПАНИЯХ НУ ИЛИ КОГДА ВЫЕЗЖАЕМ НА ПРИРОДУ А ОНА ТАКАЯ ЛАМПОВАЯ КАК ПОДОЙТИ ЧТО СКАЗАТЬ ВЫЫРУУЧЯЯЯЯЙ

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:11:51
>>44526941
>это казалось такими мелочами мне
истеричка?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:13:08
>>44527992
не. просто характер взрывной.

похуй. ща закидают расчлененкой. я спать. всем еще раз спасибо.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:13:13
>>44527896
Тогда чего расстраиваться? Кунов вон полдвача хороших. Хотя тех еще долбоебов.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:13:55
>>44527986
Сердце-то где?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:13:55
>>44527992
НЕТ ЧТО ТЫ Я НЯШНАЯ ХИККА, А ОН УРОД КИНУЛ МЕНЯ ПУСЕЧЬКУ, А ЕЩЕ ПОШЕЛ НАХУЙ ПИДОР

И МНЕ ПОХУЙ НА РАЗМЕТКУ**

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:13:58
>>44527948
Нашел. Почему-то щас плзволительно писать с ошибками и черкз жопу на дваче, и никто замечагия не сделает.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:14:32
>>44526941
Сколько лет? Совместное имущество есть?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:15:33
>>44528043
ПОШЕЛ НА ХУЙ ЖИРНЫЙ ПРЫЩАВЫЙ ПИДОР

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:16:36
пока расчлененки еще мало, поотвечаю чуть чуть

>>44528103
25. имущества нет.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:17:29
>>44528103 ИЗ СОВМЕСТНОГО ИМУЩЕСТВА У НАС ТОЛЬКО МОЯ РАЗДОЛБАННАЯ ОСКЛИЗЛАЯ ДЫРА, ДЕЛО В ТОМ ЧТО ЕБУСЬ С ТРИАДЦАТИ И К СОВЕРШЕННОЛЕТИЮ НЕМНОГО ПОДРАСТЯНУТА

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:18:24
>>44528194 ПИДРИЛО ТЫ ЖЕ СПАТЬ УШЛО НЕСКОЛЬКО ПОСТОВ НАЗАД РАЗВЕ НЕТ ? УЕБЫВАЙ УЖЕ.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:19:04
>>44528251 БАМП ГОДНОМУ ТРЕДУ МЕДВЕДЕМ

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:19:26
>>44528194
>25. имущества нет.
Забей хуй или что у тебя там есть для забивки, лол. В 25 лет можно всё послать. Найди себе другого.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:20:03
>>44528048
Ясен красен, что мужиков еще много.
Но мне нужен был именно тот. С ним столько всего пережили. Практически огонь и воду.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:20:21
SHLUXI NE NUZHNI

Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как будто сейчас нахуй выпадут.
Сквозняки такие, что аж люстра качается.
А между дверью и косяком просвет от старого замка - утёс ветров блять. даже стоя на кухне в конце крыла слышу как там блять свистит сквозняк.
Но в чём вся соль: если заклеить окна, то комната за 10 минут превратится в ебаную баню, ибо ядерный реактор под общагой всегда работает на полную. Иначе не объяснить сверхъестественную температуру батарей и труб в комнате.
Прости, двач, наболело.


Украины тред Аноним Срд 06 Мар 2013 16:17:57 44497056 [Ответ]
1362575877673.jpg (22Кб, 417x500) Показана уменьшенная копия, оригинал по клику.

ДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как будто сейчас нахуй выпадут.
Сквозняки такие, что аж люстра качается.
А между дверью и косяком просвет от старого замка - утёс ветров блять. даже стоя на кухне в конце крыла слышу как там блять свистит сквозняк.
Но в чём вся соль: если заклеить окна, то комната за 10 минут превратится в ебаную баню, ибо ядерный реактор под общагой всегда работает на полную. Иначе не объяснить сверхъестественную температуру батарей и труб в комнате.
Прости, двач, наболело.


Украины тред Аноним Срд 06 Мар 2013 16:17:57 44497056 [Ответ]
1362575877673.jpg (22Кб, 417x500) Показана уменьшенная копия, оригинал по клику.

ДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:20:42
ДВОЩ ВООБЩЕМ ЕСТЬ ОДНА ЛАМПОВАЯ НЯША КАК ПОДОЙТИ ЧТО СКАЗАТЬ ВЫРУАЙ БРАТ АНОН !1111

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:20:43
Шлюха, съеби отсюда, тварина, характер у неё взрывной, у истерички бляжьей, чтоб ты сдохла, шалава тупая.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:20:56
SHLUXI NE NUZHNI
>>44528347
Ясен красен, что мужиков еще много.
Но мне нужен был именно тот. С ним столько всего пережили. Практически огонь и воду.

SHLUXI NE NUZHNI Аноним Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:20:21 44528366

Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как будто сейчас нахуй выпадут.
Сквозняки такие, что аж люстра качается.
А между дверью и косяком просвет от старого замка - утёс ветров блять. даже стоя на кухне в конце крыла слышу как там блять свистит сквозняк.
Но в чём вся соль: если заклеить окна, то комната за 10 минут превратится в ебаную баню, ибо ядерный реактор под общагой всегда работает на полную. Иначе не объяснить сверхъестественную температуру батарей и труб в комнате.
Прости, двач, наболело.


Украины тред Аноним Срд 06 Мар 2013 16:17:57 44497056 [Ответ]
1362575877673.jpg (22Кб, 417x500) Показана уменьшенная копия, оригинал по клику.

ДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как будто сейчас нахуй выпадут.
Сквозняки такие, что аж люстра качается.
А между дверью и косяком просвет от старого замка - утёс ветров блять. даже стоя на кухне в конце крыла слышу как там блять свистит сквозняк.
Но в чём вся соль: если заклеить окна, то комната за 10 минут превратится в ебаную баню, ибо ядерный реактор под общагой всегда работает на полную. Иначе не объяснить сверхъестественную температуру батарей и труб в комнате.
Прости, двач, наболело.


Украины тред Аноним Срд 06 Мар 2013 16:17:57 44497056 [Ответ]
1362575877673.jpg (22Кб, 417x500) Показана уменьшенная копия, оригинал по клику.

ДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. ХачейЯсен красен, что мужиков еще много.
Но мне нужен был именно тот. С ним столько всего пережили. Практически огонь и воду.

SHLUXI NE NUZHNI Аноним Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:20:21 44528366

Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как будто сейчас нахуй выпадут.
Сквозняки такие, что аж люстра качается.
А между дверью и косяком просвет от старого замка - утёс ветров блять. даже стоя на кухне в конце крыла слышу как там блять свистит сквозняк.
Но в чём вся соль: если заклеить окна, то комната за 10 минут превратится в ебаную баню, ибо ядерный реактор под общагой всегда работает на полную. Иначе не объяснить сверхъестественную температуру батарей и труб в комнате.
Прости, двач, наболело.


Украины тред Аноним Срд 06 Мар 2013 16:17:57 44497056 [Ответ]
1362575877673.jpg (22Кб, 417x500) Показана уменьшенная копия, оригинал по клику.

ДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как будто сейчас нахуй выпадут.
Сквозняки такие, что аж люстра качается.
А между дверью и косяком просвет от старого замка - утёс ветров блять. даже стоя на кухне в конце крыла слышу как там блять свистит сквозняк.
Но в чём вся соль: если заклеить окна, то комната за 10 минут превратится в ебаную баню, ибо ядерный реактор под общагой всегда работает на полную. Иначе не объяснить сверхъестественную температуру батарей и труб в комнате.
Прости, двач, наболело.


Украины тред Аноним Срд 06 Мар 2013 16:17:57 44497056 [Ответ]
1362575877673.jpg (22Кб, 417x500) Показана уменьшенная копия, оригинал по клику.

ДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:21:39
>>44528194
Вот ты дура. Нужно было от него залететь. Тогда бы не ушел.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:21:53
SHLUXI NE NUZHNI
ДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как бДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как бДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как бДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.
На мой пиздеж о единстве братских народов смотрели с широко открытыми глазами как на не совсем адекватного. Через дня три, когда один в открытую сказал что мне повезло что я не напоролся на бандеровцев, я понял, что эту тему лучше не по
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как б

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:21:59
>>44528347 СЧАСТЛИВАЯ СЕМЕЙНАЯ ПАРА ВДВШНИКОВ

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:22:35
Тут такое дело. Пилю я скрин рабочего стала, дабы залить в один тред и тут бам окошко хлопает. И я понимаю, насколько же меня заебали эти сквозняки
живу на 16-ом этаже студ. общаги. Древние деревянные рамы трясутся и гремят от ветра, как бДС-кун репортинг. На днях вернулся из столицы Хохленда. Жил там две недели. Хачей нет. Есть немного узкоглазой студентоты, но не наших узбеков/казахов, а китайцев, которые размовляют на мове из-за языка преподавания в вузах, в русский оне не могут. Быдло есть, но на порядок меньше.
С русским никаких проблем нет, на каком спросишь - на том и отвечают.
Думал, что что-то понимаю в укрополитике. Как оказалось нихуя не понимаю. Там движуха каждый день, причем реальная. Наши креаклы и пуклы рядом не валялись.
Люди не такие забитые как у нас, но дружелюбные.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:22:59
>>44528324
Конечно найду. Но это уже будет не он. Это то и печалит сейчас.

Пока котаны

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:23:04
Девушки,миленькие! у меня на внешней половой губе вскочил как-будто прыщик, размером около 1 см,ощущения очень неприятные,я бы даже сказала что бывает больно до него дотронуться,что это может быть?как от него избавиться?!


#2
зайкуня

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Отправлено 12 Январь 2007 - 16:39
ну может быть это просто прыщик.. а лучше к врачу сходить, чтобы не паниковать..


#3
Рябинушка

профи

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Отправлено 12 Январь 2007 - 16:51
На фурункул не похож?


#4
весна

Девушка с амбициями

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Отправлено 12 Январь 2007 - 17:32
Даже не вздумайте сами от него избавляться, можете только навредить и заразу внести, потом только под нож, идите к врачу!!


#5
Дирли

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Отправлено 12 Январь 2007 - 19:39
У меня тоже были...сначала прыщик...потом еще, потом еще. Не чесались, не беспокоили. А потом чесаться стали. Пришлось мазью противной прижигать. Так и пропали потом.


#6
снежинка007

Невозможно удержать снежинку на ладони

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Отправлено 12 Январь 2007 - 20:40
Советую не ставить самостоятельных диагнозов, а идти ко врачу, возможно он отправит на анализы.


#7
Rogue

счастливая мама

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Отправлено 12 Январь 2007 - 21:19

снежинка007 (12.1.2007, 22:40) писал:
Советую не ставить самостоятельных диагнозов, а идти ко врачу, возможно он отправит на анализы.
Ну это само собой! Мы тут можем только предполагать. А к врачу действительно необходимо!


#8
Оригинальная

Закохана в життя

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Отправлено 12 Январь 2007 - 21:41
Это может быть ВПЧ - вирус папилломы человека, который часто характеризуется высыпаниями на половых органах - неприятная вещь, поэтому, конечно, к врачу.


#9
_Anni-ta_

Гости

Отправлено 13 Январь 2007 - 09:44
а может быть и герпес. идите к врачу!
нужно сдать анализы! мазок, кровь...
я вот знаю, что у меня есть герпес, так после обострения сразу намазала там зовираксом и все прошло на 2день, но вы не занимайтесь самолеченим!


#10
_crazy frog_

Гости

Отправлено 13 Январь 2007 - 10:08
мазок у меня брали перед НГ.все было нормально, вроде стал уменьшаться


#11
_Anni-ta_

Гости

Отправлено 13 Январь 2007 - 10:13
надо кровь сдать на антитела к вирусам


#12
снежинка007

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Отправлено 13 Январь 2007 - 21:52

crazy frog (13.1.2007, 12:08) писал:
мазок у меня брали перед НГ.все было нормально, вроде стал уменьшаться


Что значит "нормально"??? Что именно написано в бланке анализа? Интересно, а врач какой диагноз поставил и какое назначил лечение???

Согласна с Anni-ta, нужно еще и кровь сдать, почему вам не назначили не понятно.

P.S. Папиллома - это не прыщик, она больше похожа на бородавку.


#13
Marimar

старожил

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Отправлено 13 Январь 2007 - 23:38
А у меня такое было, лет восемь назад, тогда половой жизнью не жила, может гормоны? прыщик соскочил, похож на фурункул! дотронуться было больно, дождалась пока "созрел", под кожей беленькое, смазала иголку перекисью водорода, подцепила кожу и аккуратно выдавила. НЕ УМЕЮЩИМ ПРАВИЛЬНО ВЫДАВЛИВАТЬ ПРЫЩИКИ ПОВТОРЯТЬ КАТЕГОРИЧЕСКИ ВОСПРЕЩАЕТСЯ!!!


#14
Christina

хочу ЗАмуж...

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Отправлено 14 Январь 2007 - 01:21
У меня тоже такая беда, страшно болит. Но у меня вскочил не на самой вн. губе, а рядом. Болит сильно, не знаю, что делать. Один раз такое было, он поболел и прошел. А выдавить его не смогла, больно и неудобно.


#15
_Anni-ta_

Гости

Отправлено 14 Январь 2007 - 05:51
народ, я от ваших народных методов определения серьезного заболевания в шоке!!!
при чем тут половая жизнь?!
вирусная инфекция есть у 80% людей!
идите сдавайте анализы. и не занимайтесь "самовыдавливанием"


#16
_crazy frog_

Гости

Отправлено 14 Январь 2007 - 11:28
мне на работе положено раз в 3 мес сдавать мазок,кровь на вич, и раз в полгода проходить комиссию на сан.книжку,только прощла всех врачей и сдала все анализы,везде штампики,что здорова


#17
_orsa_

Гости

Отправлено 15 Январь 2007 - 21:11

crazy frog (12.1.2007, 19:34) писал:
размером около 1 см
Господи, это что ж за прыщ таких размеров???!!! Фурункулищще!! Я бы к врачу понеслась срочно


#18
_Даняша_

Гости

Отправлено 18 Январь 2007 - 08:55
у моей подруги была такая фигня.........это был фурункул!она мазьями лечила......только не выдавливайте! а то потом может ещё один рядом вскочить!


#19
_Малыш:)_

Гости

Отправлено 05 Февраль 2007 - 17:32
А у меня два дня назад появился один вчера еще пару а сегодня уже больше...Я спать не могу не знаю что делать завтра иду к врачу...страшшшно жутьььь.наверное из-за того что не знаю что это такое


#20
Пантерочка

завсегдатай

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Отправлено 11 Апрель 2007 - 14:17
Со мной тоже как-то была такая беда. На это моя мама-медик сказала, что и у нее такое было. На теле выскакивают прыщики, так почему они не могут появится там? У меня такое было после менструации, когда прокладкой натерла там. Я просто дождалась пока этот прыщик "созреет" и аккуратно выдавила, заранее и после продезинфицировав. Проблем никаких. Инфекций у меня нет.


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Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:23:11
>>44526941
>я верила, что будем вместе всегда
Боже, как же я проиграл. Да простит меня Сотона.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:23:18
Gerald Durrell RULEZZZ!!!
y family and other animals
Gerald Durrell





Gerald Durrell

My family and other animals


To My Mother




It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

As You Like It





The Speech for the Defence


"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.'

PPPPThe White Queen - Alice Through the Looking-Glass

THIS is the story of a five-year sojourn that I and my family made on the Greek island of Corfu. It was originally intended to be a mildly nostalgic account of the natural history of the island, but I made a grave mistake by introducing my family into the book in the first few pages. Having got themselves on paper, they then proceeded to establish themselves and invite various friends to share the chapters. It was only with the greatest difficulty, and by exercising considerable cunning, that I managed to retain a few pages here and there which I could devote exclusively to animals.

I have attempted to draw an accurate and unexaggerated picture of my family in the following pages; they appear as I saw them. To explain some of their more curious ways, however, I feel that I should state that at the time we were in Corfu the family were all quite young: Larry, the eldest, was twenty-three; Leslie was nineteen; Margo eighteen; while I was the youngest, being of the tender and impressionable age of ten. We have never been very certain of my mother's age, for the simple reason that she can never remember her date of birth; all I can say is that she was old enough to have four children. My mother also insists that I explain that she is a widow for, as she so penetratingly observed, you never know what people might think.

In order to compress five years of incident, observation, and pleasant living into something a little less lengthy than the Encyclopaedia Britannica, I have been forced to telescope, prune, and graft, so that there is little left of the original continuity of events. Also I have been forced to leave out many happenings and characters that I would have liked to describe.

It is doubtful if this would have been written without the help and enthusiasm of the following people. I mention this so that blame can be laid in the right quarter.

My grateful thanks, then, to:

Dr Theodore Stephanides. With typical generosity, he allowed me to make use of material from his unpublished work on Corfu, and supplied me with a number of dreadful puns, some of which I have used.

My family. They, after all, unconsciously provided a lot of the material, and helped me considerably during the writing of the book by arguing ferociously and rarely agreeing about any incident on which I consulted them.

My wife, who pleased me by laughing uproariously when reading the manuscript, only to inform me that it was my spelling that amused her.

Sophie, my secretary, who was responsible for the introduction of commas and the ruthless eradication of the split infinitive.

I should like to pay a special tribute to my mother, to whom this book is dedicated. Like a gentle, enthusiastic, and understanding Noah, she has steered her vessel full of strange progeny through the stormy seas of life with great skill, always faced with the possibility of mutiny, always surrounded by the dangerous shoals of overdraft and extravagance, never being sure that her navigation would be approved by the crew, but certain that she would be blamed for anything that went wrong. That she survived the voyage is a miracle, but survive it she did, and, moreover, with her reason more or less intact. As my brother Larry rightly points out, we can be proud of the way we have brought her up; she is a credit to us. That she has reached that happy Nirvana where nothing shocks or startles is exemplified by the fact that one week-end recently, when all alone in the house, she was treated to the sudden arrival of a series of crates containing two pelicans, a scarlet ibis, a vulture, and eight monkeys. A lesser mortal might have quailed at such a contingency, but not Mother. On Monday morning I found her in the garage being pursued round and round by an irate pelican which she was trying to feed with sardines from a tin.

Tm glad you've come, dear,' she panted; 'this pelican is a little difficult to handle.'

When I asked her how she knew the animals belonged to me, she replied: 'Well, of course I knew they were yours, dear; who else would send pelicans to me?'

Which goes to show how well she knows at least one of her family.

Lastly, I would like to make a point of stressing that all the anecdotes about the island and the islanders are absolutely true. Living in Corfu was rather like living in one of the more flamboyant and slapstick comic operas. The whole atmosphere and charm of the place was, I think, summed up neatly on an Admiralty map we had, which showed the island and the adjacent coastline in great detail. At the bottom was a little inset which read:

CAUTION: AS the buoys marking the shoals are often out of position, mariners ar

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:24:12
Gerald Durrell RULEZZZ!!!
PART ONE


There is a pleasure sure

In being mad, which none but madmen know.

PPPPDRYDEN, The Spanish Friar, II, i




The Migration


JULY had been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August sky. A sharp, stinging drizzle fell, billowing into opaque grey sheets when the wind caught it. Along the Bournemouth sea-front the beach-huts turned blank wooden faces towards a greeny-grey, froth-chained sea that leapt eagerly at the cement bulwark of the shore. The gulls had been tumbled inland over the town, and they now drifted above the house-tops on taut wings, whining peevishly. It was the sort of weather calculated to try anyone's endurance.

Considered as a group my family was not a very prepossessing sight that afternoon, for the weather had brought with it the usual selection of ills to which we were prone. For me, lying on the floor, labelling my collection of shells, it had brought catarrh, pouring it into my skull like cement, so that I was forced to breath stertorously through open mouth. For my brother Leslie, hunched dark and glowering by the fire, it had inflamed the convolutions of his ears so that they bled delicately but persistently. To my sister Margo it had delivered a fresh dappling of acne spots to a face that was already blotched like a red veil. For my mother there was a rich, bubbling cold, and a twinge of rheumatism to season it. Only my eldest brother, Larry, was untouched, but it was sufficient that he was irritated by our failings.

It was Larry, of course, who started it. The rest of us felt too apathetic to think of anything except our own ills, but Larry was designed by Providence to go through life like a small, blond firework, exploding ideas in other people's minds, and then curling up with cat-like unctuousness and refusing to take any blame for the consequences. He had become increasingly irritable as the afternoon wore on. At length, glancing moodily round the room, he decided to attack Mother, as being the obvious cause of the trouble.

'Why do we stand this bloody climate?' he asked suddenly, making a gesture towards the rain-distorted window. 'Look at it! And, if it comes to that, look at us. ... Margo swollen up like a plate of scarlet porridge . . . Leslie wandering around with fourteen fathoms of cotton wool in each ear . . . Gerry sounds as though he's had a cleft palate from birth. . . . And look at you: you're looking more decrepit and hag-ridden every day.'

Mother peered over the top of a large volume entitled Easy Recipes from Rajputana.

'Indeed I'm not,' she said indignantly.

'You are,' Larry insisted; 'you're beginning to look like an Irish washerwoman ... and your family looks like a series of illustrations from a medical encyclopedia.'

Mother could think of no really crushing reply to this, so she contented herself with a glare before retreating once more behind her book.

'What we need is sunshine/ Larry continued; 'don't you agree, Les? ... Les ... Les!'

Leslie unravelled a large quantity of cotton-wool from one ear.

'What d'you say?' he asked.

'There you are!' said Larry, turning triumphantly to Mother, 'it's become a major operation to hold a conversation with him. I ask you, what a position to be in! One brother can't hear what you say, and the other one can't be understood. Really, it's time something was done. I can't be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere of gloom and eucalyptus.'

'Yes, dear,' said Mother vaguely.

'What we all need,' said Larry, getting into his stride again, 'is sunshine ... a country where we can grow.'

'Yes, dear, that would be nice,' agreed Mother, not really listening.

'I had a letter from George this morning - he says Corfu's wonderful. Why don't we pack up and go to Greece?

Very well, dear, if you like,' said Mother unguardedly.

Where Larry was concerned she was generally very careful not to commit herself.

When?' asked Larry, rather surprised at this cooperation.

Mother, perceiving that she had made a tactical error, cautiously lowered Easy Recipes from Rajputana.

'Well, I think it would be a sensible idea if you were to go on ahead, dear, and arrange things. Then you can write and tell me if it's nice, and we all can follow,' she said cleverly.

Larry gave her a withering look.

'You said that when I suggested going to Spain,' he reminded her, 'and I sat for two interminable months in Seville, waiting for you to come out, while you did nothing except write me massive letters about drains and drinking-water, as though I was the Town Clerk or something. No, if we're going to Greece, let's all go together.'

'You do exaggerate, Larry,' said Mother plaintively; 'anyway, I can't go just like that. I have to arrange something about this house.'

Arrange? Arrange what, for heaven's sake? Sell it.'

'I can't do that, dear,' said Mother, shocked.

'Why not?'

'But I've only just bought it.'

'Sell it while it's still untarnished, then.'

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:24:31
Прыщи на половых органах характерны для подросткового возраста, когда в период полового созревания, на фоне ярко выраженного изменения гормонального фона, происходит перестройка организма. Гормональную перестройку обычно сопровождает появление прыщей и воспалений в виде белых точек. Любые высыпания нельзя оставлять без внимания, так как они могут также являться признаком какого-либо заболевания.
Причины возникновения

Причины появления прыщей на половых органах могут быть следствием изменения гормонального фона у подростков.

Образования белого цвета, по размеру не очень крупные. Увеличенные сальных желез и образование прыщей белого цвета не представляют опасности. На теле человека располагается достаточно большое количество сальных желез, и большинство из них скрыты под верхним слоем кожи. В области половых органов слой кожи более тонок, а сальные железы более заметны.

Жировые кисты. Во многих случаях их принимают за [белые прыщиk. Когда белые прыщи имеют плотную структуру, на ощупь плотные и располагаются в паху или на стволе полового органа, это могут быть доброкачественные новообразования жировые кисты. Причиной образования жировых кист является закупорка сальных желез или воспаление волосяной фолликулы.

Жировые кисты опасны тем, что со временем, в условиях постоянного трения или при инфицировании, киста может воспалиться. Поэтому лучше не оставлять кисты без внимания. Обычно кисты оперируют. Операция довольно простая, по времени занимает несколько минут. Жировые кисты чаще возникают в период полового созревания. Причина: изменение уровня гормонов, стресс.

Высыпания и прыщи на половых органах по природе те же, что и высыпания на лице. Цвет высыпаний может быть красным, а прыщей красным, серым, чёрным. При надавливании на головку прыща на поверхность кожи изливается гнойный субстрат желто-белого цвета.

Любые прыщи на теле не рекомендуется выдавливать. Почему? При выдавливании гнойного содержимого и недостаточной дезинфекции кожного покрова, инфекция может проникать в окружающие слои кожи, воспалительный процесс будет охватывать все новые и новые области. В таком случае понадобится экстренное врачебное вмешательство.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:24:43
Gerald Durrell RULEZZZ!!!
'Don't be ridiculous, dear,' said Mother firmly; 'that's quite out of the question. It would be madness.'

So we sold the house and fled from the gloom of the English summer, like a flock of migrating swallows.

We all travelled light, taking with us only what we considered to be the bare essentials of life. When we opened our luggage for Customs inspection, the contents of our bags were a fair indication of character and interests. Thus Margo's luggage contained a multitude of diaphanous garments, three books on slimming, and a regiment of small bottles each containing some elixir guaranteed to cure acne. Leslie's case held a couple of roll-top pullovers and a pair of trousers which were wrapped round two revolvers, an air-pistol, a book called Be Your Own Gunsmith, and a large bottle of oil that leaked. Larry was accompanied by two trunks of books and a brief-case containing his clothes. Mother's luggage was sensibly divided between clothes and various volumes on cooking and gardening. I travelled with only those items that I thought necessary to relieve the tedium of a long journey: four books on natural history, a butterfly net, a dog, and a jam-jar full of caterpillars all in imminent danger of turning into chrysalids. Thus, by our standards fully equipped, we left the clammy shores of England.

France rain-washed and sorrowful, Switzerland like a Christmas cake, Italy exuberant, noisy, and smelly, were passed, leaving only confused memories. The tiny ship throbbed away from the heel of Italy out into the twilit sea, and as we slept in our stuffy cabins, somewhere in that tract of moon-polished water we passed the invisible dividing-line and entered the bright, looking-glass world of Greece. Slowly this sense of change seeped down to us, and so, at dawn, we awoke restless and went on deck.

The sea lifted smooth blue muscles of wave as it stirred in the dawn-light, and the foam of our wake spread gently behind us like a white peacock's tail, glinting with bubbles. The sky was pale and stained with yellow on the eastern horizon. Ahead lay a chocolate-brown smudge of land, huddled in mist, with a frill of foam at its base. This was Corfu, and we strained our eyes to make out the exact shapes of the mountains, to discover valleys, peaks, ravines, and beaches, but it remained a silhouette. Then suddenly the sun shifted over the horizon, and the sky turned the smooth enamelled blue of a jay's eye. The endless, meticulous curves of the sea flamed for an instant and then changed to a deep royal purple flecked with green. The mist lifted in quick, lithe ribbons, and before us lay the island, the mountains as though sleeping beneath a crumpled blanket of brown, the folds stained with the green of olive-groves. Along the shore curved beaches as white as tusks among tottering cities of brilliant gold, red, and white rocks. We rounded the northern cape, a smooth shoulder of rust-red cliff carved into a series of giant caves. The dark waves lifted our wake and carried it gently towards them, and then, at their very mouths, it crumpled and hissed thirstily among the rocks. Rounding the cape, we left the mountains, and the island sloped gently down, blurred with the silver and green iridescence of olives, with here and there an admonishing finger of black cypress against the sky. The shallow sea in the bays was butterfly blue, and even above the sound of the ship's engines we could hear, faintly ringing from the shore like a chorus of tiny voices, the shrill, triumphant cries of the cicadas.




CHAPTER ONE

The Unsuspected Isle


WE threaded our way out of the noise and confusion of the Customs shed into the brilliant sunshine on the quay. Around us the town rose steeply, tiers of multi-coloured houses piled haphazardly, green shutters folded back from their windows, like the wings of a thousand moths. Behind us lay the bay, smooth as a plate, smouldering with that unbelievable blue.

Larry walked swiftly, with head thrown back and an expression of such regal disdain on his face that one did not notice his diminutive size, keeping a wary eye on the porters who struggled with his trunks. Behind him strolled Leslie, short, stocky, with an air of quiet belligerence, and then Margo, trailing yards of muslin and scent. Mother, looking like a tiny, harassed missionary in an uprising, was dragged unwillingly to the nearest lamp-post by an exuberant Roger, and was forced to stand there, staring into space, while he relieved pent-up feelings that had accumulated in his kennel. Larry chose two magnificently dilapidated horse-drawn cabs, had the luggage installed in one, and seated himself in the second. Then he looked round irritably.

Well?' he asked. 'What are we waiting for?

'We're waiting for Mother,' explained Leslie. 'Roger's found a lamp-post.'

'Dear God!' said Larry, and then hoisted himself upright in the cab and bellowed, 'Come on, Mother, come on. Can't the dog wait?

'Coming, dear,' called Mother passively and untruthfully, for Roger showed no signs of quitting the post.

'That dog's been a damned nuisance all the way,' said Larry.

'Don't be so impatient,' said Margo indignantly; 'the dog can't help it ... and anyway, we had to wait an hour in Naples for you.'

'My stomach was out of order,' explained Larry coldly.

'Well, presumably his stomach's out of order,' said Margo triumphantly. 'It's six of one and a dozen of the other.'

'You mean half a dozen of the other.'

'Whatever I mean, it's the same thing.'

At this moment Mother arrived, slightly dishevelled, and we had to turn our attentions to the task of getting Roger into the cab. He had never been in such a vehicle, and treated it with suspicion. Eventually we had to lift him bodily and hurl him inside, yelping frantically, and then pile in breathlessly after him and hold him down. The horse, frightened by this activity, broke into a shambling trot, and we ended in a tangled heap on the floor of the cab with Roger moaning loudly underneath us.

'What an entry,' said Larry bitterly. 'I had hoped to give an impression of gracious majesty, and this is what happens ... we arrive in town like a troupe of medieval tumblers.'

'Don't keep on, dear,' Mother said soothingly, straightening her hat; 'we'll soon be at the hotel.'

So our cab clopped and jingled its way into the town, while we sat on the horsehair seats and tried to muster the appearance of gracious majesty Larry required. Roger, wrapped in Leslie's powerful grasp, lolled his head over the side of the vehicle and rolled his eyes as though at his last gasp. Then we rattled past an alley-way in which four scruffy mongrels were lying in the sun. Roger stiffened, glared at them and let forth a torrent of deep barks. The mongrels were immediately galvanized into activity, and they sped after the cab, yapping vociferously. Our pose was irretrievably shattered, for it took two people to restrain the raving Roger, while the rest of us leaned out of the cab and made wild gestures with magazines and books at the pursuing horde. This only had the effect of exciting them still further, and at each alley-way we passed their numbers increased, until by the time we were rolling down the main thorough fare of the town there were some twenty-four dogs swirling about our wheels, almost hysterical with anger.

'Why doesn't somebody do something?' asked Larry, raising his voice above the uproar. "This is like a scene from Uncle Tom's Cabin.1

'Why don't you do something, instead of criticizing?' snapped Leslie, who was locked in combat with Roger.

Larry promptly rose to his feet, snatched the whip from our astonished driver's hand, made a wild swipe at the herd of dogs, missed them, and caught Leslie across the back of the neck.

'What the hell d'you think you're playing at?' Leslie snarled, twisting a scarlet and angry face towards Larry.

'Accident,' explained Larry airily. 'I'm out of practice ... it's so long since I used a horse-whip.'

'Well, watch what you're bloody well doing,' said Leslie loudly and belligerently.

'Now, now, dear, it was an accident,' said Mother.

Larry took another swipe at the dogs and knocked off Mother's hat.

'You're more trouble than the dogs,' said Margo.

'Do be careful, dear,' said Mother, clutching her hat; 'you might hurt someone. I should put the whip down.'

At that moment the cab shambled to a halt outside a doorway over which hung a board with Pension Suisse inscribed on it. The dogs, feeling that they were at last going to get to grips with this effeminate black canine who rode in cabs, surrounded us in a solid, panting wedge. The door of the hotel opened and an ancient bewhiskered porter appeared and stood staring glassily at the turmoil in the street. The difficulties of getting Roger out of the cab and into the hotel were considerable, for he was a heavy dog, and it took the combined efforts of the family to lift, carry, and restrain him. Larry had by now forgotten his majestic pose and was rather enjoying himself. He leapt down and danced about the pavement with the whip, cleaving a path through the dogs, along which Leslie, Margo, Mother, and I hurried, bearing the struggling, snarling Roger. We staggered into the hall, and the porter slammed the front door and leant against it, his moustache quivering. The manager came forward, eyeing us with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Mother faced him, hat on one side of her head, clutching in one hand my jam-jar of caterpillars.

'Ah!' she said, smiling sweetly, as though our arrival had been the most normal thing in the world. 'Our name's Durrell. I believe you've got some rooms booked for us?

'Yes, madame,' said the manager, edging round the still grumbling Roger; 'they are on the first floor... four rooms and a balcony.'

'How nice,' beamed Mother; 'then I think we'll go straight up and have a little rest before lunch.'

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:24:49
>>44528487 АНУС СЕБЕ КОТАНИ БЛЯДИНА

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:25:02
>>44527896
>тут уже было два варианта 1) замуж, 2) разбежаться
Шантажировала расставанием, чтобы выскочить замуж. Зафейлила.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:25:16
Gerald Durrell RULEZZZ!!!
And with considerable majestic graciousness she led her family upstairs.

Later we descended to lunch in a large and gloomy room full of dusty potted palms and contorted statuary. We were served by the bewhiskered porter, who had become the head waiter simply by donning tails and a celluloid dicky that creaked like a convention of crickets. The meal, however, was ample and well cooked, and we ate hungrily. As coffee was served, Larry sat back in his chair with a sigh.

'That was a passable meal,' he said generously. 'What do you think of this place, Mother?

'Well, the food's all right, dear,' said Mother, refusing to commit herself.

'They seem a helpful crowd,' Larry went on. "The manager himself shifted my bed nearer the window.'

'He wasn't very helpful when I asked for paper/ said Leslie.

Paper?' asked Mother. 'What did you want paper for?

'For the lavatory... there wasn't any in there,' explained Leslie.

'Shhh! Not at the table,' whispered Mother.

'You obviously don't look,' said Margo in a clear and penetrating voice; 'they've got a little box full by the pan.'

'Margo, dead' exclaimed Mother, horrified.

Whats the matter? Didn't you see the little box?'

Larry gave a snort of laughter.

'Owing to the somewhat eccentric plumbing system of the town,' he explained to Margo kindly, 'that little box is provided for the ... er ... debris, as it were, when you have finished communing with nature.'

Margo's face turned scarlet with a mixture of embarrassment and disgust.

'You mean... you mean that was... My God, I might have caught some foul disease,' she wailed, and, bursting into tears, fled from the dining-room.

'Most insanitary,' said Mother severely; 'it really is a disgusting way to do things. Quite apart from the mistakes one can make, I should think there's a danger of getting typhoid.'

'Mistakes wouldn't happen if they'd organize things properly,' Leslie pointed out, returning to his original complaint.

'Yes, dear; but I don't think we ought to discuss it now. The best thing we can do is to find a house as soon as possible, before we all go down with something.'

Upstairs Margo was in a state of semi-nudity, splashing disinfectant over herself in quantities, and Mother spent an exhausting afternoon being forced to examine her at intervals for the symptoms of the diseases which Margo felt sure she was hatching. It was unfortunate for Mother's peace of mind that the Pension Suisse happened to be situated in the road leading to the local cemetery. As we sat on our small balcony overhanging the street an apparently endless succession of funerals passed beneath us. The inhabitants of Corfu obviously believed that the best part of a bereavement was the funeral, for each seemed more ornate than the last. Cabs decorated with yards of purple and black crepe were drawn by horses so enveloped in plumes and canopies that it was a wonder they could move. Six or seven of these cabs, containing the mourners in full and uninhibited grief, preceded the corpse itself. This came on another cart-like vehicle, and was ensconced in a coffin so large and lush that it looked more like an enormous birthday cake. Some were white, with purple, black-and-scarlet, and deep blue decorations; others were gleaming black with complicated filigrees of gold and silver twining abundantly over them, and glittering brass handles. I had never seen anything so colourful and attractive. This, I decided, was really the way to die, with shrouded horses, acres of flowers, and a horde of most satisfactorily grief-stricken relatives. I hung over the balcony rail watching the coffins pass beneath, absorbed and fascinated.

As each funeral passed, and the sounds of mourning and the clopping of hooves died away in the distance, Mother became more and more agitated.

'I'm sure it's an epidemic,' she exclaimed at last, peering down nervously into the street.

'Nonsense, Mother; don't fuss,' said Larry airily.

'But, dear, so many of them ... it's unnatural.'

'There's nothing unnatural about dying... people do it all the time.'

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:25:45
ШЛЮХИ НЕ НУЖНЫ
Прыщи на половых органах характерны для подросткового возраста, когда в период полового созревания, на фоне ярко выраженного изменения гормонального фона, происходит перестройка организма. Гормональную перестройку обычно сопровождает появление прыщей и воспалений в виде белых точек. Любые высыпания нельзя оставлять без внимания, так как они могут также являться признаком какого-либо заболевания.
Причины возникновения

Причины появления прыщей на половых органах могут быть следствием изменения гормонального фона у подростков.

Образования белого цвета, по размеру не очень крупные. Увеличенные сальных желез и образование прыщей белого цвета не представляют опасности. На теле человека располагается достаточно большое количество сальных желез, и большинство из них скрыты под верхним слоем кожи. В области половых органов слой кожи более тонок, а сальные железы более заметны.

Жировые кисты. Во многих случаях их принимают за [белые прыщиk. Когда белые прыщи имеют плотную структуру, на ощупь плотные и располагаются в паху или на стволе полового органа, это могут быть доброкачественные новообразования жировые кисты. Причиной образования жировых кист является закупорка сальных желез или воспаление волосяной фолликулы.

Жировые кисты опасны тем, что со временем, в условиях постоянного трения или при инфицировании, киста может воспалиться. Поэтому лучше не оставлять кисты без внимания. Обычно кисты оперируют. Операция довольно простая, по времени занимает несколько минут. Жировые кисты чаще возникают в период полового созревания. Причина: изменение уровня гормонов, стресс.

Высыпания и прыщи на половых органах по природе те же, что и высыпания на лице. Цвет высыпаний может быть красным, а прыщей красным, серым, чёрным. При надавливании на головку прыща на поверхность кожи изливается гнойный субстрат желто-белого цвета.

Любые прыщи на теле не рекомендуется выдавливать. Почему? При выдавливании гнойного содержимого и недостаточной дезинфекции кожного покрова, инфекция может проникать в окружающие слои кожи, воспалитеьный процесс будет охватывать все новые и новые области. В таком случае понадобится экстренное врачебное вмешательство.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:25:47
>>44528487
>Конечно найду. Но это уже будет не он.
Да какая разница-то?

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:26:19
Gerald Durrell RULEZZZ!!!
'Yes, but they don't die like flies unless there's something wrong.'

'Perhaps they save 'em up and bury 'em in a bunch,' suggested Leslie callously.

'Don't be silly,' said Mother. 'I'm sure it's something to do with the drains. It can't be healthy for people to have those sort of arrangements.'

'My God I' said Margo sepulchrally, 'then I suppose I'll get it.'

'No, no, dear; it doesn't follow,' said Mother vaguely; 'it might be something that's not catching.'

'I don't see how you can have an epidemic unless it's something catching,' Leslie remarked logically.

'Anyway,' said Mother, refusing to be drawn into any medical arguments, 'I think we ought to find out. Can't you ring up the health authorities, Larry?

'There probably aren't any health authorities here,' Larry pointed out, 'and even if there were, I doubt if they'd tell me.'

'Well,' Mother said with determination, 'there's nothing for it. We'll have to move. We must get out of the town. We must find a house in the country at once.1

The next morning we started on our house-hunt, accompanied by Mr. Beeler, the hotel guide. He was a fat little man with cringing eyes and sweat-polished jowls. He was quite sprightly when we set off, but then he did not know what was in store for him. No one who has not been househunting with my mother can possibly imagine it. We drove around the island in a cloud of dust while Mr. Beeler showed us villa after villa in a bewildering selection of sizes, colours, and situations, and Mother shook her head firmly at them all. At last we had contemplated the tenth and final villa on Mr. Beller's list, and Mother had shaken her head once again. Brokenly Mr. Beeler seated himself on the stairs and mopped his face with his handkerchief.

'Madame Durrell,' he said at last, 'I have shown you every villa I know, yet you do not want any. Madame, what is it you require? What is the matter with these villas?

Mother regarded him with astonishment.

'Didn't you notice?' she asked. 'None of them had a bathroom.'

Mr. Beeler stared at Mother with bulging eyes.

'But Madame,' he wailed in genuine anguish, 'what for you want a bathroom? ... Have you not got the sea?

We returned in silence to the hotel.

By the following morning Mother had decided that we would hire a car and go out house-hunting on our own. She was convinced that somewhere on the island there lurked a villa with a bathroom. We did not share Mother's belief, and so it was a slightly irritable and argumentative group that she herded down to the taxi-rank in the main square. The taxi-drivers, perceiving our innocent appearance, scrambled from inside their cars and flocked round us like vultures, each trying to out-shout his compatriots. Their voices grew louder and louder, their eyes flashed, they clutched each other's arms and ground their teeth at one another, and then they laid hold of us as though they would tear us apart. Actually, we were being treated to the mildest of mild altercations, but we were not used to the Greek temperament, and to us it looked as though we were in danger of our lives.

'Can't you do something, Larry?' Mother squeaked, disentangling herself with difficulty from the grasp of a large driver.

'Tell them you'll report them to the British Consul,' suggested Larry, raising his voice above the noise.

'Don't be silly, dear,' said Mother breathlessly. 'Just explain that we don't understand.'

Margo, simpering, stepped into the breach.

'We English,' she yelled at the gesticulating drivers; 'we no understand Greek.'

'If that man pushes me again I'll poke him in the eye,' said Leslie, his face flushed red.

'Now, now, dear,' panted Mother, still struggling with the driver who was propelling her vigorously towards his car; 'I don't think they mean any harm.'

At that moment everyone was startled into silence by a voice that rumbled out above the uproar, a deep, rich, vibrant voice, the sort of voice you would expect a volcano to have.

'Hoy!' roared the voice, 'whys donts yous have someones who can talks your own language?

Turning, we saw an ancient Dodge parked by the kerb, and behind the wheel sat a short, barrel-bodied individual, with ham-like hands and a great, leathery, scowling face surmounted by a jauntily-tilted peaked cap. He opened the door of the car, surged out on to the pavement, and waddled across to us. Then he stopped, scowling even more ferociously, and surveyed the group of silent cab-drivers.

'Thems been worrying yous?' he asked Mother.

'No, no,' said Mother untruthfully; 'it was just that we had difficulty in understanding them.'

'Yous wants someones who can talks your own language,' repeated the new arrival; 'thems bastards ... if yous will excuses the words .. . would swindles their own mothers. Excuses me a minute and I'll fix thems.'

He turned on the drivers a blast of Greek that almost swept them off their feet. Aggrieved, gesticulating, angry, they were herded back to their cars by this extraordinary man. Having given them a final and, it appeared, derogatory blast of Greek, he turned to us again.

'Wheres yous wants to gos?' he asked, almost truculently.

'Can you take us to look for a villa?' asked Larry.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:26:47
ШЛЮХИ НЕ НУЖНЫ
Прыщи на половых органах характерны для подросткового возраста, когда в период полового созревания, на фоне ярко выраженного изменения гормонального фона, происходит перестройка организма. Гормональную перестройку обычно сопровождает появление прыщей и воспалений в виде белых точек. Любые высыпания нельзя оставлять без внимания, так как они могут также являться признаком какого-либо заболевания.
Причины возникновения

Причины появления прыщей на половых органах могут быть следствием изменения гормонального фона у подростков.

Образования белого цвета, по размеру не очень крупные. Увеличенные сальных желез и образование прыщей белого цвета не представляют опасности. На теле человека располагается достаточно большое количество сальных желез, и большинство из них скрыты под верхним слоем кожи. В области половых органов слой кожи более тонок, а сальные железы более заметны.

Жировые кисты. Во многих случаях их принимают за [белые прыщиk. Когда белые прыщи имеют плотную структуру, на ощупь плотные и располагаются в паху или на стволе полового органа, это могут быть доброкачественные новообразования жировые кисты. Причиной образования жировых кист является закупорка сальных желез или воспаление волосяной фолликулы.

Жировые кисты опасны тем, что со временем, в условиях постоянного трения или при инфицировании, киста может воспалиться. Поэтому лучше не оставлять кисты без внимания. Обычно кисты оперируют. Операция довольно простая, по времени занимает несколько минут. Жировые кисты чаще возникают в период полового созревания. Причина: изменение уровня гормонов, стресс.

Высыпания и прыщи на половых органах по природе те же, что и высыпания на лице. Цвет высыпаний может быть красным, а прыщей красным, серым, чёрным. При надавливании на головку прыща на поверхность кожи изливается гнойный субстрат желто-белого цвета.

Любые прыщи на теле не рекомендуется выдавливать. Почему? При выдавливании гнойного содержимого и недостаточной дезинфекции кожного покрова, инфекция может проникать в окружающие слои кожи, воспалительный процесс будет охватывать все новые и новые обсти. В таком случае понадобится экстренное врачебное вмешательство.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:27:28
Gerald Durrell RULEZZZ!!!
Mr. Beeler stared at Mother with bulging eyes.

'But Madame,' he wailed in genuine anguish, 'what for you want a bathroom? ... Have you not got the sea?

We returned in silence to the hotel.

By the following morning Mother had decided that we would hire a car and go out house-hunting on our own. She was convinced that somewhere on the island there lurked a villa with a bathroom. We did not share Mother's belief, and so it was a slightly irritable and argumentative group that she herded down to the taxi-rank in the main square. The taxi-drivers, perceiving our innocent appearance, scrambled from inside their cars and flocked round us like vultures, each trying to out-shout his compatriots. Their voices grew louder and louder, their eyes flashed, they clutched each other's arms and ground their teeth at one another, and then they laid hold of us as though they would tear us apart. Actually, we were being treated to the mildest of mild altercations, but we were not used to the Greek temperament, and to us it looked as though we were in danger of our lives.

'Can't you do something, Larry?' Mother squeaked, disentangling herself with difficulty from the grasp of a large driver.

'Tell them you'll report them to the British Consul,' suggested Larry, raising his voice above the noise.

'Don't be silly, dear,' said Mother breathlessly. 'Just explain that we don't understand.'

Margo, simpering, stepped into the breach.

'We English,' she yelled at the gesticulating drivers; 'we no understand Greek.'

'If that man pushes me again I'll poke him in the eye,' said Leslie, his face flushed red.

'Now, now, dear,' panted Mother, still struggling with the driver who was propelling her vigorously towards his car; 'I don't think they mean any harm.'

At that moment everyone was startled into silence by a voice that rumbled out above the uproar, a deep, rich, vibrant voice, the sort of voice you would expect a volcano to have.

'Hoy!' roared the voice, 'whys donts yous have someones who can talks your own language?

Turning, we saw an ancient Dodge parked by the kerb, and behind the wheel sat a short, barrel-bodied individual, with ham-like hands and a great, leathery, scowling face surmounted by a jauntily-tilted peaked cap. He opened the door of the car, surged out on to the pavement, and waddled across to us. Then he stopped, scowling even more ferociously, and surveyed the group of silent cab-drivers.

'Thems been worrying yous?' he asked Mother.

'No, no,' said Mother untruthfully; 'it was just that we had difficulty in understanding them.'

'Yous wants someones who can talks your own language,' repeated the new arrival; 'thems bastards ... if yous will excuses the words .. . would swindles their own mothers. Excuses me a minute and I'll fix thems.'

He turned on the drivers a blast of Greek that almost swept them off their feet. Aggrieved, gesticulating, angry, they were herded back to their cars by this extraordinary man. Having given them a final and, it appeared, derogatory blast of Greek, he turned to us again.

'Wheres yous wants to gos?' he asked, almost truculently.

'Can you take us to look for a villa?' asked Larry.

The Customs official, waving his pinched hand about, protested wildly that it was his duty to examine the contents.

Dutys?' said Spiro with fine scorn. 'What's you means, dutys? Is it your dutys to attacks innocent foreigners, eh? Treats thems like smugglers, eh? Thats whats you calls dutys?

Spiro paused for a moment, breathing deeply, then he picked up a large suitcase in each great hand and walked towards the door. He paused and turned to fire his parting shot.

'I knows you, Christaki, sos don'ts you go talkings about dutys to me. I remembers when you was fined twelve thousand drachmas for dynamitings fish. I won't have any criminal talkings to me abouts dutys.'

We rode back from the Customs in triumph, all our luggage intact and unexamined.

'Thems bastards thinks they owns the islands,' was Spiro's comment. He seemed quite unaware of the fact that he was acting as though he did.

Once Spiro had taken charge he stuck to us like a burr. Within a few hours he had changed from a taxi-driver to our champion, and within a week he was our guide, philosopher, and friend. He became so much a member of the family that very soon there was scarcely a thing we did, or planned to do, in which he was not involved in some way. He was always there, bull-voiced and scowling, arranging things we wanted done, telling us how much to pay for things, keeping a watchful eye on us all, and reporting to Mother anything he thought she should know. Like a great, brown, ugly angel he watched over us as tenderly as though we were slightly weak-minded children. Mother he frankly adored, and he would sing her praises in a loud voice wherever we happened to be, to her acute embarrassment.

'You oughts to be carefuls whats you do,' he would tell us, screwing up his face earnestly; 'we donts wants to worrys your mothers.'

'Whatever for, Spiro?' Larry would protest in well-simulated astonishment. 'She's never done anything for us ... why should we consider her?

'Gollys, Master Lorrys, donts jokes like that,' Spiro would say in anguish.

'He's quite right, Spiro,' Leslie would say very seriously; 'she's really not much good as a mother, you know.'

'Donts says that, donts says that,' Spiro would roar. 'Honest to Gods, if I hads a mother likes yours I'd gos down every mornings and kisses her feets.'

So we were installed in the villa, and we each settled down and adapted ourselves to our surroundings in our respective ways. Margo, merely by donning a microscopic swim-suit and sun-bathing in the olive-groves, had collected an ardent band of handsome peasant youths who appeared like magic from an apparently deserted landscape whenever a bee flew too near her or her deck-chair needed moving. Mother felt forced to point out that she thought this sun-bathing was rather unwise.

'After all, dear, that costume doesn't cover an awful

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:27:41
ШЛЮХИ НЕ НУЖНЫ
Прыщи на половых органах характерны для подросткового возраста, когда в период полового созревания, на фоне ярко выраженного изменения гормонального фона, происходит перестройка организма. Гормональную перестройку обычно сопровождает появление прыщей и воспалений в виде белых точек. Любые высыпания нельзя оставлять без внимания, так как они могут также являться признаком какого-либо заболевания.
Причины возникновения

Причины появления прыщей на половых органах могут быть следствием изменения гормонального фона у подростков.

Образования белого цвета, по размеру не очень крупные. Увеличенные сальных желез и образование прыщей белого цвета не представляют опасности. На теле человека располагается достаточно большое количество сальных желез, и большинство из них скрыты под верхним слоем кожи. В области половых органов слой кожи более тонок, а сальные железы более заметны.

Жировые кисты. Во многих случаях их принимают за [белые прыщиk. Когда белые прыщи имеют плотную структуру, на ощупь плотные и располагаются в паху или на стволе полового органа, это могут быть доброкачественные новообразования жировые кисты. Причиной образования жировых кист является закупорка сальных желез или воспаление волосяной фолликулы.

Жировые кисты опасны тем, что со временем, в условиях постоянного трения или при инфицировании, киста может воспалиться. Поэтому лучше не оставлять кисты без внимания. Обычно кисты оперируют. Операция довольно простая, по времени занимает несколько минут. Жировые кисты чаще возникают в период полового созревания. Причина: изменение уровня гормонов, стресс.

Высыпания и прыщи на половых органах по природе те же, что и высыпания на лице. Цвет высыпаний может быть красным, а прыщей красным, серым, чёрным. При надавливании на головку прыща на поверхность кожи изливается гнойный субстрат желто-белого цвета.

Любые прыщи на теле не рекомендуется выдавливать. Почему? При выдавливании гнойного содержимого и недостаточной дезинфекции кожного покрова, инфекция может проникать в окружающие слои кожи, воспалительный процесс будет охватать все новые и новые области. В таком случае понадобится экстренное врачебное вмешательство.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:28:06
ОДИН ЕБЕТ ДРУГОЙ ДРАЗНИДСА ВОТ КАКАЯ РАЗНЕДЦА

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:28:34
ШЛЮХИ НЕ НУЖНЫ
Прыщи на половых органах характерны для подросткового возраста, когда в период полового созревания, на фоне ярко выраженного изменения гормонального фона, происходит перестройка организма. Гормональную перестройку обычно сопровождает появление прыщей и воспалений в виде белых точек. Любые высыпания нельзя оставлять без внимания, так как они могут также являться признаком какого-либо заболевания.
Причины возникновения

Причины появления прыщей на половых органах могут быть следствием изменения гормонального фона у подростков.

Образования белого цвета, по размеру не очень крупные. Увеличенные сальных желез и образование прыщей белого цвета не представляют опасности. На теле человека располагается достаточно большое количество сальных желез, и большинство из них скрыты под верхним слоем кожи. В области половых органов слой кожи более тонок, а сальные железы более заметны.

Жировые кисты. Во многих случаях их принимают за [белые прыщиk. Когда белые прыщи имеют плотную структуру, на ощупь плотные и располагаются в паху или на стволе полового органа, это могут быть доброкачественные новообразования жировые кисты. Причиной образования жировых кист является закупорка сальных желез или воспаление волосяной фолликулы.

Жировые кисты опасны тем, что со временем, в условиях постоянного трения или при инфицировании, киста может воспалиться. Поэтому лучше не оставлять кисты без внимания. Обычно кисты оперируют. Операция довольно простая, по времени занимает несколько минут. Жировые кисты чаще возникают в период полового созревания. Причина: изменение уровня гормонов, стресс.

Высыпания и прыщи на половых органах по природе те же, что и высыпания на лице. Цвет высыпаний может быть красным, а прыщей красным, серым, чёрным. При надавливании на головку прыща на поверхность кожи изливается гнойный субстрат желто-белого цвета.

Любые прыщи на теле не рекомендуется выдавливать. Почему? При выдавливании гнойного содержимого и недостаточной дезинфекции кожного покрова, инфекция может проникать в окружающие слои кожи, воспалительный процесс будет охватывать все новые и новые области. В таком случае понадобится экстренное врачебное вмешатьство.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:28:37
Gerald Durrell thinks that whores are not necessary
lot, does it?' she pointed out.

'Oh, Mother, don't be so old-fashioned,' Margo said impatiently. 'After all, you only die once.'

This remark was as baffling as it was true, and successfully silenced Mother.

It had taken three husky peasant boys half an hour's sweating and panting to get Larry's trunks into the villa, while Larry bustled round them, directing operations. One of the trunks was so big it had to be hoisted in through the window. Once they were installed, Larry spent a happy day unpacking them, and the room was so full of books that it was almost impossible to get in or out. Having constructed battlements of books round the outer perimeter, Larry would spend the whole day in there with his typewriter, only emerging dreamily for meals. On the second morning he appeared in a highly irritable frame of mind, for a peasant had tethered his donkey just over the hedge. At regular intervals the beast would throw out its head and let forth a prolonged and lugubrious bray.

'I ask you! Isn't it laughable that future generations should be deprived of my work simply because some horny-handed idiot has tied that stinking beast of burden near my window?' Larry asked.

'Yes, dear,' said Mother; 'why don't you move it if it disturbs you?

'My dear Mother, I can't be expected to spend my time chasing donkeys about the olive-groves. I threw a pamphlet on Christian Science at it; what more do you expect me to do?'

'The poor thing's tied up. You can't expect it to untie itself,' said Margo.

'There should be a law against parking those loathsome beasts anywhere near a house. Can't one of you go and move it?'

'Why should we? It's not disturbing us,' said Leslie.

'That's the trouble with this family,' said Larry bitterly: 'no give and take, no consideration for others.'

'You don't have much consideration for others,' said Margo.

'It's all your fault, Mother,' said Larry austerely; 'you shouldn't have brought us up to be so selfish/

'I like that!' exclaimed Mother. 'I never did anything of the sort!'

'Well, we didn't get as selfish as this without some guidance,' said Larry.

In the end, Mother and I unhitched the donkey and moved it farther down the hill.

Leslie meanwhile had unpacked his revolvers and startled us all with an apparently endless series of explosions while he fired at an old tin can from his bedroom window. After a particularly deafening morning, Larry erupted from his room and said he could not be expected to work if the villa was going to be rocked to its foundations every five minutes. Leslie, aggrieved, said that he had to practise. Larry said it didn't sound like practice, but more like the Indian Mutiny. Mother, whose nerves had also been somewhat frayed by the reports, suggested that Leslie practise with an empty revolver. Leslie spent half an hour explaining why this was impossible. At length he reluctantly took his tin farther away from the house where the noise was slightly muffled but just as unexpected.

In between keeping a watchful eye on us all, Mother was settling down in her own way. The house was redolent with the scent of herbs and the sharp tang of garlic and onions, and the kitchen was full of a bubbling selection of pots, among which she moved, spectacles askew, muttering to herself. On the table was a tottering pile of books which she consulted from time to time. When she could drag herself away from the kitchen, she would drift happily about the garden, reluctantly pruning and cutting, enthusiastically weeding and planting.

For myself, the garden held sufficient interest; together Roger and I learnt some surprising things. Roger, for example, found that it was unwise to smell hornets, that the peasant dogs ran screaming if he glanced at them through the gate, and that the chickens that leapt suddenly from the fuchsia hedge, squawking wildly as they fled, were unlawful prey, however desirable.

This doll's-house garden was a magic land, a forest of flowers through which roamed creatures I had never seen before. Among the thick, silky petals of each rose-bloom lived tiny, crab-like spiders that scuttled sideways when disturbed. Their small, translucent bodies were coloured to match the flowers they inhabited: pink, ivory, wine-red, or buttery-yellow. On the rose-stems, encrusted with green flies, lady-birds moved like newly painted toys; lady-birds pale red with large black spots; lady-birds apple-red with brown spots; lady-birds orange with grey-and-black freckles. Rotund and amiable, they prowled and fed among the anaemic flocks of greenfly. Carpenter bees, like furry, electric-blue bears, zigzagged among the flowers, growling fatly and busily. Humming-bird hawk-moths, sleek and neat, whipped up and down the paths with a fussy efficiency, pausing occasionally on speed-misty wings to lower a long, slender proboscis into a bloom. Among the white cobbles large black ants staggered and gesticulated in groups round strange trophies: a dead caterpillar, a piece of rose-petal, or dried grass-head fat with seeds. As an accompaniment to all this activity there came from the olive-groves outside the fuchsia hedge the incessant shimmering cries of the cicadas. If the curious, blurring heat-haze produced a sound, it would be exactly the strange, chiming cries of these insects.

At first I was so bewildered by this profusion of life on our very doorstep that I could only move about the garden in a daze, watching now this creature, now that, constantly having my attention distracted by the flights of brilliant butterflies that drifted over the hedge. Gradually, as I became more used to the bustle of insect life among the flowers, I found I could concentrate more. I would spend hours squatting on my heels or lying on my stomach watching the private lives of the creatures around me, while Roger sat nearby, a look of resignation on his face. In this way I learnt a lot of fascinating things.

I found that the little crab-spiders could change colour just as successfully as any chameleon. Take a spider from a wine-red rose, where he had been sitting like a bead of coral, and place him in the depths of a cool white rose. If he stayed there - and most of them did - you would see his colour gradually ebb away, as though the change had given him anaemia, until, some two days later, he would be crouching among the white petals like a pearl.

I discovered that in the dry leaves under the fuchsia hedge lived another type of spider, a fierce little huntsman with the cunning and ferocity of a tiger. He would stalk about his continent of leaves, eyes glistening in the sun, pausing now and then to raise himself up on his hairy legs to peer about. If he saw a fly settle to enjoy a sun-bath he would freeze; then, as slowly as a leaf growing, he would move forward, imperceptibly, edging nearer and nearer, pausing occasionally to fasten his life-line of silk to the surface of the leaves. Then, when close enough, the huntsman would pause, his legs shift minutely as he got a good purchase, and then he would leap, legs spread out in a hairy embrace, straight on to the dreaming fly. Never did I see one of these little spiders miss its kill, once it had manoeuvred into the right position.

All these discoveries filled me with a tremendous delight, so that they had to be shared, and I would burst suddenly into the house and startle the family with the news that the strange, spiky black caterpillars on the roses were not caterpillars at all, but the young of lady-birds, or with the equally astonishing news that lacewing-flies laid eggs on stilts. This last miracle I was lucky enough to witness. I found a lacewing-fly on the roses and watched her as she climbed about the leaves, admiring her beautiful, fragile wings like green glass, and her enormous liquid golden eyes. Presently she stopped on the surface of a rose-leaf and lowered the tip of her abdomen. She remained like that for a moment and then raised her tail, and from it, to my astonishment, rose a slender thread, like a pale hair. Then, on the very tip of this stalk, appeared the egg. The female had a rest, and then repeated the performance until the surface of the rose-leaf looked as though it was covered with a forest of tiny club moss. The laying over, the female rippled her antennae briefly and flew off in a mist of green gauze wings.

Perhaps the most exciting discovery I made in this multicoloured Lilliput to which I had access was an earwig's nest. I had long wanted to find one and had searched everywhere without success, so the joy of stumbling upon one unexpectedly was overwhelming, like suddenly being given a wonderful present. I moved a piece of bark and there beneath it was the nursery, a small hollow in the earth that the insect must have burrowed out for herself. She squatted in the middle of it, shielding underneath her a few white eggs. She crouched over them like a hen, and did not move when the flood of sunlight struck her as I lifted the bark. I could not count the eggs, but there did not seem to be many, so I presumed that she had not yet laid her full complement. Tenderly I replaced her lid of bark.

From that moment I guarded the nest jealously. I erected a protecting wall of rocks round it, and as an additional precaution I wrote out a notice in red ink and stuck it on a pole nearby as a warning to the family. The notice read: 'BEWAR - EARWIG NEST - QUIAT PLESE.' It was only remarkable in that the two correctly spelt words were biological ones. Every hour or so I would subject the mother earwig to ten minutes' close scrutiny. I did not dare examine her more often for fear she might desert her nest. Eventually the pile of eggs beneath her grew, and she seemed to have become accustomed to my lifting off her bark roof. I even decided that she had begun to recognize me, from the friendly way she waggled her antennae.

To my acute disappointment, after all my efforts and constant sentry duty, the babies hatched out during the night. I felt that, after all I had done, the female might have held up the hatching until I was there to witness it. However, there they were, a fine brood of young earwigs, minute, frail, looking as though they had been carved out of ivory. They moved gently under their mother's body, walking between her legs, the more venturesome even climbing on to her pincers. It was a heart-warming sight. The next day the nursery was empty: my wonderful family had scattered over the garden. I saw one of the babies some time later: he was bigger, of course, browner and stronger, but I recognized him immediately. He was curled up in a maze of rose-petals, having a sleep, and when I disturbed him he merely raised his pincers irritably over his back. I would have liked to think that it was a salute, a cheerful greeting, but honesty compelled me to admit that it was nothing more than an earwig's warning to a potential enemy. Still, I excused him. After all, he had been very young when I last saw him.

I came to know the plump peasant girls who passed the garden every morning and evening. Riding side-saddle on their slouching, drooping-eared donkeys, they were shrill and colourful as parrots, and their chatter and laughter echoed among the olive-trees. In the mornings they would smile and shout greetings as their donkeys pattered past, and in the evenings they would lean over the fuchsia hedge, balancing precariously on their steeds' backs, and smiling, hold out gifts for me - a bunch of amber grapes still sun-warmed, some figs black as tar striped with pink where they had burst their seams with ripeness, or a giant water-melon with an inside like pink ice. As the days passed, I came gradually to understand them. What had at first been a confused babble became a series of recognizable separate sounds. Then, suddenly, these took on meaning, and slowly and haltingly I started to use them myself; then I took my newly acquired words and strung them into ungrammatical and stumbling sentences. Our neighbours were delighted, as though I had conferred some delicate compliment by trying to learn their language. They would lean over the hedge, their faces screwed up with concentration, as I groped my way through a greeting or a simple remark, and when I had successfully concluded they would beam at me, nodding and smiling, and clap their hands. By degrees I learnt their names, who was related to whom, which were married and which hoped to be, and other details. I learnt where their little cottages were among the olive-groves, and should Roger and I chance to pass that way the entire family, vociferous and pleased, would tumble out to greet us, to bring a chair, so that I might sit under their vine and eat some fruit with them.

Gradually the magic of the island settled over us as gently and clingingly as pollen. Each day had a tranquility, a timelessness, about it, so that you wished it would never end. But then the dark skin of night would peel off and there would be a fresh day waiting for us, glossy and colourful as a child's transfer and with the same tinge of unreality.


Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:29:44
ШЛЮХИ НЕ НУЖНЫ
ТРЕД СДОХ, ШЛЮХА УШЛА
Прыщи на половых органах характерны для подросткового возраста, когда в период полового созревания, на фоне ярко выраженного изменения гормонального фона, происходит перестройка организма. Гормональную перестройку обычно сопровождает появление прыщей и воспалений в виде белых точек. Любые высыпания нельзя оставлять без внимания, так как они могут также являться признаком какого-либо заболевания.
Причины возникновения

Причины появления прыщей на половых органах могут быть следствием изменения гормонального фона у подростков.

Образования белого цвета, по размеру не очень крупные. Увеличенные сальных желез и образование прыщей белого цвета не представляют опасности. На теле человека располагается достаточно большое количество сальных желез, и большинство из них скрыты под верхним слоем кожи. В области половых органов слой кожи более тонок, а сальные железы более заметны.

Жировые кисты. Во многих случаях их принимают за [белые прыщиk. Когда белые прыщи имеют плотную структуру, на ощупь плотные и располагаются в паху или на стволе полового органа, это могут быть доброкачественные новообразования жировые кисты. Причиной образования жировых кист является закупорка сальных желез или воспаление волосяной фолликулы.

Жировые кисты опасны тем, что со временем, в условиях постоянного трения или при инфицировании, киста может воспалиться. Поэтому лучше не оставлять кисты без внимания. Обычно кисты оперируют. Операция довольно простая, по времени занимает несколько минут. Жировые кисты чаще возникают в период полового созревания. Причина: изменение уровня гормонов, стресс.

Высыпания и прыщи на половых органах по природе те же, что и высыпания на лице. Цвет высыпаний может быть красным, а прыщей красным, серым, чёрным. При надавливании на головку прыща на поверхность кожи изливается гнойный субстрат желто-белого цвета.

Любые прыщи на теле не рекомендуется выдавливать. Почему? При выдавливании гнойного содержимого и недостаточной дезинфекции кожного покрова, инфекция может проникать в окружающие слои кожи, воспалительный процесс будет охватывать все новые и новые области. В таком случае понадобится экстренное врачебное вмешательство.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:31:09
whores are useless
HAPTER THREE

The Rose-Beetle Man


IN the morning, when I woke, the bedroom shutters were luminous and barred with gold from the rising sun. The morning air was full of the scent of charcoal from the kitchen fire, full of eager cock-crows, the distant yap of dogs, and the unsteady, melancholy tune of the goat-bells as the flocks were driven out to pasture.

We ate breakfast out in the garden, under the small tangerine-trees. The sky was fresh and shining, not yet the fierce blue of noon, but a clear milky opal. The flowers were half-asleep, roses dew-crumpled, marigolds still tightly shut. Breakfast was, on the whole, a leisurely and silent meal, for no member of the family was very talkative at that hour. By the end of the meal the influence of the coffee, toast, and eggs made itself felt, and we started to revive, to tell each other what we intended to do, why we intended to do it, and then argue earnestly as to whether each had made a wise decision. I
'Must you gulp and slush your food like that?' Larry would inquire in a pained voice, delicately picking his teeth with a match-stick.

'Eat it slowly, dear,' Mother would murmur; 'there's no hurry.'

No hurry? With Roger waiting at the garden gate, an alert black shape, watching for me with eager brown eyes? No hurry, with the first sleepy cicadas starting to fiddle experimentally among the olives? No hurry, with the island waiting, morning cool, bright as a star, to be explored? I could hardly expect the family to understand this point of view, however, so I would slow down until I felt that their attention had been attracted elsewhere, and then stuff my mouth again.

Finishing at last, I would slip from the table and saunter towards the gate, where Roger sat gazing at me with a questioning air. Together we would peer through the wrought-iron gates into the olive-groves beyond. I would suggest to Roger that perhaps it wasn't worth going out today. He would wag his stump in hasty denial, and his nose would butt at my hand. No, I would say, I really didn't think we ought to go out. It looked as though it was going to rain, and I would peer up into the clear, burnished sky with a worried expression. Roger, ears cocked, would peer into the sky too, and then look at me imploringly. Anyway, I would go on, if it didn't look like rain now it was almost certain to rain later, and so it would be much safer just to sit in the garden with a book. Roger, in desperation, would place a large black paw on the gate, and then look at me, lifting one side of his upper lip, displaying his white teeth in a lop-sided, ingratiating grin, his stump working itself into a blur of excitement. This was his trump card, for he knew I could never resist his ridiculous grin. So I would stop teasing him, fetch my match-boxes and my butterfly net, the garden gate would creak open and clang shut, and Roger would be off through the olive-groves swiftly as a cloud-shadow, his deep bark welcoming the new day.

In those early days of exploration Roger was my constant companion. Together we ventured farther and farther afield, discovering quiet, remote olive-groves which had to be investigated and remembered, working our way through a maze of blackbird-haunted myrtles, venturing into narrow valleys where the cypress-trees cast a cloak of mysterious, inky shadow. He was the perfect companion for an adventure, affectionate without exuberance, brave without being belligerent, intelligent, and full of good-humoured tolerance for my eccentricities. If I slipped when climbing a dew-shiny bank, Roger appeared suddenly, gave a snort that sounded like suppressed laughter, a quick look over, a rapid lick of commiseration, shook himself, sneezed and gave me his lop-sided grin. If I found something that interested me - an ant's nest, a caterpillar on a leaf, a spider wrapping up a fly in swaddling clothes of silk - Roger sat down and waited until I had finished examining it. If he thought I was taking too long, he shifted nearer, gave a gentle, whiny yawn, and then sighed deeply and started to wag his tail. If the matter was of no great importance, we would move on, but if it was something absorbing that had to be pored over, I had only to frown at Roger and he would realize it was going to be a long job. His ears would droop, his tail slow down and stop, and he would slouch off to the nearest bush, fling himself down in the shade, giving me a martyred look as he did so.

During these trips Roger and I came to know and be known by a great number of people in various parts of the surrounding countryside. There was, for example, a strange, mentally defective youth with a round face as expressionless as a puffball. He was always dressed in tattered shirt, shiny blue serge trousers that were rolled up to the knee, and on his head the elderly remains of a bowler hat without a brim. Whenever he saw us he came hurrying through the olives, raised his absurd hat politely, and wished us good day in a voice as childish and sweet as a flute. He would stand, watching us without expression, nodding at any remark I happened to make, for ten minutes or so. Then, raising his hat politely, he would go off through the trees. Then there was the immensely fat and cheerful Agathi, who lived in a tiny tumbledown cottage high up the hill. She was always sitting outside her house with a spindle of sheep's wool, twining and pulling it into coarse thread. She must have been well over seventy, but her hair was still black and lustrous, plaited carefully and wound round a pair of polished cow's horns, an ornament that some of the older peasant women adopted. As she sat in the sun, like a great black toad with a scarlet head-dress draped over the cow's horns, the bobbin of wool would rise and fall, twisting like a top, her fingers busy unravelling and plucking, and her drooping mouth with its hedge of broken and discoloured teeth wide open as she sang, loudly and harshly, but with great vigour.

It was from Agathi that I learnt some of the most beautiful and haunting of the peasant songs. Sitting on an old tin in the sun, eating grapes or pomegranates from her garden, I would sing with her, and she would break off now and then to correct my pronunciation. We sang (verse by verse) the gay, rousing song of the river, Vangelio, and of how it dropped from the mountains, making the gardens rich, the fields fertile, and the trees heavy with fruit. We sang, rolling our eyes at each other in exaggerated coquetry, the funny little love-song called 'Falsehood'. 'Lies, lies,' we warbled, shaking our heads, 'all lies, but it is my fault for teaching you to go round the countryside telling people I love you.' Then we would strike a mournful note and sing, perhaps, the slow, out his wrists and neck that argued a lack of food. His dress was fantastic, and on his head was a shapeless hat with a very wide, floppy brim. It had once been bottle-green, but was now speckled and smeared with dust, wine-stains, and cigarette-burns. In the band were stuck a fluttering forest of feathers: cock-feathers, hoopoe-feathers, owl-feathers, the wing of a kingfisher, the claw of a hawk, and a large dirty white feather that may have come from a swan. His shirt was worn and frayed, grey with sweat, and round the neck dangled an enormous cravat of the most startling blue satin. His coat was dark and shapeless, with patches of different hues here and there; on the sleeve a bit of white cloth with a design of rosebuds; on the shoulder a triangular patch of wine-red and white spots. The pockets of this garment bulged, the contents almost spilling out: combs, balloons, little highly coloured pictures of the saints, olive-wood carvings of snakes, camels, dogs and horses, cheap mirrors, a riot of handkerchiefs, and long twisted rolls of bread decorated with seeds. His trousers, patched like his coat, drooped over a pair of scarlet charouhias, leather shoes with upturned toes decorated with a large black-and-white pompon. This extraordinary character carried on his back bamboo cages full of pigeons and young chickens, several mysterious sacks, and a large bunch of fresh green leeks. With one hand he held his pipe to his mouth, and in the other a number of lengths of cotton, to each of which was tied an almond-size rose-beetle, glittering golden green in the sun, all of them flying round his hat with desperate, deep buzzings, trying to escape from the thread tied firmly round their waists. Occasionally, tired of circling round and round without success, one of the beetles would settle for a moment on his hat, before launching itself off once more on its endless merry-go-round.

When he saw us the Rose-beetle Man stopped, gave a very exaggerated start, doffed his ridiculous hat, and swept us a low bow. Roger was so overcome by this unlooked-for attention that he let out a volley of surprised barks. The man smiled at us, put on his hat again, raised his hands, and waggled his long, bony fingers at me. Amused and rather startled by this apparition, I politely bade him good day. He gave another courtly bow. I asked him if he had been to some fiesta. He nodded his head vigorously, raised his pipe to his lips and played a lilting little tune on it, pranced a few steps in the dust of the road, and then stopped and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing back the way he had come. He smiled, patted his pockets, and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together in the Greek way of expressing money. I suddenly realized that he must be dumb. So, standing in the middle of the road, I carried on a conversation with him and he replied with a varied and very clever pantomime. I asked what the rose-beetles were for, and why he had them tied with pieces of cotton. He held his hand out to denote small boys, took one of the lengths of cotton from which a beetle hung, and whirled it rapidly round his head. Immediately the insect came to life and started on its planet-like circling of his hat, and he beamed at me. Pointing up at the sky, he stretched his arms out and gave a deep nasal buzzing, while he banked and swooped across the road. Aeroplane, any fool could see that. Then he pointed to die beetles, held out his hand to denote children, and whirled his stock of beetles round his head so that they all started to buzz peevishly.

Exhausted by his explanation, he sat down by the edge of the road, played a short tune on his flute, breaking off to sing in his curious nasal voice. They were not articulate words he used, but a series of strange gruntings and tenor squeaks, that appeared to be formed at the back of his throat and expelled through his nose. He produced them, however, with such verve and such wonderful facial expressions that you were convinced the curious sounds really meant something. Presently he stuffed his flute into his bulging pocket, gazed at me reflectively for a moment and then swung a small sack off his shoulder, undid it, and, to my delight and astonishment, tumbled half a dozen tortoises into the dusty road. Their shells had been polished with oil until they shone, and by some means or other he had managed to decorate their front legs with little red bows. Slowly and ponderously they unpacked their heads and legs from their gleaming shells and set off down the road, doggedly and without enthusiasm. I watched them, fascinated; the one that particularly took my fancy was quite a small one with a shell about the size of a tea-cup. It seemed more sprightly than the others, and its shell was a paler colour - chestnut, caramel, and amber. Its eyes were bright and its walk was as alert as any tortoise's could be. I sat contemplating it for a long time. I convinced myself that the family would greet its arrival at the villa with tremendous enthusiasm, even, perhaps, congratulating me on finding such an elegant specimen. The fact that I had no money on me did not worry me in the slightest, for I would simply tell the man to call at the villa for payment the next day. It never occurred to me that he might not trust me. The fact that I was English was sufficient, for the islanders had a love and respect for the Englishman out of all proportion to his worth. They would trust an Englishman where they would not trust each other. I asked the Rose-beetle Man the price of the little tortoise. He held up both hands, fingers spread out. However, I hadn't watched the peasants transacting business for nothing. I shook my head firmly and held up two fingers, unconsciously imitating the man. He closed his eyes in horror at the thought, and held up nine fingers; I held up three; he shook his head, and after some thought held up six fingers; I, in return,

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:31:47
whores are useless
Then I told him I had no money, and that he would have to come the next day to the villa, and he nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Excited by owning this new pet, I wanted to get back home as quickly as possible in order to show it to everyone, so I said good-bye, thanked him, and hurried off along the road. When I reached the place where I had to cut down through the olive-groves, I stopped and examined my acquisition carefully. He was undoubtedly the finest tortoise I had ever seen, and worth, in my opinion, at least twice what I had paid for him. I patted his scaly head with my finger and placed him carefully in my pocket. Before diving down the hillside I glanced back. The Rose-beetle Man was still in the same place on the road, but he was doing a little jig, prancing and swaying, his flute warbling, while in the road at his feet the tortoises ambled to and fro, dimly and heavily.

The new arrival was duly christened Achilles, and turned out to be a most intelligent and lovable beast, possessed of a peculiar sense of humour. At first he was tethered by a leg in the garden, but as he grew tamer we let him go where he pleased. He learned his name in a very short time, and we had only to call out once or twice and then wait patiently for a while and he would appear, lumbering along the narrow cobbled paths on tip-toe, his head and neck stretched out eagerly. He loved being fed, and would squat regally in the sun while we held out bits of lettuce, dandelions, or grapes for him. He loved grapes as much as Roger did, so there was always great rivalry. Achilles would sit mumbling the grapes in his mouth, the juice running down his chin, and Roger would lie nearby, watching him with agonized eyes, his mouth drooling saliva. Roger always had his fair share of the fruit, but even so he seemed to think it a waste to give such delicacies to a tortoise. When the feeding was over, if I didn't keep an eye on him, Roger would creep up to Achilles and lick his front vigorously in an attempt to get the grape-juice that the reptile had dribbled down himself. Achilles, affronted at such a liberty, would snap at Roger's nose, and then, when the licks became too overpowering and moist, he would retreat into his shell with an indignant wheeze, and refuse to come out until we had removed Roger from the scene.

But the fruit that Achilles liked best were wild strawberries. He would become positively hysterical at the mere sight of them, lumbering to and fro, craning his head to see if you were going to give him any, gazing at you pleadingly with his tiny boot-button eyes. The very small strawberries he could devour at a gulp, for they were only the size of a fat pea. But if you gave him a big one, say the size of a hazel nut, he behaved in a way that I have never seen another tortoise emulate. He would grab the fruit and, holding it firmly in his mouth, would stumble off at top speed until he reached a safe and secluded spot among the flower-beds, where he would drop the fruit and then eat it at leisure, returning for another one when he had finished.

As well as developing a passion for strawberries, Achilles also developed a passion for human company. Let anyone come into the garden to sit and sun-bathe, to read or for any other reason, and before long there would be a rustling among the sweet williams, and Achilles's wrinkled and earnest face would be poked through. If you were sitting in a chair, he contented himself with getting as close to your feet as possible, and there he would sink into a deep and peaceful sleep, his head drooping out of his shell, his nose resting on the ground. If, however, you were lying on a rug, sun-bathing, Achilles would be convinced that you were lying on the ground simply in order to provide him with amusement. He would surge down the path and on to the rug with an expression of bemused good humour on his face. He would pause, survey you thoughtfully, and then choose a portion of your anatomy on which to practise mountaineering. Suddenly to have the sharp claws of a determined tortoise embedded in your thigh as he tries to lever himself up on to your stomach is not conducive to relaxation. If you shook him off and moved the rug it would only give you temporary respite, for Achilles would circle the garden grimly until he found you again. This habit became so tiresome that, after many complaints and threats from the family, I had to lock him up whenever we lay in the garden. Then one day the garden gate was left open and Achilles was nowhere to be found. Search-parties were immediately organized, and the family, who up till then had spent most of their time openly making threats against the reptile's life, wandered about the olive-groves, shouting, 'Achilles . . . strawberries, Achilles ... Achilles ... strawberries ....' At length we found him. Ambling along in his usual detached manner, he had fallen into a disused well, the wall of which had long since disintegrated, and the mouth of which was almost covered by ferns. He was, to our regret, quite dead. Even Leslie's attempts at artificial respiration, and Margo's suggestion of forcing strawberries down his throat (to give him, as she explained, something to live for), failed to get any response. So, mournfully and solemnly, his corpse was buried in the garden under a small strawberry plant (Mother's suggestion). A short funeral address, written and read in a trembling voice by Larry, made the occasion a memorable one. It was only marred by Roger, who, in spite of all my protests, insisted on wagging his tail throughout the burial service.

Not long after Achilles had been taken from us I obtained another pet from the Rose-beetle Man. This time it was a pigeon. He was still very young and had to be force-fed on bread-and-milk and soaked corn. He was the most revolting bird to look at, with his feathers pushing through the wrinkled scarlet skin, mixed with the horrible yellow down that covers baby pigeons and makes them look as though they have been peroxiding their hair. Owing to his repulsive and obese appearance, Larry suggested we called him Quasimodo and, liking the name without realizing the implications, I agreed. For a long time after he could feed himself, and when all his feathers had grown, Quasimodo retained a sprig of yellow down on his head which gave him the appearance of a rather pompous judge wearing a wig several sizes too small.

Owing to his unorthodox upbringing, and the fact that he had no parents to teach him the facts of life, Quasimodo became convinced that he was not a bird at all, and refused to fly. Instead he walked everywhere. If he wanted to get on to a table, or a chair, he stood below it, ducking his head and cooing in a rich contralto until someone lifted him up. He was always eager to join us in anything we did, and would even try to come for walks with us. This, however, we had to stop, for either you carried him on your shoulder, which was risking an accident to your clothes, or else you let him walk behind. If you let him walk, then you had to slow down your own pace to suit his, for should you get too far ahead you would hear the most frantic and imploring coos and turn round to find Quasimodo running desperately after you, his tail wagging seductively, his iridescent chest pouted out with indignation at your cruelty.

Quasimodo insisted on sleeping in the house; no amount of coaxing or scolding would get him to inhabit the pigeonloft I had constructed for him. He preferred to sleep on the end of Margo's bed. Eventually, however, he was banished to the drawing-room sofa, for if Margo turned over in bed at night Quasimodo would wake, hobble up the bed, and perch on her face, cooing loudly and lovingly.

It was Larry who discovered that Quasimodo was a musical pigeon. Not only did he like music, but he actually seemed to recognize two different varieties, the waltz and the military march. For ordinary music he would waddle as close to the gramophone as possible and sit there with pouting chest, eyes half close, purring softly to himself. But if the tune was a waltz he would move round and round the machine, bowing, twisting, and cooing tremulously. For a march, on the other hand - Sousa for preference - he drew himself up to his full height, inflated his chest, and stamped up and down the room, while his coo became so rich and throaty that he seemed in danger of strangling himself. He never attempted to perform these actions for any other kind of music except marches and waltzes. Occasionally, however, if he had not heard any music for some time, he would (in his enthusiasm at hearing the gramophone) do a march for a waltz, or vice versa, but he invariably stopped and corrected himself half-way through.

One sad day we found, on waking Quasimodo, that he had duped us all, for there among the cushions lay a glossy white egg. He never quite recovered from this. He became embittered, sullen, and started to peck irritably if you attempted to pick him up. Then he laid another egg, and his nature changed completely. He, or rather she, became wilder and wilder, treating us as though we were her worst enemies, slinking up to the kitchen door for food as if she feared for her life. Not even the gramophone would tempt her back into the house. The last time I saw her she was sitting in an olive-tree, cooing in the most pretentious and coy manner, while further along the branch a large and very masculine-looking pigeon twisted and cooed in a perfect ecstasy of admiration.

For some time the Rose-beetle Man would turn up at the villa fairly regularly with some new addition to my menagerie: a frog, perhaps, or a sparrow with a broken leg. One afternoon Mother and I, in a fit of extravagant sentimental-ism, bought up his entire stock of rose-beetles and, when he had left, let them all go in the garden. For days the villa was full of rose-beetles, crawling on the beds, lurking in the bathroom, banging against the lights at night, and falling like emeralds into our laps.

The last time I saw the Rose-beetle Man was one evening when I was sitting on a hill-top overlooking the road. He had obviously been to some fiesta and had been plied with much wine, for he swayed to and fro across the road, piping a melancholy tune on his flute. I shouted a greeting, and he waved extravagantly without looking back. As he rounded the corner he was silhouetted for a moment against the pale lavender evening sky. I could see his battered hat with the fluttering feathers, the bulging pockets of his coat, the bamboo cages full of sleepy pigeons on his back, and above his head, circling drowsily round and round, I could see the dim specks that were the rose-beetles. Then he rounded the curve of the road and there was only the pale sky with a new moon floating in it like a silver feather, and the soft twittering of his flute dying away in the dusk.




CHAPTER FOUR

A Bushel of Learning


SCARCELY had we settled into the Strawberry-pink Villa before Mother decided that I was running wild, and that it was necessary for me to have some sort of education. But where to find this on a remote Greek island? As usual when a problem arose, the entire family flung itself with enthusiasm into the task of solving it. Each member had his or her own idea of what was best for me, and each argued with such fervour that any discussion about my future generally resulted in an uproar.

'Plenty of time for him to learn,' said Leslie; 'after all, he can read, can't he? I can teach him to shoot, and if we bought a boat I could teach him to sail.'

'But, dear, that wouldn't really be much use to him later on,' Mother pointed out, adding vaguely, 'unless he was going into the Merchant Navy or something.'

'I think it's essential that he learns to dance/ said Margo, 'or else he'll grow up into one of these awful tongue-tied hobbledehoys.'

'Yes, dear; but that sort of thing can come later. He should be getting some sort of grounding in things like mathematics and French... and his spelling's appalling.'

'Literature,' said Larry, with conviction, 'that's what he wants, a good solid grounding in literature. The rest will follow naturally. I've been encouraging him to read some good stuff.'

'But don't you think Rabelais is a little old for him?' asked Mother doubtfully.

Чтв 07 Мар 2013 02:32:25
whores are useless
Good, clean fun,' said Larry airily; 'it's important that he gets sex in its right perspective now.'

'You've got a mania about sex,' said Margo primly; 'it doesn't matter what we're discussing, you always have to drag it in.

'What he wants is a healthy, outdoor life; if he learnt to shoot and sail...' began Leslie.

'Oh, stop talking like a bishop . . . you'll be advocating cold baths next.'

'The trouble with you is you get in one of these damned supercilious moods where you think you know best, and you won't even listen to anyone else's point of view.'

'With a point of view as limited as yours, you can hardly expect me to listen to it.'

'Now, now, there's no sense in fighting,' said Mother.

'Well, Larry's so bloody unreasonable.'

'I like that!' said Larry indignantly; 'I'm far and away the most reasonable member of the family.'

'Yes, dear, but fighting doesn't solve the problem. What we want is someone who can teach Gerry and who'll encourage him in his interests.'

'He appears to have only one interest,' said Larry bitterly, 'and that's this awful urge to fill things with animal life. I don't think he ought to be encouraged in that. Life is fraught with danger as it is. ... I went to light a cigarette only this morning and a damn' great bumble-bee flew out of the box/

'It was a grasshopper with me,' said Leslie gloomily.

'Yes, I think that sort of thing ought to be stopped,' said Margo. 'I found the most revolting jar of wriggling things on the dressing-table, of all places.'

'He doesn't mean any harm, poor little chap,' said Mother pacifically; 'he's so interested in all these things.'

'I wouldn't mind being attacked by bumble-bees, if it led anywhere,' Larry pointed out. 'But it's just a phase ... he'll grow out of it by the time he's fourteen.'

'He's been in this phase from the age of two,' said Mother, 'and he's showing no signs of growing out of it.'

'Well, if you insist on stuffing him full of useless information, I suppose George would have a shot at teaching him,* said Larry.

'That's a brain-wave,' said Mother delightedly. 'Will you go over and see him? I think the sooner he starts the better.'

Sitting under the open window in the twilight, with my arm round Roger's shaggy neck, I had listened with interest, not unmixed with indignation, to the family discussion on my fate. Now it was settled, I wondered vaguely who George was, and why it was so necessary for me to have lessons. But the dusk was thick with flower-scents, and the olive-groves were dark, mysterious, and fascinating. I forgot about the imminent danger of being educated, and went off with Roger to hunt for glow-worms in the sprawling brambles.

I discovered that George was an old friend of Larry's who had come to Corfu to write. There was nothing very unusual about this, for all Larry's acquaintances in those days were either authors, poets, or painters. It was George, moreover, who was really responsible for our presence in Corfu, for he had written such eulogistic letters about the place that Larry had become convinced we could live nowhere else. Now George was to pay the penalty for his rashness. He came over to the villa to discuss my education with Mother, and we were introduced. We regarded each other with suspicion. George was a very tall and extremely thin man who moved with the odd disjointed grace of a puppet. His lean, skull-like face was partially concealed by a finely pointed brown beard and a pair of large tortoise-shell spectacles. He had a deep, melancholy voice, a dry and sarcastic sense of humour. Having made a joke, he would smile in his beard with a sort of vulpine pleasure which was quite unaffected by anyone else's reactions.

Gravely George set about the task of teaching me. He was undeterred by the fact that there were no school-books available on the island; he simply ransacked his own library and appeared on the appointed day armed with a most unorthodox selection of tomes. Sombrely and patiently he taught me the rudiments of geography from the maps in the back of an ancient copy of Pears Cyclopaedia, English from books that ranged from Wilde to Gibbon, French from a fat and exciting book called Le Petit Larousse, and mathematics from memory. From my point of view, however, the most important thing was that we devoted some of out time to natural history, and George meticulously and carefully taught me how to observe and how to note down observations in a diary. At once my enthusiastic but hap-ha2ard interest in nature became focused, for I found that by writing things down I could learn and remember much more. The only mornings that I was ever on time for my lessons were those which were given up to natural history.

Every morning at nine George would come stalking through the olive-trees, clad in shorts, sandals, and an enormous straw hat with a frayed brim, clutching a wedge of books under one arm, swinging a walking-stick vigorously.

'Good morning. The disciple awaits the master agog with anticipation, I trust?' he would greet me, with a saturnine smile.

In the little dining-room of the villa the shutters would be closed against the sun, and in the green twilight George would loom over the table, methodically arranging the books. Flies, heat-drugged, would crawl slowly on the walls or fly drunkenly about the room, buzzing sleepily. Outside the cicadas were greeting the new days with shrill enthusiasm.

'Let me see, let me see,' George would murmur, running a long forefinger down our carefully prepared time-table; 'yes, yes, mathematics. If I remember rightly, we were involved in the Herculean task of discovering how long it would take six men to build a wall if three of them took a week. I seem to recall that we have spent almost as much time on this problem as the men spent on the wall. Ah, well, let us gird our loins and do battle once again. Perhaps it's the shape of the problem that worries you, eh? Let us see if we can make it more exciting.'

He would droop over the exercise-book pensively, pulling at his beard. Then in his large, clear writing he would set the problem out in a fresh way.

'If it took two caterpillars a week to eat eight leaves, how long would four caterpillars take to eat the same number? Now, apply yourself to that.'

While I struggled with the apparently insoluble problem of the caterpillars' appetites, George would be otherwise occupied. He was an expert fencer, and was at that time engaged in learning some of the local peasant dances, for which he had a passion. So, while waiting for me to finish the sum, he would drift about in the gloom of the room, practising fencing stances or complicated dancing-steps, a habit that I found disconcerting, to say the least, and to which I shall always attribute my inability to do mathematics. Place any simple sum before me, even now, and it immediately conjures up a vision of George's lanky body swaying and jerking round the dimly lit dining-room. He would accompany the dancing sequences with a deep and tuneless humming, like a hive of distraught bees.

'Tum-ti-tum-ti-tum ... tiddle tiddle tumty dee... left leg over... three steps right... tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-ti - dum... back, round, down and up ... tiddle iddle umpty dee . . .,' he would drone, as he paced and pirouetted like a dismal crane. Then, suddenly, the humming would stop, a steely look would creep into his eyes, and he would throw himself into an attitude of defence, pointing an imaginary foil at an imaginary enemy. His eyes narrowed, his spectacles a-glitter, he would drive his adversary back across the room, skilfully avoiding the furniture. When his enemy was backed into the corner, George would dodge and twist round him with the agility of a wasp, stabbing, thrusting, guarding. I could almost see the gleam of steel. Then came the final moment, the upward and outward flick that would catch his opponent's weapon and twist it harmlessly to one side, the swift withdrawal, followed by the long, straight lunge that drove the point of his foil right through the adversary's heart. Through all this I would be watching him, fascinated, the exercise-book lying forgotten in front of me. Mathematics was not one of our more successful subjects.

In geography we made better progress, for George was able to give a more zoological tinge to the lesson. We would draw giant maps, wrinkled with mountains, and then fill in the various places of interest, together with drawings of the more exciting fauna to be found there. Thus for me the chief products of Ceylon were tapirs and tea; of India tigers and rice; of Australia kangaroos and sheep, while the blue curves of currents we drew across the oceans carried whales, albatross, penguins, and walrus, as well as hurricanes, trade winds, fair weather and foul. Our maps were works of art. The principal volcanoes belched such flames and sparks one feared they would set the paper continents alight; the mountain ranges of the world were so blue and white with ice and snow that it made one chilly to look at them. Our brown, sun-drenched deserts were lumpy with camel-humps and pyramids, and our tropical forests so tangled and luxuriant that it was only with difficulty that the slouching jaguars, lithe snakes, and morose gorillas managed to get through them, while on their outskirts emaciated natives hacked wearily at the painted trees, forming little clearings apparently for the purpose of writing 'coffee' or perhaps 'cereals' across them in unsteady capitals. Our rivers were wide, and blue as forget-me-nots, freckled with canoes and crocodiles. Our oceans were anything but empty, for where they had not frothed themselves into a fury of storms or drawn themselves up into an awe-inspiring tidal wave that hung over some remote, palm-shaggy island, they were full of life. Good-natured whales allowed unseaworthy galleons, armed with a forest of harpoons, to pursue them relentlessly; bland and innocent-looking octopi tenderly engulfed small boats in their arms; Chinese junks, with jaundiced crews, were followed by shoals of well-dentured sharks, while fur-clad Eskimos pursued obese herds of walrus through icefields thickly populated by polar bears and penguins. They were maps that lived, maps that one could study, frown over and add to; maps, in short, that really meant something.


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