Frock Horror - An Impromptu Little Cultural Exercise.

Do you ever feel like the forces are conspiring against you?

It has been raining here quite heavily at times over the past week.. I know here in blighty who would have dreamed. Anyway at the weekend I bought myself a rather nice frock for work. So on Tuesday I decided to give the said frock its first outing. I did look rather fetching I have to say. I spent the day carrying out a number of home visits. As I left my final visit the heavens opened and when I say opened they poured buckets. I was drenched through to the skin.

I could have wrung my lovely new frock out like a dish cloth. Accompanied  by much squishing and sloshing I headed home. Oh the relief when I got out of my soggy attire. Unfortunately this soon turned to concern when I noticed my entire mid section was a startling shade of azure blue.  The dye from my lovely frock had run and I now matched the lining perfectly. So I was slightly miffed that after two showers and lots of scrubbing , (I have to say I was buffed to perfection and silky smooth), my mid section still had a lustrous blue hue. I headed off to the shop from where I purchased the frock.

Handing the frock to the counter assistant I explained my 'mishap'. Examining it she scanned the label. "Madam I'm sorry but this dress is dry clean only." she announced.

"Yes dear I am aware of that, but I didn't put it in the washing machine" I replied

"Being dry clean only it means you should not get it wet"

"I got caught in the rain"

She looked at me over the rims of her Dolce and Gabbana spectacles, and hmmed loudly. "I will have to get the Manageress, I can't deal with this," she said and she retreated into the back of the shop holding my frock at arm's length.

The Manageress appeared and eyed me slowly, (it was the kind of shop that likes to cater to a certain class of clientele), in my somewhat bedraggled state I clearly did not pass muster. "Madam I cannot possibly reimburse you for this purchase, it clearly states dry clean only and you have got the dress wet." she said handing the soggy frock back to me with a look of disdain.

"But it was not my fault," I demanded, "I got caught in the rain,"

"then you should have taken shelter" she replied.

"Oh I'm terribly sorry, perhaps I should have hammered on a door requesting they let me in, 'help! help! it's an emergency, I need assistance, it's raining and my frock is DRY CLEAN ONLY', " I said somewhat sarcastically. She was not amused.

"Madam our returns policy does not cover 'acts of nature'."

"What about terrorism?" I enquired

"Madam?"

"Actually I was mistaken, it was not the rain, it was the Physioterrorist suspect I was visiting who unbeknown to me had been in the process of making a water bomb, which turned out to be unstable and unfortunately detonated as I reached for a current bun." I replied triumphantly. Her glare instantly froze the soggy frock in my hands and it was clear that the returns policy did not cover 'acts of terrorism' either.

You will be pleased to note that both I and the frock have now dried out and we shall enjoy future outings together only after checking the weather forecast.

Lazy Sunday

Well guess what I have been doing today? READING.. for pleasure in my lofty study. Hmm.

So as I am otherwise entertained I have posted the original 'Cultural Exercise' as some of you are new around here and have not had the pleasure. I am currently working on another which will be posted shortly.

This is a follow up to a comment I made on my friend Atilla's post 'What a Boob' .


A Little Cultural Exercise
In the interests of cultural science and as an experiment in political correctness I headed off to Sainsburys, my local supermarket, and marched up to the meat counter. The conversation went as follows:


"Hello there, I'd like a couple of those chicken boobs please?"

"Erm sorry Madam?" the young man behind the counter coughed nervously.

"A couple of those chicken boobs, please," I said pointing at the nice plump mound of chicken flesh.

He eyed me suspiciously before answering, "You'd like two chicken breasts madam?"


"Yes dear, that's what I said, a couple of chicken boobs," I winked.


The nice young man behind the counter stepped back a little as he reached for his tongs.


"Actually dear, could you make them large ones. I'm entertaining tonight."


"Er yes madam," he picked up a nice plump chicken 'boob' and put it into the bag. Then he started to pick up another, still watching me from the corner of his eye.


"Sorry to be a nuisance, but could you possibly make them the same size please, I prefer a good 'balance',"


Yes that was definitely the turning point. His hand slid under the counter and within a couple of minutes a rather large butcher, replete with bloodstained pinney and chopper appeared from the backroom door.


"Please step away from the counter Madam." I obeyed, of course. "Do we appear to be having a problem here?" he enquired nervously, chopper at the ready.


I suddenly felt a 'presence' at my side, "You're for it now... Chicken boobs!" someone whispered in my ear. I turned to find an elderly gentleman who had been behind me in the queue.


"Back off Grandad, this is a serious experiment in social etiquette."


"Yeh, that's what I used to tell the wife. I'd watch the big one, he asn't got a sense of humour missus."


extracting myself from the riveting conversation with the elderly chap, I returned my attention to the butcher. "No," I replied demurely, "I'm being served thank you."


"What was it you were after?" he asked huffily


" Chicken boobs, but it's quite all right your young man there has it all in hand thank you." I replied cheerily.


Well suffice to say the experiment had to be suspended at that point as a somewhat unamused butcher accompanied by a very nice young security guard escorted me to the door. My protests of a very serious miscarriage of judgment on their part and claims of saintly standing did not wash. Even when I explained that I was conducting a very serious experiment on behalf of the renowned Attila Institute in the Rockies, they were having none of it.


So there you have it, a cultural experiment in cross species political correctness. Just remember in future we are definitely not 'birds', it would appear there is slightly more political correctness surrounding their 'breasts'.

This is St Jude Mmr, Cjd, Nut, Dip Py, until my next assignment, signing off.

For more 'Cultural Exercises' follow the link below.

A Little Cultural Exercise - Santa Clause

Well it has been far too hectic in the St Jude household this past month. With studying and working we have not had a moment to ourselves. With this in mind I decided that this year I needed to avail myself of a 'personal shopper' for my Christmas pressies. After some thought it came to me that at this time of year there really was only one person for the job a true professional in every sense of the word... Santa Claus!

So I settled down and wrote my list of presents. This done I pondered on what to do next. I could pop it in the post box with nice little note;

My Dear Santa,

I just thought that I would drop you a quick note and a short, (shortish), list of my gift requirements for the forthcoming Yuletide festivities. Please note that I have referenced in italics preferences for colour, size, brand, and alternatives should the item be out of stock. I have also put the address for each item to be delivered.

Yours in eager anticipation

St Jude xxx

I set off to the post box with my precious list. As I rounded the corner I noted the burly figure of the postman heaving a huge sack of letters into the back of his van. He groaned as I sprinted towards him with the list in my outstretched hand.

"Oh blimey, not another letter for his nibbs!" he huffed, "I hate this time of year with all this extra mail. Why don't they just go and see him instead, it'd make my life a whole lot easier."

Of course! What a wonderful idea, then I could be sure that he had received the precious list. Unfortunately this was a tad difficult as I had already delivered my letter into the 'safe' keeping of the postie. Who was adamant that it was now the property of the Royal Mail, and I couldn't have it back. I thought about turning on my saintly charm, but then I realised that time was ticking on. After a couple of minutes of attempting to wrestle the letter from his grasp, I had the better of him and triumphantly marched back home with my prize held close to my chest for safe keeping.

A short while later I was headed for the bright lights of the city and my hunt for Santa Claus had begun. Now boys and girls I don't want to burst anyones bubble but I have to inform you that there are some rather scurrilous people out there, not least the 'Santa doppelgangers'!!! You see I wasn't about to leave my precious list with just any old Santa lookalike. No! I was determined to make sure that I went to the very man himself. This mission was not going to be an easy one, but I was up to the challenge, I had ensured that I had put on my comfiest heels and wrapped up warm in a natty little cashmere number. Look out Santa... St Jude is on your case.

After doing a brisk recky of the shops and malls I discovered to my horror that there were even more 'Santa's' plying for business than I had anticipated. Hey ho I would just have to jump in at the deep end. My first port of call was a smart shopping mall with a grotto situated on the top floor. It looked the business with a Peter Pan themed display and little animated characters jiggling here there and everywhere. (They really should have put it closer to the toilets, children do have very small bladders.) I took my place in line and waited with baited breath. After what seemed like hours but in reality was a mere forty minutes, I was finally bidden entrance to the man himself.

I smiled my saintly smile and approached Santa. Just as I was about to plant my saintly behind on his lap a rather matronly fairy sternly announced, "we don't sit on Santa's knee,"

"Oh would that be the 'royal' we, or the common variety of we?" I asked bemused

"Please use the stool." she glowered.

Turning to follow her gaze I noticed a somewhat diminutive wooden stool placed to one side of the now smiling Santa. A couple of minutes later I had managed to balance myself, somewhat precariously onto the aforementioned stool. So with my knees jockeying for position with my ears I proceeded to go through my list. Sadly I had only managed to get a third of the way through before the Fairy called time and insisted that I let someone else have a go with Santa. After a somewhat undignified scramble and with the assistance of Santa's beard, I managed to extricate myself from the stool.

The next Santa was located in a large department store that had obviously seen its heyday and was now marching time until the developers could move in and change it into up market apartments. The grotto had seen better days, some of the characters were now showing their age. Snow White needed her roots doing as the grey was showing through, and grumpy had obviously been stored too close to the radiator as he had melted and now looked like he had, had a stroke poor soul, and where was Dopey? I needn't have feared, Dopey was alive and kicking in the shape of a spotty little Herbert who was dressed as an elf. He smiled inanely as he rooted around the caverns of his nostrils seemingly blissfully ignorant of the audience he had accumulated. After passing him a tissue I proceeded in to see Santa. Trust me when I say that this was not the real deal. If the shop was past it's best then this chap was definitely past his sell buy date. The suit was threadbare and smelt of mothballs, his boots were a pair of wellies and his beard, well, suffice to say that I could have knitted him a better one. I didn't linger, made my apologies and left sharpish.

Onwards and upwards as they say!

To be continued.....

A Little Cultural Exercise - Ladies and Gents!

His Lordship and I were visiting the theatre the other night. Prior to the start of the show we took a leisurely drink in the theatre bar, a rather grand place with oak panelling and crystal chandeliers adorning the beautifully painted roof. As we were finishing our drinks the bell sounded for us to take our seats. We settled in and enjoyed the first half. When the intermission came we headed back towards the bar, however the effects of the pre-show drink were taking their natural course and so I excused myself and headed for the 'powder room'.


My heart sank as I saw the queue. I should not have been shocked in the slightest by the sight of the line two deep running all the way out of the door and half way up the corridor. This is a fact of life if you are a woman, you have to queue for the facilities. And so it was my friends, that I took an executive decision and decided on an impromptu cultural exercise, 'are we ready yet for mixed sex facilities'?


The gentleman's toilets were on the opposite side of the corridor and so without further ado I bypassed the now cross legged, jigging line and headed towards the gents. On pushing open the door I could hear the sound of 'running water' to my left and therefore felt that it would be somewhat appropriate to divert my gaze to the right. However on doing so I realised that the entire wall was mirrored, as was the wall directly above the urinals. I had been spotted immediately by the half a dozen men engaged in, well in their business.

"Excuse me madam, but the 'Ladies', is opposite," one chap helpfully offered.

"Yes I know dear, but really, have you seen the queue?" I replied, and with that headed to the nearest cubicle to... well to go about my own business. As I sat contemplating the next thousand words in my novel and where my characters were going, (well what do you think about), I could hear a frantic flurry of activity as the chaps quickly finished up and left. You know I have to say that I was a little dismayed to find that not all of them washed their hands. No peanuts for me at the bar!!!

On completing my business I opened the door to go and wash my hands, unfortunately I disturbed a chap who was oblivious to the fact that I was there. On seeing me emerge from the cubicle behind him he panicked and attempted to shake and zip at the same time. Ladies having witnessed the results, I can tell you that this most definitely is not a good combination. As I could see that he was in a great deal of discomfort, and being a saint, I of course offered to assist. The poor chap bolted for the nearest cubicle and locked the door. He left as I was washing my hands, walking not unlike John Wayne as he headed for the door.

Just as he got there the door burst open and in walked a rather distinguished looking chap followed by two very harassed looking gentlemen, who I recognised from earlier when I had been spotted in the mirror.

"Excuse me madam, but may I ask what you are doing in here?" the distinguished looking chap enquired seriously,

"I have no intention of going into any detail, suffice to say that I have been using the facilities,"

"but you have your own across the corridor,"

"have you seen the queue?" I asked,

"that is beside the point madam, they are your facilities and you should use them, these are the gentlemen's facilities and they are unsuitable for ladies,"

"why ever not, they worked just fine for me thank you,"

"you misunderstand madam, these are the gents," he persisted

"so you keep saying dear, why on earth can I not use them?"

Just then a voice piped up from behind the door, it was the John Wayne impersonator, "because you don't have any ruddy balls woman,"

"Oh I beg to differ my dear, I just don't keep them in a pair of crusty old y-fronts...!" I gave him my most saintly smile before taking my leave to join his Lordship at the bar.

This is St Jude Mmr, Cjd, Nut, Dip Py, until my next assignment signing off.

A Little Cultural Exercise - Batteries Not Included

Now before I go any further I have to point out that the content of this post is of an adult nature, if you are easily offended then may I suggest that you don't read on. Those who know me will obviously vouch for the fact that this is not the normal content for my posts. However you will be pleased to know that I have throughout retained my saintly persona.

It was a post by my friend kim over on her blog that got me thinking about this one, thanks Kim. We have certain laws that protect consumers, one in particular which states that an item must be fit for the purpose for which it is sold. Simply put it should basically do what it says it will do or perform as it says it will perform. If it does not them you are entitled to return it and either get a replacement or a refund. Simple. However it occurred to me does this law also apply to sex toys? So in the interests of consumer knowledge I set off to the high street and our local Ann Summers store.

Now although this is a 'sex shop' it does have the ability to carry itself with integrity in high streets and malls thoughout the country. Therefore one would assume that as it has shaken off the sleazy mantle that most of it's kind previously had it should offer the consumer the same protection as other high street stores.

On entering the shop I was greeted by a very pleasant young woman who kindly offered me a basket and a leaflet with their latest special offers. As I glanced through the leaflet I pondered in what shape the 50% extra free came!! I meandered through the racks of lingerie with their frills, feathers, leather, PVC, peek a boos and open crotches then on further into the depths here they kept the dressing up clothes, nurses, schoolgirls, catwoman, bunny girl, clown... clown! I'm sorry chaps but have I missed something here? Eventually I stumbled upon the 'toyshop', hurray my quest begins.

After a brief recky I discovered that there are quite literally hundreds to choose from, handbag sized, pocket sized, small, medium, large, superdooper, king kong, pink, red, luminous lime green, in case it's dark, five speed gear box, hydraulic breaking, sorry just kidding. So without further ado I began to select a variety for my basket. I chose what I considered to be a reasonable cross section of what was on offer. In the interests of fair play you understand. With my basket of goodies I headed for the till. I smiled my most innocent smile,

"Do you have a returns policy?" I enquired

"What do you mean?" The sales assistant asked cautiously.

"Well I assume I can return them if they are not 'right',"

"Not.. right. In what way?"

"Well until I've tried them out I won't know if they, well you know dear, work!"

She blushed furiously, "We, we couldn't possibly accept them back if, well I mean in the event, they've been used madam,"

"But how will I know if they 'work'?

"Work!" She stammered.

"Well if I were buying lingerie, you would let me try them on wouldn't you to see if they fit properly?"

"That's different madam, you see we have fitting rooms,"

"Oh, I hadn't seen those dear, can you direct me to them?" I asked.

Suddenly I had the feeling that old sinking feeling, as a door just to the right of the till burst open and out walked the Manageress. Suffice to say that she had at some point in her past had a humour bypass and was in no mood to discuss the matter further. Even when I did point out that as a consumer I have rights. Fit for the purpose, performs as it is supposed to perform etc. And so I was left to venture home with my little bag of goodies and no hope of returning them, as apparently in relation to dildos and vibrators there are in actual fact rather hazy performance criteria. Ah hem not wishing to be indelicate, but is it a case of hmm, that was nice, fancy a cuppa, or at the other end of the scale Meg Ryan's cafe scene and then some!! Obviously as a saint dear readers I am unable to comment. All was not lost however on my shopping trip, in their special offer sheet they were offering three packs of rechargable batteries for the price of two!

This is St Jude Mmr, Cjd, Nut, Dip Py, until my next assignment, signing off.

...and finally for the gentlemen reading this, I can unequivocally reassure you that size does not matter. Speed settings on the other hand... ;0)