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In my teens, I wore a St. Christopher pendant round my neck. Not because I had any kind of affinity with St. Christopher, or even any idea of who he was, but because it was a craze going round at the time. When I got older, and better able to make an informed choice, I got rid of St. Christopher and took up with St. Michael. It was a sort of epiphany, I suppose, and it happened in M&S’s Barnsley branch, that’s where I became a disciple.

Marks & Spencer didn’t cater for spiritual needs but a great many of my material ones were catered for there. M&S was a rock on the High Street that was, to me, what the church is to any Christian. Their lack of facility for redeeming my soul was more than compensated for by their ability to supply me with a decent quality pair of jeans at a reasonable price.

Their range of stock was neither the most diverse nor cheapest but you knew that whatever you bought would be of good quality and very unlikely to give any cause for complaint. For years, virtually every stitch I wore had St. Michael on the label.

And their food department was no less reliable. Again, the range was limited but what they did sell could be counted on to be first class. They used to sell wedges of cheesecake that I have never elsewhere been able to get the like of, and ice cream that was, likewise, not to be found anywhere else. The first and finest yogurt I ever tasted came from M&S. But I should have known it was all too good to last. One day when I went into the store everything looked different; something seemed to be missing, or rather, somebody.

It was a dark day when St. Michael got his marching orders, and hardly brightened when the likes of Per Una and the M&S Collection breezed in and tried to fill his shoes. How is a man supposed to feel any pride in wearing Blue Harbour under pants? What happened to the food department was no less than tragic. Gone was the small but select range of top notch fare; replaced by a far more extensive but inferior collection of stuff you would expect to find in any run off the mill supermarket. And, horror upon horror, they now also stock popular brands. They even sell date expired items at a reduced price. My God, one could be forgiven for thinking one had wandered into Asda.

Now, as I bemoan the lost salad days of M&S, the only straw of hope left to clutch at is that, if the saints do one day go marching in, St. Michael will be leading them.

what do donald trump and a pumpkin have in common

So yesterday I visited my mum at her retirement home and after the initial hellos, and a lack of a conversational subject, she asked me about my beard, and how in her opinion I would look younger without it. Then this morning I woke up with mum's words on my mind, and sure enough I did something about it. I gave myself a crew cut .... and kept the beard.
Peace

When given the choice of leather or fabric upholstery I prefer to sit on, the answer has always been fabric. My main chair is fabric but one of my office chairs is covered in a man made Ultrasuede. Usually, I drape a towel over the Ultrasuede so it doesn't show signs of wear. Leather seating from experience, is usually stiffer than fabric and I'd guess it's because of longevity. Leather tends to stretch and pucker.

Last month when I needed a rental car, a got a Mazda SUV with leather seats. Yeah, uncomfortable as I imagined despite all the motorized adjustments possible.

The one thing people mention about leather is the smell. There's a mystique about processed animal hide that people are attracted to. Maybe having leather goods is a sign of wealth? I don't know.

We were at Ikea last weekend and on my shopping list was a chair. I must have tried 20 and one high-back fabric style was my top choice. They also offered a leather cushion version for $100 more. Decisions, decisions... back & forth trying the fabric versus the leather, there was a bit of Deja vu... the leather smell reminded me of a baseball glove I had as a kid.

I bought the one with black leather.

I'm told Pumps is the name for high heel or platform shoes.
Years ago, I had a niece living in my spare bedroom. She took a job transfer to another state and literally, bailed on me. Naturally, she left me with bags of her shoes and clothing that she deemed 'too much to take' and gave me permission to dispose of these items as I saw fit.

A mile from me is a clothing donation station that has seen my face many times over the years. I disposed several pairs of her pumps a while back and I believe there are more. The problem I have is her 'nosebleed high heeled shoes' that no homeless person could possibly use... well, unless they are a street walker! I didn't have the heart to put them in the garbage.

This weekend, I have plans to be back in Miami and clear out more things... including clothes I no longer need. Time to bag garments that will be used for the needy.

Yesterday before noontime I took a walk down to Dollar Tree and got a couple of pairs of socks to wear on my feet for the warmth of
Florida(Jacksonville). Up in Pittsburgh where I'm originally from I wore long socks on my feet due to the cold chills; so I dumped the long winter socks and got summer ones!

.....hmm, I was going to say "iceberg" but the implied irony kind of melted that sentiment.


Anyway, the youth are agitated and I don't think Ritalin or Zoloft are going to "fix" it.

Who could have seen this coming? I mean It's not like the baby-boomers have been treating the planet like a pimp smackin' a "ho" for money.

"And the meek shall inherit the earth"

The Logician personality type is fairly rare, making up only three percent of the population, which is definitely a good thing for them, as there’s nothing they’d be more unhappy about than being “common”. Logicians pride themselves on their inventiveness and creativity, their unique perspective and vigorous intellect. Usually known as the philosopher, the architect, or the dreamy professor, Logicians have been responsible for many scientific discoveries throughout history.

Many men will know. Here she comes boys. With the deep "V Cut" blouse, D cup black lacy Bra, and the skirt almost up to there. Wiggling on by. Holes in the fishnet panty hose. Always too much cheap perfume, so that even the bees won't follow too closely. And to complete things, the big hair a going, full tilt. And the bright red f-ck me heels. A wad of gum in her mouth, popping loudly away. Now, another lady saunters on by, but much more modestly attired. A real first class Bobby soxer, short clean pony tail, collared white blouse, covered with button up pastel sweater. No slit skirt down below the knees, and low lift pumps as foot gear. Both sort of hot. Fellas, of course we'd size both of them up. But if you had to guess, which one would complain about men who gawk as being all pigs? The Bard knew well. Me thinks, me Lord, the lady doth protest too much.