hauntedriver DeleteThis @hotmail.com wrote:
......
> > The inmates are over 55 or so, too, so no kids running all over the place
>
> Aha, but when you put a lot of old people together they acquire a
> rather unique ...um...how to put this politely? - an 'aroma', just
Reminds me of a day in 1976, long hot summer, when returning home, I
passed a nearby house where two old sisters lived from before the war.
They'd managed to get all the windows open, to catch
what breeze there was and it was blowing through from back to front and out.
And the smell, distinctive and unmistakable, of a usually
sealed-up-tight dwelling, crammed with old musty clothes and stale
cooking smells, difficult to describe but somewhat repellent.
But there isn't much chance here in this little cluster of ageing
citizens of their being packed into a confined space so I can report
that any odor concentrations hasn't arisen!
The two HOA meetings held so far, and one Meet the Neighbors do, were in a
really huge room in the clubhouse, vaulted ceiling, ceiling fan/s and of
course air conditioned to coolness. (But No Smoking so I drifted outside
and chatted there instead).
Got to musing over this body odor thing, and I could not recall even
once encountering anyone who was the tiniest bit faintly smelly n the
last seven years here! Unlike some occasions in England.
Now, you know Texas in summer is almost always amazingly hot -though
I found, you have to actually be here to *really* know. Add a humid light
wind bringing moist air from the Gulf, and anyone who didn't sweat buckets
from just hurrying across a parking lot would be a freak. So, at least
some folk should not be nice to be near, you'd
think.
It must be A: vast amounts of liquids and powders, lotions and perfume,
pass over the counters every day, it's a big money-maker.
B: Everyone, I imagine like myself hops in the hot shower as part of the
normal everyday routine,
C: Anything with walls and a roof, and cars and truck cabs, all
air-conditioned. It's just something that is always there, everywhere,
like piped water, not even thought of much unless it stops working for
any reason. Or when you geta summer month electric bill ...
So, unless you're laboring out on a construction site or the like, you're
usually in a comfortably cool environment, no sweat man.
It's not entirely universal, though: I sometimes hear appeals on local
radio stations in summer for donations of
portable fans, to be distributed so some unfortunates must lack it in
their dwellings, and last summer about 12 died in Dallas from heat. I'm
told this was in some godawful black ghetto where no one ever goes'.
> babies: the odor of stale milk commingling with the ah, end
>
I rarely am near enough any to get a nostrilful, but remember the few I
did, stank to high heaven.
Even one of the little horrors is more than enough for me.
A ward full of 'em.... pplastic bucket please, quick, Goin' be sick.
> > authority that Roger Moore (in The Saint series) had a thin wire or thread
> > cunningly fitted by the props dept which, when he reached behind his
> > back and tugged, would raise one perfect eyebrow.
> >
>
> Strange chap, Roger Moore. His hair is like something out of Dorian
> Gray. Although Moore grows older and his face starts to bloat and sag,
> his hair defies the ageing process and appears to be as silky and
> youthful as ever.
>
> Perhaps he has a wig locked away in his attic which grows old instead
> of his own tresses? Meanwhile his hair leads a wicked, dissipated
> existence - rarely washed or combed, never conditioned - yet appears
> as healthy and lustrous as when he first trod the thesp boards in a
> Maidenhead glee week.
>
Did he, onw wonders, kill the talented young artist who fashioned this
creepy creation, to stop him triing to destroy it in a fit of remorse?
I used to speculate similarly about Cliff Richards, who looked exactly
as he had when still with the Shadows making Travellin' Light.
Was this some android or robot, the work of some mad genius, of plastic
and metalalloy and a timy ocomputer brain, programmed to make his left
hand dab at set intervals at his hair?
Or some sinful deal with the Devil, and will one evening, on sauntering
out of some fashionable London restaurant, will the aged but youthful
singer be confronted by Somethin Fiendish and
Horrible materializing up from the sidewalk, to seize his arm and tell
him, Time's up, pal, Boss wants you, c'mon.
And both vanish before the horrified eyes of gaping passers-by.
My bang up to date, fast powerful new PC may
arrive at the door prominently, or even imminently, and
thereupon I shall vanish from the scene to
learn its strange new
ways, to the general
relief and joy of any present here.
Meanwhile, happy book-finding to those who like finding happy books!
--
Ian (sober for once but euphoric)
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