ColinJ
Puzzle game procrastinator!
- Location
- Todmorden - Yorks/Lancs border
So there I was, knackered after another hard day on my bike, and my new friend Olga had offered to massage my weary shoulders. For some reason, I wasn't quite sure where we had met, but Olga seemed friendly enough and the offer of the massage was too good to turn down ...
Given that Olga was almost my height, I expected her to have strong hands, and for the massage to be quite intense. I was therefore surprised when it was in fact delivered with such subtlety that it felt irritating rather than therapeutic.
I opened my eyes, rolled over, and discovered that Olga was using a feather rather than her fingertips! I wasn't sure whether this was some obscure new Nordic massage technique, or a flirtatious act that was somewhat inappropriate given that, at 37, Olga was young enough to be my daughter. I told her that I would really prefer a conventional hands-on massage, thanks. Olga understood, and promised to obey ...
I closed my eyes and and rolled over, then Olga started messing about with that damn feather again. It darted about my naked back, I swatted it away. It tickled my neck, I swatted it away. It started to tickle my shoulders and I'd had enough. Olga was a nice woman, but she had clearly misunderstood our friendship. I started to explain that she was too young for me, and that she should find a nice guy nearer her own age, but she would not listen. That bloody feather darted this way and that. I ripped it from her grasp and ...
... the lights suddenly dimmed. Olga rapidly faded into the obscurity. Then waves of pain began to radiate out from the feather, through my fingertips, and up my left arm. WTF! Was I having a heart attack?
My right hand fell upon a bedside lamp and I flicked its switch to illuminate the room. I looked towards my left hand and saw that it held not Olga's feather, but a large squirming wasp which was busy plunging its stinger into the side of my index finger! An instinctive flick sent it tumbling to the floor, and I despatched it to wasp heaven with a well-thumbed copy of 'Portrait of a Killer', the first thing to come to hand in my sister's guest bedroom, where I am ensconsed for a couple of days.
And now, here I am, the middle of the night, adrenaline coursing, finger throbbing, and struggling to get back to sleep. I will do one last wasp sweep, then turn the light off and give it another go. See you lot in the morning!
Given that Olga was almost my height, I expected her to have strong hands, and for the massage to be quite intense. I was therefore surprised when it was in fact delivered with such subtlety that it felt irritating rather than therapeutic.
I opened my eyes, rolled over, and discovered that Olga was using a feather rather than her fingertips! I wasn't sure whether this was some obscure new Nordic massage technique, or a flirtatious act that was somewhat inappropriate given that, at 37, Olga was young enough to be my daughter. I told her that I would really prefer a conventional hands-on massage, thanks. Olga understood, and promised to obey ...
I closed my eyes and and rolled over, then Olga started messing about with that damn feather again. It darted about my naked back, I swatted it away. It tickled my neck, I swatted it away. It started to tickle my shoulders and I'd had enough. Olga was a nice woman, but she had clearly misunderstood our friendship. I started to explain that she was too young for me, and that she should find a nice guy nearer her own age, but she would not listen. That bloody feather darted this way and that. I ripped it from her grasp and ...
... the lights suddenly dimmed. Olga rapidly faded into the obscurity. Then waves of pain began to radiate out from the feather, through my fingertips, and up my left arm. WTF! Was I having a heart attack?
My right hand fell upon a bedside lamp and I flicked its switch to illuminate the room. I looked towards my left hand and saw that it held not Olga's feather, but a large squirming wasp which was busy plunging its stinger into the side of my index finger! An instinctive flick sent it tumbling to the floor, and I despatched it to wasp heaven with a well-thumbed copy of 'Portrait of a Killer', the first thing to come to hand in my sister's guest bedroom, where I am ensconsed for a couple of days.
And now, here I am, the middle of the night, adrenaline coursing, finger throbbing, and struggling to get back to sleep. I will do one last wasp sweep, then turn the light off and give it another go. See you lot in the morning!
