Hurley Comes Clean

6 February, 2014

Liz Hurley issued an unequivocal apology in a statement from her press office today.  It read:

“I want to apologise to Mrs Hilary Clinton and to the American people. The rumours circulating about myself and former President, Bill Clinton, are true.  He is one of the few men I have not slept with.  It was a reckless oversight on my part and one I regret deeply, now that I see how much publicity it would have generated for me.”

Miss Hurley later tweeted the names of other famous men she hadn’t slept with in a bid to prove unfounded the allegation that (former) President Clinton had been discriminated against.  She tweeted:

@mennotyetshagged; Fred Flintstone, President Clintstone. oh god I’m sure there are a few more, they’re just not in the papers enough for me to remember their names.  Oh, what about wasshisname, thingy, with the red shoes, er,  Ronald McDonald, that’s him!  Oh no, I did him, I forgot.  Sorreeeee.

There has been outrage across America.  Head Boy of the UK, Dave C., has held round-the-clock talks with the American Ambassador in London, in a desperate bid to repair the political damage this scandal has caused.  He was quoted as saying;

“We’re all shocked, especially those of us who know Liz.  I mean know her socially, only when our wives are in the same room and never leave us alone with her.  Ever.”


Donald McDuck in his stockroom. “We shared so many happy meals together.” He says of Ms Hurley.
(Photo courtesy of Salmonella Awareness brochure).


The Doyenne of Divorce

6 February, 2014

Michelle Young, (let’s call her ‘Shelle) wasn’t expecting a divorce, nor was she expecting her husband to claim bankruptcy.  An unfortunate coincidence? That’s not how she saw it.  He ran, she chased, cleaver in hand.  And that’s basically how things progressed, as the Youngs battled in the British courts’ most expensive divorce case.  Seven years of wrangling, raising a legal bill in excess of £6.5m.  They settled (her unhappily) this week at £20m, + £5m in costs.

Both sides have made mistakes.  Mr Young did accidently, tell a few completely prefabricated lies to the Judge – and got caught.  (Oops).  He was given two custodial prison sentences for failing to comply with the Judge’s orders to fully disclose his finances (Oops), he served one and never fully disclosed his finances.  He “forgot” what happened in a few of those years (Oops).  He got mentally unwell and had to go to the Priory, at £10,000 a week.  (Ouch).    And, probably most regrettably of all, he gave an old computer to his daughters.  on which, his wife’s forensic experts found a deleted file where he listed his assets at a value of £319 million. (Oops).


“Distraught & ashamed”, Scot Young is comforted by his friend. “I can’t eat, I just drink a few flutes of vintage champagne each day & force down a few mouthful of Beluga caviar. All I do is sit in my counting house, counting out my money.  My ex wife is like a blackbird, constantly trying to peck off my nose.”

Mrs Young made mistakes too.  The judge described her as verging on paranoid, making wildly unsupported accusations about loads of famous rich people. (Shame).  She was quoted slandering Simon Cowell saying;


“Always round my house for dinner he was, that Simon Cowell.  Y’know, he never brought nothing with him.  Phillip Green, what a gent.  He always brought me a vintage bottle of  Lambrusco and sometimes he’d even bring them Ferrero Rocher chocolates too.  That’s class, that is.  Stingy Simon, that’s what we called him, not even a bunch of daffs from the cemetery round the corner.”

At this point Cowell’s lawyers threatened her with legal action and she deleted her tweets.  (Shame).  She was given a paultry one million pounds support for the first year (Shame).  She sold some baubles worth £180,000 (Shame) and put £3m towards the court costs herself (Shame).  Then she moved into a slummy little house, only able to afford a £100,000 a year in rent, (Shame).  Given these dire circumstances, she was understandably unable to ring-fence any money to help her daughters complete their A-levels in their private schools (Shame).  Later, forced to move to even worse accommodation (Shame), she and her daughters ended up renting barely more than a stable with a manger, for £42,000 per annum. (Shame).  Then she claimed, wait-for-it, benefits (wtf? Shame).  She managed to scrounge back £1,300 a month in Housing Benefit (you are kidding me?  Shame).  The rest of the rent being paid for by an anonymous “friend”.


Ms Young; “We can’t afford chairs anymore. Often I sit on the carpet and stare out the window at the neighbour’s chairs. They’re pretty and remind me of happier times. Yes, I do get white carpet fluff stuck on my noir Versace jeans, everything is so hard right now.”

So, who is that anonymous friend?  I hear you cry.  She knows a lot of important people in the public eye, and yes, my exhausted research has uncovered the three most likely candidates.  They are;

  1. Her butler, Paul “my rock” Burrell.
  2. The notorious gangster, Bugsy Malone.
  3. A grant from Mother Theresa’s orphanage in Calcutta.

Now ‘Shelle, I don’t know how bad things have been fighting your ex, but let me assure you, that that experience is going to feel like unwrapping presents on xmas morning if Housing Benefit find out about this.  Any single mum caught topping up her rent by £26,400 could spark off an investigation, anytime.  My advice is don’t publicise what you’re doing, keep it really quiet, cos ‘Shelle, you could get done.

Everytime I see another woman go through the same kind of thing it makes me think it’s worth it”

“Shelle Young, the Doyenne of Divorce

I question that ‘Shelle.  Some of us choose do it other ways, many of us have no choice.   Many of us go back to work, with the burden of children in tow and we build new careers, out of nothing.  You had funds behind you, you have contacts and connections, how many doors could have opened for you, if you’d told him to shove it and had the guts to go for it?  How much respect would you have garnered from us if you’d put your daughters education and esteem ahead of bickering over your bank accounts?  Oh Young Ones, in your myopic race to be the wealthiest one over the finishing line, you flung your daughters aside to jump for the maritial jugular.  Do you really think it’s worth it?

We, the rest of the world get similar treatment. We are their extras in life, the supporting cast to their leading roles.  In summarising the divorce proceedings, the Judge made the following comment.

“The court has to allot to each case an appropriate share of the court’s resources.  It is difficult to see how 65 preliminary hearings followed by a final hearing lasting 20 days, can possibly be a fair allocation of this court’s limited resources on one case.”

It’s the sort of narcarcissicm you see in teenagers and toddlers; when the believe that they are the only ones who really exist and behave accordingly.  The Youngs have been openly contemptuous of our judicial system, our laws and of our benefits system.  All just accessories to their latest single-minded want.

Young Ones, you have waged your war.  Was it worth it?  Are you happy now?


The Matrix

30 January, 2014

I’ve been to hell and back, except I’m not sure I came back, rather I got a bit waylaid in purgatory. Neither happiness nor an abatement of suffering. I’m the middle (wo)man the mediator between two unforgiving parties, trying hopelessly to find a mutually agreeable way forward. It used to be the unions in the olden days (er, 1970s), who were known for their uncompromising stance on business disputes. But, they have been replaced with a whole new level of opponent, one who makes them look like a bunch of girls fighting over a skipping rope in the playground. Yep, business is going to look back on those good ole days of strikes and sit-ins and remember the personal interactions. The 40 hour face to face negotiations, the egg throwing, black listing workers by names not image, calling people who crossed the picket lines “scabs” and dawbing paint on their cars. The art and craft of beautiful banners, adorned with witty insults that today’s advertising execs would envy. Yes, a proper protest of yesteryear, it bears nothing on the uncompromising dogma I’ve been faced with this week, when out of the blue I got an anonymous message on my computer screen saying, “Incorrect password”.

This brave young couple led a million people through the streets of London, all shouting and waving banners, protesting against the use of fossil fuels.   (Photo courtesy of Greenpeace, 2011)

This brave young couple led a million people through the streets of London, all shouting and waving banners, protesting against the use of fossil fuels.
(Photo courtesy of Greenpeace, 2011)

Years ago, I had one password, it also contained my pin no and life was simple. Despite the fact that most people who visited my house could have easily accessed my finances, ebay, email etc. (because I kept my password/pin on a post-it note on the fridge), there were never any problems. (The only small difficulty I had, was that many of those so-called visitors decided to actually move in, preferring to live off me, instead of stealing from me. They found in this way, not only did I pay for the shopping, but I actually went and got it all as well). In time, my password was forced to morph into various incarnations of the original and these days, with every new item requiring an individual code all of it’s own, I spend my spare time guessing which of the 14,776,336 variables these might be anytime I try to do anything. If I spent this much time guessing lottery numbers, I’d be inconceivably rich by now. At one stage, my darling son Sami and a so-called friend, changed all my passwords to “Youforgotagain1”. Helpful? Yeah, really, thanks so much. In texting skill, this is the equivalent of me changing their passwords to; “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious1”.

Right now the computer, ipad & phone seem to stare back at me, fixed in their calm serenity. They, my modern gurus, equipoised in full knowledge, beam benevolently down at me from their stock images of serene Himalayan peaks and magical sunsets over tropical isles. I sit beneath them, the fledgling student attempting to enter their tranquil world, typing password attempts asking;
“This one oh Master Mac? Is this the keychain to the Universe?”
Uninterrupted in Samadhi, there is no response. Again and again I type, neophyte that I am. The more frantic my effort becomes, the further from utopia I move. Until finally, I bow my forehead in complete surrender, smacking it repeatedly on the keyboard. And in return for my unalloyed devotion, a message appears from above;
“Password accepted.” Flashes briefly on the screen.
“Oh, Master thank you for accepting me.” I am overwhelmed at this initiation into real knowledge.
“Oh Master, might you just send me a humble reminder of the exact keys I just head butted?” I enquire submissively, then hastily add, “Sorry, sorry, it really doesn’t matter at all. I’ll find a mirror and just check the imprints on my forehead later.”
In that euphoric moment I merge with the source of all knowledge and unconditional bliss before me; I’m on t’internet. I click on an app, it begins to open, “please enter password” flashes nightmarishly in front of my disbelieving eyes. Inescapable, my karma has tracked me too soon.

All knowing computer, who is the server and who might the user really be? Millions of combinations of letters and numbers stream through my mind. I have reverted to running DOS, not on a microchip, but deep inside my skull.

I shout, “What am I, some kind of machine ?” in frustration at the universe.
Silence, is my master’s reply.

"There were times when, I have to admit, I lost faith and I thought about giving up and just sending a quick text instead.  It took years of prayer and sacrifice to get back into my email, but it was all worth it in the end." - as this picture so clearly shows.

“There were times when, I have to admit, I lost faith and I thought about giving up and about just sending a quick text instead. It took years of prayer and sacrifice to get back into my email, but it was all worth it in the end.” – as this picture so clearly shows.  Dalai Llama, Darjeeling itunes store, India.  2011

Insomnia, part 2

17 July, 2013

This time it was a nightmare that did it.  One of epic proportions, that stayed with me in a waking or dreaming state.  Yeah, you’ve probably guessed by now, I’d had a letter from the Inland Revenue.  It said;

Nothing to worry about or anything but we’re just conducting a teensy weensy investigation into your tax.  Anything you wanna tell us?
Bye for now,

What to do?  What to say?

As I lay awake worrying, I had the most fantastic idea.  Ok, maybe I couldn’t make a Wonka Bar costume like last time I had insomnia.  But, just by chance, I happened to have all the ingredients for a life-size parrot costume for Sami.  Would that do the trick and help me put my worries aside?  I decided to give it a go.

Four happy early morning hours of sticking and sewing (and swearing) flew by and the costume took shape.  But, what also happened during my art and craft marathon, apart from make an unholy mess all over the kitchen, was my mind processed the whole tax thang.  By the time I’d sorted out the costume, I’d also found a fantastic solution to the bigger problem too.  I sat at my desk and wrote a calm, clear-headed reply to the Tax Man explaining the situation in full.

Then I went back to bed, for some calm, clear-headed rest.

Job done, problems resolved and sleep regained.
Doesn’t come any better than that, does it?

Bye x

Dear Her Majesties Revenue and Customs

Thank you for your letter regarding the tax investigation.

Please find enclosed some photos of the parrot costume I made in response to your letter.

The receipts I’m missing form part of the wings and some of the elaborate tail-feather detail.  Obviously, none have been included in the head or legs.

I hope that settles this matter to your full satisfaction.  Feel free not to contact me ever again.



He loved it; wore it everywhere.


I won, I won,” I shouted at Asha. “Did you see me?”
Asha looked a bit confused. “I didn’t see you.”
“I was too fast, too fast for you to see.” I shouted, ecstatic.
“I saw you.” “Me too.” Chirped some happy little faces around him Asha beamed with pride. I’d done it, perhaps against the odds and I’d done it for him. He’d won his race and I’d won mine. Winners, yeah, I liked the sound of that and so did he.

I didn’t follow a rigorous training scheme but I did up my ambles to Costa in the last few days up to the big race. I also started having my coffee as a takeaway, which cut out the lengthy pit stop reading the papers. My diet remained the same (a bit more than I need), but psychologically is where I put in the hours. Yep, in my mind, convincing myself. It’s common technique used in sports training, visualization and motivation. I simply saw myself running up to Asha telling him I’d won, over and over again in my mind. I felt how great it felt, I saw his face and his utter joy. I was determined to make this dream come true. And I did.

Sami high-fived me when Asha told him. He was surprised (that boy underestimates me). Asha described the race, how I’d beaten Frankie’s mum and led from the front all the way.
“That’s amazing Mummy.” Sami said, with genuine amazement. He’s totally athletic, something we don’t often have in common, so it was good for him to know I can do it – when I want.

Asha and I raced home across the meadow, me pulling him back with his t-shirt so that I won again. When Amba got home, Asha could barely contain his joy.
“She won the mum’s race, Amba.” He shouted as he ran into the garden to get his bike. (He’d progressed to triathlon).
“What?” You won?” She said with (I have to say) a slightly sneery intonation.
“Did you even enter the mum’s race?” She asked, looking down her nose at me. “I don’t believe you won it.” She continued with jaw-dropping disrespect. “Did you really enter the mum’s race?”
Silence. I’d had enough of this.
She continued her cross examination, studying me intently.
Mrs Vaudrey, I put it to you, that on the day in question, not only did you not win the mums’ race, but that you knowingly did not even enter said race. (Gasps from around the court room).

“You didn’t enter it did you?” She said firmly.
I tried my hardest not to crack under the pressure, but the thing is with these barrister types, they get you all confused and then you blurt out the wrong thing.
“No.” I muttered.
“So, you went up to him after the race and told him you’d won. And he believed you, right?”
Me; “Er, yes, s’pose it was a bit like that. But you make it sound like I did something wrong?“
“You’re not allowed to lie and cheat at races.”
Me: “Really?”
Amba: “No! You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Me: “Oh I am. And I’ll buy you an ice cream if you keep quiet?”
Amba: “Hmmm, double scoop with toppings and sauce.”

The price of silence

£2.60 The high price of silence

Empowerment Parenting

6 July, 2013

I’ve been thinking a lot about differing parenting styles, apparent in children in the playground and at parties.  Sometimes it feels like we’re inundated with the selfy-helpy world of how-to-bring-up-your-kids. Having spent thousands of hours on facebook, er, researching child rearing, one day it struck me, I finally realised where I had been going wrong.  It was one of those “aha” moments, that changes your life forever.   Having tried my new approach out on more than two children, I can honestly say it’s totally amazing and it will change your life too.  I call it the GeddityerselfTM method.

There are only two rules in GeddityerselfTM parenting.  But they must be followed at all times.  They are:

  1. Say no to “no”.  Yes, that’s right we say no to saying no and we say yes to saying yes.  We never ever say yes to saying no.  No, we’d never do that.  So if your child asks for something, you always say “Yes”.  You can choose to that with an endearing term such as  “darling”, “sweet child of mine,” or for a teenager, “mummy’s lickle lamb” (always goes down a treat).
  1. The second rule is that you always follow that “yes” with our second foundation mantra; Geddityerself TM.

This works with children of all ages.  Here are a few examples;

Child:  “Mum, can I have a drink?”
Mum:  “Yes darling.  Geddityerself TM

Teenager:  “Mum, can I have a car?”
Mum:  “Yes, Geddityerself TM.”

Child:  Can I have lunch?
Mum:  “Yes, my love.  Geddityerself TM.”

Child:   “Can I have an allowance?”
Mum:  “Yes, my lickle lamb. Gedditoffyourdad.”

The sceptics amongst you might be thinking, but does this really work in real life?  Here are just a few of the many thousands of letters I receive everyday, from ordinary people, just like you.  The one thing they have in common is they have changed their lives, and the lives of their children, for the better using the Geddityerself TM  method.

“We were on our way to leave our seven children with social services one weekend, when we heard about your Geddityerself TM parenting method. Your blog was a turning point in our lives. These days, we all live as one big happy family.  Honestly, we can’t thank you enough.”
John & Olivia Walton, West Virginia, USA

“GeddityerselfTM parenting is a work of great emotional depth.  It challenges the holes in the fabric of redundant ideals of the western parental system.  I am in no doubt that I have been a better parent to little Sergey, Tatyana, Ilya, Leo, Marya, Petya, Nicholas, Varvara, Andrey, Michael, Sascha and Alexis since studying it.  Oh, and my wife, Sacha is getting on much better Timmy, my illegitimate child now.  (Although, she’s still a bit frosty with his mother).
Leo Tolstoy, Russia

“Fantastic!  You deserve a prize.”
A. Nobel, Stockholm

“Your gas bill is now overdue and requires immediate payment.”
British Gas, FTSE 100 Company, UK

Buy the Geddityerself TM Approach today for £199.99

While stocks last!

“The pressures of parenting and money meant my husband and I were both working second jobs, to make ends meet. We couldn’t cope. With the help of Gettidyerself parenting, I gave up my evening job as a prostitute and my husband stopped dealing crack on weekends. Instead, we spend our free time running happily through flower meadows, like other families. Thank you so much.”

Disclaimer:  Due to unprecedented demand, the Gettidyerself TM method has, er, completely sold out in all leading bookstores and on Amazon.

Copies are still available at the Wednesday market in Witney.  (Cash only)

The Cost of Inclusion

2 July, 2013

I’ve been at my third job today.  I know, model, therapist and now I stagger you with yet another part time occupation.  “How does she do it?” You cry.  “Why-oh-why is she working herself to the bone, like this?”  Believe me, I hear you.  “And how can she possibly find time to sit around writing such eloquent diatribes on her blog?”  Like I never always say, “Don’t cry for me Argentina.”

We haven’t discussed my third job before.  Partly, because a lot of the work is confidential.  I do an intense form of conflict/dispute resolution funded through government agencies.  During these sessions I can be called upon to deal with property rights, harassment, bullying, emotional isolation, interpersonal conflict, issues of hierarchy, review boundaries, trouble shoot teams and deal with accidental and personal injury claims.  Any number of issues come up, my role is to resolve them as many of them as possible, but with the brief that the satisfaction of both parties is the paramount consideration.  Not for the faint-hearted?  Too right, being a lunchtime supervisor in a primary school certainly has its challenges.

In interviewing me for the role, the line managers talked a lot about how important it was for the conflicts to be resolved satisfactorily, so the children could come back happily after lunch and learn.  I came out with this highly inappropriate remark (hard to believe, eh?).  I casually said; “The thing is, it’s the same few children every time.”  The interviewer did pull me up on this, saying of course we didn’t want to stigmatize children.  So, during the rest of the interview I sat daydreaming, wondering what on earth I’d been attempting to express.    What I’d meant, was almost the opposite of what had come out (why does that happen so often).  I’d actually meant that while the school wanted conflicts satisfactorily resolved; that’s seeing them as short-lived acute problems.  The children who were repeatedly problematic, suffered not from a lack of discipline, but from more chronic playground problems.  They were, in my experience, unable to learn from the conventional social and discipline structures in place.  Hence they, the repeat offenders, defied a system that they were largely unaware existed.  What we would call, “playground behaviour norms” is actually news-to-them, each and every time they find themselves in confrontation with those expected “norms”.  What this means is, the same kids get into trouble for the same things, all the time.

Now, these kids might be described as aggressive, anti-social, lacking in boundaries, undisciplined, etc etc etc. These are the kids who answer back when an adult speaks, or worse still, continue speaking over that adult.  These are the kids who sit outside classrooms and occupy the upper echelons of the excluded list.  For example, on my first day in the playground, a 10 year old boy squared up to me, face to face.  He was taut with tension, and fists up and clenched he threatened to punch me.  (Luckily, he chose to attack an 11 year old boy standing next to me me, so I was ok everyone).  Sounds bad?  Well, this is not Tower Hamlets, this is not Hackney (sorry Tower Hamlets and Hackney you’re a cliché of your own distress now).  We are not in area of extreme social deprivation, for god’s sake we’re in David Cameron’s idyllic Cotswold safe seat.  We have free parking, Waitrose, and an immigration influx in the school of three middle-class Polish kids, who speak fluent English.  Poverty round here means privately-owned, council houses.  (Dear Maggie, she taught him everything he knows).  So, what exactly is happening in the playground?

We’re back with the ole 80:20 rule.  Hate to say it, but yes, 80% of playground conflict arises from about 20% of the children.  But, the million dollar question is; who makes up the 20% of the badly behaved.  In the school I’m talking about, it’s primarily the special educational needs (SEN) kids.  Yep, the kids who see the world a little differently to the rest of us.  The ones who don’t have very good interpersonal skills, are literal rather than literate; who don’t know how to manage their emotions, deal with conflict, cope with change, tolerate being teased, who can’t stand still and listen at the same time, or know when to shut-up because an adult is speaking.  Now, I’m not saying that there aren’t massive problems of discipline in schools in other areas, I’ve heard about it too, knives in school and stuff.  But, I am saying that the figures are skewed by the special needs kids.  I think it’s also worth mentioning that special needs kids are not always formally assessed.  So, many of the should-be SEN kids go without proper diagnosis, without proper support and the funding for Learner Support that comes with it.  They are failing in dramatic ways throughout the system.  In the UK in 2011, children with learning difficulties, behavioural problems and other disabilities accounted for 66% all of exclusions.

“The Department for Children Schools and Families maintain that the number of pupils with SEN who have been excluded is still disproportionately high: over two-thirds of all permanently excluded pupils have been identified as having SEN.”
(National Association of Head Teachers website).

The issue boils down to guess what?  Policy.  Yep, the UK policy for SEN moved house, out of specialist schools and into mainstream education inclusion.  However, then the specialist budgets, resources, facilities, trained staff were not included in that move.  It’s become a real problem in our educational system.  All too many schools suffer a lack of sufficiently skilled staff to deal with the behavioural and educational needs of the SEN children.  (And let’s remember that individual learning plans take time to write and time to teach – they’re called “individual” for a reason).  If you’re interested, then there is a fascinating 75 page report by the University of Cambridge, Faculty of Education; commissioned by the National Union of Teachers, called “The Costs of Inclusion”.  It describes the burden teacher repeatedly face trying to discipline and educate children who they are simply not trained to teach, handle or restrain (in some cases).  The one-size-fits-all approach to our education system, handed down from on high with Government and Ofsted glaring over the schools shoulders can often be another contributing factor.  These children are not able to meet the marks required by the outside assessors.  This is especially hard if they have not had a formal SEN assessment.  In these cases, they can been seen as the failures in the system, because without a formal SEN assessment, no allowance is made for their grades and achievements that takes into account their actual abilities.  No, they might not achieve a level 4 SAT exam, but they may have made profound leaps in their own educational spectrum.  If they don’t make the mark (set from outside the schools) the schools can suffer downgrading.  If those with a SEN assessment exceed expectations, the schools can lose the additional funding for Learning Support Assistants, which are then seen as no longer needed.  Rock and a hard place for the schools, children and parents.

So, back to the ten year old threatening to hit me.  He was with a group of well-behaved middle class boys in the year above.  They were complaining about him freaking out at them.  The had slightly hidden smirks, clearly, winding him up in subtle ways that he couldn’t cope with.  He didn’t know how to express it, how to diffuse it, so he exploded and laid into one of the group, a boy I know well who, I do not consider a bully.  If you look at this in terms of those conventional playground norms, we’re discussing, then yes, SEN kids  was the aggressor and for threatening me alone, he could have faced suspension.  But, I think we can all see who was really under attack here.  It wasn’t me, or those able boys “having a laugh”, but clearly the child who would have faced the worst consequences for his “inappropriate” behaviour.  This is how our exclusion and permanent expulsion rate is climbing in normal schools in the UK.  These are the background stories explaining how staff are (sometimes) attacked by children.  There are of course areas of great deprivation where it’s a different story altogether.  But that’s the one that gets the glare of media attention.  The majority of playground/school violence is not all done by 7 year old, knife wielding, sociopaths, selling heroin in the playground.

I couldn’t offer you a better final sentence than the closing lines of the Costs of Inclusion Report. 

“The most striking aspect of this study is the goodwill of teachers who believe in inclusion and try to make it work but do not find their goodwill repaid by the level of professional support they deserve.  It is time for a thorough review of policy and practice.”

Costs of Inclusion Report, University of Cambridge

Bye x


Although profoundly unaware of the real world around him. This young man eventually got a job (requiring constant supervision).