Tales of Chuffleigh: Chapter 2 – The Doctor

chuffleigh-village-shop_2Chuffleigh Village Shop, the source of all Chuffleigh gossip and the location of the CGM, together with Bonker, the Reverend Colins’ very naughty dog.

With a well established Village Shop, Chuffleigh had come of age. It now had a centre of gravity for all degrees of tittle-tattle. The tittle-tattle itself was not required to pass any truth tests. Its mere ability to induce an inward drawing of breath, a ‘tut’, a disapproving head shake or the upward casting of eyes, were the only qualifications necessary for this information to become the fuel for another cannon blast of village gossip. Somehow, the church did not seem a suitable location – inappropriate is probably the right way to say it. Perhaps the gossiper felt there may be a divine listener-inner. The shop was definitely the place.

It was following a particularly drought-ridden gossip period that Chuffleigh was blessed with new blood. Doctor Longhan, a General Practicitioner, had moved in to one of the grand old three story houses on the small road leading off to Hampton-in-the-Chuff. His practice, The Hampton Surgery, had been running for nearly ten years, and as the founder and lead partner, Doctor Longhan had done quite well from it, so he felt a trade-up from Hampton was now justified, and Dr Longhan felt that Chuffleigh had the right qualities – quiet, pretty and uneventful. He felt this might make a welcome change from Hampton.

When the ‘For Sale’ sign went up at Doctor Longhan’s newly acquired house, nobody in the village was surprised. Or even interested for that matter. Its former inhabitants, Mr and Mrs Grey had been clean living, God-fearing, grey and rather uninteresting characters. They did everything that was required of them, and they didn’t do anything that was forbidden. This was terrible for the CGF, better known as the Chuffleigh Gossip Factory, so they escaped virtually all of it.

Doctor Longhan, on the other hand, brought with him something new. Firstly, he was a successful professional man in his early forties. Secondly, he was a very good looking man – lightly tanned, with a loose mane of dark, curly hair, and always dressed impeccably for his practice, in a smart suit with white open neck shirt. He spoke in definite, assured tones, and had perfectly white and aligned teeth which shone as he spoke and he owned all of the understated trappings of the successful man including his very British, very sporty, and very new 4×4 with his personal plate, L0NGV – the V being closest he could get for his Christian name, Ivor.

Norma Schnorks spotted him first on moving in day, and recognised him immediately. Norma lives in the house on the corner, of the main road through the village, and can see Doctor Longhan’s house from hers just across the small, triangular piece of grass which acts as the junction down which Doctor Longhans house is. Her bedroom window has the perfect aspect, and when I say she spotted, I really mean stalked – with the high-powered field glasses her grandfather left her, she can practically count the number of spots on his face. There are none whatsoever she now knows that

Norma is actually a patient of his, and with the oversized binoculars held to her eyes, her pulse quickened as a frisson of excitement visibly shot though her like a lightning bolt.

By coincidence, Norma is in the same world as Doctor Longhan. She works as a nurse at the nearby Chuffleigh Manor, a large retirement home for ex-servicemen, mostly RAF. Chuffleigh Manor, is almost the last building on the right on the Hampton-in-the-Chuff road, past Doctor Longhan’s house, then past The Star pub. Norma realised that she has to walk past his house on a daily basis, to get to work at the manor. She shuddered again at the thought.

Norma Schnorks had been unlucky in love for some time. Her numerous but ultimately unsuccessful attempts at a pairing had usually resulted in failure for one reason or another. As part of her multi-threaded plan to resurrect her love life, she had consciously decided to lower her threshold of acceptability for prospective partners, and dropped phrases such as ‘must have’, ‘must be’ and ‘not looking for’ from her profile. In fact, she’d watered things down to the point that almost anybody with blinking eyes and the ability to breath would have made the grade.

‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ she thought to herself; at the same her mind calling out an extensive list of possibilities, which annoyed her.

What followed was calamity after calamity. There was Liam C, who had a tremendous stutter; so bad in fact that Norma could make no secret of her impatience by constantly twisting her wrist to check the time and completing his sentences for him. Then there was Brynn T, who – Norma discovered later that evening to her horror, wasn’t a man at all. Peter W had fingers and teeth missing, but being skilled in Photoshop was able to fix his profile picture by adding them back, and whilst he was at it, fully whitening his teeth for his profile picture. Garth D was a midget, and Eric C – for some reason, was constantly orbited by flies. All of them were missing a certain something – so far, these included fluency, genitals, teeth, fingers, height and personal hygiene.

Norma wiped the lenses of her field glasses and continued to observe her subject. It was almost as if  her bedroom was a glamorous bird hide, and Doctor Longhan was a rare and treasured ornithological find. She was quiet, in case she somehow disturbed the scene. He shuttled between his 4×4 and the house, carrying various personal belongings, and Norma could see them in the highest resolution.

A breadmaker. Norma noted this meant The Doctor could cook. ‘Good’, she thought.

A tool kit. ‘Good, he can mend shit’, she quietly said to herself.

A pair of cats in a cage. ‘Ugh. Cats.’ She thought. Norma is not a cat lover. She maintains a row of missiles lined up ready on her kitchen window ledge ready to stun feline visitors who plan to defecate on her lawn. There had been many feline vistors, and now there were two more. ‘Shit.’, she breathed.

She trained her field glasses back onto the Doctor. He had just taken a box of books and CDs from his car, but placed them on the road behind his car. He had seen Reverend Colin approaching along the pavement, taking his malodorous wiry dog Bonker for his morning walk. She didn’t know if they already knew each other, but it seemed as if they didn’t. They spoke a few words, of course imperceptible to Norma, so she tilted her view down to the boxes to see if she could focus in enough to see the titles of some of his CDs.

The scene sharpened as Norma adjusted the large focussing wheel. Beyonce – Dangerously in Love. Cher – Love Hurts. Cheryl Cole – Only Human. A single eyebrow raised, and then fell again.

Just then, she noticed that The Reverend was ending his conversation, he held out his hand to shake the Doctors’, but the Doctor surprised Norma and held out both of his arms and gave the Reverend a big man hug that lasted a few seconds longer than would normally have been comfortable. This time, both eyebrows shot up. The Reverend composed himself, and then tugged on Bonker’s lead to prompt him that their walk was to continue, but Bonker had picked the worst time possible and began to ‘curl one out’ just next to the Doctors car. There was an embarrassed wait for Bonker, as he’d adopted the ‘leapfrog’ position, and he wasn’t going anywhere. After an uncomfortable few tens of seconds, there was an embarrassed smile, a fake shaking of a fist towards the dog and another smile, then a dismissive flourish of the hand from the Doctor, and then The Reverend – red faced, was briskly away with Bonker on yet another short leash.

As soon as he went, Norma then heard the sound of a car approaching. Soon, it hoved into view. An immaculately kept Fiat 500 in light blue, with a big artistic pink stripe along its side. The headlights were on, and as the car approached the Doctor’s house, the horn pipped a falsetto beep a few times to announce the arrival.

‘Shit again.’ Norma breathed. ‘Has he got a woman? I had no idea’.

Then, out stepped the Doctor’s visitor. A man. And somebody Norma did not know. The man – slim, dressed in a tight, blue and white striped T-shirt, white drainpipe jeans and white Converse sneakers, walked – well, minced over to where the Doctor was standing, and he limply held out his arms, and the Doctor hugged him. For a lot longer. Ironically, Norma didn’t know where to look.

‘Oh my good God’, Norma said out loud to herself, and then the penny dropped. Cats. Gay icon CDs. Special mincing friend. ‘The Doctor is gay, and he is moving his special friend into the big house here in Chuffleigh! That is going to put the cat amongst the pigeons.’ she thought to herself.

Had it not been the postman delivering mail to Norma’s house, the clank of her letterbox might well have been her chin dropping to the ground in both disappointment and surprise.

But now, she had a mystery to solve. Now there was no chance of the Doctor checking her pulse out of hours, for the sake of the CGM, her mission was to find out everything she could about the Doctor and his new friend. And she would start….at the shop!

Tales of Chuffleigh: Chapter 1 – Bonker

Wednesday afternoon at about 3.30 in Chuffleigh is like Wednesday afternoon, at about 3.30 in any other small village in Devon. Except for the fact that Chuffleigh feels as though it has been cut off from the rest of societyfor some time; almost frozen in time perhaps back to some year in the late seventies.

In years gone by, Chuffleigh had seemed more connected to the modern world, and more vital, yet the clockwork of life within the village seems never to have had a beginning.

The Old Garage stands halfway down the main high street opposite the village church; virtually abandoned. The rusting hand dials which measured out fuel that was delivered by the attended service staff of the past , have not turned for years. The ancient seventies British Leyland signage is still present, but the garage itself has been locked (or so we thought) for years, the interior still visible through its unusual concertina glass doors which were folded back during the day revealing the formerly busy workshop.

The narrow, single road, running through the village connects the small network of village streets forming the fabric of the village itself, is rough and unkempt, and a source of constant complaint to The Parish Council of St Nigel’s.

The river Chuff rises in the millpools at the back of the village, and trickles underneath its single tiny  humpbacked bridge opposite The Old Bakery, eventually finding its way into the dappled shade behind the church of St Nigel on the Chuff, and outward to Felchingham, eventually meeting the sea at Chuffmouth 25 miles further on.

Even the now abandoned railway cutting points to a busier past. Not that there was ever a station at Chuffleigh – the nearest branch line station was down the road at Chuffmore about three miles away. The choice of Chuffmore had been a source of bitterness in the past, since a station at Chuffleigh would certainly have brought more prosperity; in the minds of the villagers this somehow made Chuffmore more important than Chuffleigh. Now, since The Beeching Report in 1963, the branch line has long since been uprooted, and all that remains now is a deep overgrown cutting leading off to Felchingham.

The creation of The Village Shop had been the vicar’s idea. The reverend Colin Hardcandle had taken up his appointment at St Nigels some six years earlier, having spent time at St Collins (no connection) in Felchingham, where he had seen – to great effect, how beneficial a thriving shop can be for the community. The vicar seemingly tries to present himself as a ‘modern’ man of the church by introducing himself to new potential members of his flock, as ‘Reverend Colin’. But, as with many old fashioned village communities, and  oddly – he thought, the younger, mainly unruly lads of the village, he is surprised they prefer using his formal title, ‘Reverend Hardcandle’, usually followed by a quick snort of uncontrollable laughter.

The Reverend lives in the vicarage by himself – well, with the exception of his aging dog Bonker, a small wirey and rather smelly border terrier. It is rather hard to explain why, but Bonker smelt very distinctly of very strong popcorn. Musky, deeply unpleasant, and omnipresent. They say that the sense of smell can trigger memory recall like no other sense; unfortunately for the villagers Chuffleigh, the pleasure of opening a pack of popcorn will be ruined forever. Like many old dogs, his breath was the most eye watering of a number of fragrances he unknowingly emitted; choking – like nerve gas. Bonker had been ‘rescued’ by The Reverend after he’d been told by the local farming family, Giles and Jilly Farmer, that they didn’t want him anymore, and

“If you don’t take him Vicar, it’ll be down to the vets and onwards up to that big doghouse in the sky”, Giles Farmer said, rather matter of factually.

Just before Bonker’s transfer of ownership from the Farmers, the Reverend Hardcandle enquired about Bonker’s unusual name.

“We just called him that because he is a bit mad, didn’t we Jill?” replied Giles rather awkwardly, and now increasingly keen to get the exchange done and dusted as soon as possible.

The truth was that Bonker shagged everything with four legs within his increasingly failing field of view. Such was his enthusiasm for his sport that sometimes, he widened his selection criteria to include two legs. Hence ‘Bonker’. And not because was a bit bonkers, as the Reverend later recalled on very many quiet strolls out, where he was compelled to physically intervene during some of Bonkers more enthusiastic hip-action conquests. Nothing, and no one was safe, he realised.

The Village Shop itself sells everything. Well, everything edible and drinkable that is. Chuffleigh has money, so that is top scoff, and top booze. It is also a Post Office, and outside the shop is a small adverts cabinet. ‘Rageh Scoobs Taxis – We’ll drive you, so you don’t have to’ reads one of the least creative adverts, written by Rageh himself. It is also without doubt the social centre of the village, the big switchboard where scandal is propelled from a single person to the entire village. It is run by four members of the village community, the foremost member being Marjorie Growler, a stern, rather matronly lady who is not to be tangled with under any circumstances.

Mrs Growler and the Reverend Hardcandle have never really hit things off, and that is really not just with regard to the shop. Mrs Growler’s matronliness and general fustiness should not be confused with naivety, whereas The Reverend is no doubt naïve, especially with regard to the more ‘physical’ aspects of his flock’s marital worries, who nevertheless still misguidedly rely on him for dispensing solutions to their marital discord. These are the high and low pressure weather systems of their relationship which frequently collide with such ferocity.

Mrs Growler had fallen out with the Vicar some five years previously after he had introduced the idea of the shop to the community. The idea of a shop had been welcomed as a universally good thing, but rather like an over enthusiastic puppy dog, he had done all of the running himself, including the composition of business plans and researching suitable locations.

Finding a location had been harder than he expected. The first choice should really have been The Old Garage, given that it had lain idle for so long, perhaps thirty years or more. However, the rather hushed up ‘incident’ involving Hugo Farmer, Giles and Jilly Farmer’s dashing but rather naughty 24 year old son some 12 months previously, had pushed it out of reach as a choice for the shop’s location, and it definitely rendered the site unsuitable for any activity involving food, at least in the mind of the Vicar. This state of affairs rather perplexed the rest of the village, who were not aware of the truth and did not understand why The Old Garage was still not on the list.

The Old Garage, ChuffleighThe Old Garage, a favourite for the location of Chuffleigh Union Neighbourhood Trading, but not after ‘the incident’ involving young Hugo Farmer.

Instead, a purpose built site was found next to the old telephone exchange, and built from scratch with funds raised by a seemingly endless run of Raffles and Cheese & Wine evenings, and then built by the local builders, Jeff Hardon, and his son, Ivor at next to no cost.

Mrs Growler, who since retiring to Chuffleigh with her husband Graham had been keen to get involved with the Community, had heard about the shop and decided to find out more. She had suggested to the vicar that she’d like to play a leading part in the shop, and the vicar, realising this could be a way of releasing some of his well needed time, agreed.

They met over tea at the Vicarage, and Reverend Hardcandle showed Mrs Growler the incorporation documents for the shop. She noted with a nod that he had incorporated it in his own name, Reverend Colin Quentin Edgar Hardcandle, so no problem there. Then she noted that the shop had taken on the formal business name ‘Chuffleigh Union Neighbourhood Trading Co.’, which immediately paused her enthusiastic munching of one of the digestive biscuits the vicar had provided, and brought on a an obvious and prolonged stare of disbelief at the black and white print she had in her left hand. There was also a considerable and uncomfortable silence. Except for Bonker, who with what seemed to be a small smile, punctuated the silence with what they all knew would inevitably cause them to gag involuntarily.

“Is there anything wrong Mrs Growler?”, the vicar enquired, trying to keep on-subject despite Bonkers atmospheric contributions.

“Oh no. Definitely no!” Mrs Growler protested, shaking her head repeatedly, distributing a few of the biscuit crumbs which had become loosely connected with Mrs Growlers mouth during the mastication process.

“We can’t use that name for the shop. Look at the acronym the words form vicar!” she pointed out.

Reverend Hardcandle looked. And looked. Eventually, realising his massive faux pas, he instantly turned a deep shade of crimson, and fully agreed with Mrs Growler that the shop could not be called Chuffleigh Union Neighbourhood Trading Co. At the same time he recalled, a year or so previously, a couple of unexplained and baffling incidences of uncontrollable sniggering as he was registering the business name. Now, it dawned on him why that was.

At that point in time, some inescapable truths and some social positioning in the village took place. Firstly, Reverend Hardcandle realised it could not ‘get out’ that he had registered the village shop with a name like this. This in itself meant he had to trust Mrs Growler not to reveal it. To trust her, meant he had to concede fully to her demands of having a hand in running the shop, and at the same moment, she knew she had carte blanche to fix the problem the vicar had created, thus leading to full control of his project.

Chuffleigh Village Shop opened to great fanfare some six months later. Jeff and Ivor were allowed to place a sign on the shop exterior proudly reminding the village who had erected it, something that even Mrs Growler hadn’t spotted the horrendous consequences of. Reverend Hardcandle attended with Bonker on a very tight leash – he had also taken the precaution of ensuring Bonker had not eaten any meat-based dog food that day, just in case. Marjorie Growler wore her best hat, and Rageh Scoobs offered 5% discount on taxi fares to Felchingham all day – something he was surprised nobody took up.

A Scammer Gets A Taste of His Own Medicine

WARNING: Sexual references throughout this post.

Spam, that unwanted noise that comes our way through e-mail is REALLY annoying. Lots of very clever, very busy computer nerds making computer programmes, sending millions of messages every day implying that Viagra will turn us into raging bulls, or that we somehow took out PPI on a loan some years ago that we’d completely forgotten about. The worst example that came my way was via Facebook, knowing my age, and trying to sell me funeral cover. Cheeky bastards!

Anyway, as you see above e-mail isn’t the only way spam reaches us. Facebook, SMS texts, Google+, Twitter and even through the post – we’re deluged with the stuff. Even fax machines when they were around, bless them, were unwitting messengers for crap we didn’t want.

The one I don’t get is Skype. I get contact requests from people I don’t know, usually women in far off countries who, all of a sudden, feel the need to contact me and be my special Skype friend. All these contacts are obviously scams, just like those Nigerian members of the royal family who have to get $100,679,354.54 out of the country, and need a kind person with a bank account so that they can put the money there, and you’ll get half of it. No shit Sherlock!

I do think however that women get more of these than men. Annie certainly does.

Most people block these requests, and discharge them from their lives. Not Annie. She takes them on and plays them at their own game. Even better, this is a form of entertainment for her!

Below is a real Skype conversation between Annie and ‘James’, we think a man, supposedly in the US Army and based in California. In actuality, he’s probably in a hut in Ghana. He is obviously scamming for cash, and looking for vulnerable women to extort it from.

Just read it and see how things pan out for ‘James’. Enjoy!:

[21:33:21] james1: how are you doing today

[21:33:47] annie: Ok except that I just found out I’ve got syphilis

[21:34:23] james1: how was your day

[21:34:43] annie: I just told you

[21:34:59] james1: ok

[21:35:09] james1: what are  you doing right now

[21:35:25] annie: starting my course of antibiotics and pessaries

[21:35:37] james1: ok

[21:35:46] james1: do you have yahoomessager

[21:35:53] annie: No. I have skype

[21:36:07] james1: ok

[21:36:18] james1: i’m james from usa

[21:36:22] james1: and you?

[21:37:28] annie: Wow, you are a raconteur!

[21:37:44] james1: thank you

[21:37:50] annie: Exactly

[21:38:30] james1: welcome

[21:38:54] james1: how is the weather there right now

[21:39:03] annie: Good. Do you like sex?

[21:40:42] james1: i have not watch before

[21:40:49] james1: do you watch there

[21:41:32] annie: Can you send me a picture?

[21:41:52] james1: ok

[21:42:03] james1: how old are you?

[21:42:17] annie: Can you send me a sexy picture. I need to make sure it is worth proceeding

[21:42:31] james1: hehehehe

[21:42:43 | Edited 21:42:50] james1: now you cant see that right now

[21:43:05] annie: No point wasting any more time

[21:43:10] james1: do you love making s*x

[21:44:00] annie: Depends on how your picture turns out. I’m very discerning.

[21:44:29] james1: ok

[21:44:37] james1: where do you work

[21:45:09] annie: Sexy pic first and then we can move onto the trivialities

[21:45:24] james1: no i dont do that

[21:45:40] james1: man like me never do that on site here

[21:45:46] annie: How can romance blossom then?

[21:46:02] james1: can you send me pussy pic?

[21:46:11] annie: Yep ……

[21:46:15] annie: Give me a mo

[21:46:21] james1: good let me see

[21:47:22] *** annie sent ugly-cat-9.jpg ***


[21:48:50] james1: you did not send the right pic

[21:49:32] annie: That is my pussy. He is called Beryl the Bastard

[21:50:35] james1: oh you know before,you cant send pussy and you want me to send you dick

[21:56:14] *** annie sent me-relaxing-with-cake.jpg ***


[21:57:38] annie: Please come back. I think we’ve got a future together

[21:58:11] james1: really

[21:58:22] annie: Yes you seem really nice and chatty

[21:58:35] james1: ok

[21:58:39] james1: go on

[21:58:45 | Edited 21:58:57] james1: do you have kids?

[22:00:57] annie: Only a few ….. but they won’t interfere with us

[22:01:29] james1: how many kids

[22:02:14] annie: 7. But I have trained them all to do housework and serve us drinks whilst we lie in bed and get to know each other

[22:02:43] james1: ok

[22:02:53] james1: where are you right now?

[22:02:59] james1: i’m from usa

[22:03:18] james1: california

[22:05:01] annie: What the hell are you doing living in that shithole?

[22:05:29] james1: really there is hole

[22:05:37] james1: so where are you living?

[22:05:39] james1: uk

[22:05:45] annie: Are you really poor?

[22:05:59] annie: Yes. I am in the UK

[22:06:23] james1: you dont like poor people

[22:06:34] annie: No. They stink

[22:06:50] james1: really

[22:06:58] james1: so are you rich?

[22:07:05] annie: Yeh. They smell like dead badgers

[22:07:34] annie: But if you live in the USA, poor people probably smell like armadillos because you don’t have any badgers

[22:08:15] james1: hmmm

[22:08:17] james1: really

[22:08:32] james1: so what kind of work are you doing for living?

[22:09:46] annie: Well. I like to think that I work in the ‘Hospitality Industry’

[22:10:02] james1: hmmmm

[22:10:19] james1: whayt kind of hospitality

[22:10:31] james1: of making love

[22:11:00] annie: Yes …… making love ……. I was trying to think of a way to make it sound romantic, but you have nailed it

[22:11:09] annie: What do you do?

[22:11:34] james1: are you sure,is you in that pic?

[22:11:46] annie: Yes ….. you like me?

[22:11:58 | Edited 22:12:05] james1: you look cool in the pic

[22:12:04] annie: I was hesitant to send it because I am quite shy

[22:12:26] james1: not that in your profile

[22:12:46] james1: well i’m united state army

[22:13:00] annie: God no! I have an air of respectability that I need to portray. But you are special. So you got a special photograph.

[22:13:32] james1: i’m united state sergeant

[22:13:57] annie: Wow! What do Sergeant’s do in the army?

[22:14:08] james1: yeap

[22:14:23] annie: Do you get to do really cool things like kill people?

[22:14:36] james1: mmmm

[22:14:45] james1: i cant talk about that here

[22:14:54] james1: how old are you?

[22:15:02] annie: I’ve alway’s wanted to kill people – it’s better than Grand Theft Auto!!!

[22:15:13] annie: Why can’t you talk about it?

[22:15:33] james1: for security reason

[22:15:38] james1: brb

[22:15:44] annie: BRB???

[22:15:58] annie: Do you wear a uniform?

[22:16:21] james1: yeap

[22:16:42] annie: Have you been to Afghanistan?

[22:17:29] annie: (that’s in the Middle East)

[22:22:45] annie: James1! Have you gone?! You have wrenched my heart and all hope from me. And put them in a blender and served them on a lightly toasted Brioche.

[22:34:21] james1: hi i’m back are you still there

[22:35:41] annie: YES! Your return has just made my life complete

[22:35:56] annie: Welcome back my love.

[22:36:01 | Edited 22:36:11] james1: so what are you doing right now

[22:36:34] annie: Well …… the pessary wasn’t as successful as I had hoped, so I had to get a toothbrush handle and do a bit of wiggling

[22:36:53] annie: But all ok now …… 🙂

[22:37:02] james1: ok

[22:37:26] james1: have you been to usa before

[22:37:57] annie: Yes. Why are you asking?

[22:38:12] james1: just asking

[22:38:39 | Edited 22:38:50] james1: if we get marry,i can buy house there in uk for us to stay or you have your own house?

[22:39:40] annie: Darling, darling …….. how can you ask that?!! Of course you can come and live here in my REALLY massive house.

[22:40:09] james1: really

[22:40:14] annie: And my 7 children will take care of all the chores ….. and we can do making love (when I am not doing my ‘Hospitality’ thing)

[22:40:15] james1: i have son too

[22:40:20] james1: just 14years old

[22:40:28] annie: Don’t bring him. He sounds like a sponger

[22:40:52] james1: ok

[22:41:04] annie: Can’t you sell him or something?

[22:41:27] james1: sell my son?

[22:41:59] annie: Yeh. You’d probably get at least $3,435.76 – as long as he isn’t a lazy bastard

[22:42:04] james1: my son study in usa

[22:42:28] annie: Phew ….. what’s he studying?

[22:43:01 | Edited 22:43:15] james1: do you know i have my own  money,how can i sell my son

[22:43:51] annie: Yes …… but as I said ….. what is he studying? If it’s Art his value will halve

[22:44:16] james1: he want to be army like me

[22:44:34] annie: That’s a bit weird that he wants to dress the same as you

[22:44:53] james1: yea

[22:45:12] james1: how much can you make aday?

[22:46:34] annie: How much of what?

[22:46:44] james1: money

[22:46:50] james1: you make a day

[22:47:47] annie: How did you know about my money laundering operation?

[22:48:18] james1: i dont know i’m just asking how much you are making aday

[22:48:55] annie: Phew that was close.

[22:49:09] james1: i can know

[22:49:35] james1: because i want to open company as soon i leave camp

[22:49:54] annie: What company do you want James1?

[22:50:18] james1: estate management

[22:50:35] annie: Doesn’t that just mean you will be cleaning houses?

[22:50:55 | Edited 22:51:20] james1: yes i will buy and sell

[22:52:26] annie: Can I see a picture of you if we are going to get married, live in my house and work in estate mangement (aka cleaning and gardening)?

[22:52:53] annie: My heart is aching to gaze into the deep pools of your eyes ……..

[22:53:04] annie: But first I am going to have a quick sausage roll

[22:53:22] annie: Hang on a moment ……

[22:53:56] james1: ok  baby

[22:54:01] james1: i’m here waiting you

[22:54:51] annie: Finished! I made quick work of that. Just need to recline slightly so that I don’t puke.

[22:54:56] annie: Carry on baby ……..

[09:33:35] james1: good morning baby

[09:33:40] james1: how was your night

[19:40:29] annie: hi baby. A bit sore. It was a busy one

And as quick as he appeared, James1 spirited himself away into Cyberspace, ready to scam somebody else. Still, it was funny whilst it lasted!