So, amidst all the heartache, soul searching and general chaos, my balls came back out.
As we have quite a few new followers to this blog (hello and welcome people, sign up and enjoy the ride. I can assure you, it will never be dull) I probably need to explain what my balls actually are.
Well, they are predominately blue, although one is pink, and they average around 65cm in diameter, although one currently has a puncture so is somewhat smaller. They make driving quite difficult as they tend to bang against my gear stick at inopportune moments and they have a habit of being rather wayward. The most prime example of which was when one was actually liberated by a young 'fan' and tossed into the middle of an electricity sub-station.
I take my balls to halls around the country and get people to bounce on them, lie across them or do whatever they fancy with them - often in a dimly lit room whilst being massaged by a partner.
No - I'm not a sex therapist (although who knows, it could provide a promising second income and I've done weirder sh1t) - I'm an antenatal teacher and bouncing around on giant balls is really great at helping babies get into the best position to be born and can also be jolly handy at getting women in really good positions to cope with contractions and get the baby out during labour.
Failing that - you can stick a few out in the garden once the baby reaches 'toddler-hood' and voila - hours of free childcare whilst they body-surf from ball to ball. Obviously this come with a reasonably high risk of injury but personally I've found the benefits far out-weigh the risks.
Anyway - my balls were back out for the first time in a while and I was entering a new and previously uncharted sphere (no pun intended) - that of the 'well kept village hall'.
My word.
The politics!!
The rules!!
The red tape!!
It was as if I had been given begruded permission to enter a Pharaoh's tomb - only with more tea towels and unruly tea urns.
Having been briefed (at length - great, great length) by the 'key holder' on everything from the fuse in the stair lift (hopefully not needed but you never quite know!) to 'Colin with the Hat - you must know him? Always wears a hat?' (errr no, I don't, is he actually a celebrity? Or only if you live within 3 streets of the village hall?), I was finally left alone in the building to prepare my equipment and pump up my balls. But not without a warning.
A warning about the 'Line Dancers'.
Apparently they would be 'coming through my group to use the kitchen' and I'd know because they would 'sort of stomp'.
Sure enough, whilst holding aloft of an A1 laminated poster of a woman's 'mons pubis' complete with cervix and rotating baby, three elderly women stomped on through muttering something about incorrect tea towel folding.
And then, a few minutes later, whilst examining cervical dilation, they stomped on back, each carrying a steaming glass of a hot yellow liquid which was either a hot toddy or their own urine.
The group looked bemused.
I was bemused.
We were all mutually bemused because the lot of them could barely stand erect, let alone do a few speedy turns to 'Achy Break Heart'.
There was only one thing that could be done. I needed to follow them. And so, during the coffee break, I traced them to the 'Reading Rooms' where they undertook their sinister arts.
Sure enough - they were having a stomp.
I can't call it Line Dancing.
The music was a sort of dirge played on the accordion and they weren't' really dancing - more having a bit of a twitch.
And what was even more thrilling - there was a raffle.
The prizes were lined up on a table at the head of the room and the tickets lay somewhat forlornly at the base of a wicker basket. All 5 of them.
And top prize in the raffle - a 6 pack of Orange Club biscuits.
Can I just say here and now - however bad my life gets, if I ever reach the point where a 'grand night out' constitutes some mild twitching with a man who can barely stand up, topped off with the lure of winning an orange laced biscuit - you have permission to shoot me.
OK?
I'll leave the bit about the gas leak, the alarm and the left behind birthday cake that wasn't really left behind until next time...
As we have quite a few new followers to this blog (hello and welcome people, sign up and enjoy the ride. I can assure you, it will never be dull) I probably need to explain what my balls actually are.
Well, they are predominately blue, although one is pink, and they average around 65cm in diameter, although one currently has a puncture so is somewhat smaller. They make driving quite difficult as they tend to bang against my gear stick at inopportune moments and they have a habit of being rather wayward. The most prime example of which was when one was actually liberated by a young 'fan' and tossed into the middle of an electricity sub-station.
I take my balls to halls around the country and get people to bounce on them, lie across them or do whatever they fancy with them - often in a dimly lit room whilst being massaged by a partner.
No - I'm not a sex therapist (although who knows, it could provide a promising second income and I've done weirder sh1t) - I'm an antenatal teacher and bouncing around on giant balls is really great at helping babies get into the best position to be born and can also be jolly handy at getting women in really good positions to cope with contractions and get the baby out during labour.
Failing that - you can stick a few out in the garden once the baby reaches 'toddler-hood' and voila - hours of free childcare whilst they body-surf from ball to ball. Obviously this come with a reasonably high risk of injury but personally I've found the benefits far out-weigh the risks.
Anyway - my balls were back out for the first time in a while and I was entering a new and previously uncharted sphere (no pun intended) - that of the 'well kept village hall'.
My word.
The politics!!
The rules!!
The red tape!!
It was as if I had been given begruded permission to enter a Pharaoh's tomb - only with more tea towels and unruly tea urns.
Having been briefed (at length - great, great length) by the 'key holder' on everything from the fuse in the stair lift (hopefully not needed but you never quite know!) to 'Colin with the Hat - you must know him? Always wears a hat?' (errr no, I don't, is he actually a celebrity? Or only if you live within 3 streets of the village hall?), I was finally left alone in the building to prepare my equipment and pump up my balls. But not without a warning.
A warning about the 'Line Dancers'.
Apparently they would be 'coming through my group to use the kitchen' and I'd know because they would 'sort of stomp'.
Sure enough, whilst holding aloft of an A1 laminated poster of a woman's 'mons pubis' complete with cervix and rotating baby, three elderly women stomped on through muttering something about incorrect tea towel folding.
And then, a few minutes later, whilst examining cervical dilation, they stomped on back, each carrying a steaming glass of a hot yellow liquid which was either a hot toddy or their own urine.
The group looked bemused.
I was bemused.
We were all mutually bemused because the lot of them could barely stand erect, let alone do a few speedy turns to 'Achy Break Heart'.
There was only one thing that could be done. I needed to follow them. And so, during the coffee break, I traced them to the 'Reading Rooms' where they undertook their sinister arts.
Sure enough - they were having a stomp.
I can't call it Line Dancing.
The music was a sort of dirge played on the accordion and they weren't' really dancing - more having a bit of a twitch.
And what was even more thrilling - there was a raffle.
The prizes were lined up on a table at the head of the room and the tickets lay somewhat forlornly at the base of a wicker basket. All 5 of them.
And top prize in the raffle - a 6 pack of Orange Club biscuits.
Can I just say here and now - however bad my life gets, if I ever reach the point where a 'grand night out' constitutes some mild twitching with a man who can barely stand up, topped off with the lure of winning an orange laced biscuit - you have permission to shoot me.
OK?
I'll leave the bit about the gas leak, the alarm and the left behind birthday cake that wasn't really left behind until next time...
Wow! You do live the high life - raffles for Club biscuits - I wouldn't be able to stand the pace!
ReplyDeleteMore sparkles and hugs for you.
Sue xx
Thank you for sharing yer balls with the newbies... lol. Also feeling way better about nights spent in. :)
ReplyDeleteMY mind has stuck on the mental image of "unruly tea urns". Great stuff!
ReplyDeleteYe Gods, do they still have Club biscuits? I thought they went out with the ark.
ReplyDeleteHaving dealt with several 'Guardian of the Village Hall' through work, I fully sympathise with you. Did you actually manage to get a word in edgeways, or was it all one way and just nod at the right point?
Now if they had been mint clubs then I'd need to ask where the raffle is, but for an orange club I shan't bother ;)
ReplyDeleteWill be needing a go on your balls soon, what's the earliest I can use one?