Tell tall tales

Maybe it’s the story-teller in me, or the Irish, but I’ve always been prone to over-hyping any account of my experiences. You know, the reality of a few minutes becomes hours and hours. If an eye witness is present, then that wrecks it. But, in their absence, the sky’s the limit. My dad was always the best at this, ignoring mum’s eye roll and making the telling bigger and bigger every time.

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The cows are on the ice.

There’s a Swedish expression, ‘no cow on the ice’. Back in the old days, the cows of Scandinavia were allowed to roam outside all year round. Farmers would make a hole in the ice for them to drink. Sometimes a cow’s forelegs would fall through the thin ice and the farmer would have to pull them out by their tail. ‘No cow on the ice’ means, don’t stress, things are going to be ok.

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The blankets

When I was pondering what I would write about last week I was thinking about blankets. At the time I was walking with heavy steps along my street, fighting against a horrible sense of fatigue. Quite often, when I try to explain fatigue I talk about having a wet woollen blanket dropped over my head, my shoulders, my arms and legs.

Thankfully, I’m not going to dwell on that horrible image today.

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