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Yma dhymm kothman.englishtainment-tm-RV2gKU7z englishtainment-tm-RV2gKU7z
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My a yll klewes an gwyns.langbot langbot
WHAT DID ‘THE REG’ SAY AGAIN? Picture, if you will, a seminar room full of eager boy soldiers – all about 15 or 16 years old – very earnest, very self-important and very proud of ‘the uniform’ they wore. I had once been one of those boy soldiers (or ‘toy soldiers’, as some would have it). As a fourth form student, I had been in such a seminar room at Puckapunyal army base – wide-eyed and anxious to learn the lessons of war. Like most boys of my generation, I was an Army Cadet – I think I mentioned this earlier. Hard to believe now – i.e. that most of our schoolboys would routinely be trained in the art of war – but nevertheless true. (Some would later be sent to fight in Vietnam – usually against their will.) Did we learn a lot about the true nature of war? No, not a lot, it must be confessed. But, suddenly, the meagre knowledge that I had acquired in that particular seminar needed urgently to be summoned from the deepest recesses of my memory. The topic: Jungle Warfare. What did that ‘Reg’ (regular army officer) say again? I remember him well. He was very impressive – to me, at least. Tall and athletic, his crisp, tailored uniform was adorned with shiny brass buttons. (I could never get mine to shine like that – ‘Brasso’ simply didn’t do the trick. It later turned out that the regulars no longer needed to polish their buttons at all – they’d been anodised.) He said he’d served two tours of ‘Nam. (He was in his late twenties, I suppose.) He spoke with the confidence that commanding ‘fighting men’ gave to one – or so I supposed. But why on Earth was such an experienced soldier assigned to the menial task of lecturing school kids? I can safely assume it had nothing to do with the quality and military potential of the spotty-faced members of the audience.
Ni a wrug koska yn tylda pur byghan.langbot langbot
My dear People, began Bilbo, rising in his place. ‘Hear! Hear! Hear!’ they shouted, and kept on repeating it in chorus, seeming reluctant to follow their own advice. Bilbo left his place and went and stood on a chair under the illuminated tree. The light of the lanterns fell on his beaming face; the golden buttons shone on his embroidered silk waistcoat. They could all see him standing, waving one hand in the air, the other was in his trouser-pocket.
Yma seyth mab dhis.langbot langbot
I had not had a cold shower for years. I had not had a shower of any description since Day One. David wasn’t the only one who stank. Having filled the watering can, I stood in the corner near the tap – over the small drain – and, lifting the can above my head, played the sprinkling water over my grimy, sweaty and bloody body. I shivered from the shock of the cold water but, almost immediately, felt refreshed and reinvigorated. The muck that was caked on my skin and in my hair fell away – thanks to some fragrant soap that I was using liberally – and that, I presumed, had also been ‘liberated’ from the gatekeeper’s residence. David’s dead eyes observed the cleansing of my body with no obvious emotion. In the back of my mind, I knew that I had to get David cleaned up if ever I were to be able to pass him off as a living soul – and effect an escape from the ‘war- zone’. How much resistance to this would he put up when I insisted on this? Having dried myself – using an equally ‘liberated’ towel – I stood looking at David. He returned the stare. (He was, at least, exceptionally good at that.) “David?” I said. “Your turn now – you’re a very dirty little boy!” He seemed to like being babied by me. Maybe it evoked some distant memory of his childhood, when Mum used to scold us for being such ‘grubs’ (which we were). I can’t be sure, of course, but, in any event, he rose to his feet and approached. He stood in front of me like a small child who could not undo his buttons. (In fact, I think he may have lost so much dexterity that this task was now beyond him.) I started to undo his blood-stained rags and he did not offer a protest. Soon, he stood naked and, like a small child, waited obediently for his bath. I gently bathed his greying skin, patched with tape the odd tear in his flesh that he had suffered as a result of recent carnal activities – and then shed a tear over what had become of my handsome brother.
Edhom yw dhymm a vara hag a leth.langbot langbot
After I composed myself, I realised that we had the rest of the day to fill in. I’m sure David would happily have gone back to the Hell-hole at Union House – so that he could lounge around with his zombie mates. But I was not going to cross swords again with that bitch-face “Gween” if I could possibly help it. “Hey, Dave! I’ve got a treat for you,” I exclaimed suddenly. “I’m going to take you to the movies.” I gave him no choice and firmly herded him out of Genevieve’s and into the Bug House. I had no idea if he still remembered what a movie was but I didn’t care. David was going to the movies whether he liked it or not. The shabby foyer of the Bug House was relatively untouched. There must have been no-one in it when the Apocalypse passed through. Did it happen at mid-day or thereabouts? No ‘session time’ then, I suppose – not during the week at a small single-screen suburban theatre. (Can you remember what one of those was?) I walked up the narrow staircase to the projection room. Now, you may think I would have no chance of getting the projector operating so that we would view a movie. But that’s where you’d be wrong. Dead wrong. This was in the days before video recorders, well before DVD’s, Blue-Ray and so on. So, schoolteachers needed to know how to operate simple movie projectors to show educational films to their classes. I was no teacher – but my dad was! Dad had done a proper Bell and Howell course and come out with a proper projectionist certificate – very pretty, very impressive. I asked him to bring the school projector home and show me how it worked. He obliged my demands and thus I knew the rudiments of the projectionist’s craft. That said, the projectors (there were 2) that confronted me in the projectionist room of the Carlton Movie House were very different to the one that Dad had brought home from school. A lot bigger. A lot more buttons and levers. I got one of them working in under half an hour (but I think I might have, sort of, broken the other one – sorry, Mr Projectionist).
Nyns eus edhom dhedhi a arghans.langbot langbot
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