Scientific Facts

I was reading a science book the other day and I was fascinated by the number of facts which I did not know. In fact the more I read the more I realised how much I did not know and how ignorant I really am.

For example; did you know that the majority of men with beards (about 68%) sleep with their beards tucked under the bed covers rather than over the bed covers?

And that beards grow faster and longer than hair on men's heads?

Human ears grow bigger in proportion to the rest of our bodies as we grow older? I remember I knew a man with his ears sticking out quite a bit. He looked like a car with its doors open.

Did you know that if you had a meal in a restaurant that is totally dark you would not be able to tell the difference between steak and a beefburger?

Did you also know that if you're in a vacuum and you shout loud no one would hear you? And it would make no difference whether the vacuum bag is full of dirt and dust or whether it was empty?

Do you realise that if you had a small bird in a cage and as you happen to weigh the cage if the bird jumped up from its perch then its weight would not register on the scale?

Also, if you were to weigh the cage under water the small bird would drown?

And in order to peel and cut an onion without tears you have to do it under water; that is if you can hold your breath for that long?

Here's a video I found with more scientific facts.

In a pickle

I just love pickles. They are juicy, crunchy, sour, salty, tasty and all other good things besides. If you happen to like them, as I do.

I had a large glass jar of pickles and every day I took some out to enjoy with my meal until eventually there was only a tiny little bit of pickle right at the bottom of the jar. It would be a shame to waste it.

So I put my right hand into the jar and tried to dislodge the bit of pickle at the bottom. It was quite a squeeze to get my hand in and … ehm … how shall I say this … my hand got stuck inside the glass jar.

No matter how much I tried to pull it out my hand was stuck inside the jar at the wrist. No twisting or turning would release it.

I remembered from science classes at school that heat expands things and makes them bigger … so a little heat would enlarge the neck of the jar and release my hand.

Wrong.

I poured boiling water inside the jar and nearly cooked my hand trapped in there. I raised my arm up in the air to empty the jar quickly and got hot water splashing all over me.

There must be a logical solution to this. I don’t want to break the jar in case the glass cuts my hand to shreds.

I decided to phone Aunt Philomena. She’s an expert at everything and is sure to have an answer.

It’s difficult picking up the phone and dialing the number with one hand. I picked the phone with my left hand and balanced it gingerly on my left shoulder. Then I started to dial Auntie’s number. As the phone was ringing I got an itch just above my right eye. I raised my right hand to scratch it and hit my head hard with the glass jar knocking myself to the ground.

I must have passed out for a few seconds.

I could hear a distant voice saying “Hello … hello … stop breathing heavily down the phone or I’ll call the police …”

I said incoherently “Is that you Aunt Philomena?”

I explained that I was not a phantom obscene phone call maker and told her my predicament. The poor lady must have been in shock because all she muttered was “Butter … plenty of butter …”

She was obviously thinking about making cakes or something delicious which is quite her forte.

All the talk of butter made me hungry. I went back to the kitchen and with my free hand I put two slices of bread in the toaster.

I got a packet of butter from the fridge but it was too cold and almost solid. To soften it a bit I put the packet in the microwave oven for a minute or so.

When I got it out of the oven it was too hot and I dropped the packet of almost melted butter on the floor.

I bent down to wipe it with a towel and I slipped backwards on the melted butter and the water I had previously splashed all over the place.

As I landed on my back my hand must have struck the ground hard and broke the glass jar into million pieces.

I was found later when my family returned from the shops lying unconscious in a pool of water, congealed butter and broken glass … but no blood.

I blame Aunt Philomena for this!

Me and my friend Jesus

Sapristi alors!

Our church has one of those huge baptismal fonts made of stone or concrete or such like material. Why it’s so big beats me. It’s an old church and I reckon babies in olden times must have been born really big which must have been an ordeal for their poor mothers. Either that or perhaps in olden times they put the whole baby in the font rather than just wet his head.

Anyway, that aside, it has become a habit in our church to baptize babies during Sunday Mass rather than at a private service at some other time. Just after reading the Gospel, the priest moves to one side near the font and baptizes the child whilst the whole congregation witnesses and joins in the event. It’s rather nice I think.

This week Father Gaston celebrated Mass. He is a temporary priest whilst our priest is away. He is French, severe looking with a gaze that would turn you into stone before you even thought of sinning, and a monosyllabic conversation only used on rare occasions when he has something to say.

He also uses reading spectacles which he balances precariously on the end of his long aquiline nose; and looks at you from above them whilst speaking to you. I believe he looks at people from above the glasses so as not to wear out the lenses.

He stood by the font reading from his book whilst the proud parents and god-parents waited patiently as they handed the baby to each other. He was a lively little mite; the baby that is … about eight or nine months old. You could hear him gurgling and laughing throughout the church.

At the appropriate moment the mother held him on top of the font and as Father Gaston poured water on the child’s head he raised his hand out and hit the priest in the face knocking the spectacles in the font.

The priest stopped and said something in French which is not in my Missal. He then reached into the font for his glasses forgetting that his vestments had long and wide sleeves.

He withdrew his hand and put the wet glasses on. As water dripped on his face he realized his sleeve was soaking wet. He tried as best as he could, with as little dignity as remained in the situation, to squeeze the water from his sleeve back into the font. He then dried his face and glasses; and continued with the Baptism.

I felt sorry for the poor parents.

But not so much for Father Gaston.

Is that a sin?

Wherever you go.

Waspy Situation

It was one of those annoying Springs you sometimes get in Britain.

Rain and a little sun, then rain, and sun again. Over and over for days.

This meant that the grass in the back garden grew taller and taller and it proved impossible to cut it. Whenever we had a little sunshine the grass was too tall and still wet and it would not cut with the lawn-mower. As it dried and we got ready to cut it, that’s assuming we had nothing better to do at the time, as soon as we got the lawn-mower out it started to drizzle again.

I went out to the shed to put the lawn-mower in again and I noticed just under the roof what appeared to be a large nest of wasps. They were buzzing around all over the place and saying to each other: “Here he is again … shall we have some fun like last year?”

The previous year I had inadvertently disturbed their nest and got stung several times, no doubt to their delight and amusement.

But not this year … revenge will be finally mine.

I quickly got into the house, searched my telephone directory, and rang a Pest Control Firm. I’d never used them before but their name sounded quite proficient: “Pest Control” – Direct and to the point.

About half-an-hour later a small white van with absolutely no signage whatsoever turned up.

“That’s good …” I thought, “very discreet. I wouldn’t want the neighbors to know I have pests … and have them speculate what they could be.”

 Mice … rats … cockroaches … fleas … or other vermin. Some neighbors can be quite nosey and would look at me with disdain if they knew I had pests. And let’s face it … some pests are more acceptable than others. Like wasps for instance, and bees, or bats … they are treated with respect and are environmentally more acceptable to society.

Anyway … out of the little white van comes a man in his forties dressed in a yellow T-shirt and blue jeans, and a young lady in her mid twenties dressed in a thin, almost transparent blouse, and the miniest of mini skirts.

Now I’m not a very clever man but I’m sure that a yellow T-shirt is not the ideal apparel. Bright yellow tends to attract flying insects. Even I know that.

But then, maybe this is part of their disguise to fool the neighbors. Perhaps they’ll dress up in overalls and face masks once they’re in my garden to avoid being stung.

They got to the back garden and I warned them that the grass is slippery and wet.

They ignored me and walked all the way to the shed. The man took out a little notebook from his pocket and said: “Let’s see what we have here … asp … adder … bee … bumblebee … cockroach … cricket …” 

“Great …” I thought, “he’ll go through the whole alphabets until he finds they are WASPS !!!”

Then, to my amazement, he took a little extendable metal stick from his pocket and opened it out like you do with old style car radio aerials until it was some five feet long. He moved a little closer to the nest, leaving the young lady a few feet behind him, and started poking the nest with the stick.

As I said, I’m not a very clever man, but I knew straightaway that this was not a wise thing to do. I withdrew a little.

The young lady remained a few feet behind him as he disturbed the wasps which started buzzing like a small dark cloud up ahead.

He kept poking, almost destroying the nest, with his stick.

“There are no wasps in this nest” he said to the young lady behind him, “it’s empty”.

She stood there and said nothing.

I shouted “They’re right above your head … you’d better move away quick!”

He looked up at the dark cloud getting nearer and ran away knocking the poor lady so hard that she fell flat on her back sending her legs flying right up in the air.

He then slipped and fell right on his face in the wet grass and mud. He got on all fours and ran towards me like a dog; followed by the young lady doing the same.

They stood up beside me cleaning themselves from the wet mud which covered them from head to toes.

“They’re wasps all right!” he said with authority, as he looked at the poor creatures buzzing around their destroyed nest.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“Oh … I’ll spray some powder to stop them returning to the nest!” he replied.

He got some powder which he sprayed like a white cloud everywhere; no doubt including his lungs.

I paid him, somewhat reluctantly I must admit, and they left never to be seen again.

As for the wasps; I suppose they built a new nest somewhere else.

Dandelions nettles and daisies

Three years ago I had reason to visit an allotment.

What is that? I hear some of you ask.

It’s a system peculiar to Great Britain whereby the Local Government Authorities (Local Councils) rent a small piece of land to anyone on which to grow their own fruits and vegetables.

The piece of land is called an “allotment” and these are usually situated in the middle of towns and cities all over the UK. The land has been earmarked for such use and (hopefully) will never be built upon.

The practice, I understand, started in the Second World War when food was scarce and to encourage people to “dig for Britain” and grow their own food.

Anyway … at this allotment I met an old man whom I’ve never met before. I don’t know why, but usually complete strangers feel at ease to talk to me and tell me their life stories. So I listened.

He said he’d had that allotment for about ten years or so. His piece of land was about 20 metres by 10 metres or so. On it he had gooseberries, black currants, red currants, rhubarb, a small vine, a fig tree, spinach, cabbage, parsnips, runner beans, marrows, courgettes, and a variety of herbs and other vegetables too numerous to remember.

He complained that since he injured his hand in an accident cutting the tendons he found it difficult to grip and uproot the weeds in his allotment. But his children and grand-children helped him toil the land.

In conversation he let slip that he was 82 years old.

I silently prayed for him and wished I was as fit as him if I ever were to be his age.

He then added: Never, ever give up. No matter how hard it is, how difficult it is, or how tired you are: don’t give up. If you do give up, the weeds will soon take over your allotment and all your hard work will go to waste. And you have to start all over again.

I left him with those words ringing in my ears. A complete stranger with a message which can be adapted to our Christian walk.

Never, ever give up. Or the weeds (sin) will soon take over your life and all your hard work will go to waste.

That night I said a prayer for that old gentleman with a salutary message.

A few days later it was another beautiful, warm and sunny day. I spent sometime in the garden pruning the bushes.

Half an hour after I started a friend came to visit. I must explain that I’ve left a corner of the garden to grow freely. My friend looked at it and said: “these are all weeds … they must come out …”

I pointed at the little yellow and blue flowers and said they looked pretty; and they attracted butterflies and other insects.

My friend said: “They’re weeds. You’ve dandelions there, and nettles and …” naming a variety of plants I hadn’t even heard of.

What is a weed I thought, isn’t it a plant that you don’t want? There are people who make nettle tea – you can buy it at the health shop. I suppose to them a nettle is not a weed but a livelihood. I also read somewhere that dandelions are used in medicine.

Then I thought … I hope God is more selective when He comes to judge us and to choose whom from His creations are worthy to enter Heaven.

Will He say disparagingly: “You’re a weed” – or will He welcome us in His Kingdom?