A BROWN paper bag goes to the doctor after suffering dizzy spells. It undergoes a battery of tests and is told to come back in a week. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news," said the doctor, gravely, on the brown paper bag's return. "We discovered from your blood sample that you have haemophilia." "Haemophilia!" shrieked the brown paper bag, "that can't be right, doctor - I'm a brown paper bag." "I know," sympathised the medic, "but it appears your mother was a carrier." I’M a nervous flier. I asked the stewardess during my last trip: "How often do these type of planes crash?" "Just the once," she assured me. JUST a thought...If love is blind why is lingerie so popular? DECIDED to go private for a medical check-up. Doctor said he'd examine me for £120. "OK," I told him, "if you find it, you can keep it." "ACTUALLY, when you get used to it, it's not that cold," I assured the huddled family members through chattering teeth, my breath issuing distress smoke signals. "Mike," hissed She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, "you're watching the television wearing a balaclava, mittens and duffel coat. Don't tell me it's not cold." The central heating has packed in. When you're lacking in any semblance of DIY skill, it's best to make light of even the gravest domestic catastrophe. Like the kitchen incident last year. "Julie," I shouted cheerilly, "you know that bulge in the ceiling you were worried about? Well it's gone...along with the ceiling." "Might need a bit of a hand," I added, desperately trying not to betray signs of panic. "I'm ever-so-slightly pinned under the debris." She stormed into the room to discover me buried under slabs of plaster. "I like it," I groaned, "makes the kitchen look so much bigger." The demise of the heating has been so terribly sudden. No horrible noises or a gradual decline in service: gentle signs that would've given us time to prepare, mentally and physically, for this latest household disaster. One night there was piping hot water, long baths so warm they turned your fingers wrinkly, a living room where heat haze danced infront of the plasma TV. By the next morning the whole central heating system had died. The cold days had come without warning. I'll bet the Ice Age started like that. We paid an awfully nice man to come and look at it. He looked at it and tutted. He said it was a bigger job than he thought it would be. "What did you think it would be, I asked? "A smaller job," he said, matter-of-factly. He ran his fingers along one of the stone-cold radiators and muttered, "it shouldn't be doing that." I asked what it shouldn't be doing. "Not getting hot, in layman's terms," he advised. I think he knows what he's doing. He's promised to come back on Tuesday. "But today's Saturday," I stammered, hopping on the spot to keep warm. "What on earth are we supposed to do until Tuesday?" "Try all huddling together on the sofa and eat plenty of Kendal mint cake," he told us. He pushed a scrawled, mis-spelt note through our letterbox yesterday. It said 'you need a pimp', I think. I'm cold, but not that cold - yet. If it's not fixed by Thursday, then I'll consider selling my body. "I'm pretty sure it says 'pump', Dad," corrected our son. Even the cat – Mifsud - abandoned us. He's found somewhere warmer - a little haven under rolled-up carpets in the garden shed. I'd join him, but the big spiders scare me. "I'm going into the kitchen...I may be some time," said our shivering son. "Don't be all night," I snapped, "remember there are other people in this house who need to warm their hands on the toaster." Last night I was reduced to travelling to my aged mother's home ten miles away for a bath. "I've run it for you," she cooed, "and I've put your favourite Matey bubbles in it." She even wanted to wash my hair. "Mother," I protested, "I am 49-years-old." Same old Michael," she tutted, "scared of getting shampoo in your eyes. Do you remember how you used to scream and scream and hold your breath until you were blue in the face when I tried to wash your hair? I used to have to get your father to help hold you." "That was because I was 27, mother," I pointed out, acidly. The almost forgotten happiness of slipping into a hot bath! I emerged from under the thick layer of milk white suds to discover my mother standing feet away in her favourite pink nightie and fluffy slippers. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" I demanded, desperately trying to hide my embarrassment behind a flannel. "I've brought you a nice mug of drinking chocolate and some digestive biscuits," she beamed. "I'll bet it was bliss," sighed Julie as I recounted the bath-time incident, "as much hot water as you want flowing out of a tap." "It was," I agreed, "until I sat on a toy submarine she'd put in it." "Mind you," I added, "it's better than having to strip infront of the kitchen sink for a quick wash. I find that so degrading." "And unfair on the postman," blurted Julie. "You want to try pulling the blinds down. I passed him running down the drive with a look of panic on his face." "What did he say?" I asked, colouring slightly. "He said, 'I'm not sure where your husband wants me to stick these' and shoved a fistful of crumpled letters in my hand." Strange, strange chap. We're reduced to visiting friends and relatives simply to keep warm. "We're about to have supper," said a distant cousin, shocked to find the entire Lockley household, in Arctic attire, on her doorstep. "Can I put anything on for you?" "A couple of radiators would be nice," we chorused. "And one of those portable fan heaters, if you've got one," I added. "Sit down! Sit down! And take your balaclavas off," boomed her husband as we limped into the living room. "No, we're fine just rubbing ourselves against the radiator," I assured mine host. "Would you mind awfully if I took my shirt off and pushed my belly against it?" "Feel that heat, Dad," whooped Joe, rubbing his backside along the warm metal. "You seem to be making yourselves at home," stammered the distant cousin as she walked into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. "One of you on each radiator - that's nice." "Why don't we," mocked her husband, "go in the kitchen and open the oven door - make a real party of it? Don't stick your heads inside, though - we've got a chicken in there." After an uncomfortable hour we made our excuses and left. "It's been a superb evening," I assured the concerned couple, "I can't remember the last time I had such feeling in my fingers." "Most enjoyable," nodded the cousin, her face still creased by a puzzled frown, "next time we might even get you to sit on the furniture." "Bit of a tip," whispered her husband as he led us to the front door, "I've got a big log in the garden that I'm going to put in the Aga. Do you want to come round and watch?" "Are you going to do it before Tuesday?" I asked, filled with fresh hope. "Probably." "We'll be there - wouldn't miss it for the world," I assured him. | 
