Don't dis that glider

Just when you think life is on an even keel along comes a metaphorical whale to rock your boat and scrape your bottom. That lumbering leviathan Colin,  my ex, has been in touch. He wants 'his' old electric kettle of all things. He says it has great sentimental value. It belonged to Garry Kasparov. Colin nicked it when Mr Kasparov (who always insisted on fresh tea) came to do a sponsored chess tournament at the local village summer fete and was otherwise engaged in trying to beat Colin's computerised chess machine, Deep magnolia, which he'd made the night before from an old Atari 2600, some chicken wire and bits of Scalextric. Luckily Garry won in two moves (g4 e6 f4 h4 if you want to know). The trouble is I threw the kettle out ages ago but I still have the chess machine. 
I wonder why I ever married him (Colin not Garry). I sort of knew it wouldn't work from the off - we had arguments about taking surnames. Colin wanted me to take his but I refused. I mean, what respectable woman of letters would want to be known as Doreen Dormobile? Ridiculous. Colin was also reticent to be known as Colin Campervan so in the end we retained our own names. That was the thin end of the incompatibility wedge I think. 
Talking of which, I found this email in my in-box this morning: 

Dear Doreen
I hope you can offer me some timely advice. 18 months ago I met this wonderful girl at the local toad breeding club. Her name is Gabrielle. For the first 3 months things went wonderfully and we decided to get married. I had been keeping a secret from her though and the longer I left it the more difficult it became to tell her the truth. My secret was that I fly hang gliders. I was so ashamed and I thought she might leave me if I told her the truth. Anyway, we did get married and at first, with all that sex, I found it quite easy to avoid going hang gliding but as the drudgery of married life set in I had the constantly increasing urge to get my feet off the ground. I started sneaking out, pretending that I was just nipping out to breed a few toads. This worked for around six months but then she began to get suspicious at the long bag on top of my car. It looks very much like a toad sluice (apart from the colour of course - and the dimensions - and the wrong material) and I seemed to be getting away with it but the trouble is I never smelt of toads when I came home - just beer and cow shit. Things came to a head three weeks ago when we had a big argument about the true meaning of toads and I told her the truth because I couldn't bear the stress of the double life I was leading and I actually have come to hate toads. She went absolutely bloody screaming mad. She has thrown me out and I'm now living under my hang glider on the local common. With the improving weather this is not so bad but I am desperately worried that the constant weather on the sail will degrade the material to the point of me having to bin the glider. Would it be safe to apply some kind of sunscreen to the sail in order to preserve its integrity or would I be better off getting myself a small tent?

Yours, Seth Digicam-Culprit

Dear Seth
Oh dear me. I do hate to hear such sad tales as yours. Your hang glider is a precious and meticulously manufacture flying machine. It is sacrilegious to treat it this way and on no account should you continue to live under it. Go buy yourself a nice little tent or failing that an old paraglider and some bean poles. 
I hope this helps, Doreen. 

ASBOsyouthinkthatsfunny

Dawn popped round this afternoon. The flowering cherry is dead. She wanted to show me her nearly new Nissan Note with air conditioning and power steering. I've already seen it because she's had it six months - so I was a bit puzzled. What she actually wanted me to see (she insisted in what I'd call a frazzled and slightly hectic manner) was the whitewall tyres. So she prodded me into the street to have a gander. It looked a bit odd I must say. In fact that is just what I did say. She told me that it wasn't any old white and that it was a colour exclusive to Farrow and Ball and it was called Ringwold Ground - an off-white oil full gloss - quite expensive apparently. She also told me that she's been to see the manager at B&Q to ask if it would be possible to ban Roger from, if not the whole store, then at least the paint section. And that he'd said that he'd look into it but it didn't look very promising unless he already had an ASBO (Roger, not the manager). Speaking of which, I received this letter via good old Jeremy Van Der Post yesterday:

Dear Doreen
As you know, one of the most hardest things to do on a hang glider (apart from rigg the bloody thing - why do they have to make them so compilcated?) is landing without breaking something. Well, I have designed this really quite very brilliant system and I want to share it within your readers. Look, I'll make it simple, it goes like this. You take off those teeny black wheels from off of the base bar because they are totally crap. And then you get some inflatable rubber (but really plastic) rings from the pound shop. Any colour will do. Then because they are a bit loose on the base bar (Oh don't forget to blow them up first) that what you actually do is pack out the space with old rolled up newspapers so they are a taught fit. Now I'll tell you now Doreen that if you aren't careful you'll bounce right back up into the sky with these babies fitted and you'll never come down. They do go pop quite often though so you have to be careful with your landings but the brilliant thing is they can be mended with a puncture outfit from the pound shop and they are only a pound from the pound shop. And if you are one of those racer types who likes less drag you can just blow them up just before you land. Result Doreen!

Happy landings!  Chris Swishswishsmoothly

Dear Chris

If I may make so bold - why not always land in a lake? That way they will never go pop and you'll always stay afloat - thus saving on the puncture repair outfits.

I hope this helps, Doreen 

Dead Man's Curve

Today Dolly, Dawn and I were supposed to go to visit a medium - Madame Annagogic. It was Dawn's idea but at the last minute she couldn't make it - she was still up to her elbows in rubber gloves and Nitromors trying to get the flowering cherry back to the way nature intended. So in the end it was just Dolly and I. 
I had a bit of a revelation. It seems I have the gift. I can speak in voices. I can contact fliers just by the power of my mind. Luckily I taped the session so here's a bit of what happened:

Madame  Annagogic: Is there anyone there? Is there anyone there?

Dolly: There! There's a light!

Me: Shhhh!

Dolly: Oh sorry, It's your phone Doreen.

Me: Shhhhhhh!

Madame Annagogic: Is there anyone there?

Me: (in a deep voice) Hello? Hello?

Madame Anagogic: We have a contact! What is your naaaame?

Me: It is Gary. Gary Groundingrod.

Madam Annagogic: Gary...hello Gary. Are you on the other side Gareeey?

Me: I suppose so - I fly paragliders if that's what you mean.

Madam Annagogic: But Gary... Where are you Gareeeey?

Me: I'm in Croydon. Asleep in bed... I'm going to Devils Dyke tomorrow!

Dolly: The Devil? Oh dear.

Madame Annagogic: In Bed Gary? Do you have a question Gareeey?

Me: Yes I do... What is... what is... the... Dead Man's Curve?

Dolly: (Falls off chair in shock) Aaaargh! Ow!

Me: (normal voice) What happened?

Madame Annagogic: Dolly! You broke the ambiance!

Dolly: Oh dear.

Madame Annagogic: Sorry, no refunds.

Film buff

I was up bright and early this morning in order to get on top of my ironing. I was just finishing off the pile of tights when I got a phone call from my photographer friend, Richard. He wanted to know if I'd had any experience with the local cinema as there's a new film coming out called Rio that apparently involves some hang gliding. I told him that I'd had plenty of memorable experiences in many cinemas both local and distant but couldn't see the relevance to any hang gliding apart from going prone a few times. He mumbled something about bad publicity and hung up - I never quite know what he's on about. I'll have to chase him for more details.
Just as I put the phone down I thought I detected our postman Jeremy with some letters. Then I distinctly heard him drop one in the porch - he's no manners that boy - so I sauntered downstairs to see what he'd delivered. Amongst the usual Boden catalogues and car maintenance class fliers was, funnily enough, a letter from a worried hang glider pilot tentatively involved in filming:

Dear Doreen
I have recently been approached by a small film company. They told me they are looking for a young man who is willing to risk all for fame and fortune. They want me to fly into a lake at 50 mph - or more if I can manage it - but with no clothes on. Should I wear a life jacket do you think?
Yours, Kenton Dyeworker


Dear Kenton,
I think you should risk less than all. Posthumous fame is so overrated. Tell them to go jump in a lake and you'll throw in a hang glider.
I hope this helps, Doreen.

Paint

I was out for a coffee this morning with my two friends Dawn and Dolly. We call ourselves the alliterative ladies of leisure. Dawn was telling me about her Roger. He's become obsessed with painting. Not your nice canvases to hang on the wall but various bits of the house. Dawn caught him in the garden the other day painting the trunk of the flowering cherry. He said he thought it was looking a bit drab against the fence he'd just touched up. Why do men get so obsessive about things? Speaking of which, Jeremy our postie popped around yesterday with his usual bunch of letters and junk mail (I think he saves them up so he can pop in for a cuppa and to wink at me). One of the letters caught my attention as I vaguely recognised the hand writing even though it was supposed to be from a friend of Gordon (who is a friend of Richard my photographer friend) when it actually looked like Gordon's writing:

Dear Doreen,
I'm at my wits' end. I got a hang glider off the internet. She's great to look at and goes like a train gliding in prone, but is an absolute bitch to handle. Is she just a dog, or could I improve my skills with coaching? Should I get a boring old glider out of the shed instead? I've even thought of paragliding, although I hear it can make your bum sore.
I need your advice, Boyce Shitespeed


Dear 'Boyce'
 Tell your friend Gordon that he shouldn't put you up to such tricks. Thinking about paragliding makes many a hang glider flier's bum sore. I think it has something to do with devil worship and lack of bowel control.

I hope this helps, Doreen

Rigid paragliders

Terrible day today. Howling wind. What's that? Keep taking the tablets? Cheeky! No, the wind it was turning my umbrella inside out. It's in the bin at the bus stop now. Surely there's a better design? Speaking of which, I got this email today:

Dear Doreen,

Why don’t they make a paraglider with aluminium tubes in it? I for one would be the first in the queue to buy one.

Yours perplexed, Dobie Vinyleffect

Dear Dobie

This has been tried but all the test pilots ended up concussed or badly dead after the wing fell on them upon landing.

I hope this helps, Doreen.

Flying or frying

I'be god a code. 

I can't seem to shake it off. Dolly told me the best thing to cure a cold is hot fish and chips with curry sauce. I'll have to try that. Speaking of which:

Dear Doreen, 

How come, every time I go flying, I end up covered in chip oil and batter?

Yours, Jon Wishbone

Dear Jon

I believe you are getting flying and frying mixed up. Go to see a speech therapist.

I hope this helps, Doreen.

---

Dear Doreen,

How come, every time I go frying, I end up covered in cow dung and snot?

Yours, Daniel Tuneless

Dear Daniel

See above.

I hope this helps, Doreen.

Young love

I recall when I was at hairdressing college (go on - ask me anything about disulfide linkages) and pocket electronic calculators had just come on the scene. We had to do some maths (it's not all Hello magazines and ground coffee you know) and we were allowed to use these new marvels of miniaturization so long as we wrote PEC by the answer to signify we'd used a calculator. There were some thickos in that class. I remember one girl - Tabatha Speakermesh - she always wrote buggered PEC  next to her answers.  Still, it's good to know youngsters can be just as thick nowadays: 

Dear Doreen,

Down where I live there is a girl that I like. I did a love calculator and it came up 95%. How do I show her that we're made for each other? I told her I’m a hang glider pilot because I thought she’d be impressed but she just laughed. Where did I go wrong?

Cheers, Jake Mechanism

Dear Jake

Oh dear. Oh deary deary me. Love calculator… hang glider…Tell her you meant paraglider pilot and that you have an ipod touch, you dinosaur! You still won’t get anywhere but at least she’ll know what you are talking about. Thanks for the laugh.

I hope this helps, Doreen.

Roger Roger

I had a weird phone conversation today with my pal Dawn Shuntwound. It went like this: 

Hello Dawn, It's Doreen.
Hi Doreen!
I've had a letter from Roger today. I didn't know he had a degree in health and safety.
He doesn't.
Well that's how he's...
Ah! That's probably Roger's brother Roger.
Roger's what?
Roger's brother... they are both called Roger. Roger - my Roger - is Roger Robert. His Brother is Roger Roderick. Roger's parents were very keen on the name Roger. I think there was a famous Roger about at the time they were born. They are very close. 
Roger Bannister maybe? Can't think of any others. That's a bit odd... In fact Roger Roderick seems a bit odd too, judging by his letter.
Well, so is my Roger. They had odd parents. 
That seems obvious. But Roger Roderick is married to Dawn!  
I know... Silly isn't it? He married a Dawn too. Just by chance. 
How odd... Anyway I must dash. See you at the usual place tomorrow? Roger Moore perhaps? No... Too young.
 Okay. About 11? Bye Doreen dear. See you then. Byeeee!
Hey! Roger Delgado - I bet that was it! Bye.
Byeee! 

Anyhow, here's the offending letter: 

Dear Doreen
I am a Health and Safety Inspector  (B Doc Brum (Hons)) (for my sins!!). The other day I was taking a walk with my (good) (lady) wife (Dawn) on the (magnificent) Malvern Hills when I came across a bunch of people playing with what looked like (gigantic) kites. On closer inspection they revealed themselves to be what I think are known as parafidgets. I was astounded to discover that they had no (government issued) license of any kind and (furthermore,) intended to throw themselves of a (perfectly safe) hillside in an attempt to fly (these contraptions)! I decided to quiz one of these madmen, as their general demeanour seemed to suggest (a certain) recklessness. It transpired that not one of them had undertaken a proper (if any) risk assessment and that they mostly made it up as they went along. Also, not one of them had any sort of radar identity (transmitter) on them, which in my book is just asking for a mid-air collision with a (Jumbo) jet. When I asked him if he had a mission statement he just shouted "To infinity and  beyond!" and ran down the hill. Should I write to my (local) MP (about this)?

Yours in good faith, Roger Shuntwound (B Doc Brum (Hons))


Dear Roger
It appears (from this distance) that you have an over-developed risk gland. The condition which (I understand) is called Banalus Dedicatus, can be easily treated by your (local) GP. Combine this with a course of letter writing  to any MP willing to listen as this will help relieve stress.
I hope this helps, Doreen 

Recession proof

Recession recession recession. That seems to be a word on everyones lips these days. Yesterday for instance, I was just coming out of Waitrose and I dropped my shopping receipt. An elderly lady picked it up and handed it to me. "Well dear, that's the recession for you!", she said. Predictably she had a copy of the Daily Mail sticking out of her army surplus ammo sack. Silly old bat.

When I got home I picked up my emails and found this rather delightful query:

Dearest Dawreen

I understand you have knowledge of hangliding. I've never flown one. In fact I've never even seen one apart from on telly. My wife and kids and I love to go abroad for our holidays - mainly France. Lovely isn't it? In these times of recession we are going to find it a bit of a push financially to get across the channel. I remember hearing of a man who flew across the channel in a hanglider. Can you get 5 seater hangliders? If we jumped off at Dover do you think we'd be allowed in without having to land at Calais? I was thinking we could just carry on until we got to la Rochelle (lovely isn't it?) and sort out the passport stuff there. We can post our camping equipment to a predetermined campsite - I'm sure a hanglider couldn't cope with a tent too (it's an old frame tent). Hope you can guide us.

Yours, Terry Label

Dear Terry

Thanks for you email. Have you ever seen one of those pedalos on telly that people float around on? I'd give the hang glider a miss. As a bonus, I think a pedalo would take a tent too.

I hope this helps, Doreen

Yours, disgusted

Dear Doreen,

After reading Footlaunch for some time now, I’ve come to the conclusion that you don’t bother opening your letters but just make up the problems and stick your advice on the end. I’ve written to you loads of times and never had a letter published.

Yours in disgust, Brian Dinnertime

Dear Sharon,

Don’t get mixed up, believe me: it’s clear as a bell – if Yvonne can’t be trusted to stay loyal to you, you really can’t be expected to wait around for her! She’s gone away from you and there’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t make other friends.

Whether your special friend should be your vario is really up to you.

But remember, friendship is basically a matter of liking people (or electronic gadgets) and giving to them – stop thinking of it as a mad scramble and more as a bowl of luke-warm soup.

I hope this helps, Doreen.