I hope to die peacefully in my sleep with a smile on my face, like my grandfather did, not terrified and screaming like his passengers. Last night, in bed, my wife told me she had bought a pair of gardening shears. I replied that we already had a pair of gardening shears. She explained that these shears were of such a wonderful design and of such beauty that I could not fail to be impressed when I saw them. I said that I didn't want to see them, that her description was enough together with the knowledge that there was such a wonderful pair of garden shears that gave her such pleasure: and henceforth I would bask in the glow of ownership without ever once seeing these shears; it would become for me a religious belief, cool and Zen. (I don't like gardening) When a neophyte asked the master 'What is the meaning and purpose of life' , the master replied, 'When I was in Hwan Hung Lo I had a robe made that weighed Seven Renmimbi.' Now that leads me to explain to you what a woman means by 'romantic.' She usually means a gift or a gesture made with regard for her needs and desires. This is good stuff guys, so prick up your ears. So, before scattering rose petals, buying flowers or a large box of chocolates, consider first whether she really wants to spend the evening sweeping up the rose petals, whether she has shown any interest in flowers and, if so, which particular ones - and, if she is watching her figure, whether a box of chocolates is exactly what she doesn't want. Despite what you've heard, a frying pan can be a romantic gift. The circumstances would be that you remembered her saying last week that she needed a new frying pan. However it is not a good idea to gift wrap it. In fact it is not a good idea to say that it is a gift. What you say is, ' I was passing that cook shop in the High Street, and remembered that you needed one of these...' It must be a superb frying pan, not one that fails as the-frying-pan-of-her-dreams. Frying pans are as romantic as garden shears. This is a very romantic gesture. It might even get you laid. When I ask my wife what was the most romantic thing I ever did , without hesitation she replied 'Watson.' It happened that one year for Christmas I gave my wife a little book called 'How to Care for Your Persian Kitting'. Excitedly she went downstairs expecting to find a Persian Kitting. Then I explained that this was about Mental Ownership. The book was to help her visualise what it would be like if I ever sanctioned ownership of a Persian Kitting. It was The Next Best Thing. I could see that the PLW (Plucky Little Woman) was discomfited, but she gulped and carried on bravely. My philosophy with regard to kittings was expressed in the words, No Way, No How. No furry vermin. No litter trays. No scratched furniture. I maintained this philosophy for a year. I still hold it inwardly, but I never mention that. I understand, being wise, that I am not the only person in the marriage and that my wishes must occasionally not prevail. Imagine, then, the PLW's surprise and delight when the following year I appeared with a real live chocolate Persian kitting whom I introduced as Watson. Watson turned out to be even worse than what I had resigned myself to: I had steeled myself for the experience of malodorous litter trays and the ruin of all things scratchable. Watson was educationally subnormal, even for an inbred kitting he hadn't got any grain of sense whatever. He couldn't grasp elementary concepts. He would make attempt after attempt to get into an armchair by leaping over the arm and failing time after time instead of walking around the front and jumping on to the seat cushion. He would interpose himself between me and whatever I was doing at the time. His favourite hobby was picking the keycaps off my keyboard one by one with his claws. The horror was appalling - but it was worth it. As a romantic gesture, Watson can't be beaten. Two monks were arguing about the temple flag waving in the wind. One said, 'The flag moves.' The other said, 'The wind moves.' They argued back and forth but could not agree. Hui-neng, the old patriarch, said: 'Gentlemen! It is not the flag that moves. It is not the wind that moves. It is your mind that moves.' Then one monk said to the other, 'For idiotic remarks, that can't be beaten. He must be the top cat around here. Is he called Watson?' I only had to change one line of this famous story to correct its inherent error - did you notice which one? I'm sorry I screwed up the video format. You will forgive me when I tell you that I had switched to PAL to make a video for a bloke who had imported my Ferrari into Australia. One of my Ferraris. Now honesty forces me to tell you that there were only two of them. Anyhow, I forgot to switch back. The Dead Christ was by Gregorio Ernandez Death and the Maiden, 1518, was by Hans Baldung Grien

Так же Вы можете скачать Видео "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne (read by Tom O'Bedlam)