Her wife paints and also makes wax models for jewellery. For this purpose, there is a special and compact wax solder on batteries, carry it with you, in a bag. Today, after work, stands at the stop, waiting for the bus.

A guy approaches and asks:

Sorry, do you not smoke?

and no.

What a good man! The man is standing and waiting for transportation. And my wife thinks, maybe he did not ask for a cigarette, but to smoke, and I just have a solder with me and he burns heavily. I can help a man. He asks him:

Do you want a cigarette or smoke?

Cigarettes are there, the lighter is broken.

So let me let you smoke? I just have a paddle with me.

What other brush? The guy asked surprisingly.

On the batteries! The wife responds boldly and adds, taking the solder: "Look how well it is burning.

The guy smokes a little, asking him:

Why do you wear a soldier with you?

So I am an artist. My wife explains.

The guy goes away in complete misunderstanding and stands quietly at the stop.

I heard the story from a very funny taxi driver about a week ago, the scene is Ekaterinburg. We went with a friend to a bar and talked about life with a driver who, as it turned out, worked as a pilot all his life, but because of a leg injury decided to change the profession and the last three months he is taxing. And then I asked about the most inadequate case in his service. I tell the following: Taxi Driver (T), Passenger (P)



T: I was somehow ordered to the hospital in Berezovsky (a suburb of Yekaterinburg), picked up a man there, who had to get to the center, and he makes a business offer to me.

Q: Listen, I’ll give you a piece of stuff, and you’ll help me, I have a missing aunt here, you’ll help her get out of the hospital and put her on the back, or I’ll not get it alone. On the other side of the hospital, go and get her.

T: Well, the stuff on the road does not roll, I will help the man. I go to another hospital building, raise my eyes, and there is a sign: “Morg.” What kind of aunt is this?

Q: Yes, she died with me, and the catapult is worth 12 thousand, I don’t have that much. Here you have a pity rapid, and she has the biggest suitcase, just fit. I will pay for help.

T: And how do you imagine that we are going to go from the suburbs to the center of Yekaterinburg on Friday evening with the body in the trunk, but it’s a doher now.

Q: No, I will explain everything to them, they will immediately understand, and you will not bother.



In short, the taxi driver refused the offer and went a long way away.

Received from a woman's posture does not relieve from the obligation to stick further.

Jenna and Anjuta live in a country house. The windows of their houses look at an infinite field. They call it the Field of Miracles. Incredible creatures come from there.

One day a sheep came. Where are the sheep in Moscow? But she complained, froze, and asked for food. The owners fed. By some reflection settled to the dogs - about the same caliber. Not to horses, cows, pigs, chickens, ducks, goats, rabbits, barbs, barbs (the whole list of humanity will be missed, these are very good people).

The sheep in the dog herd quickly mastered. She carefully studied her habits, learned to swallow with a light accent, and soon took an active part in the expulsion of all herds to the pasture. As in the pasture itself, she showed herself no worse than dogs.

She lived with them for a few years. But one day an unbelievable thing happened - through the Field of Miracles, a sheep's oats broke. You would know what joy was expressed on her face. “Morda” is not appropriate here. Turning around, she expressed pure human gratitude to the masters and rushed to her own.

If we assume that most Kremlin officials have foreign passports, then in essence the country is governed by a colonial administration.

The story happened to one of my acquaintances, we will call her Masha. In the days of the recent summit in Peter with Masha, a disaster happened - she was attacked by a drug addict right in the center of the city and took her mobile phone. True, the militia workers in the city in those days were almost no more than the inhabitants, so, having not had time to run and ten meters, the robber was bound by two dressed operas. Not having time to understand anything, Masha was immersed in the car and taken to the department to testify.

I have to say that Masha's profession is rare and interesting. She is a ballet artist. Naturally, the appearance of a sympathetic ballerina caused a lively interest in virtually all employees of the department, so the time between testimony and other investigative actions Masha spent, gently chatting with talented police officers. When all the necessary formalities were completed, the time was far beyond midnight. Masha’s new friends gently offered to take her home.

In the police nine without numbers with tinted glasses, five operas sat - two in the front, three in the back - and Masha pressed on the rear seat. They went.

And then Masha, assessing the situation - a toned nine, without numbers, with a clear excess of the number of passengers travelling around the city at night - asked the following question:

Are you not afraid that the mentions will stop us?

The car stopped. From the hood.

I’ve always been surprised by celebrities who suffer from alcoholism. You guys are not poor, mostly, could you not really come up with anything more interesting, drugs, for example? The joke. But the truth is strange: to write brilliant music or literature, to shoot stunning films or in movies - enough of the mind and fantasy, but the leisure to spend, except as the bottom of the bottle dive - it is not, it is not to think about. I have always considered drunkenness to be the fate of people trapped in routine. Working home work. The wife is stupid, the children are brainless. And I drank - and not so hopeless.

One day I was stuck in a village, far from civilization, almost under house arrest. There were books not very interesting, a cold winter forest, an old laptop, no internet, and enough money. To leave the house was recommended not further from the store, to go outside the village or to go into the network was not recommended at all, in order to avoid harm to health. The winter promised to be long.

Well, I thought: winter, village, Russian thirst – I’ll go and I’ll drink! I bought alcohol and stayed at home. The day I drink – fun, the second – also nothing. Third so for yourself. The fourth is not pleasant. At fifth in the morning I took the stop and realized it was boring. Sitting there was quite thirsty, and sitting and crawling - not only thirsty, but also incredibly dull. I put the bottles in the closet and went up. Not even sleeping. Health is enough, but willpower is not. My friend, the doctor came. The only person in the village I knew. He just helped me get there.

“Doctor,” I said, “help me! I can’t drink, I throw it away.

And the doctor, I have to say, had a huge experience in getting clients out of drinking. What to do, the area is like this. Here is the reverse problem. The doctor listened to me, shrugged my shoulders, and said that he could not help, unfortunately.

Do you like to drink? He asks.

Well, sometimes yes, in a good company or...

And by one?

The first day was fun, then it was crazy.

You see what your problem is: you are not an alcoholic, you are a drunkard.

What is the difference?

A drunk is funny when he is drunk, and an alcoholic is not funny when he is sober. You get bored drinking because you and the sober here in this world like it, well, in large. Alcoholics are not good here. He is willing to go to anything, drink anything, just to eat and forget. It is all escapism and an attempt to escape from reality. As I realized, this is not your joke.

That’s how I realized that I’t even get to sleep. You will have to look for yourself in something else.

The route stops. A guy comes out and immediately starts scanning the area. Very careful and tense. He is not alone, but with a girl. He remembers it and therefore, without looking, stretches out his hand. The yellow, the yellow. The partner was confused. A suitcase or clothes caught on something. The other girl did not wait and saw her hand on the way out. Oh well what? Why not? He gently puts his hand, and... the guy, having received a tactile signal, starts the movement, also looking carefully at the terrain, the girl's hand does not let go. I’m not afraid of you. – T.T. Do not be afraid. The Radio Day. Brochenka finally leaves the road and is surprised to find that the man, in the real sense of the word, is being taken out of his nose.

Instantly speeds up (Bolt rests) and...takes the guy for the other hand. It brakes sharply. Secret dreams come true at the wrong time. It goes quietly, without scandals. The couple goes their way, the girl his way. With thoughts “even a little, a teaspoon is already good.”

Yesterday afternoon, I leave the house and see a neighbor putting children’s saucers near the garbage containers. It seems to be whole, but a couple of wooden planks are missing on the seedle, but the frame is whole. Near the evening, some of the children did not get enough of the saucers, and they were taken out of the garbage. I go out in the evening to the store, I see again the same neighbor goes, "his" sandwiches again to the garbage.

I: Zadarova, what, decided to remember childhood, to ride saucers? (Born right behind the house)

Neighbor(s): No, this is an old daughter’s sandwich. I bought new ones today and throw them away.

I: So you’ve thrown them out already?

C is thrown. Our local Spanish picked up, and rides.

I: Well let them ride, you threw them out!? to

Q: What does it mean to “ride”? This is my daughter’s sandal!! to

And I suddenly presented a picture of a bombardment in a garbage container, and he said to him, "Don't eat this cluttered bottle, it's mine. I threw him out!”

Marriage is strengthened.

Sometimes I realize that I am wrong. But I do not admit it to anyone. A man must have his own little secrets.

The Lost Keys

4 years ago. and September.
“Nadia, I beat someone else’s child – a bell in the middle of the night, a interrupting voice. Sleep as never happened.
My longtime friend called, the "fighting" about which I already wrote.
Telephone and Internet friendship now. But still though. I will call her Xena. She lives in Poltava, in the area on the mountain called Monastery.]
This cannot be! Don’t worry, I’m trying to reassure you.
*** by
After a hard day of work, with bags and a 10-year-old daughter who walked all the way, not wanting to go to the mountain, tired Xena got home with the only thought - to rest.
The stove and the house were unlocked (somebody was at home), so she did not immediately notice the loss of the ligament from a pair of keys.
But they had recently been in a suitcase on the way home! I seemed to have gone somewhere along the road. It’s dark, I have to go look for it.
The monastery mountain is almost ringed by a railway, built before 1917. Trains on it are not so fast; on this section, the usual - 40, and express - 60 km / h.
Xena and her daughter have already reached the railway, but the keys have not yet been found. There were no people, only a lonely miniature teenage girl, rushing forward. They crossed it and crossed the iron. I heard a train approaching. Ordinary and not quick.
What caused Xena to look around?
of something.
The girl they had overtaken was standing on the rails. And the train already seemed... She ran to her, crashed, pulled away. But the girl, although small, but strong, proved and did not change her intentions. He was on the rails again. Xena again rushed her from there, and the train had already blinked by, but the girl did not give up attempts to account for her life, rushing under the wheels again and again. It looked like a fight; Ksenna had already grabbed her fist, and broke her clothes, and scratched her hands in an attempt to hold back. The girl was crying, screaming something.
He kept, leaving a blue on his hand.
Having found out where she lived, they took her home.
And at home the girl had a daily celebration! In the very height. Fun, vodka, companions... Who is there mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, Xena did not find out. The neighbor came, explained the situation, took the girl to her - she often stayed with her.
Returning home, Xena somehow put her daughter sleeping from the slightest noise.
(The girl cried a few days after seeing it.)
She called me, she told me.
I was shocked and could not think of anything else:
Have you never found the keys?
I found. In the jeans, in the back pocket.
What if I wasn’t lost?
A fifteen-year-old girl would simply not exist.
In the morning, she went to the administration of the college where the girl was studying.
A few days later, she was given a room in the dormitory. Xena for four years unnoticed for the girl was interested in her life.
She appealed to the social service, but advised "not to deprive the child of the parents".
He was aware of her success in school. The girl did not want to contact her. Teachers also participated in the fate of the girl.
From some indirect phrase I understood that I also helped materially.
This girl recently got married and left.
Her parents still have no idea what happened to their child. They have the same holidays almost every day.
Xena says she doesn’t like other people’s children. And I believe that this is the highest manifestation of love, effective love, agape.
I asked her carefully about this difficult event. Not much extended.
I consider her a heroine. She does not agree. She’s still ashamed of that stuff.
“Everyone would have done so. And I, on the contrary, could have fallen into a stupor when I saw the blood,” she said. Only a few people know about this case. Now is you.
At first, she said the phrase "beaten a strange child."
To whom is this child a stranger?

A deputy speaks in the hall and says that schoolchildren have begun to go to unauthorized rallies, for this they need to be deprived of parental rights.
The voice from the room – what if yours goes?
My will not go, the deputy replied, he is studying in London.

Take my grandchildren for a walk. I received instructions from my daughter. The elderly carefully examines the things on the bed. Then he thoughtfully asks me:

To wear a shirt?

My mom said everything was on the bed. Is there a shirt?

and no.

No need to wear!

“Yes, and then my mom will say to me, ‘Why didn’t you wear a shirt? “” I said, “There was no shirt.” And she will tell me, “T-shirts are on the shelf in the closet. You do not know?”

I had nothing to answer. In his fourth year of life, a guy understands the logic of a woman.

Why not report housing thieves as self-employed? No one is hired, services are provided by themselves, report only if caught.

In the middle group of kindergarten for the September morning my grandfather prepared me. The theme of the festival was animals and birds: how they meet autumn and prepare for winter. Poems, as far as I remember, were not distributed to us, and if they were distributed, the grandfather rejected the teachers' proposals and said that we would read our own.

With this, he chose the outstanding, without fools, work of Nikolai Oleynikov "Tarakhan".

It’s hard to say what they were leading. Grandfather himself never visited the kindergarten, so revenge was for nothing. My teachers were wonderful women. I do not know. Per he wanted to make a note of high tragedy into the everyday flattery of whites and scourges.

So, in a gorgeous autumn morning, I went out into the middle of the hall, took on a dress sprinkled with leaves of barley paper, wrapped the gaze of the spectators and insightfully began:

The turkey sits in the glass.
The red foot.
He got caught. He is in a trap.
Now he is waiting for execution.

In the "Theatre" of Moem, Julia's first lessons of acting skills were given by her aunt. I had a grandfather instead of a aunt. We did everything: pauses, gestures, proper breathing.

The turtle clamped to the glass.
He looks, barely breathing.
He would not fear death.
If I knew there was a soul.

Gradually my voice strengthened and gained strength. I approached the most terrible moment.

He has sad eyes.
Looking at the couch,
Where with knives, blades
The visitor is sitting.

My grandfather didn’t see me, but he could be proud of me. I declared with a deep feeling. And the fact that on the "visisectors" the faces of educators and mothers began to change, explained for themselves by the influence of poetry and their talent.

“Here’s the cat coming to him,” I cried loudly. And when he touches his chest, he finds under the ribs what should be pierced!

The hero is mercilessly killed. One hundred and four instruments rub on the patient’s part! (My voice is trembling here.) From wounds and wounds, the cockroach dies.

In this place the drama has reached its peak. When I later read in Lermontov’s school “On the Death of the Poet,” it turned out that the entire dependable spectrum of emotions, from anger to sorrow, was overtaken by me at the age of five.

– All in the past, – condemned I breathed, – pain, trouble. There is nothing more. Underground water flows out of it.

I took a long pause here. The faces of the adults were shining with hope: apparently, they decided that I had finished. ha ha! The tragedy of an orphan?

There, in a large closet,
Everybody is abandoned, one.
The son whispers, “Daddy, Daddy!”
The poor son!

Crying out the last words. Look up there. Silence by breathing.
The room was silent with me.

But it was not the end, either.

“And there’s a lame visector above him,” I said with a dark hatred. Stupid, hairy, with spikes and a saw.

Some of the weak-minded children shouted.

You, the bastard wearing the pants! I shouted in someone’s face. A dead cockroach is a martyr of science. Not just a cockroach.

Dad gave a strange throat sound that I couldn’t explain. But it was also insignificant. The waves of poetry brought me to the end.

guard with a rough hand
From the window it will shake.
In the garden with the head down.
The pigeon will fall.

and pause. and pause. and pause. Behind the window still yellowed the chestnut, some kind of puddle ran on the roof of the veranda, but it was all over.

“On a flooded path,” I said sadly, “at the very doorstep, he will shake his legs and wait for a sad end.

Impossible to drop hands. to stumble. A person who has lost the meaning of life. And clearly, withholding the crying, say the last four lines:

His bones are dry.
It will rain,
His eyes are blue.
The chicken will cuddle.

and silence. Someone has blinked, maybe I myself. A barley leaf fell from my bottom, fell, rolling around, to the floor, breaking the shell with the oppressive silence, and then, finally, somewhere deep in the basement, the cockroaches flourished stormily, desperately, in full growth.

In fact, of course not. And we had no cockroaches, and the sheet did not fall away from me. I was struck very carefully, apparently afraid of causing a bust outbreak, brought crying children, struck on the cheeks of those who lost consciousness, gave water to the softened teacher of the younger group and handed me some kind of funny children's book like the stories of Bianka.

Why is? My grandmother asked my grandfather tonight. The anger was caused, among other things, by the fact that she was lonely in her anger. My parents didn’t have to wait for an understanding: my dad whispered, and my mom said she hated the mornings and I could even read “Mein Kampf” there, it’t get worse. Why did you teach this poem to your child?

“Because it is uncomfortable to declare ‘Antisemite’ in one person,” said the grandfather with sincere regret.

One old party worker taught me:
“If you don’t sleep with your secretary, someone else is sleeping with her.
And if someone else is sleeping with her, he knows your secrets.
Therefore, sleeping with a secretary is not a mess, it is part of the hardware work."

One day, when I came back to work, I discovered that the internet had disappeared. The devices displayed a page with a hardware scheme requesting the provider to check the connection settings. I checked it did not help. I made an application. The next day the brigade arrived - began to dig in the shield and on other floors in search of the reason for the lack of signal. As a result, it was established that the next day the neighbors on the upper floor connected to the internet (from the same provider), and the installer, in order not to bother laying wires, just took and pulled out of the shield my apartment, inserting instead the cable of the apartment of new happy subscribers.