My mother told.

of 1974. I am in second class.

The December. The frost.

Mom hopes up, looks at the clock, the time is ten minutes nine. I slept! I am late! I went to school at eight.

Mom brakes me, wakes me up, quickly clothes me up, puts my wallet in the hand, does not feed me, drives me to the class. All minutes for five. I went.

Mom at work for nine, brother in the kindergarten.

She does everything quickly, is about to go alone, goes to wake her brother and here her look falls on the clock. For some reason, they show ten minutes at twelve... It’s cold... She realizes that she sent an eight-year-old boy to school about two nights. On our watches the arrow was almost the same length and demand could easily be confused. You usually go to school in the winter when it’s still dark.

Generally speaking, when she caught me, I had gone through three quarters. I crossed three roads. I went through the MVD. Why hasn’t anyone ever noticed a lonely child with a wallet in his hand?

She told me about it after... eleven years. I do not remember that at all. Totally totally. All the days were normal – she got up at seven, ate breakfast, dressed up and went to school.

I seemed to have slept well all the way. And until now, if I fall asleep until I wake up by myself, waking up is unrealistic.

No matter how many elections were held in the cattle herd, the shepherd always won with a large gap.

In the back part

In the spring of 1975.
The City of Lions.
We, who saw life, in October, finished our first class, the case was approaching May 9th and the teacher said:

Children, raise your hands for whom grandparents fought.

His hands raised almost everything.

Okay, please drop it down. And now raise your hands, whose warring grandparents do not live in the village, but in Lviv and will be able to come to school on Victory Day to tell us about the war?

The hand turned out to be smaller, the choice of the teacher fell on Borky's grandfather, and they decided to call him.

Then came that day.
Borya did not pump, brought to school not one, but two of his grandparents and even his grandmother at the end of the day. Before the beginning, confused by the attention of the grey old men surrounded the grandson and began to carefully fix him the collar and chubby, and Bora proudly looked at the sides and the triumph. But here the guests took off the coats and we all saw that one of the grandparents (one with a stick) had so many awards that the color of his jacket could only be determined from the back. He was a Hero of the Soviet Union. The second Borkin grandfather disappointed us a little bit, as did the grandmother, they didn’t have a single, even the smallest medal.

The hero was placed on a chair at the class board, and the second grandfather and grandmother were placed on the back of the board. At the children’s party they looked somewhat ridiculous, but they were quite overwhelmed.
At the very beginning, all three the teacher handed a bucket of nails, we applauded and began to listen attentively to the main character.
Grandfather turned out to be a pilot and fought from the 41st and almost to the victory, until he was written off injury. Many years have passed, but I still remember some fragments of his story. It was delicious and with humor. One of his phrases is worth, I now sometimes recall it to the place and not to the place: "I go over the sea, the weather is dumb, but my mood is great, because I am sure that the fuel to the shore should be enough. Even if it’s not enough, it’s a little bit...”
At the same time, he spoke to us on an equal footing, like with old friends. No “from above down.” And each of us began to feel that he himself became a Hero of the Soviet Union a little bit and was confident that if we were stuck in the fighter cabin now, then we, somehow, will not disappear.

The class stared and listened, listened and almost did not breathe, imagining that somewhere far below us the Caucasian mountains swim in snow hats.
But the second grandfather and grandmother ruined everything.
Only the heroic grandfather began to tell about how he was beaten up in the deep German rear, so that, the second grandfather, suddenly began to sneeze and whisper loudly. The teacher poured water out of the graffiti and softened his shoulder.
After the pause, the hero continued, but when he reached the injury or the hospital, the grandmother from the back of the room began to ridiculously cries and cries.
We all looked around and tried to chick unnoticed. Very weak and impressive were the non-medal grandmother and grandfather. But not everyone is a hero. Some, not that they have nothing to tell, they even fear to hear about war.

Only recently, years later, I learned from Borka that those, his "weak and impressive" grandmother and grandfather from the back, were Borina's grandmother and grandfather. They just came to school to support and listen to their son-frontman, and most importantly, to then carry him home, or he could start headaches at any time and lose sight.

The new President Putin has taken into account all the mistakes of the old President Putin and has appointed a new Prime Minister instead of the old Prime Minister Medvedev.

Look at the composition of the new government. I remembered: And you, friends, as you do not sit down, everything in musicians do not fit!

told one acquaintance. His father Platonov Ivan Zinovievich went through the entire war, fought as a communicator in the troops of Marshal Rocosovsky. He served at one of the headquarters radio stations, and at the Marshal’s headquarters. And the war ended and in the year so in the eighties Ivan Zinovievich visited one of the communications museums and one can say the officer. In one of the exhibits he recognized his radio station, on which he worked a lot of time. Then I spoke with the staff of the museum for a long time and made a type of observation that one block is missing in the radio station set. And in his response - yes, we know about it, we have a block, but it has a nasty word scratched on it. Yes, yes, I remembered Ivan Zinovievich, I myself scratched my initials "PIZ", and the guys wrote the rest with a stick.

All those who missed the inauguration ceremony of Russian President Vladimir Putin, do not be upset. Look at the next time.

Once I heard one psychologist ask, say, if he believes in ideal relationships, and that there are people in the world who meet to form a perfect union?

He responded approximately this way:

“I believe that somewhere in this world there is a screw that is meant for me. As soon as I find her, I’ll take her into my hands – a charming music will fly and all my friends and acquaintances will watch and envy with admiration how virtuoso I am and how well we are with Her. But so far nothing like that happens. I browse the violins one by one, not even thinking about spending time learning. No is. I do not need it! Studying gamma, solfego, hand-set and everything else is not for me these grounded affairs. I just need to meet the most violin, so that the music will be born immediately! ...”

The audience did not immediately realize that he was following them. It was seen how the faces are first illuminated by joy, and then it comes to them that the tag #sarcasm is appropriate and relationships need to be worked on... and somehow the faces stop glowing.

Recently, I had to get some information about fire safety. I found the website of a company that provides services, left an application for a callback, but the name was not his own, introduced by Muhammad (I am called Anton, I don't know why)) I was called back, told everything I needed. A few hours later, an unknown number calls me, calls me Muhammad and shakes something about bitcoins, asking where he got my number, he shakes that I allegedly left my data somewhere a year ago and here they call everyone. Yes of course! Called back to that office, made his claims, stunned them, frightened them, apologized for a long time))) This was even the lifehack.)

Damn, I’m in the parking lot.)

If no one has seen go away.

In the first it is not beautiful, in the second it will not help.

Why not help?

The second is also mine.

I was once in the centre of our glorious city. As it was in the evening in the day, the traffic was just wild. And here, first I heard the cries, and then in the rear-view mirror saw a flashy beacon. The DPS car rushed through the block. Of course, everyone tried to miss it, but it was difficult to do so. I turned on the turntable and started to take the right, and the driver was in the meantime already one car before me.



In the back was a young girl in a little white Peugeot. I don’t think girls drive worse than men. For example, my wife was a great driver, but she was clearly an inexperienced girl driver. She tried to rebuild to the right and stunned. Meanwhile, a number of the right touched and there was no room for it. She tried again. The car shattered, stopped sharply and stung again. The girl grabbed her head, switched on the emergency, drove the car, turned off the emergency, turned on the left turntable, grabbed - turned on the right turntable. And then from the speaker of the DPS car sounded:



The driver of the black Ford stops in the middle row. The girl in the white Peugeot calms down. It smoothly releases the grip and at the same time smoothly presses the gas. Carefully rebuilt and free the road to the DPS car.



Everyone around smiled. I let the girl in, and I too.

I heard this story yesterday from the head of a large social institution.

There has been a competition for professional skills for disabled people. A major official from Moscow summed up the results of the contest for cities and mocked those who did not participate in the preliminary stages.

A representative of one of the cities took the floor. He long and detailed how the preparation for the contest was carried out, what resources were used, how the participants were selected, etc. Everything is beautiful and detailed.

Finally, the President asked him:

Did you have a competition in your city? ? to

The representative was a little upset and replied:

No, no, the money was not enough!

He worked as a sales consultant in a shoe salon. A family couple with a child aged 4-5 years. A wife with a son in a female department, a husband in a male department. I advise a man on shoes, then a small man runs to him and screams at the whole store:

Dad, and Mom loves you!

The father cried out and asked:

I know. Let it take.

A wonderful family.

12 people work in our company. work in the office. Dress code as such is absent, but once a month we hold a meeting with the whole team + with us two companies of our partners and, of course, on this day everyone needs to look presented: a suit, a tie, shoes. Often I heard how colleagues expressed dissatisfaction, said the nafig these dresses, still everyone does not care who how dressed etc. In general, it seemed difficult for people to wear a classic costume once a month.



We have a cleaner, washing the floors and taking the garbage every morning, an hour a day. He himself came from Tajikistan, before he was a jeweller, but a few years ago the doctor advised him to give his eyes a rest, so that it would not get worse, so he came here. But it is not about that.



One day on the meeting, he called a colleague in charge of cleaning and asked if there was anything wrong if he came in his shoes. Of course, he was told that he could come in anything. And as it turned out, he was all the time looking at the information board the date of the meeting and wearing a white shirt, pants and shoes. We noticed it, but did not attach much importance. And he believes that this creates the right impression of the company. In general, after this incident, absolutely no one has ever been upset about the appearance on the day of the meeting. And that day he just broke his heels on his shoes.



This is awareness, this is responsibility.

Servants of the people, who as a child dreamed of becoming astronauts, today live on another planet.

I wonder, and does the leopard know what he looks like?
The leopard has gone, the cows have gone, the leopard has gone, the leopard has gone.

Recently I learned that natural pearls are dissolved in vinegar, and fake pearls cannot be dissolved. In this regard, the question arises: to rejoice the person who learned after the check that the pearl was natural or to be upset?

I sit in the plane and wait for departure. A very beautiful girl sits next to her, speaks on the phone with her boyfriend, repeating every word: “love.” She was very excited and nervous (apparently afraid to fly on planes) the guy, on the other end of the wire, calmed her in every way. Talking about a trip to Prague, she told him that she had already found 2-3 good hotels and that he would drop references to them, let him choose. And about the fact that on arrival he will immediately call him on a call, as soon as Dasha meets her and they will find Wifi. They said goodbye on the phone, how much they will miss each other and how much they love each other.

Everyone was asked to turn off the gadgets and prepare for the take-off.

I fell asleep and woke up when they arrived. When I went through the passport check, I noticed her again. It was impossible not to notice: a beautiful face, long black hair, a coat with bright colors and a beautiful cut on the back, a sports figure. After the passport check, they picked up their suitcases and went to the exit, it was right in front of me. And here, at the exit, she meets Dasha. “Dasha” is a Turkish male name. Man, 40 years old. Such warm hugs and passionate kisses I have not met for a long time... They took a hug at sunset, and I, slightly squeezing from this picture, headed to the airport parking lot and it became ugly on my soul.

After reading a couple of stories from respected vegetarians, I wanted to help them understand why people don’t understand them and treat them unfairly.

I have a friend — a beautiful smart girl, fun and kind.

So she decided to become a respected vegetarian.

And it became.

I became a vegetarian, but not a vegetarian.



Before I was a man, but I became a meat-eater (strange - because she wasn't a herbivore, a fruit-eater, a plant-eater).

I used to have breakfast, lunch and dinner, and now I kill, break, torture.

I used to love animals, but now I hate them.

Previously, we could talk about how spacecraft roam the vastness of the universe, and now everything is reduced to the fact that children have to show pictures of the slaughterhouse from childhood, so that they do not grow up to be brutal murderers.

Previously, taking food, I gained strength, and now digest the body.



In the rest, we communicate as before, only the sediment remains.

The most important thing I almost forgot — I have not even in mind to be interested in how she eats, and discuss it.

Today it’s hard to believe, but in my childhood there were almost no cars on the streets.

In the winter, when we were playing hockey, the gates were installed from a pair of bricks right on the road. And, it happened, we had time to play a few periods before a lonely truck forced us to leave. He passed, we returned to the road and continued the interrupted match.

Some passers tried to convince us that the road was not a place to play, but the smart advice of adults flew past our ears. We had our own reasons: if we do not disturb anyone and nobody disturbs us, then why not? The road is smooth and the ice is good. At that time, the roads were not covered. I will not say for all the roads of the country, my knowledge concerns only one road that ran next to my home.

Then, somewhat unnoticed, civilization entered our small town, the number of cars increased. In the winter, the hockey players did not go out on the road, but cleaned the site in the center of the yard and poured water.

Then the cars became even more, they had little space on the road, they began to drive directly through our courtyard. There were always many children in the yard, so their parents were not without reason concerned about their life and health.

One day, losing patience, the men dug a thick railway in the middle of the road running along the entrances. Entrance and exit remained, but the road ceased to be crossed. Having done the business, the men with a proud look walked around the courtyard, demonstrating who is the master here. Then came a police officer with a police officer. The rail is spinning. For a while, the police sought to find out who had digged him. The men crafted.

When the roadmen and the police officer left, they appeared again in the courtyard, screaming loudly about the self-government of the authorities, promising to dig the rail again, but did not dig in. Probably the rails are over. After some time, the iron back of the bed appeared above the remnants of the spinning rail, the legs of which were firmly cemented.

The passengers came and cleaned their backs. The culprits were searched carefully, found and fined. After that, people began to act more cleverly. As if by chance, there was a concrete block or a massive urn, a pebble, a bunch of sand or an excavated pit in this place of the road.

Then came new times. My family and I moved elsewhere, the revolutionaries bought cars and stopped building barriers on the road. The war ended with the victory of motorists.

I recently walked past, saw in this place a fine metal barrier installed by the road service. It was apparent that he was placed above the splinter. It turns out that the war is not just continuing, the opposing parties have changed targets. Now road drivers are guarding the road, and locals are fighting for free passage.