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Hold Qi up Gothenburg [2005-11-12]
Su Dongyue lectureThe Gothenburg Weekend Course was preceded by a lecture which was held by Su Dongyue. As was noted earlier on the "News" section on the homepage there was great interest in the lecture which was more or less fully booked. Many "seasoned" participants took the opportunity to benefit from Su Dongyue's Qi field and his knowledge, but a lot of interested new people also turned up.
The weekendcourseThe course was fully booked too, with the usual blend of new and more experienced participants. The mood was delightfully relaxed, and there was a general feeling that "time flies". Many of the new participants on this course did not come on account of any health problems. They came because friends had recommended the course and they viewed Zhineng Qigong chiefly as a method with which to keep fit. Others, who are more long-time Zhineng Qigong participants, agreed about this being a good method with health promoting properties. You can develop yourself in a better and healthier direction, irrespective of whether you have health problems or regard yourself as perfectly healthy.
Some opinions on the course:"Yesterday in the afternoon I had a splitting headache, much like migraine, and I had it until early this morning. After the first hour it disappeared, without my taking any pills for it, which I usually have to do".
"At the moment I feel so incredibly relaxed and calm after the weekend, in a very nice way. I want to keep this feeling, so my plan is to set my alarm clock at six tomorrow morning and put my newly bought CD record before I go to work".
"I have some pain. I didn't think that I'd be able to stand for so long with my feet together and I definitely didn't think I'd be able to get as far down toward the floor as I have during these days, but I did".
"I think this will turn out to be a skill for life. Thank you".
"I repeated the course and I can testify to the opinion that this will be a skill for life, and it's a very exciting skill. There are things happening all the time and I wouldn't be sitting here if it wasn't such a positive thing".
"There was something special about these two days and something has changed, but I can't say what it is".
"My pain have grown less, everything gets a little better day by day as I do this training".
"I find that Qigong makes me happy. If I don't do it I don't get as happy and energetic."
"I think I have found a good path in Qigong. I feel better, I have less physical pain, less gastric catarrh and I'm more energetic than before".
"At the beginning I was a little curious about what Qigong was. I have suffered from hand eczema for the last twenty years. On my first course I felt the power of it and I could feel something happening to my eczema. I joined the Evening Training and in two months it was gone, so I'm very happy about that".
"My main problem right now is my arms and shoulders, with the frozen shoulder syndrome. It was very hard to get rid of that tension, but some things have happened during this weekend. At the moment it feels OK".
Kate Ohlsson


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Today I have the great privilege of sharing with you a conversation I had with Prince Vian a few weeks ago — after I had to track him all over the countryside! My goodness, that was a difficult feat, but I kept missing him and his companions. Vian is a character in J.L. Mbewe's "The Hidden Dagger" series, and she has just released the second book: Darkened Hope. I read the first book, Secrets Kept last year and just loved it so much. I am so excited to read the next book in this series!
I walk through the golden city set in the midst of a lush, green oasis surrounded by vast desert. The InterFiction Gazette had sent me to Nalu to interview Prince Vian of Badara, but I had been having a devil of a time tracking him down.
At last I had made my way to Bonzapur, where I asked around and discovered that the prince and his companions were staying at the palace and readying themselves to depart on another long journey, if I hurried, I could catch them before they left and ask my questions. I show my press pass at the door and am allowed into the palace and led to the room where Prince Vian awaited.
I take a minute to survey my surroundings.
Sand-colored walls open up onto a terrace that overlook the royal courtyard. The swaying fronds of palm trees shade the brick pathways and gardens. Off in the distance the green of the oasis ends abruptly, giving way to a sea of yellow sand.
Vian is perched on the edge of a stone bench next to a round table. Dates and nuts fill the wooden bowls and a platter of flat breads rests in the center next to a pair of cups and a few smaller bowls of seasoned oil. A pitcher of cool water drawn from the depths of the palace is waiting to be enjoyed.
I scoop up a handful of nuts and pop one in my mouth. "Hello, Prince Vian," I say, crossing over to plop myself on the stone bench next to him. "You're a hard man to track down. Do you always venture about the countryside like this?"
"Hardly." Vian sips from his cup and sets it back down. "Before all this—this thing with Derk and the Sorceress—you might find me hunting the boar back in Badara. But you would never have seen me beyond our borders. My father—King Valdamar has not set foot outside of our kingdom since I was born—so I've been told."
I frown. "Really? Then why have you been traveling all over the countryside?"
"It's the guardians fault, really." Vian tears off a chunk of the flat bread and dips it into the seasoned oil. "They were the ones who sent us on this quest, something about some tonic being able to free my people from a curse." He plops the bread into his mouth.
I write that down and look up. "So you're on a quest? That's exciting. Can you tell me a little bit about your traveling companions and how you feel about them? What is it like traveling with these people?"
Vian sits back and sighs. "Ah, what a motley crew we are, aren't we? Being a prince and all, it's not every day you'd find me in such company. It's a rather nice change, really. Let's see, well, there is Kael—the leader. He is this long-haired elf who is always so serious and moody. He thinks he's know everything, but you know, after surviving the Inganno Forest and passing through the desert, he's all right. Never a truer person could be found, if you ask me. One would be considered lucky to call him a friend.
Then there's Eloith, the fairy captain. He's nice. Always popping in and flitting about. If it weren't for him, we'd probably have died back in Zajur.
Then there's Ayianna. She's nice and all. Beautiful girl, really. Betrothed to my friend, Desmond. The poor girl has been through a lot, but she has held her own on this journey. A bit conflicted, I'd say. But I can't say I know why. Although, I think it might have something to do with Desmond. Not to mention this whole quest and the Sorceress and all.
Speaking of Desmond . . . he and I go way back. As prince I was able to influence my father to make him the Councilor of Merchant Affairs. He has such an eye for business. But this journey hasn't been easy on him. He's normally quite the charmer and has a way with the ladies, if you know what I mean. Although, now . . . I don't know. Maybe when this is all over, he'll return to his usual charming self.
Oh, and I forgot. Tariq will be joining us. He is the nephew of Queen Emani and he will be our guide. I hardly know him, but he seems nice enough, and he has been to the places we need to go. That's obviously helpful, isn't it?" Vian smirks and grabs a handful of nuts.
I can't help but grin, Vian is engaging and pleasant to talk to, if a bit dramatic. "Sounds like a motley crew indeed, but a good group of companions. Can you tell me anything about this journey you are about to leave on? What is your end goal? Why are you personally going on this venture?"
Vian finishes his mouthful of nuts and washes it down with a couple of swallows from his cup. "Well, if Kael has his way we will be leaving within the
week. This journey. We came to Bonzapur to find the Dwalu Tonic. You see, the Sorceress has placed my people under a curse, and the guardians think that this tonic will set them free. So, here we are. In Bonzapur. And you know what we found? A riddle. Who speaks in riddles anymore? So now we are off to find a silver pinecone, a root from the largest tree, and the merfolk healing waters. Although, my father would not be happy to hear about this. The guardians assure me this is important and that they would indeed rescue my father in my absence."
I look up, suddenly alert. "Rescue your father? Why does he need rescuing?"
The prince straightens and leans forward. "Well, haven't you've heard? I'm sure all of Nälu is probably talking about it right now. See, my father's captain of the guards betrayed him. Threw in his lot with Derk and that Sorceress. That's how Badara fell without bloodshed that day. And now my father, according to the guardians, languishes away in his own dungeons. Can you believe that?"
I stare at him, then slowly shake my head. "I'm so sorry to hear that." I fumble with my papers for a minute, but Vian doesn't seem too terribly broken up about what he just told me, so I decide to continue with my next question. "What would you say is the hardest thing about being the Prince of Badara?"
"The hardest thing? Ha!" Vian rubs the back of his neck. "I . . . uh . . . I don't know. What's so hard about being a prince?" He shakes his head and shrugs. "That's a tricky question. I'm not complaining mind you, but it's not as easy as some would think. Like finding a few good friends, you know? But to answer your question . . ." He leans back, pressing his fingertips together. "I'd have to say probably, pleasing my father. But you won't put that in the papers, will you?"
"Well…" I hesitate, "I mean, it's something my readers will want to know. But I'm sure they'll understand… and I doubt your father will read it, languishing in the dungeon as he is… do you even get the InterFiction Gazette in Badara?" I race along, never really saying that I WON'T print what he just said. "So, tell me, what concerns you the most about the quest you are about to undertake?
Vian snorts, seeming to forget his request. I'll make the decision on whether to print it later. "Leaving behind the comforts of civilized life. Do you know how many lovely robes I had to leave behind in the Forest of Inganno? No, not this time. This time, I will be better prepared. And," Vian shudders, "I'm not too terribly fond of the creepy crawlies. I am not looking forward to our trek through the jungle. Although, Tariq says it shouldn't be too much of a problem, if we can find the Keyon River."
"That sounds very unpleasant!" I agree. "Speaking of possessions, what would you say is your most prized possession?"
Vian frowns. "Oh, I don't know. I was quite fond of my robes and my horse. Oh, and my bed! But this quest has stripped them all from me. Ask me again after all this is over."
"It sounds like going on adventures and quests isn't quite as glamorous as the storybooks make it sound! So, how do you feel about your author and your role in this story so far?"
"Author, what's an author? Ha!" He tilts his head, brushing his red curls out of his eyes. "Well, I would have given me a larger role. I am a prince. Princes should be the center of attention, you know, the lead character. Not some elf who has a stick up his bum. But we'll see how things play out in the next league of our journey."
I grin and jot that down, I like to break that fourth wall… some characters are quite aware of who they are and have quite a bouncy relationship with their authors, while others have no idea they are figments of someone's imagination. Then I look up, "And, finally, I'm sure my readers would be interested to know if there is a young lady in your life? I know that as royalty there is often a great pressure to produce heirs, is there a potential Mrs. Prince Vian and will we learn anything about her in the coming adventure?"
Vian bursts out laughing. "I wish. Maybe you could speak to the author or something. There is no one in Badara and there is certainly not any prospects here, being that the only girl is betrothed to my best friend." The humor faded from Vian's face. "But now that you mention it, I wonder if my father has even thought about an heir. He's been a bit distracted with the Nuja priests and the guardians and all—ever since my mother died. Maybe I need to take matters into my own hands. You know, for the good of the kingdom and all."
That was a very fun conversation! I love getting to talk to all these interesting characters and hear a little bit more "behind the page" if you will.
This interview was conducted as part of JL Mbewe's blog tour celebrating the release of Darkened Hope. If you enjoyed this little conversation, please leave a comment below and tell her what intrigues you most about Prince Vian or her books in general! Or just congratulate her on her latest release!
Also, make sure you enter the giveaway!
Follow the hop for more opportunities to win!
- A Behind the Scenes post with Rosalie Valentine exploring world-building and how Nälu came to be
- Stop by DJ Edwardson's blog for a peek at the journey of this story and what it means to the author
Darkened Hope
Available on Kindle and in Paperback
Find it on Goodreads.
Writing as J. L. Mbewe, Jennette is an author, artist, mother, wife, but not always in that order. Born and raised in Minnesota, she now braves the heat of Texas, but pines for the Northern Lights and the lakes of home every autumn. She loves trying to capture the abstract and make it concrete. She is currently living her second childhood with a wonderful husband and two precious children who don't seem to mind her eclectic collections of rocks, shells, and swords, among other things. Here, between reality and dreams, you will find her busily creating worlds inhabited by all sorts of fantasy creatures and characters, all questing about and discovering true love amid lots of peril. She has two short stories published in The Clockwork Dragon anthology, and four short stories set in the world of Nälu. Her debut novel, Secrets Kept, was nominated for the 2014 Clive Staples Award, and its sequel, Darkened Hope is coming May 2016.
Stay up-to-date with all things Nälu and her journey as a writer mama at JLMbewe.com. Connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and/or Pinterest.
And while you're at it, there will be a FACEBOOK PARTY on May 21st to continue the celebration of this newest Nalu Adventure!

subset: commoncrawl


text: Pj Enright <firstname.lastname@example.com> suggests: > OK folks here is how to proceed with this news item. Somebody on > this list must know paelontologists in Australia. Well send them an > EMAIL and ask them to join this group. They must know someone > involved in this dig. Tony Thulborn and his students usually monitor the dinosaur list. They are currently unsubscribed because they are out in the field finding things like "thousands of dinosaur footprints" :-) Others (e.g. Nino Perez-Moreno until at least July 19th) frequently remove themselves from the list when they go out in the field to collect the data for us to talk about. > These computer machines have brought Australia as close as the > keyboard. But few of us are well enough equipped to bring those keyboards out into the field. As the expeditions going on in the Gobi desert show this is an economic rather than a technological hurdle. Eventually I'm sure internet connections will be deemed "necessary" field equipment, but it isn't yet and it probably won't be until it's cheaper... -- Mickey Rowe (firstname.lastname@example.com)


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I am adding music to a slide show in ps elements 9. I have added 3 songs successfully but when I try to add more, I get a message that I don't have the correct "codec" to add these songs. I don't see any difference in the extension or properties between the rejected songs and the accepted songs. How do I correct this?
Be the first to post a reply!


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Playing video games offers a lot of entertainment. Video games can be used for anything, even weight loss. This article contains tips to help you enhance your video gaming experience.
Buy games that are used. New games are expensive, as you can get the same quality from a used game. Also, if you do not like the game, this can be a tough expense to incur. By buying used, you will both save money and find it easier to return the game if you dislike it.
If it is possible, get a demo version of a particular game to test it out first. Previewing a game can help you see whether you wish to buy the full version or not. Be careful, though, where you download the game from. Only allow downloads from reputable sites.
Download a demo game before you purchase it. You can see if you like it and if it's worth the price being charged. Make sure you are careful when doing this. Only download from verified or trustworthy sites.
Do you have a child who is using a gaming console with online capabilities? If so, then you should ensure the settings are changed prior to them playing. That way, you can keep tabs on what your kids are seeing, making sure they are playing age-appropriate games. This also lets you regulate how much they are allowed to chat with other people.
If your child is using a console that has online capabilities, make sure you tweak the family settings before they have a chance to play. This helps you ensure that your child only sees appropriate content. You can also limit the amount of online chatting they'll have access to.
Illuminate the screen. Games set in dark interiors may be entertaining, but they can be harder to play. Sometimes, bright colors will prevent you from seeing one of your opponents. Increase the brightness if you do not mind sacrificing a little ambiance. This helps you recognize the colors much better and see those enemies before they attack you.
Ask the game store employee for recommendations on games that you might like. A lot of people like different kinds of video games, you should look to branch out. They've played them all and will know the titles you seek.
Try playing games with your children. It is surprising what you can learn about your child's interests and skills. When you have an interest in common with a child you will find that conversations flow more easily. Finally, you can witness their developmental skills and help improve them.
If you have young children, disable the chat function in games they play. Kids don't have to chat online. If you cannot disable chatting in the game, don't purchase it for your child. Speak with a salesperson or search the Internet to find out.
Find out how the safety settings work on the game system that you have at home. There are often choices to prevent younger members of the family from seeing adult or questionable content. Many games offer profiles so each person sees different content.
Be cautious of online gaming. There is often a monthly fee for access to these sites. If your children want to access a site where their friends are playing, look at the site first. Research whether any fees are involved and determine whether they are fair.
If you want to stay involved in your child's life, monitor his video game playing. Play the game with your child. Ask your child questions, and learn from what he says. There is no greater teacher than hands-on experience!
Stick to playing video games for only several hours each day. These games quickly become obsessions and can turn into serious addictions if you are not careful. Try to game for no more than three hours daily. If you will be playing for many hours in a row, make sure that you take lots of little breaks.
Purchasing the best console to play a game on is a hard choice to make. You have to think about what you want out of gaming, and then see what features the console has to offer. Do some online research. Look at some reviews by people who own the game system to find out what they think. become informed before buying a console.
Make sure you pay attention to posture as you play games. If sitting for prolonged times, try a stability ball; it will help straighten your posture. If you play games that require you to be active, make sure you do proper stretches and take lots of breaks to ensure you don't get hurt.
Be sure to keep hydrated if you play for a long stretch of time. Video games can help those who are depressed but be careful not to become addicted and forget to take care of your body's basic needs. It can be dangerous to your health to be dehydrated, so ensure you maintain adequate hydration during gameplay.
If you want to spend less on games, find a good Internet auction page. These auction sites will likely give you a better deal if you believe the prices are too high in the stores. Do a few searches to make sure you can get the best deal possible. After that, just keep on bidding.
Online gaming should be a safe experience for your kids. Monitor who they're interacting with. Recently, many adults who wish to harm kids use these online games to talk to kids. Keep your kids safe by only allowing them to play with people you know and trust.
Make use of the highest grade of video connection that you can get. Most consoles come with different connection options for different displays. Which one is appropriate? Whenever possible, try to use HDMI or DVI for the highest grade signal and clearest picture. The next best are Composite, S-Video, and then RCA. Because coaxial connections are very common, they tend to be the cheapest quality. If coaxial is the only available choice, then use it as your last resort.
Kicking back and relaxing with your favorite video game is a great way to relax and have fun, but they offer so much more above and beyond the fun factor. In this article, we have shared ideas with you about different aspects of gaming; use it and have fun.
Before you purchase the complete video game, be sure to give the trial version a whirl. Trials allow you to test the games to make sure you actually like them. If you the trial of a certain game, try buying the full version.


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SEABROOK — Clay sculptures, paper mache, etched copper jewelry, watercolors, weavings and chalk sketches transformed the Seabrook Elementary School gymnasium into a miniature Museum of Fine Arts on Wednesday morning.
SEABROOK — Clay sculptures, paper mache, etched copper jewelry, watercolors, weavings and chalk sketches transformed the Seabrook Elementary School gymnasium into a miniature Museum of Fine Arts on Wednesday morning.
Hundreds of pieces of art, created by students in grades kindergarten through four, filled the bleachers and the rolling bulletin boards lined up in the gym. Students took turns walking through with their classes to check out the masterpieces.
"This is our 14th year of the art show," said art teacher Gail Paul, who organizes the event every year with the help of her mother, volunteer Barbara Humphrey. "It's wonderful. I love seeing how proud the children are of their efforts."
Each student had a minimum of two pieces showcased, which was held Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning in the gymnasium.
"I go for variety in the show when selecting which pieces to include," Paul said. "I find each student's best effort and use that. Each one of them is told of two pieces, but we also put up other great pieces to round out the show."
Students enjoyed having their work displayed for all their friends and families to see.
"It's fun to be able to see all the stuff we made," said second-grade student Ryan Eaton. "I made a paper mache tyrannosaurus rex and a vacation postcard."
Another said she appreciated all the work of her fellow students.
"I think it's cool to be able to look at all the artwork on display here," said fourth-grade student Britney Castadoro. "I made a clay vase and did a self portrait. I like seeing all the vases."
Paul wanted students to not only look for their own pieces, but also observe the work of others.
"They were given critique sheets to fill out," Paul explained. "The goal is for them to notice other people's work. They each chose one piece of art and write what they like about it. The sheets are later discreetly given to the artists. It's important that they go beyond looking at just their own work, so they can appreciate other people's artwork."
According to Paul, she thinks there are a few students who may pursue careers in art or at least an art-related field.
"Art is used in so many different professions," Paul said. "Being good at art can translate into so many different fields."
"I think I have some students who are very gifted, and others who love it and are working hard. Some people you can teach to "see it," but others are born seeing it."
One student who has her sights set on an art career is following in her older brother's footsteps.
"He's in college, studying art," said fourth-grade student Dani Jo Silver. "I can definitely see myself becoming an artist someday. Art is my favorite class."
In addition to students, their families were also invited to attend the show.
"I think it's great," said Jamie McDonald (mother of Eaton). "I love to see it. I drive the bus, so I know a lot of the kids. They're all so excited, talking about the art show. I think the self-portraits are the best. It's so funny how the kids see themselves."


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- Charlie and Lola
- playing in the wendy house at the bottom of the garden
- the Tweenies
- my first dance show
- watching films on video
- Maisy Mouse
- Polly Pockets
- the tiny dolls that
were kept in a box in the sole of Clarks school shoes
What were some of your favourites?
This post is a collab with Marti from Pink Smarties.
Go and read Marti's views on nostalgia: pinksmartiesblog.blogspot.co.uk


text: Sales Travertine is a natural stone that has be.e popular as a material for home construction in the US due to its versatility, long-term value, and elegance. Travertine tiles provide an exceptional quality that is unmatched by other .monly used types of flooring like wood and ceramic tiles. They .e in different types of designs, colors, patterns, and styles to suit your interior design goals. The tiles can dramatically transform your home into a more elegant and appealing space. Likewise, travertine tiles can increase your property's value and keep it looking elegant for the long haul. The bold and dramatic patterns of each tile allow you to create a one-of-a-kind look for your home. Travertine is porous and naturally veiny stone. Go for a polished finish if you want to achieve sophistication and a touch of luxury for any application. Polished travertine tiles can be installed either vertically or horizontally, making them suitable for almost all projects, including walls, stairs, and showers. In a raw state, travertine has a rough texture and pits, but it can be filled and then honed to achieve a smooth texture. This process results in a filled and honed finish, which offers a smooth and satin matte look. Filled and honed travertine tiles can be perfect for different applications like your showers, living rooms, bathrooms, kitchen, walls, and floors, especially if you want to achieve a subdued, elegant look. Travertine tiles can also be finished with chiseled edges and a honed surface after fabrication, but without filling the indentations that naturally occur in the stone. This results in a brushed and chiseled finish, which brings out travertine's natural charm while providing a look of pristine and aged beauty. The edgy dimension of the finish provides an elegant and dramatic angle to any applicationwhether for a contemporary-style or a traditional-looking room. For applications that require a higher amount of friction, travertine tiles .e in a tumbled finish, too. Tumbled travertine tiles maintain the natural look of the stone with its unfilled surface. They .e as pavers as well, so you can use them for outdoor applications like driveways, pool decks, and patios. The great thing about tumbled travertine tiles and pavers is that they can provide a touch of nature's beauty into an outdoor space, making it look effortlessly chic. About the .pany: Stone-Mart is a direct importer of Premium Quality Travertine and Marble with locations throughout Florida, including Tampa, ST. Petersburg, and Fort Myers with Naples and Sarasota opening soon. Stone-Mart has the largest on hand inventory of premium quality Travertine Tile , Travertine Pavers and marble Tiles, Pool Copings, and Mosaics in the United States with factory direct pricing. Their highly trained Natural Stone Specialists are ready to assist you in choosing the ideal marble or Travertine for your project, and have strong logistic partners to ensure the most cost effective options for delivery to your Business, Jobsite or Home. About the Author: 相关的主题文章:


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Rum is a distilled spirits, which is produced by distilling fermented sugar cane.
produced by distillation of molasses and cane syrup, and then kept in oak barrels. The main production of rum being in Australia, India, South America, USA and the Caribbean.
There are many types of liquor. In cooking usually use light rum, which is added to smoothies and desserts.
Rum is a traditional beverage and cultural heritage of the population of the West Indies. This drink has become a means of slavery by the British United Kingdom.
The history of rum begins in ancient India, when Bram created a drink that was a sugar wine. In the 16th century the traditional recipe was created by the Roma.
On sugar cane molasses was discovered, which was the main ingredient in rum fermentation.
After creating a traditional recipe in the Caribbean, this drink began to spread throughout South America. In the 17th century in the United States have been actively producing rum, and he got a lot of popularity. In accordance with the statistics rum consumed every person in the American colonies of 10-12 liters per year.
In Europe, we began to produce rum in the late 17-early 18th centuries, but it was popular only among the lower strata of the population. In the late 18th century, this beverage has become particularly common in England, France and Italy.
Of particular importance acquired rum for the sailors and navigation. In the 19th century this drink became associated with pirates and sea travel, the British Royal United and British navy.
In the 20th century rum spread around the world and it began to be used not only as a drink for the festive table, but also as an ingredient for various dishes and pastries.
There are three main varieties of rum - a dark, golden and bright. These varieties differ in their place of origin and method of preparation.
Light rum has a weak flavor and delicate aroma, and it is mainly used for the preparation of cocktails. Amber rum has an average density and flavor of caramel, it is aged in oak barrels.
Dark variety of beverage kept in charred barrels, and it has a strong taste of caramel with a touch of spice and molasses. This grade is used for cooking and a variety of cocktails.
To give a special rum fortress it is kept for a long time and create a premium drink with strength of over 75%. This drink has a pronounced taste and strong aroma, it is used in pure form with the addition of a small amount of ice.
Calorie Roma belongs to the middle category, but this drink is not recommended in the dietary menu.
Calorie Roma is 220 kcal.
Rum has
many useful properties. This drink is used for poultices for the treatment of sciatica, rheumatism and gout. Packs of rum has a warming, anti-and anti-inflammatory actions.
For the treatment of diseases of the respiratory system, a mixture based on a novel in which added pureed onions and milk, boil it and pour some honey. For colds, flu and bronchitis use a small amount of rum with lemon juice and honey.
For the treatment of wounds, ulcers and burns used a decoction of calendula with the addition of 1 tablespoon of rum, which was washed with inflamed skin.
Rohm useful as a cosmetic ingredient and therefrom create special masks with honey, cucumber and tomato. The mask has a toning and cleansing effect.
This drink strengthens the hair, gives them a silky and healthy and stimulates hair growth. A small amount of rum added to lotions and tonics for washing.
Due to the good taste the beverage often used for culinary purposes. It is added to marinades, desserts and pastries, as well as used in canning fruits and vegetables.
Rum is a strong alcoholic drink, which is contraindicated in pregnancy and breastfeeding, as well as medication and treatment of mental illness.
This drink can not be used for children under 18 years of age and people who drive a vehicle and having an allergic reaction to alcohol.
Rum is not recommended for people with severe diseases of the digestive system, kidney and liver failure.


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for small and medium sized enterprises
ministry of economic development of the russian federation
Tax Code of the Russian Federation part 2
The second part of the Tax Code of the Russian Federation, enacted on August 5, 2000, defines specific taxes, rates, payment schedules, and detailed procedures for tax calculations. It was significantly amended in 2001–2003 with additions like the new corporate profits tax section and the new simplified tax system for small business. The Code is subject to regular changes which are effected through federal laws.
The Code is designed as a complete national system for federal, regional and local taxes but excludes customs tariffs. Rules and rates of regional and local taxation must conform to the framework established by the Code. Taxes or levies not listed explicitly by the Code or enacted in violation of its specific provisions are deemed illegal and void.


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short story
I knew I shouldn't have opened my grandfather's briefcase in the first place. Yet there I was, sitting in his chair (his – it pains me to say that), smouldering over an unlikely picture I shouldn't have found. But now I knew, though not for the first time in my life, that I couldn't find it back.
I looked around the room: all in perfect order. The tidiness was dizzying. No time for sightseeing, though, I had to be quick – the bathroom door could squeak open any second now, releasing the fresh, scrawny, toweled body of my grandfather. Unlike me, he never spent in the shower more than ten tight, practical minutes. Me, I could stay there for half an hour without even noticing how my limbs got soaky, soapy, bored. I would murmur, hum, whistle all kinds of noises and songs right until they became a bunch of indecipherable nonsense. Shower time was time I scarcely looked forward to; shower time was time I found hardest to shake off. Grandfather, though, never had a problem with it – or that's what I felt.
I looked around the room: all in perfect order. The tidiness was dizzying. No time for sightseeing, though, I had to be quick – the bathroom door could squeak open any second now, releasing the fresh, scrawny, toweled body of my grandfather. Unlike me, he never spent in the shower more than ten tight, practical minutes. Me, I could stay there for half an hour without even noticing how my limbs got soaky, soapy, bored. I would murmur, hum, whistle all kinds of noises and songs right until they became a bunch of indecipherable nonsense. Shower time was time I scarcely looked forward to; shower time was time I found hardest to shake off. Grandfather, though, never had a problem with it – or that's what I felt.
What was there on the picture? It really was hard to say, because the image filled my head, inflamed my lungs, and made my beating heart well up so quickly and so hard that I couldn't form any clear idea what it was. There was a woman – though what exactly she was doing I could not tell. She was half-naked, and she had her hand tucked deep under her short red skirt – but… This, I felt, was the kind of thing you could only eye, devour – explaining it made absolutely no sense. Explaining it was like describing a beautiful face. Of course, being 14 and a schoolboy, I knew those pictures quite well; they were furtively, uneasily circulating around my class, gnawed at in lavatories, swooned over at the back of the playground and even our school library. But of all the ones I'd seen this one was by far the most inexplicable and, obviously, the most hard-hitting and irresistible.
Yet the moment the familiar urge to quench my escalating, bloodshot excitement came over me, the water in the bathroom stopped running, and the only thing that was presently occupying my mind was how to put the picture back into the briefcase, move the chair a little closer to the desk, and get the hell out of the room – as quietly, as swiftly as possible. In the next few seconds I did exactly that, without even thinking what a picture like that could be doing in my grandfather's briefcase – right on top of his old poetry books, useless keys, spare ties.
There was only this nagging feeling of remorse: I shouldn't have found it, I shouldn't have found it. Oddly, I felt I could never again look at my grandfather, let alone love the old man. Odd, because I never actually felt any love for him.
In fact, I hated my grandfather, I really did. Not because he was old, weary and constantly inquired about my homework (he never did), but because he killed my grandmother and came to live with us. Now, you might think, this is not the kind of thing a 14-year old would know (the killing bit, I mean) – particularly if that 14-year old used to have so little contact with his grandparents. And yet I knew. There was of course this all-important question of evidence, and I wouldn't have been able to give you any – other than that my grandmother was dead, and my grandfather was alive and well and happier than I had ever seen him. Unless, of course, you count that memorable evening when I saw him coming from the fields… But all in due time. And speaking of evidence – that's what I'd been after ever since he settled with us, and that's why I opened the briefcase that day. Because no one ever bothered to inquire about his alibi.
My grandfather? He was 72, but he looked younger. I would go as far as to say that viewed from a certain angle he could easily pass for my father or, say, my uncle (though my father never had time for those prim, expensive ties). It might have been this queer disparity that made him such a quiet force in our house and started the whole mess I'm about to describe. You see, my firm conviction was that the reason why my parents never looked into the case of my grandmother's death properly was this strange, unspoken fear they felt for the old man. He ruled our house without even doing anything, without being noticed, with just looking younger than he really was – something that went quite well, I imagined, with the dirty picture I found in his briefcase.
Not once during our Sunday morning meals did I have to endure that sick, painful deference that so characterised my parents:
- Going anywhere, father?
- Yes. Business.
And that look of vague, sinister nonchalance. The 'business' answer always seemed to satisfy my mother (she usually was the one who inquired – after all, he was her father), yet what business could he possibly have, being 72 and hopelessly retired? When I approached my parents and asked them to explain all that, they simply referred me to his age and said my grandfather could now do whatever he pleased to do. When yes, it is precisely his goddamn age that made it all look so fishy and ridiculous.
But I'm afraid my narration sounds somewhat all over the place. I shouldn't jump around this way – after all, it's a grown-up, mature me who's writing this. Mature me, how utterly strange it sounds.
The case of my grandmother's death was indeed very shady. My parents left me almost completely out of all the circumstances ('heart failure', I was told), as well as the ensuing procedures – though I do remember attending the funeral. Childish experience is, I strongly believe, very overrated. It's futile. It may add to your inner pain, anguish, trauma, but it means nothing for your future life. I saw these black mourners (who, naturally, included me), I saw a surprisingly upbeat priest, I heard suppressed conversations, I scooped a handful of earth and threw it into the grave, I probably cried. Yet it all had nothing to do with me. Years later, when my father died, I was as unprepared and inexperienced as I had been that cold, distant day. Only then, years and years later, did I realize how it is done; and what it really takes to do it.
While I did not feel particularly affected by my grandmother's death (I've already hinted at our rare contacts), I still felt deprived. Deprived of what, you might ask. Well, we weren't close, but since we never had any kind of relationship with grandfather to speak of, my grandmother was the one I had to relate to during those short summer spells in the country house – a dull, grey place where I could never feel at home. She was kind, but never excessively so – and it's excessive kindness, remember, one expects from a grandmother. She talked to me, but she never talked too much; she prepared my meals every day I stayed with them, but those meals were badly undercooked; she ironed my trousers, but she did it carelessly and always left many wrinkled patches. She was a big, benevolent, but ungiving woman, soft-spoken and smelling of something stale. It sometimes seemed to me that she smelled of rotten apples. But I liked her smell, and always found myself cherish those rare moments she happened to be near me. My grandfather, on the other hand, never smelled of anything. Or, to be more precise, I never had a half-decent chance to get to know what he smelled like.
It's not as if we never communicated, my grandfather and I. We did, and occasionally he would even tell me long and tedious anecdotes about his former business career (car dealing), and, encouraged by this peculiar confidentiality, I would make excited remarks and ask him questions that never really interested me in the first place. But now that I remember those conversations, I'm reminded of the way a pretty girl might talk to a good, kind, but perfectly plain boy. There was no involvement.
Was there any involvement when he talked to my grandmother? No, not at all: a curt exchange is as much as I could ever overhear. Not that there was anything strange about it, but I always felt uncomfortable during those two summer weeks. Like I was surrounded by a barbed wire at a place I didn't particularly dislike. Like I was the odd one out at a place where there was no intimacy or love anyway. My grandparents were just living it through: my grandmother cooking dinner and looking after the house, and my grandfather, well, but I have to get specific.
Strange though it may sound, one of my grandfather's favourite preoccupations was reading poetry. Classic poetry. This was a mystery, one of many. I distinctly remember one occasion when he was not around, probably gone somewhere 'on business'. One of the things I disliked most about that country house was that you didn't have chance to enter anything when no one was around: no, you had to sneak inside. And so I sneaked into the sitting-room, got to his desk and opened his withered, dust-smelling anthology of verse. It's not that I suspected him of anything – no, my intentions were quite innocent: I wanted to see what he read. What he liked. Did I enjoy any of it? At that time certainly not, but a child can't enjoy poetry. When it comes to poetry, a child thinks the rhyme is all there is. Poetry felt like a maze for someone who was only imagining being inside a maze. I read a couple of lines, but they made little sense to me. Something blurred, frustrating, slow. It was probably on that particular occasion that I started hating the old man. He kept giving me something I could not understand – capital offence when you are a child.
And oh those lines, I'm still trying to recollect them. My biggest problem, though, is that I might not be able to recognize them even if someone showed them to me. If you opened that very book, nudged my face into those very lines and told me there they were – there's a chance I would still fail to remember. But then maybe not – maybe they are still dangling, like the ever-sleeping bats, in the most remote nooks and crannies of my memory. Sometimes most unremarkable things stick… Actually, as recently as last week I even went to a local library and described the look of that anthology to a girl who is working there. Libraries look tragic; they make everyone look so decrepit – everyone, even young girls. Anyway, she was very helpful, and was good enough to bring me all the verse anthologies they had. I didn't recognize a single cover – it could help, though, since I remember those lines were at the foot of the right page. Oddly, I was secretly happy about that failure – after all, what if I liked them now, those lines?.. Before leaving, I helped the girl put all those anthologies back. At first she gave me a fleeting, confused shudder of a smile, and said she could easily manage herself, but I insisted. I said I wanted to help, but in fact I wanted to tell her why I needed that particular anthology with that particular poem. I wanted to tell her all, I wanted to plunge into every little fact, every detail – but she was so young and pretty, and there was so much to tell, that I never really said anything. I just kept breathing heavily, wondering about the quality of my smell, passing the hefty books to her as she was climbing up the stocky, dilapidated stepladder.
So what else did my grandfather do? He ate, he slept, he watched news bulletins and, in his typically contrarian manner, Indian films. He loved all that Bollywood crap. That self-forgetful wallowing in low budgets and bad acting. When I was a child I thought they seemed so preposterous and unreal, those films, because I was still too young and could not really understand all the peculiar, eccentric mysteries of adult life. Come the years, and I would definitely unravel the hidden depths lying there… As a matter of fact, nothing of the kind ever happened. Indian films still look like a banal joke told ad nauseam and in a most irritating way. He also had what seemed to me at the time a perfectly harmless passion for buying new ties, though when he moved to our house I began to find it annoying. Wearing them inside the house, in his room, in the kitchen – God knows what it was all about. Also, my grandfather was the kind of man who could have spent hours doing his hair – except he didn't. He was bald, and something told me he had a heavy feeling about that.
On a sunny day he occasionally toyed with his old, dwarfish car (I always found it bizarre that a former car dealer wouldn't have a decent car) of a brand quite unknown to an effeminate, family boy like me. The car that looked like a mongrel dog with those huge headlights resembling the eyes of an owl. He didn't seem to mind, though. He rarely used it. Strangely, he preferred to walk. And the point being – my grandfather walked a lot.
Each non-rainy day after the copious, but decidedly tasteless supper we had to endure my grandfather slipped outside and disappeared somewhere. Dressed casually, almost scruffily, and with a crumpled little bag that he carried over his shoulder. Once, when the door slammed shut behind his back, I turned to my grandmother:
- Where is grandfather going?
- What does it have to do with you? – she said, her tone being tired, slightly irritated. Not angry, though. – Mind your…
But then she glanced at me more warmly from her lather-smeared cups, bowls, plates, frying pans, and said, somewhat pensively and almost apologetically:
- But he's always been like that, your grandfather. Going outside. He likes a walk. He had a difficult life, you know.
As a matter of fact I didn't. My only source of information were two red, badly faded, leather-clad picture-books that I kept leafing through whenever I had a chance. My grandfather, I was quick to note, used to be almost gratuitously handsome (my grandmother, and there were loads of pictures to testify, looked remarkably plain even during their wedding ceremony), but the pictures could never tell the whole story. And they certainly didn't tell me of any hardships my grandfather supposedly had to go through. Those picture-books!.. I did study and scrutinize them to death, always expecting something, ever hoping to find some minute detail I'd missed before. I remember that once my grandmother joined me on the sofa (that delicious, wicked smell!) and, her eyesight being not too good, asked me to draw the picture-book a little closer to her face. I did that, even though very soon my arms grew very heavy, leady, uncomfortable in mid-air, with no support from my knees. With her bittersweet breath so close to my face, I tried to give her every impression of enjoying all the snapshots the picture-books contained. I took great care to pay as much attention to her own pictures as to those which showed my grandfather. But it was as if she saw through me and sensed what I really wanted, and explained to me only those pictures that really interested me. I particularly remember one where my grandfather (at that time aged around 25) was standing on a lawn, surrounded by several young people looking as smug and handsome as he did. My grandmother, though she herself didn't feature on the picture and would have seemed decidedly out of place there, gave me all the names – which I found awkward, for what use could I possibly have for those names? But my grandmother seemed to get so carried away remembering all of those young faces that I feigned interest. She then said she could not place one girl, the prettiest one, the one who was touching my grandfather's shoulder in a way you could call rather alluring. I had a feeling that the fact that she could not recollect the girl's name upset her. But I don't know – I might only be imagining it now, memory overburdened by life, so many years later.
Or another picture. My grandmother pointed me to an old photograph of my grandfather, tracksuited and already white-haired, playing badminton with some kid. My grandfather looked so affectionate, so amiable there – something he didn't carry with him into his old age. "A son of a friend, – said my grandmother. – A good boy. Your grandfather was so fond of him. Always wanted a boy". I still can't believe she said that. This was perhaps the biggest piece of intimacy my grandparents ever gave me. Always wanted a boy. I didn't know how to react to that, so I kept silent and still, expecting my grandmother to continue. She didn't, of course, leaving me hopelessly, helplessly curious. As ever.
As for my grandfather, he definitely saw me looking through the picture-books, numerous times, but he never came up to me or uttered so much as a single word. Me? I dreaded to ask. There was this constant fright. I was not frightened of him, no, but I was always frightened of the way he might react to me or my words.
I sometimes wonder where those picture-books are now. When he sold the house and came to live with us, my grandfather didn't bring them with him. So I presume the new owners threw them away in that disgustingly offhand, matter-of-fact way that is so typical of new owners, or maybe burned them in the fireplace. Speaking of my grandfather's arrival – it was a bizarre spectacle. The picture of him standing in our doorway can still attack, invade my vision when I least expect that. Perhaps that is the most vivid living memory I have of him... It has this power to entangle me like a giant forest cobweb, glue me all over. The old man only brought two suitcases with him – and one of those, I imagined, was filled with cash.
My problem was that I couldn't follow my grandfather in the open without causing a great deal of suspicion. Of course, I was itching all over to know where he went, but after dinner I was supposed to help my grandmother dry the dishes, an arrangement I could not neglect, and by the time the damned thing was finished my grandfather was nowhere to be seen. He was old, he had to be slow – and yet all my ensuing search was futile. He came back late, when I was already in bed – though never sleeping, always expecting the quiet, muffled clicking of the front door. I remember that on a couple of occasions I made a point of drying the dishes so fast that I ran out of the house just a minute or two after my grandfather. I would look for his traces, footprints, anything – but it was as if he never even left the house. I might as well have been searching for the colours in the wind that was playfully slapping me on the face. Well, I figured, he never had any smell, so there was no problem for him to have no footprints either. Yet once I did see him – on his way back, looking like a black ghost, coming from the fields earlier, at about 9. The scene is perhaps unreasonably impaled on my memory – or maybe not the actual scene. Maybe it is that look. I did think he looked happy then. Happy and sinister – when it came to my grandfather, those two always went together.
But two strained, addictive weeks – and I was gone. City, school, family, friends, comic books, it all dried out the memory of the country house and its inexplicable shenanigans. Dried out, drowned out, yes, but never quite. For sometimes during my school test on biology, during my sleepy cornflake breakfast, during our Christmas shopping I found myself thinking about my grandfather. Where was he now, what was he doing? Was he reading his poetry books, was he trying on a new tie, was he coming back from the fields – circled by spirits and fairies? I didn't know – and hated him for that. Hated him more and more with each new flickering image or a splinter of my memory.
As far as I remember, it was my mother's idea to settle grandfather in our house. I don't think she liked that idea herself, but once she voiced it there was no turning back. This was supposed to be the perfect arrangement, and the one I could only be a witness of: alone and probably frightened of darkness (her words), my grandfather could not look after himself; plus, we needed money (that would come, naturally, from selling the house); plus, and this had some perverse inevitability to it, we had a spare room. What did my grandfather have to say to it all? Oh, he didn't really mind! Nobody seemed to mind – though I can't say anything about myself. I was never asked. Yet once late at night, two days before the old man's arrival, I heard a rather violent row between my parents about our new dweller (though I preferred the word 'tenant'). Like the ever-silent me, my father, it now transpired, was not too happy about that arrangement. But my poor poor dad, he chose the worst time for expressing his frustration – the old country house had already been sold, and grandfather had already burned or packed his few possessions. My father was weeks, months late.
It was on a warm, breezy May Sunday morning that my grandfather made his gloriously understated appearance in our doorway. With his money, with his expensive ties, with his ancient poetry books, with a briefcase I had never seen before. And this was the briefcase, I'm now tempted to believe, that set my mind rolling and ticking and yearning for blood. But it got worse. The first thing he said was "where is my room?" We showed him his room, me trailing gloomily at the back. He asked whether there was a key to the door (yes there was) and then softly demanded to leave him alone. As if we were a bunch of irksome footmen irritating his eyes. I thought about his age. I thought about his age to death. He was 72. Okay, 72, but when was he supposed to die? This was an idle question, but I badly needed a definite answer. And also I wanted to know why I was so excited about that arrival. The arrival that looked like a visit of a guest who is humble but will drive you mad if he doesn't get what he wants.
The routine began. And if I had thought that this new city life would intimidate the old man – then I was very much mistaken. As far as I could see, my grandfather felt no discomfort in his new home, and was very much successful in dragging his country-house ways into the city. He quickly isolated himself from the three of us, and was giving every impression that he could well look after himself. Indian films, detached manners and looks, half-baked presence, new ties – all was in place; perhaps, the only thing missing was his stupid little car (which had been sold together with the house – I wonder to whom). But the car was pretty much expendable even when he had it – after all, here was an old man who walked.
He would wake up at 10 or 11, put on one of his priggish suits, take his briefcase, and go somewhere. Somewhere 'on business'. This was interesting, because while in the old country-house, he very rarely went anywhere until after dinner. But this was supposed to be his city life, I thought spitefully, so he might as well put more time and effort into his 'dealings'. He would then come back home at around 4, take a shower and watch TV, then have his dinner and be off again. Not much variety, but then it looked like he never needed any – him ever looking so cold, distant, and at the same time quite remarkably content. Happier – yes, happier than I had ever seen him. This schedule of his I of course learned during my weekends, when I had no school and could observe the old man's ways more closely. That his Mondays did not in fact differ from his Sundays was something I had to drag out of my mother. My father was always tongue-tied about the old man, particularly at that time, with the latter's unnerving presence lurking around.
Interestingly, first two or three weeks after his arrival my grandfather preferred to stay indoors and never left the house after dinner. I do not know why, but this behavior made me feel uneasy. Not because I now had more chances to stumble upon him in the hall or on my way out of the bathroom, but mainly because I felt there was something wrong in that behavior. It was as if something was lacking; as if I was standing in a cold street wondering why my neck grew so chilly – still not realizing that I had simply forgotten to put my scarf on. But the mystery was soon resolved, and in a most surprising way. Once after school my grandfather knocked on my door, and asked if he could enter. Some people ask that and enter without bothering to hear a reply (like my parents did, for instance), but my grandfather didn't even press the door knob. No doubt suffering from an acute panic seizure, I told him to wait a second, and spent the next few chaotic moments tidying up my room. Having made sure that he would not see my socks lying around so carelessly, having repaired my disheveled hair (though why?), having caught a fleeting, hazy glimpse of my reflection in the window, I finally opened the door. He entered – slowly, coldly, indifferently, without paying the slightest attention to my room or the way I looked, and said he wanted to ask me a question. I said okay, feeling ashamed I wanted to know the answer to that question so much.
- Do you happen to know a good place for walking? I mean here, around. – He had a thick, somewhat youthful voice that I always had to recognize anew.
- Yes, – I said.
- Because you see, – he continued, – I like walking. You know.
- Yes, – I said, for some reason studying his long, bony fingers that never left the edges of his tie for a second.
- I've always liked walking. And this house happens to be on the outskirts. Right? Some good field – that's what I need. I think I saw one on my way here…
- Well, – I said, quickly gathering my wits and feeling like I was taking a most dreadful exam.
– There is a field. Only it's rather far away.
- Far away? – he muttered, surprised. – How far?
Since at that time I had problems with putting distances into words, I said something that now seems to me too daring, if not unlikely.
- Well, it's about two times farther than that field in the country.
He took it casually, though. He took it calmly.
- Oh, very good. That will do.
While my grandfather kept fingering his glowing silvery tie, I was trying to explain to him how to get to that field. In an earnest, business-like manner – for that was what the situation demanded; that and the no-nonsense look on his pleasantly wrinkled face. My grandfather was quickly growing content, satisfied. Then something abrupt, disquieting appeared in his eyes, like some passing thought, alluring yet dangerous. And it was then that I suddenly thought of my grandmother. Something snapped, something I could not yet put into words, and I started seriously suspecting him, the old man. This was a turning point. I started suspecting him of killing my grandmother. He was so happy then in my room – as if his being there, in the city, in that apartment, was his plan from the start. I wanted him to say something else, and for a blitz of a moment I imagined he wanted to, but then he just turned round and left. Shutting the door behind him very carefully, like I was his sick lover trying to fall asleep. I thought he shut it more tightly than it was even possible. Also, he could have used my name. I know I wouldn't have minded.
Our conversation – all so business-like, vague, so much smelling of smoky city pavements. But that was the only kind of conversation he knew. That was the way he talked to my mother, his daughter. Like I said, he wasn't rude – it's just that there was no involvement.
But however unsettling my grandfather's arrival may have been, it didn't really have any significant impact on what was going on inside our home. It should have, but it didn't. Nothing noticeable in any case. We were an old-fashioned, ideal sort of family: close-knit and quiet – the kind that would have made my peers cringe. I did enjoy the company of my parents, still. Amazingly, none of our family rituals were broken or even slightly altered with the old man sticking around. We were still watching films and weekend shows on TV – together, in quiet, trying to catch each other's reaction. My father and I were both huge fans of all kinds of board games. So much so that my father made a point of giving me a new board game every Christmas and every second birthday of mine. Hockey, Mancala, puzzles, logical and dice games – there was not a single one we couldn't make enjoyable. We also played cards, sometimes till 10 or 11 o'clock in the evening, much to the annoyance of my mother – ever so concerned about my lack of sleep. She herself rarely joined us, preferring to knit quietly in that deep brown armchair of hers. I seem to remember that armchair well, and sometimes can even feel those fizzy, tenacious textures – as they bury me again, as they bog me down yet another time. That armchair, which so often accounted for my slapdash ways with the homework (for it was there that I dragged my textbooks), stood like some gigantic boxing mitt and could easily drown me even when I was 14. My mother's knitting – she always seemed to be at it, yet I don't think that besides two or three scarves I ever saw any of her finished work.
So most of the time my grandfather's presence was remarkably unobtrusive. He was like that black, screen-limiting frame that you get used to fifteen shots into the film. Only whereas my parents kept practicing their silent deference (though I sensed it was mingled with strain), I kept scratching my sleepy eyes. Not to stop noticing him, not to let him disappear from my view. That, I felt, was my only chance of exposing him in the end. And so for me the black frame never really left the picture – for me it was always stuck there, in the corner of my eye, like a speck. Yes, the old man kept closing himself in his room; he never left his poetry books lying around, never spilled a single glass of milk – it was as if he wasn't there. If you thought about his presence, it seemed awkward. But if you didn't – it could look agreeable. But then I only had to remind myself of the cups he drank from, of the chairs he sat on. The objects my memory could hardly associate with his presence. The objects that had nothing to do with him.
Surprisingly though inevitably, on the very next day after that talk in my room the old man started having his walks – his usual way, after dinner, provided the weather was good. Taking that old, haggard bag with him; dressing into his blue frayed jeans and a long, formless, gaudy T-shirt that had a withered name of some American state on it. Scarecrow-like look, really, only I thought crows wouldn't get scared. His loose, casual style – the one that required no tie. Ties he had for the indoors and, of course, for his midday 'business trips' into the city.
I started watching him then. I embarked upon my mission – to crack him, to cut him open. My knife was dull, but then I had all the time in the world. And that is why I sneaked into his room the day I opened his briefcase and found the picture – this happened two months after his arrival. This was, I think, early July.
The fact that my grandfather did not notice any of my traces in his room was, of course, a relief. What is more, it made me sheepishly reconsider my plans. Those were clearly very dangerous waters I was stepping into, and perhaps it was wiser to stay away. Maybe the reasons for that picture were, if not quite innocent, explicable enough. That amateurish investigation could take me too far, and that scared me. Of course, I had no idea what I was chasing – but having a pervert for my grandfather could hardly explain anything. I figured that a thing like that could throw me into an even darker, dingier place. Interestingly, the evening I found the picture my grandfather stayed at home – something I did not see as particularly straightforward. But then: it was probably raining…
While my grandfather was watching TV in his room, (the sound was always loud – the old man's only physical deficiency was his slightly impaired hearing), I was lying on my bed thinking of how I could see that picture again. The trouble was that it could only be done when he was in the bathroom – at any other time I stood no chance. At any other time he preferred to keep his door locked.
How many times did I see that picture again? Five? Six? I don't know. Actually, the number's not too high only because after some time my grandfather replaced it with another one. The new picture had three girls on it – and was, therefore, no less impressive. It made my eyes blush intensely. While looking at those pictures with the eyes of a panicky paranoiac, I of course did not have time for much. But if anything, that tempted me even more. An hour session, I knew from my rather precocious experience, could forever hijack my enthusiasm.
And oh how I waited for that snap of the bathroom lock, the heavy crash of the water flogging the bathtub as well as the body of the old man. I knew I could not afford to waste a second. Only there was this steaming heart of mine, leaping like some giant frog, anticipating the scoff of a closed door. But it never happened; for a quarter of an hour each day the door to my grandfather's room was always open.
And so it all continued, on and on.
But soon an odd, awkward feeling started to come over me: my grandfather knew about my visits. There really was no way he didn't. I must have left traces (on a couple of occasions I jumped out of the room at what was probably the very last moment): smell, footprints, carelessness. In that nauseatingly perfect cleanness and order of the room I was bound to step on a midget or at least tickle a giant. I was bound to do something wrong, something that would give me away. So little by little I began to suspect that the old man deliberately left the door open for me to enter. For me to open his briefcase, for me to find those pictures, for me to come back again next day. Of course, I had no evidence that this was indeed the case, but with each new visit I found it harder to believe he could be so unbelievably shortsighted.
But God, did he have loads of those pictures! And each new one – there really was no getting away from it – was dirtier, ever so slightly dirtier than the previous one. Overbearing, extreme, hardcore they were not – for I knew I wouldn't have tolerated that. Also, he now started to change them every single day.
Very soon I could swear my grandfather knew about my frequent intrusions during those short bathroom breaks. After all, the old man locked the door when we all went to have our dinner or lunch – so why wouldn't he lock it when having a shower? There is perhaps only one answer to that: he actually wanted me to enter his room…
I try now but I fail. I try to recollect how I let such an idea enter my mind. The idea, I thought, was ridiculously good. Chuckling nervously, I knew exactly what I was going to do: I would start altering the position of certain objects in my grandfather's room while he was in the shower. The idea worked its way through me in a worm-like fashion, and asked for no reasons. The reasons might appear only too obvious now, but where did I take the audacious courage to carry it out? The shy, thin, nervous boy that I was? I suppose it came from impunity, like so many things do, especially when you are young: my grandfather could hardly harm me, for that would mean admitting the fact that he had pictures like that hidden in his briefcase. I could testify. This was a case of some twisted, perverse blackmail, though at that point I didn't see it that way.
It worked perfectly. At first I moved a cup with his still lukewarm tea from the centre of the desk to its edge. The old man kept his face characteristically blank during our dinner that evening – which was enough for me to go on. The next day I put that same cup (already cold; why didn't he bother to change it?) on his chair. Nothing, no reaction. I got so carried away with my experiment that very soon a plan for my next alteration became the only thing that occupied my mind. I took different objects out of his briefcase and placed them on the floor, I opened his window, I drank his tea, I ruffled through his money (clearly he gave my parents only a small part of what he brought with him), and once I even undid one of his ties. I didn't know what I was doing, and why. At some point I was close to actually stealing something, and spent one whole night deciding what it could be. I settled on a picture. But then I never did it – no, I could not steal a picture. I could not steal.
Meanwhile, the new pictures kept coming. And even though I had a little less time for them now – what with my opening poetry books, moving furniture and switching on TV – I was still very much drawn to them. There's a good trick that children know, when you look at something for five or ten seconds and then press your eyelids as hard as you possibly can – right until you see that intense, terrifying blackness reddening your vision. That is when you know that the image will stay there and won't go away for several hours at least. You only have to close your eyes. The trick never failed.
The big revelation came on the day a picture slipped out of my hand. Because that is how I learned that each and every image from the briefcase had a date on the flipside. The dates were written by the same hand. My grandfather's hand, the same hand that wrote the dates in those lost picture-books from the country. More shocking still was the fact that the dates were recent. Obviously these were no postcards, and I searched the contents of my grandfather's briefcase yet another time. And of course: there it was. Beneath the entrails of all that useless junk lay the camera. I took it out, had a moment's consideration, then put it back.
One thing about the insides of my grandfather's briefcase: the insides were a mess. Which is the case with most people, of course, only there was this blinding contrast with the spotless cleanness of his room, his ties, his suits.
I was beginning to change. Face smeared by insomnia, mind clogged by the old man's secrets, I was no longer a family boy. I distinctly remember that by the start of the upcoming school year I was not to be found in our sitting-room enjoying sitcoms, TV shows, or playing poker with my father. When I wasn't altering objects in my grandfather's room (10-15 minutes), I was stuck inside mine. Or, and this was the inevitable bit, in the bathroom. My parents were concerned, I could tell, but there's little teenage years can't account for. Sometimes during dinner my mother would still ask me whether I was going to watch a new episode of our beloved TV series that evening. As a way of response, I would mumble something vague about my homework and the difficult start of the new semester, simultaneously trying to detect anything remotely resembling reaction on my grandfather's face. As ever, there was no reaction (he rarely thanked my mother for those dinners – as if his being there, at that table and in our company, was a thank you decent enough). My grandfather was chewing his meal; slowly, despondently. And now that I think of it, it should have been hilarious, an old man dining in a tie and a suit with a casually dressed family like mine. It must have looked circus-like, and it could have at least caused a smile. But no. Our dinners were solemn, mirthless, which probably goes to show that the old man did change something about our family ways.
- Going anywhere, father?..
The few school friends I had stopped calling me. And speaking of school – I started missing classes. My comic books were now gathering dust under my bed. And in the midst of it all I kept telling myself about how smart it was, putting all those screws on my grandfather. You see, I was still entertaining the thought that I was looking for clues, trying to get to the bottom of my grandmother's death. Death which presently hardly even registered in my mind, my thoughts or my insomnias. The latter were more to do with red skirts and clipped stockings.
You know how when you sleep and dream of chasing someone, you can never really catch him. Suddenly the way's too slippery, a hedge is on your way, or simply your legs won't move. You are sagged by helplessness, seized by limpness. A similar thing kept me from following my grandfather going on his business trips or his walks to the field. For some reasons I preferred to lie on my bed and wait for a new picture to appear in the briefcase or for another chance to change the position of his teacup. But I did follow him in the end. Why did it take me so long? Well, there was a reason: I knew where he went. What was more, I knew why.
I decided to start with his business trips – which meant I had to miss classes, again. First couple of times I lost him; in a crowd, behind a bus, in a shopping mall selling his favourite ties, beyond an unexpected curve of the street. It was, I believe, a combination of things: on the one hand, I was afraid of being found out and on the other hand, I didn't really want to see his destination. Like a policeman sympathizing with a criminal, I kept procrastinating – giving him all the time in the world to prove he was innocent.
While his sinister, robust figure just kept plunging itself, like a germ or like a knife, into the heart of my hometown. It was the city centre that he needed, and there was no bus or taxi to take him there. Or, to be more precise, none that he could trust more than his own legs.
But finally I made it to the end of his trip. The building appeared. The building had no signboard on it, and it could be anything. Could be a motel, could be a dwelling place, could be a casino. The building was dark, neat, and didn't have too many windows. Just what I had expected. There are buildings like that in every city – you pass them by without even wondering what their anonymity is all about.
When someone does a bad thing right in front of your eyes, but does it gloriously, confidently, you sometimes realise you admire what you see. And what I saw that day was indeed very impressive. My grandfather needed no invitation to enter. It was the solemnly mundane way in which an old accountant would enter his bank. His was the pace of a workingman.
I didn't know how long I had to wait, but I was determined to go all the way to see him reemerge. I stood crouching behind a telephone booth on the opposite side of the road. As it happened, the whole thing was over in no time. It took me about half an hour to see my grandfather go out in his typical matter-of-fact manner, his facial expression characteristically blank, and head towards the way he came from. That was it then, for his one day's business.
I let him go, I didn't need to follow him on the way back. And besides, I had a plan. The plan was to enter the building, see it all for myself and thus get rid of all of my questions. But I only had the courage to approach it – slowly, feigning indifference . And immediately I saw them: a flurry of girls running out of the door and not giving me so much as a single superficial look. And I knew how my woeful, morbid face craved for a filthy joke. While I of course recognized their faces, having seen them so many times on those pictures from my grandfather's briefcase. I knew those girls, and it was somewhat comforting to realise they didn't know me.
How can you tell the coming of a crucial day? You probably can't, because in real life (and in fiction, too), a crucial day never looks too likely in the morning. It starts giving off its menace gradually, bit by bit. While in my case, I felt its full impact the instant I woke up from the pits and gutters of my sleep. That gnawing, insistent feeling of anticipation – it might have come from my decision to follow my grandfather again. A plan conceived by that heavy sleepless heart of mine.
This was a warm, bright late September, and it was my fourth or fifth time accompanying the old man to the city centre. And then waiting for him, of course, to reappear on the porch of that grey, nameless building. The problem was, I had had too many dreams and too little sleep the previous night, and kept leaning on the phone booth in a way that could make me pass out into the numb drowsiness I was so good at. And I did lose myself several times, for I distinctly remember irksome, shrilling voices of passers-by charging through me like alarm clocks or bolts of lightning, playfully urging me to wake up, stay on my feet. It was during one of those severe bouts of sleepiness that a figure rushed past, literally slashing through me with the air it stirred. I woke up from my temporary oblivion and saw my grandfather walking away. I must have completely lost all sense of time to miss his coming out like that. But there were no doubts left: the old man knew. Because he saw me, because he recognized me. Even if he didn't acknowledge it with a single uttered word.
As for my evidence, I no longer cared. I was loaded with it, and it felt like being stuffed with one of my grandmother's worst oversalted meals. Quite frankly, I didn't know what to do with it all: the pictures, the strange house, the girls, the briefcase, the field... But seeing his back and its gloomy abandon, I grew fearless like only a most naïve boy could. This time I followed him back, and I was steaming with vengeance.
Will he go to the bathroom? Will he lock his door? Will he let me rummage through his stuff? Having seen me today, having been discovered, having deprived me of all my doubts, he could be on guard now. And it was immaterial whether my standing there, near that phone booth, amounted to something of a surprise.
But the water poured down, just as usual. He was going to take his shower, like he always did. Only this time I came closer to the bathroom and listened up. I had an uneasy feeling that this was a set-up, that this time it was merely a distraction and he was going to catch me red-handed… The only thing I heard was his muffled, watered down voice saying something. I pressed my ear against the door. Yes, there were doubts: the old man was reciting poetry. I felt stunned at how out of place it was. Really, this could have been some cheap comedy. Except it wasn't. You know how bad you look when you walk into the room in the middle of a film and start laughing at a conversation you find somewhat funny, amusing. When in fact it isn't: it's tragic. And with my grandfather – you always had to be following the plot.
The door to his room was open. I rushed to the briefcase and took out the new photo. This time the first thing I saw were intertwined legs. There was a young couple making love on the slightly yellowed autumn grass. And suddenly it dawned on me, an obvious thing that had been escaping me all this time: he would only take a shower when my parents were not around…
My vengeance? I took the camera out of his briefcase and put it on the desk.
But this was not all, of course. For it was all about the field, wasn't it? And so for the first time ever I also followed him after dinner – doing it quietly, of course, without even locking the front door properly, so as not to let my parents suspect anything or wonder where I was going. Even when being a scruffy, spiteful teenager I wasn't too good at telling lies.
There was nothing in it: following my grandfather to the field was as easy as following him to the building where he took his pictures. Yes, there were no phone booths or bus stops or ice cream stands to rely on in case of an emergency, but that day I had the cheek to disregard a thing like that. Even if my defiance was all but nullified by the fact that my grandfather was so determined not to turn around and notice my pressing presence.
I wonder what he did in winter or late autumn or early summer. I wonder how often he was unlucky and didn't see anything. I wonder how many times he had to go back home overburdened by failure and maybe even despair. But that evening everything was going according to a plan. Which, generally, is the way with crucial days: everything goes so smooth. Even tragedies, even disasters.
I wouldn't dare to explain what makes people do it in the field, but apparently it has its appeal. Could be the arousing prickliness of the grass blades, could be the wild yet thrilling buzzing of insects, could be the coldness of the ground against the heat of the act, could be the sweet and dashing feeling of danger. Maybe something Freudian. How would I know? But the fact remains: my grandfather was taking his walks to the field to find naked bodies rolling around in the grass and making love. And sighing, of course, sighing and screaming with the desperate dedication of someone who's not afraid of being heard. And maybe doesn't even mind being heard.
I knew it all along, of course, from those pictures of his. Except nothing could prepare for the real thing, for seeing it all with my own eyes. The safest thing, I figured, would be to do it like the old man did. Listen up like he did, crouch like he did, lie down like he did…
My spot was about seven or eight metres from my grandfather and slightly farther from the two lovers – looking so impossibly white, snowy against the intensity of the grass. I remember that I kept turning my head from left to right as if watching a game of table tennis. My position was better for hiding than seeing anything, but the grass was not too high, and the dusk was only beginning to set, so there were certainly things I could detect. Like some wildlife photographer, he was lying dangerously close to the lovers and fearlessly clicking away. And how cleverly, how expertly he did it. The old man was only clicking the buttons of the camera the moments the lovemaking shrills got particularly powerful and high-pitched. The whole thing was like being in a fairy-tale or in a dream (a wet one, of course), but shocking it was not. After all, I'd seen pictures like that many times in the old man's room. This was what I had expected. Or this was what I had to expect.
And then my grandfather dropped the camera. This was desperate, of course, this could be a disaster. My face was swelling with flaming red: what if they heard it, what then?.. But then something made me forget about the lovers and just keep staring in the direction where my grandfather was lying. The thing is, he wasn't trying to get his camera back. As if bitten by a snake, he was noiselessly twisting on the ground, and just shrinking, shrinking, shrinking. I knew this was a heart attack without ever seeing anything like that before.
By the time I crept to my grandfather, the lovers had reached their joyful climax (which he still didn't miss, I'm now inclined to add) and were presently in the fit of violent, outrageous laughter. The effect was crazy, dizzying. The contrast was terrifying. There was still some movement in the old man's body while I was trying to think of a way to somehow react to all that. Dreading to look at the writhing figure next to me, I finally decided to run home and fetch my parents. And that moment I didn't really see it as handing myself in; I saw it as the only thing I could possibly do.
I'm ashamed to admit: I was creeping back home, not running at full pelt like I was supposed to. I dreaded to disturb the lovers, and so was confined to listening to the piercing sound of roaring laughter pushing me from behind my back…
When we got there, all three of us, my grandfather was already dead. The lovers were gone too, leaving behind them a patch of UFO-like trampled grass. Could my parents guess its meaning, crack its mystery?.. I hoped not, of course.
- Must have been heart, – said my father. His was not relieved, no, but there was not too much concern either.
"Heart", – I thought. Just like my grandmother.
And then my father picked up the camera and turned to me:
– And what is your camera doing here?
I stared at the camera with my watery, disbelieving eyes. Yes, blinded by shock, I'd forgotten to hide the camera.
- He… stole it, – I muttered. Which was true.
- I will go call the ambulance, – he said. – You both stay here.
And of course: the question that was hanging in the air, like an overripe apple ready to fall. My mother voiced it when we were alone.
- What were you doing here?
- I don't know, – I said. – He was so strange (God, how easy it was to talk about him in past tenses!). I followed him here, only today. I wanted to know what he was up to.
Which, in a way, was also true.
- And what was that? What was he up to? – Evidently my mother was not struck by grief either. She was calm, collected. I could not blame her.
- Well, – I said, thinking about the camera, – he was making pictures.
- Pictures?
- Yes.
For some reason, she didn't ask me what pictures – for which I was eternally grateful. I wanted to embrace her that very instant. Kiss her, confess. I didn't though, dreading the awkward contrast this could cause. It would have been so different from the way I was in those days…
But I did get back. And how easy it was: to get back. To my comic books, to puzzles and to board games. And most importantly: to those quiet sitting-room evenings in front of the TV-set…
But that was later, and presently my mother picked up my grandfather's bag and looked inside.
- Hey, – she said. – Look at this. My father liked poetry.
- Really? – I asked. – He never looked like that.
- No, – she agreed. – He didn't.
And in the few coming days, when they saw the film in the camera, when they entered his room (no doubt for the first time since grandfather's arrival), when they found all that money, when they opened his briefcase, there were more revelations still. I never gave them the whole truth (their shocked eyes: they did not need it themselves), only bits and pieces: something that I said I'd seen or overheard. For instance, I made a point of telling them about the old man's strange obsession with Indian films – as if that amounted to much. But I didn't know it myself, the truth. Not all of it in any case. And there's one thing about the truth – it only makes sense when it is complete. It is this completeness that I've been trying to reach here with this restless narration of mine.
The funeral was modest, and I didn't attend. I just didn't have the heart to do it. My grandfather was cremated, which was fitting. I didn't know why, but somehow it seemed to me the only way of doing it.
There are times now when it all comes back to me, and I want to talk about the whole thing to death. Give my honest account of it, describe my grandfather's pictures, suits, poetry books, ties... Was it all over in just four months? And where is it all gone now?.. Sometimes it feels like it never even happened… There are times when I feel some odd, bittersweet tenderness towards my grandfather. Him reciting poems in the shower, him coming happily from the fields… But equally there are times when I experience such fits of blinding, engulfing rage that I want to smash every single thing around me. Give me a moment like that, and I will be almost happy to be 42 and unmarried. To only have this one dog beside me.
And speaking of my dog. Every evening we go out to have a walk. Unchained by destinations, we wander aimlessly, and sometimes find ourselves in one of those fields that are so ubiquitous in these places and around this small house of mine. There's an instant tension in muscles, limpness in feet, and I start calling the dog back. We go home, my pace perhaps a little too swift for a nice pleasant walk like that.
And I'm still thinking about those lines, the ones that came from that verse anthology I read in the country house. There might have been nothing there, just some poet's meandering ruminations on birds or past or unrequited love. Something pointless, tedious, like all poetry. But then… I don't know. Those lines might actually explain what everything else couldn't.
Also, there's one thing. I got rid of insomnia after his death. Though now, so early in the morning, lying awake and thinking about it all again, you can never be too sure.
March, August, 2011


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Ange ou Démon
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Posts tagged Thoughts
Don't Give Urself Time To Remember Them
If U Can't Forget Some Difficult Things In Ur Life,
D Least U Can Do Abt Dem,
Is To Make Sure Dat U Don't Give Urself Time To Remember Dem!
SUCCESS & RELATION Never Depend On The Size Of Ur Brain
SUCCESS & RELATION Never Depend On The Size Of Ur Brain..
It Always Depepnd On The Size Of Thoughts
If v keep Good Thought in Mind
v can keep Good Relation.
If you miss an opportunity
Nice to read and follow:
If you miss an opportunity don't fill ur eyes with tears.
It may hide yet another opportunity lying in front of you
Measuring life by what ….
Measuring life by what others do for us may disappoint us..
Measuring life by what we do for others wil add more meaning 2 our life..
Winner means who use the opportunity
Lucky means who get the opportunity.
Brilliant means who create the opportunity.
Winner means who use the opportunity.
So be a winner always.
Think before action
Match stick has Head but no Brain so gets burnt with slight stress
but v hav HEAD & BRAIN also then why do v get violent with slightest stress.
THINK b4 ACTION.
Admit your mistakes
STRONG People also makes mistakes.
Only difference is they admit there mistake
but Weak people tries to Hide it by EXCUSES.
Accept the reality. We R Also HUMAN.
Alphabets in CHEATING & TEACHING are common.
Those who try to CHEAT U always TEACH u something.
Always apreciate them & try to Learn frm all.
Every LOCK has a KEY
Don't get frustrated doing continuous unresulted efforts.
Sometime the Last Key of the Bunch Opens the Lock.
Every LOCK has a KEY. Hav Faith in God B~Optimistic
Change atitude to see the situation
In Life every situation has HOPE& END.
It depends how u look at it.
U can see as HOPELESS End or ENDLESS Hope.
Change atitude to see the situation& u'll b HAPPY.


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Children's Museum of the Arts
103 Charlton St., West Soho
NEIGHBORHOOD: Soho
Opening Hours:
- Mon: 12pm-5pm
- Thurs-Fri: 12pm-6pm
- Sat-Sun: 10am-5pm
- Pay What You Want
CMAM is one of those spots that doesn't hold any punches: Here, kids are introduced to heady tropes in contemporary art from portraiture, to process, to language, through kid-accessible exhibits featuring works by Ed Ruscha, Jenny Holzer, and more. In addition, their classes and after school programs are some of the best in the city. Check the website for the day's activity, as many are free and offsite.
You may also like


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Gear up for the seriously amazing ac-TOR films people — it's officially the Awards Season Onslaught, and with it brings passes for Freeheld! This got major buzz at TIFF, and I'm stoked to see it as I love a good biopic. (Especially if that biopic happens to have Julianne Moore and Ellen Page in it…)
New Jersey police lieutenant, Laurel Hester, and her registered domestic partner, Stacie Andree, both battle to secure Hester's pension benefits when she is diagnosed with terminal cancer.
So grab your hankies, and head this way to grab some passes…What: ADMIT TWO passes for the Baltimore area screening of Freeheld!
When: October 12th, 2015
Where: Landmark Harbor East
Why: Because you know the performances are gonna be off the hook. Also, true story time.
How: Clicky!
Link: http://www.lionsgatescreenings.com/atomicfreeheld
Code: atomicfreeheld
REMEMBER: seating for screenings are first come, first served and not guaranteed. So get there early if you want to get a seat.
Good luck, everyone!


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You have finally moved into your new home. All of your furniture and belongings are arranged to their new spots and now you are probably wondering what to do with all the cardboard boxes lying on the floor. The easiest and quickest solution would be to collect them and to toss them in the bin. But throwing them away is not very eco-friendly. Plus, if you have spent money on them, you may want to give them a second life.
Don't reuse the boxes
Many people are tempted to keep their moving boxes until the next time they relocate. That, however, should be avoided as old boxes are usually not very durable. In addition, they may have a bad smell and if they are not stored properly, they may become a cosy home of various insects and bacteria. Nevertheless, if you are determined to reuse your moving supplies make sure you follow these tips:
- Keep only the boxes that are in a good condition
- Prepare them for storage by removing any tape from them
- Store them in a dry place, away from direct sunlight
- Make sure you fold them flat
Repurpose them
A great thing to do when you don't want your packing materials to go to waste is to find a new purpose for them. For instance, moving boxes are an excellent storage solution for any home, no matter how small or big it is. If you are a proud owner of a cat, you can use one of the boxes to make a brand new bed for your pet. Just put an old blanket in it and cut a hole on one of its sides. There are plenty of ways in which you can repurpose your cardboard boxes. Browse the web for some ideas and inspiration and give reign to your creative side.
If some of your moving boxes are not in a good enough condition to be reused or repurposed, you can simply recycle them. There are a few ways in which you can do that. One of them is by leaving your boxes in a recycling bin in your area. If, however, there isn't one, you can contact a waste collection company and ask them to pick up the materials for recycling. In fact, try asking your domestic removal company if they can be of any assistance to you. Many moving home businesses in London provide a rubbish clearance service as well.
Give them away or sell them
Selling your moving boxes is also an option, but don't expect that you will be able to make good money out of it. What is more, finding people who want to buy used cardboard boxes can be challenging. If that ends up to be the case with you, give them away to friends, relatives, neighbours or colleagues of yours who may need them. Also, consider donating them to churches, schools, libraries or other institutions that regularly use cardboard boxes for one thing or another. Your gesture would certainly be appreciated.