I've bought a few of these (the ones that have the extendable "aerial" metal pole)..they fall apart within a few uses, so be prepared to put it in the bin sometime soon!
james0909 to louiselouise
17 Sep 17#28
iI was going to hang on my wall lol how do they look do they look good in the flesh or should i say in the bot lol. Bought one for me son as going to see him soon never met him his 4 but i send him lots of staff to his adress for bdays and xmas i bought some of those mario kart pull back racers from the works and there the bigger then the ones else where when see him to . Not shore if the scratcher be ok for a 4 year old but just thought be a bit of fun then again its at a contact centre so got be careful what bring me something for the future thou . What colour did u recieve says in details colour
andreasuk
12 Sep 17#27
What a rubbish. Not even funny.
maccy1
12 Sep 17#1
Cheers chichi...
:laughing:
vassy1 to maccy1
12 Sep 17#3
Usually it's you who does the back scratching deal ? :stuck_out_tongue:
maccy1 to vassy1
12 Sep 17#22
You've a good memory vassy. :laughing:
vassy1 to maccy1
12 Sep 17#26
Can't miss those deals :wink:
The_IMF
12 Sep 17#25
Does the hand close into a fist? Can I pretend it's a stranger's hand?
Cr0m
12 Sep 17#23
The first two times my parents left for vacation, my sisters and I escorted them to the door and said that we would miss them terribly. It was just an act, designed to make us look sensitive and English, but on this occasion we meant it. “Oh, stop being such babies,” our mother said. “It’s only a week.” Then she gave Mrs. Peacock the look meaning “Kids. What are you going to do?”
There was a corresponding look that translated to “You tell me,” but Mrs. Peacock didn’t need it, for she knew exactly what she was going to do: enslave us. There was no other word for it. An hour after my parents left, she was lying facedown on their bed, dressed in nothing but her slip. Like her skin, it was the color of Vaseline, an uncolor really, which looked even worse with yellow hair. Add to this her great bare legs, which were dimpled at the inner knee and streaked throughout with angry purple veins.
My sisters and I attempted diplomacy. “Isn’t there, perhaps, some work to be done?”
“You there, the one with the glasses.” Mrs. Peacock pointed at my sister Gretchen. “Your mama mentioned they’s some sodie pops in the kitchen. Go fetch me one, why don’t you.”
“Do you mean Coke?” Gretchen asked.
“That’ll do,” Mrs. Peacock said. “And put it in a mug with ice in it.”
While Gretchen got the Coke, I was instructed to close the drapes. It was, to me, an idea that bordered on insanity, and I tried my best to talk her out of it. “The private deck is your room’s best feature,” I said. “Do you really want to block it out while the sun’s still shining?”
She did. Then she wanted her suitcase. My sister Amy put it on the bed, and we watched as Mrs. Peacock untied the rope and reached inside, removing a plastic hand attached to a foot-long wand. The business end was no bigger than a monkey’s paw, the fingers bent slightly inward, as if they had been frozen in the act of begging. It was a nasty little thing, the nails slick with grease, and over the coming week we were to see a lot of it. To this day, should any of our boyfriends demand a back-scratch, my sisters and I recoil. “Brush yourself against a brick wall,” we say. “Hire a nurse, but don’t look at me. I’ve done my time.”
No one spoke of carpal tunnel syndrome in the late 1960s, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. There just wasn’t a name for it. Again and again we ran the paw over Mrs. Peacock’s back, the fingers leaving white trails and sometimes welts. “Ease up,” she’d say, the straps of her slip lowered to her forearms, the side of her face mashed flat against the gold bedspread. “I ain’t made of stone, you know.”
That much was clear. Stone didn’t sweat. Stone didn’t stink or break out in a rash, and it certainly didn’t sprout little black hairs between its shoulder blades. We drew this last one to Mrs. Peacock’s attention, and she responded, saying, “Y’all’s got the same damn thing, only they ain’t poked out yet.”
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Opening post
Edit 11:59 am 12 Sep: Robot hand backscratcher out of stock but extendable back scratcher still available.
Extendable Back Scratcher - Assorted
theworks.co.uk/p/g…669
Robot Hand Extendable Back Scratcher Assorted (edit: out of stock now)
theworks.co.uk/p/g…697
Latest comments (29)
Not even funny.
:laughing:
There was a corresponding look that translated to “You tell me,” but Mrs. Peacock didn’t need it, for she knew exactly what she was going to do: enslave us. There was no other word for it. An hour after my parents left, she was lying facedown on their bed, dressed in nothing but her slip. Like her skin, it was the color of Vaseline, an uncolor really, which looked even worse with yellow hair. Add to this her great bare legs, which were dimpled at the inner knee and streaked throughout with angry purple veins.
My sisters and I attempted diplomacy. “Isn’t there, perhaps, some work to be done?”
“You there, the one with the glasses.” Mrs. Peacock pointed at my sister Gretchen. “Your mama mentioned they’s some sodie pops in the kitchen. Go fetch me one, why don’t you.”
“Do you mean Coke?” Gretchen asked.
“That’ll do,” Mrs. Peacock said. “And put it in a mug with ice in it.”
While Gretchen got the Coke, I was instructed to close the drapes. It was, to me, an idea that bordered on insanity, and I tried my best to talk her out of it. “The private deck is your room’s best feature,” I said. “Do you really want to block it out while the sun’s still shining?”
She did. Then she wanted her suitcase. My sister Amy put it on the bed, and we watched as Mrs. Peacock untied the rope and reached inside, removing a plastic hand attached to a foot-long wand. The business end was no bigger than a monkey’s paw, the fingers bent slightly inward, as if they had been frozen in the act of begging. It was a nasty little thing, the nails slick with grease, and over the coming week we were to see a lot of it. To this day, should any of our boyfriends demand a back-scratch, my sisters and I recoil. “Brush yourself against a brick wall,” we say. “Hire a nurse, but don’t look at me. I’ve done my time.”
No one spoke of carpal tunnel syndrome in the late 1960s, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. There just wasn’t a name for it. Again and again we ran the paw over Mrs. Peacock’s back, the fingers leaving white trails and sometimes welts. “Ease up,” she’d say, the straps of her slip lowered to her forearms, the side of her face mashed flat against the gold bedspread. “I ain’t made of stone, you know.”
That much was clear. Stone didn’t sweat. Stone didn’t stink or break out in a rash, and it certainly didn’t sprout little black hairs between its shoulder blades. We drew this last one to Mrs. Peacock’s attention, and she responded, saying, “Y’all’s got the same damn thing, only they ain’t poked out yet.”
David Sedaris
Think I'll stick to