Srb 1800 Schwinn Instruction

On the way to finish counting GNF X

It could be the title of a film Marc Dorcel and this change of focus to explain that there was no post on this blog for one month and a half ....

AND no ... I paint, I play but not the time to take pictures or comment.

This message is informational and intended to see that I'll be at the GNF X, ultimate edition, Gerzat (63) starting tomorrow evening (late). Saturday will SFJ participatory demo of his game and Sunday we will Golgothik other things (eden tournament for me).

We will stock our figurines JFJ, there were some angel face and a few Artemia and a lot of Gina / Djena (6 € one, 15 € 3).

Come give us a quick hello!

Concentrated Foamy And Smelly Urine

On a bench 2

There is a bench on the road that leads to Cabris Grasse. Narrow and worn. Black, have been brushed by the sun and rain. An isolated bench, nailed to the edge of the pavement at a time when journeys were often on foot, where the car was not routinely used to fetch bread. A bench to get tired of walking legs, happy to be there for a moment of respite conducive to reverie, and chewing the crust of the baguette, bought a few minutes earlier. This resting place was not chosen or designed by chance. It is on the verge of a vacuum. As a modest fixed pin in the notch of the mountain between two wooded hills. For our light escapes to the extraordinary spectacle of valleys and hills which succeed wavy blue and purple, and then focuses on the mercury drop from Lake St. Cassian mound and finally, on the foothills of the Esterel at the end of the year. A bench at the threshold of the winds that rush between the gullies, slide along the meandering roads that burrow from the sea to the hinterland, then deposit the earnings of their plunder at the feet of the cul-de- bag. Sitting on the bench stunted, I lean my nose in the air. I close my eyes and forget the houses that stain the slopes, I lock my heard rumors of the circulation in my back, then I disappear under the skirts of the mountain. Corona cold resin. The wind is icy, but the pine forest below breathes a sweet smell of pepper, lime and sugar cane. I distinguish the scent of olives mature: smell of tar and wet leather. That of the humus of course, hot and bitter, because these days the rain fell in abundance. I turn my head in search of new convulsions, or a fragrant ribbon that I missed. I catch the end of a braid, the twists around my nose and discern the characteristic smell of cypress Provence subtle and striking sap fruity flavored peel carrots and cucumbers. No residue of iodine and salt. The sea breeze does not reach so far, except the day of the big yellow wind, which occasionally crosses the Mediterranean, carrying in its turn, a sample of sand from the Sahara, a flurry of shredded seaweed, and a laughing stock of fish particles dried. But at that moment, the breeze is as usual in early fall when temperatures drop slowly, so that the moisture content increases: I found an abundance of perfume chalk limestone mountains, the heavier and sticky, slightly musty, clay, because the slopes here are also formed by clays. The remugle burns scattered from time, which I note the many frayed white toupees, winding through the valleys and hills are obscured by such long hair diaphanous witches. Finally, in a discreet corner, the strange smell from the bark of evergreen oak, bitter, bitter and metallic, close to the flavor of a dark chocolate bar, which first took a blow hot, then suddenly fridge.
I shudder. The wind pierces my jacket a bit too light when the sun suddenly disappears behind a cloud. I'm cold. Discomfort and grabs my nose becomes secondary. It is time to return the stale smell of my car and continue my path. I give
with regret the bench, the wonderful and peaceful, promising to return in January, warmly clad, to breathe the scent of mimosa blossom Navy.

Unknown Name Unknown Number Calls

Coffee

Rendezvous caught in a pub on the corner of Paris. Whatever the station, there is always a purlin, a few tables and chairs to accommodate us. A small black bar, an espresso in the dining room, a café terrace, time passes. My appointment is overdue. I jinx around. The narrow street is strewn with autumn walkers who musardent and enjoy the rays of sun still tender. The scent of coffee tickles my nostrils. Warm and severe. Velvety and burned. Short breakaway. I remember a book written by Vicki Baum (1888-1960), which I forgot the title. The story takes place in the United States, circa 30, in a very poor family. The mother prepares coffee, which costs a fortune, and carefully distributes a small cup each family member. The bodies stretched in their chairs, while the single sip burning is scrupulously savored and remembered, long popular on the tongue. A girl, however, does not drink his coffee. She gets up and flip the cup over the sink, his face looked on the tiny and short dark waterfall. She is enjoying the amazing fragrance. What a waste, cry the family! And the mother replied that everyone has the right to enjoy his coffee as he sees fit. I had experienced in reading these lines, the same reaction that shocked the whole family feel is so brief and fleeting when the act is a matter of taste of food. Feel is useless. The smell escapes without a trace. Error. I was then a cowardly reaction. Thereafter I totally forgot this book, its history and its protagonists, but I preserved the memory of the smell guilty. The smell pleasure. Often odors are responsible for shame. Those that are concealed, those that are leaking, those who make us blush. When they inspire a feeling hedonistic, they are popular with amateurs, claimed by connoisseurs, but once reviled during periods of insecurity, downward mobility, not to mention a few hiccups religions. Smell is a godsend, a fragile moment of fleeting enjoyment. Curiosity and tolerance. In fact, this girl took and offered the mildest of resistance to adversity. I took years to be estimated. I taste more odors since.
My nose over my cup, I realize once again the richness of this sensual fragrance unique and identifiable. And then as I see every time the taste is not as tasty, just sharp and acidic. But he did not come to mind to empty my cup on the cup to nourish myself corona. I prefer to let my trainer nose, taste and fragrance harsh and severe decomposition of leaves, the woody, spicy Italian trend, the toilet water from my neighbor at the table, the smell of leek broth underarm Server which passes air stream, the scent shampoo loop, the Poodle Lady, who has been groomed. Tien, he raises his leg and sprayed the bonnet of the car: dirty urine, the mixture is strange. Small messages, quiet hobby. Go and goings of passers-by. A shadow bows, sweet smell of coconut, bitter nicotine, my appointment has arrived. An excellent reason to use a coffee.

for flora and our appointment postponed indefinitely ... I do not despair to achieve one day. And for all those moments on a corner coffee table chatting, reading, or to dream ...

Buy Disturbed Piercing

Dishes

Lemon Soap Dish French Crapote zest for generations, while our hands at the sink bassinent a zealous and careful movement. Light chatter when you're with others, dreams most often in solitary, but always the same tools, sponge and squeeze bottle to take this small bath. Pressure when the foam is too light, a little hot water to dilute, steam clean we are reassured. Fat is degummed by citric acid, the kitchen smells of hot lemon, sour and metallic, you could almost forget the color of the final broth bowl. In recent years marketing has tried a few notes of modernities. Vinegar, red fruit, cocktail grapefruit / lime green flowers in our regions. But nothing helped. The French is its citrus pressed. Sake of efficiency. Proved. Tested. For many families of housewives under 50 years, and more obviously.
Originally the choice of the corona, a U.S. company, which had the clever idea of a lemon-scented dishwashing liquid, at a time when France still know at Marseille in sequins.
for hand care, lemon. Not for the dishwasher.
Simply because at that time women took care of the whiteness of their skin, and that our grandmothers used to spend their hands in lemon juice for bleaching, cleaning their nails and destroy the miasma of peeled vegetables.
Before all things, seduce women with a scent of truth.
Over the years, the term "care lemon" was gradually replaced, unless we become aware, through the principle of "pickled lemon. Whatever the hand, is the dish to be bleached. Change of manners. Evolution invisible but inexorable society that moves its centers of priorities and adapts to everyday movements to a new present. Small changes in our habits, without apparent turmoil.
Today. Sniff.
Our benchmarks are changing before our sinks.
Lemon slowly is the trunk, and will also zester. The wind of organic, natural and aromatherapy breath under our noses. The air of nothing, before the end of the radius without our supermarket hand hesitates, advance, and then withdrew. Lemon? And first, why lemon? What is the scientific reason?
herbs from the garden is good.
more natural than lemon, and less aggressive.
Basil, Eucalyptus and Rosemary, thyme and savory are the new bullies of fat and dirt, which over the market, save our environment. Clear, green label, small insects and garlands of herbs: all is said on the bottle! The benefits of vegetable and tea together, for the happiness of our planet, and our hands. Clean up


bobo is the new creed
And for our sinks
A new scent!
anethole, camphor, and the entire pharmacopeia ...

Meals and speculation
For all the ways
The last dish water remains constant over the decades: disorder and Maroni.
As for the smell, we all agree: disgusting!


Dishes ... damn.

Facebook Chat Birthday Cake

broken ... Money has no smell

Hot Topic. Concern of a generation. Since the 80s, money buys happiness. Odor and flavor of a consumer society. Tickets
have a particular stock depending on paper used. During my travels I found the softness of the dollar note olive green pound English bowl of cereal, oatmeal variety, French francs, Swiss franc wooded, and peppery notes almost metallic notes of Laos.
parts per cons have a universal scent of dirt. Acid and sour with a back aroma of molasses, mix of sweat, grease and dust variety.
Cards do not talk much. Virtual money, they are satisfied with a tiny whiff of raw plastic, barely raised when the nose goes to the tape. Imagine if one day soon the banks still in the mood for profit advertising, offering credit cards to fragrance of your choice: strawberry, chocolate, floral, woody or coconut to soak up a feeling of satiety at each handling up to indigestion ...?

Short Sympathy Comments

markers

As usual, I awoke to the sound of the radio. The buzz then accompanies the customary breakfast, topics journalists punctuate the flow of minutes with benchmarks, so that we are all dressed, brushed, cleaned up, on the hour, ready to begin our day. This morning, my attention was suddenly caught by a sensitive word: smell. I interrupt my activities and is listening to the commentary. The story concerns the training of police dogs to remember, and then recognize the smell of "bad" on the crime scene. Obviously, the bad guys do not develop a characteristic odor, but each has its own individual olfactory identity, like a fingerprint. Dogs make the distinction. Man, no. Finally, except in our immediate and familiar. I know the specific smell of my children than my boyfriend, my parents ... But I'm not aware of that from my grocer. Unless it becomes my lover, but that is another story that I do not wish to dwell, I do not wish to have trouble with my dear husband. Thus, I can recognize a blind near the smell of her skin. But I do not identify a simple relationship, an office colleague for example. I'm not talking about perfume, but the smell of our skin. Dogs, however, have the ability to identify and store hundreds of scented markers of unknown persons. It makes them sniff a tube in which was kept the smell of thug, and hop, hop, trot, he's that takes you to the lair of the criminal. Aha, caught to sweat!
With a little practice a perfumer could he ... no, really, no interest. I abandon all silly rantings. Otherwise, to make a character in detective fiction.
Imagine a guy like Cyrano nose boat, which picks up and gets everything that passes under Blair. Hands behind his back, face bent, it sucks the fluids of victims, protagonists, sniffing the atmosphere, the atmosphere of places. He noted a smell of dried skin under the nails painted in the switchboard, a remnant of curd on the blouse of the stepmother, he also discovered on the carpet where the victim git. He notes and identifies a strong smell of whiskey 20 years old, who escapes from an overturned glass on the desktop, but the lips of the victim are not moist, and wham! The culprit is the duo Secretary / stepmother. Explanations. The operator has the blood boiled up pov 'type accidentally stumbled on the carpet, by giving him his morning coffee. Panicked, she tried to dry with a Kleenex, her boss. But tiny fragments of skin were torn, and the dermis has slipped under her fingernails. While the step-doche glad to get rid of that bulky man immediately responded, and camouflaged the case in a common accident alcohol.
Well, I know, all this does not hold the road very well: it is difficult to kill someone with a hot latte. But hey. It is an attempt to set the scene. The first steps of a new character in the strange world of Beacons ...