Years ago when I lived in the country
we had no car, only motorbikes, and no central heating, only a paraffin heater.

So all the shopping had to be carried home in a rucksack,including paraffin and groceries. The paraffin always seemed to leak so you couldn't carry it with food.

One time, I had to bring home the paraffin with the groceries as the boyf was busy arranging his mother's funeral.

So... next morning we had toast for breakfast before setting off across the country in a mate's car for the funeral.

The bread tasted faintly of paraffin and we thought, well, that wasn't too bad!

However, after an hour in the back of the mate's jalopy, I was green with travel-sickness and began doing that discreet dry-retching thing, bringing up the smell and taste of paraffin.

By the time we reached the crem I was reeling with nausea and had to rush behind a bush to throw up what tasted like a pint of paraffin.

The service itself was a nightmare, as I could still smell and taste the dreadful stuff.

In my distress, I became sure that paraffin was the fuel of choice for rural Welsh cremations, in a sort of Bank Of The Ganges tribute.

Even now, a whiff of the stuff has me heaving.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 11 May 2006, 12:43, Reply)