Back home

I reckon on being here a bit more often. I have been writing for another blog but it seems they think I am monopolising the posts. The claim is that people spend so much time reading mine that they do not have time to write their own. The obvious solution seems to have deserted them; I cannot think that what I contribute is so gripping and excellent that it destroys the Do Not Read gene. I did spend a little time making no posts at all and, whilst one or two made posts, very few took advantage of time saved by not reading my stuff to contribute anything of their own.
I was asked to ration myself to not more than 5 posts a day. For a while, I did this but unilaterally broke the agreement when I saw the poor response to the free time the others gained. Five posts seems a strange way to measure volume. A post could consist of a cartoon or photograph with one line of remark by me. I could also write a very much longer item - still a post.
I have been in and out of the group a couple of times. Initially, I felt happy there but somehow or somewhere, it has lost what it was.
Because of being rationed on such daft grounds, I'll solve all their problems and write nothing there. The few people whose opinion I value and whose work I appreciate can read me here. Or stay where they are.

Progress

Whilst wandering around a large chemists shop yesterday I made a mis-turn and found myself deep in 'womens' things' country. I have no problem being there other than concern that some fascist female will challenge me as a pervert. So, as I was preparing to maintain my nonchalent attitude I came across a shelf of milk pumps - their words not mine. Illustrations on the box showed just how these were to be used for the extraction of milk from the lumpy bits newly-delivered women have. OK - no problem. As a kid of seven, I used to milk cows and know how painful things can get for them if a milking is delayed. What I was not really prepared for was the small section in amongst the pumps for - electrical models!

Now this did throw me. Electric milking came into the cowsheds I frequented when I was about ten years of age. I was allowed to supervise and remove the cups but attachment was a strict no go area. It required firm and precise application of cup to teat. Just how some poor female is to get this right in the confines of her boudoir is just outsid even my fertile imagination.

Progress! Where will it end?

P.S. In an attempt to answer my own question, I ran a Google search. I came up with this article which suggests that the electrical revolution has gained such a foothold that manual expression is back in the Dark Ages along with collecting mistletoe at midnight. So, my question now is "What else have I overlooked?"