that was pure shyte compared to Lola.
I have NEVER used an Engine !!
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nimzomalaysian a écrit :
How is this thread not locked yet, I will never know.
it is technical, dont worry, just style, poetry, humour and technic, all conditions to improve your skills in chess and other games too, big game.
OP I red little Helen story to my gal to let her sleep. But she wants to know what happens zen.
Btw to win is to lose time,
to lose is to shorten agony and win time for both.
(Ghandi, in "How to milk the Cow and not hurt her" 1930's!).
MeTheBoxLuhst a écrit :
fBisnotPete wrote:
nimzomalaysian a écrit :
How is this thread not locked yet, I will never know.
it is technical, dont worry, just style, poetry, humour and technic, all conditions to improve your skills in chess and other games too, big game.
yes you are correct, and judgeing by your accent you must be french
Oui oui, et un baggete?
Elementary, dear Watson.
Back to the topic, I use my engine since 64 -13 years, a lotta said "agaiiiin","mooore", and no one said that I cheat. As says le chacutier "you must get le lard et la meunière", imho.
it is only for Lords, Gentlemen, the Crown in one word !
GL is membre de droit of these beautiful people.
Lady Gode-iva too!
TY Pete !....here's a few paragraphs then from me to you....
....
****
Baby Helene was four years old when her father died in the sands of North Africa in the middle of WWII. Her mother was a housekeeper for a wealthy family who owned a beautiful apartment overlooking the Arc de Triomphe. The two lived in a very small back room at the high attic level.
Needless to say, Baby Helene was lost. She was just too young to suffer from such a broken heart. Her mother grieved & grieved, but after waves of pain & months of time, she learned to bring herself back from the pieces. She began to make herself known again in her circles and eventually was introduced to someone new.
On one afterhours night, Baby Helene was awakened to this new person softly tapping on the window from the fire escape with a potful of the most beautiful purple flowers. She silently watched as her mother quietly unhinged the opening. She overheard her mother whisper to him that one day he may need to go. And that day could come if his gifted flowers would ever come to wilt.
As time passed and the three took walks together into the warm Paris evenings, Baby Helene found that holding his hand began to fill the hole that had been left in her heart.
One night late, the man quietly awoke to the patter of small bare feet walking toward the flowersill with water held in tiny cupped hands. He felt his moment of need when she lifted herself onto her toes and emptied her hands into the pot that held those beautiful purple flowers.
****