No, this isn't linked to things such as boundaries when dealing with flaming, shaming, trolling and whatnot. (Not today!) I don't do that. Mostly because it can come across as a tad childish to put up a chapter that aims to incite harassment and hate, therefore I usually abhor it unless others are tarnishing me. (See my admin book for clarification.)
But rather, this is going to start off as a boring shitty arsed discussion on actual railings.
Why?
1: Because they intrigue me (History and whatnot).
2: Because I have a funny story to tell
As you know, railings were built to keep valuable things within your property and simultaneously, to keep ruffians and scoundrels off your land.
Yawn...
But, did you know (or care to know) that in England, as a whole, during World War 2, we had a nationwide shortage of steel. So, in 1940, many sets of boundary iron railings in The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland were removed. Cut off at the base.
Many terraced houses in every town and city, the stubs of where the railings were cut can still be seen. And, this whole endeavour of defacing someone's property was supposedly to provide scrap metal for munitions.
But, there was never any proof as to what happened to all the cast iron. Only that it was a worthless endeavour that the government never saw fit to admit. And, because it would be too costly to weld these sections of railing back into place on said garden walls, whence they were taken from.
All these metal railings inevitably ended up being buried in landfills across the country, or sunk in the North sea, Irish sea and the English Channel to create reefs I suppose. Alternatively dumped at railway sidings.
Right. Now that this history waffle is out of the way.....
Let me entertain you some....
It involves wrought iron railings again....
The things we do eh?
Five years ago, I was out celebrating a colleague's leaving do after her last nursing shift. We all partied hard in the public house across from our work place. Staying there far too late than was deemed necessary.
Anyway, cut to the chase. We decided that it would be a good idea to venture into the nearest town for the stronger stuff because last orders had been rung out.
So off we set, on foot. (Mostly because the majority of revellers were all pissed/merrier than Satan Clause!)
Sorry, Santa....
But, the nurse (the one celebrating) decided she wanted to place her leaving gifts in her car for overnight stowage.
And yes, her car was still in the carpark of the now locked up nursing home.
But noooo,
Damn her...
Rather than walk around to the open gate, (in her addled state) she deftly climbed the three foot high brick wall. Then cocked her leg over the additional three foot high iron railings.
I guess I should mention that these railings are additionally topped with fleur de lis spikes.
Oh the joys...
Anyway, she soon realised that the spikes were impaling her backside and muff. Therefore, as you do, I put my hand around said spike to avoid her having to explain to a paramedic how she ended up with a fleur de lis spike in her rectum/perineum.
Gods, it hurt my hand....
From passers by, driving at almost midnight through the byways of these lonesome shires, it probably looked like I was striking a pose whilst merrily fisting her backside.
Oh my.....
I was not drunk.
Merely preserving her nethers and her jeans and her dignity...
My hand....
My eyes....