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What Women Want Men to Know (Audiobook) by Barbara De Angelis

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The Ultimate Book About Love, Sex, and Relationships for You – and the Man You Love

It’s a book for women to give their men, something both sides can learn a little something and improve their relationship etc. It had some good reminders. Warning… lots of etceteras ahead.

I get straight to the summary:
- Women put love first so when women say I’ve been thinking about you and you know doing and saying the things men see as clingy… it’s just that they want to show the men their feelings and not being needy. Like when the man is busy at the office and she’s waiting at home (how typical) she is worried about him but does not want to disturb him, so much is going on in her mind also the notion about cheating so when the man comes home she’ll say she was worried or ask why he didn’t call etc. This is where the man should not be upset because he feels like he has to report his presence and treated like a suspicious character etc. He should acknowledge that this is her way of show love, worry etc.

- Women are always in their love room. Men can go in the love room when other rooms are sorted. And even if women are not in the love room they can drop everything and go their in a jiffy, not so for men. So say a couple had an amazing holiday together and now it’s time to go home. The man is out of his love room and in his navigation room, planning room, etc rooms. This is where the woman will feel some change in the connection. We’ve all been there. Woman and men spend a bunch of time together and still after all that she wants more and he either laughs it off or shows his frustration about her clingy/needy-ness. Again men just need to acknowledge it and women need to understand mens rooms.

- Another thing about rooms is that men don’t feel the need to share the other rooms with their partners. Reasons could be she wont understand, it’s not important, it wouldn’t be manly etc.

- Women create. From warm inviting homes to creative with make up, dressing up, food prep and also negative things like drama and imaginary situations. Now the two ways women create are manifest where they make new things, or recreate themselves etc or they improve so their creative energy goes into making things better.

- Funny line: At some point in the book Barbara tells the men to simply ask ‘What is the matter’ ‘What’s wrong’. Just found that entertaining.

- She gets into the history of how men used to protect the family and the woman did not know if he’d stick around or get a pregnant and leave etc. Things about primitive brain conditioning. So to men showing love is providing and protecting and they think thats it.

- Women’s 3 secret and very important needs are feeling safe, connected and valued. And women need to chill out on overdoing it. Barbara mentioned making the same mistake again and again where she made plans for a holiday. Flights sorted, activities sorted, everything sorted and her man reacted with something along the lines of you just want to keep tabs on me or suffocation, smothering. Again clingy/needy stuff. But she did all that because she wants to doing things together, make the bond strong and all she wants is to feel safe, valued and connected.

- Relationships, to women, are like babies. You have to nurture them constantly. Men know all the details about cars and sports and women would like men to put that much love and energy into them too. So give them the 3 A’s (the love diet). Attention, affection and appreciation. And give her love snacks too like a call to say I miss you, a kiss on the cheek, etc. Small things like thanks for dinner. So another thing men should do every night is say thanks for something. Barbara calls this the gratitude snack.

- Women like and enjoy making plans and wants the 3 A’s for her effort.

- Communication. When a woman says something the man thinks it’s something for him to do. She’ll say I want to do so and so and he’ll ask ‘why, is there a problem?’. Men should flip the script so they understand. Example – When a man says he wants sex and the woman would ask ‘why, do you want to make a baby?’

- Lots of usual stuff about what woman say and what it could mean while what men say is exactly what it means. One likes talking one likes being concise etc. Men are goal oriented, etc.

- Over to sex. So women need head and heart foreplay. Emotional foreplay. Hugging, hand holding, cuddling. Basically women need a lot of warming up. Then they need relaxed and free from distraction. So while a man only focuses on the ‘room’ he’s currently in, a woman is in the whole house. Barbara says foreplay starts hours or maybe weeks before ‘lovemaking’. Lol there’s talk about a method Barbara calls checking the roast where guys with try get the woman excited and check when she’s lubricated enough for him to jump in. She talks clitoral alignment technique… and there you go.

Ok so all the above is all well and good but I got to let out a little secret, there are things in this book men already know and don’t do it for a reason. All you get is one example – When a man does not talk much to his woman he’s just got things going on with him, it’s not that he’s upset with her or the silent treatment or anything like that. But a woman will see this as there is something wrong. So when when a woman is upset with a man she will give him the silent treatment thinking it’s punishment for him because she feels it is. Well guess what? Men sometimes disturb women on purpose to get the silent treatment.

As for my thoughts on the book… I’ve read better, more informative, more practical and much more positive books. The best so far is Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus. I don’t know when she wrote this book but it sounds primitive and the whole sex chapter… from my experience maybe 1 out of 10 women need that much warming up or they’re just always warmed up around me. I’m not laughing! Ok just a little bit. Anyway I think the vids on my post called ‘IMPORTANT: Men and Women Differences‘ are way better.

Contents
- Acknowledgments
- Introduction
- A Message to Women
- A Message to Men

Part I – What Women Want Men to Know About Us
1 Women Put Love First
2 Women Are Creators
3 Women Have a Sacred Relationship with Time
4 Women Need to Feel Safe
5 Women Need to Feel Connected
6 Women Need to Feel Valued
7 Seven Myths Men Believe About Women and Why They Are Absolutely Wrong

Part II – What Women Want Men to Know About Love, Intimacy, and Communication
8 How to Avoid Turning a Perfectly Sane Woman into a Raving Maniac
9 How to Be the Perfect Lover Outside of the Bedroom
10 Five Secrets About How Women Communicate
11 The Top Ten Male Communication Habits That Drive Women Crazy
12 What Women Hate to Hear Men Say and What Women Love to Hear Men Say

Part III – What Women Want Men to Know About Sex
13 Sexual Secrets About Women
14 Women’s Top Twenty Sexual Turnoffs
15 Women’s Top Twenty Sexual Turn-Ons
- Conclusion
- Contact Information

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DIAMOND PLAZA – JEWEL IN THE MASALA CURRY … from Priyan

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By Sunny Bindra

There it is, tucked away in Nairobi’s Highridge area: the strangest of shopping malls. Like some bizarre human-sized rabbit warren, full of confusing corners, surprising staircases and odd little businesses in basements, on roofs, in the car park. You almost expect Alice to pop up somewhere in this wonderland – except that Diamond Plaza, or ‘DP’ as we locals call it, is a purely South Asian phenomenon, and Alice would have to be called Alya, and be wearing a little salwar-kameez.

You can buy madafu in the car park at DP. Or watch others do it while sipping a coffee on a rooftop. You can get a quick haircut as the cars pile in, looking for that elusive parking space. You can buy newspapers from Mumbai, toys from Shanghai, bhindi from Limuru. You can have a prayer said for you by a priest in full regalia in a tiny mandir, no bigger than a closet; or pick a choice cut from a butchery not too far away. You can eat anything: biryani and pau bhaji compete with chow mein and burgers for your culinary attention; but Kenya’s own Maru’s bhajia and mayai chapatti take pride of place. Or you could just chew a paan all day long with your fellow idlers, watching the girls come and go.

You can come here to buy rakhis for your brother, barfi for your mother, kurtas for your father. You can buy firecrackers for Diwali, semolina for Idd and tinsel for Christmas. You’ll get the best mangoes in December and a range of affordable umbrellas in April. You can choose from a full range of the world’s tackiest decorative pieces to adorn your living room. Or you could give it all a miss and go somewhere quieter. And cleaner. And more refined. Nothing really happens at DP at ten in the morning: you can park anywhere you like and watch a couple of sweepers make half-hearted attempts to clear away yesterday’s debris. At ten o’clock at night, however, you’ll circle for ages looking for a parking slot, and may share a table with three other clans. But you can always do that peculiarly Kenyan Asian thing: eat in your car, en famille. Whatever you do decide to eat, you’ll have to contend with swarms of waiters, incentivised to the verge of dementia by tiny commissions on every order taken, waving menus in your face until you finally shout out what you want.

Diamond Plaza showcases the best of us: it has within its walls the quintessential business model. Lots and lots of hard-working, determined and shrewd hucksters who set up their stalls in minuscule cubby-holes, work all hours and turn a neat profit by maintaining a tight focus on what their customers actually need, at a great price. This is the most basic arena of free enterprise: it’s where the little people set up shop and take their economic future into their own hands. Individuals, families, communities and entire nations have lifted themselves out of poverty in this fashion, throughout history. It is chaotic and frenetic, and it works.

DP also encapsulates the worst of us: it is dirty, disorderly and not a little dangerous. There is grime and litter everywhere, and no one appears to care. Most of those bustling eating houses have kitchens that would fail a health and sanitation test in Hades. The walls and floors are often pock-marked with the hideous remains of someone’s paan, ejected casually. You would not want to visit a lavatory in DP.

Naked wires still hang loose from ceilings. Part of the place is always a construction site, with sand and cement piled up right outside shops open for business. What architectural plans are being followed, and what quality of materials is being used, are not questions you should waste any breath asking. You could spend a lifetime looking for a fire exit, and would not want to be around if someone dropped a lighter.

If you’re picky about probity and exacting about ethics, you might find it difficult to shop here. Most of the music and videos on sale are clearly bootlegged, and only the KRA knows whether any duties or taxes are being paid here. But for most DP shoppers those are laughably irrelevant issues, nahin? As one Mr Pattni pointed out to a Judge Bosire recently, we can’t go around checking whether duty was paid on everything we buy – whether we’re procuring billions of shillings of phantom gold or just the latest Bollywood bop track for a most attractive price.

And then there’s the people issue. It’s an open secret that most of the folk in those shops and eateries are ‘rockets’ – illegal immigrants from the sub-continent. Rumours about brothels have always abounded, and many a marriage was rocked during DP’s early days by husbands marinated in cheap whisky cavorting with dancing girls into the wee hours.

And yet, could it have been any other way? Perhaps we needed all those rockets to fly in and light up the place, giving us a live testament to the chaotic continent our forebears left behind aeons ago. Perhaps we needed a little India within the large Africa that is our home. Everyone is of immigrant stock in Kenya, after all: some wandered in from the Congo forest or down the Nile; others came in dhows under imperial order. Today’s pioneers are flying in on coach class on Kenya Airways.

Perhaps these busy little nouveau immigrants are happily doing what we pampered and lazy third- and fourthgeneration descendants can’t anymore: they’re working hard; they’re doing whatever work they have to do in order to get by; they’re saving most of what they earn, instead of squandering it on fripperies; and they’re providing service with a smile, rather than the studied scowl that most of their hosts have perfected.

Perhaps, when we open a free-for-all marketplace where all needs are met, we should not be too surprised when drunken debauchery is also traded. It only happens because people want it to. That kind of thing can never be blamed on the suppliers alone: the customers, our kith and kin, create the demand. Supply follows. Free enterprise usually turns out to have its godfathers, and DP is no exception.

And yet DP is evolving. Its worst seems to be past, and a brighter future may be shining through. The dancing girls are gone – or at least are out of plain sight. It’s cleaner and brighter than it used to be. Many of the music shops are offering ‘original’ CDs and DVDs – and are finding a customer base that is willing to pay a little more for quality and legality. A one-way traffic system with new exits is easing the perennial traffic jams. Shops are growing, sometimes buying out their neighbours to create more space and a better shopping ambience. There are more black Kenyan faces around – both in the shops and amongst the shoppers.

It could be so much more, our DP. It is already an example of unprompted, unplanned commerce at its best – perfectly in tune with its market without a planner in sight. It is already a showcase for spontaneous enterprise, a place where the goods of the world arrive to be met by willing wallets. It could also be a place where our wafrika and wazungu brethren come to shop and eat with us, and marvel at the composed chaos we wahindi revel in.

If we had more mutual tolerance, more belief in doing things right, and more acceptance of the laws of the land, Diamond Plaza might be a different place. But then it wouldn’t really be DP, would it? Most of its supporters love the place to death. Do they see the chaos, the disorder, the squalor? Heck, no. They see range, relevance and refreshing informality. DP is us. You want order, hygiene, careful planning, safety? Go to the Village Market. DP is an eruption, and that’s the way we like it. In any case we choose, because it’s a market: we vote with our wallets, or we vote with our feet. So far, the wallets have been winning.

Sunny Bindra is a writer and management consultant in Nairobi. He writes a weekly column for the Sunday Nation.

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Folklore and History of Glass Beads and how we use them today

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Folklore and History of Glass Beads and how we use them today

There are literally thousands of different types of glass beads, from gorgeous Murano-style
beads (these are Italian and can be expensive) to small seed beads used for apparel and home décor. Glass beadmaking has been around for many centuries, dating to as far back as 3,000 years ago, and are associated with the ancient Romans and Egyptians. Glass beads are used to make jewelry like pins, earrings and necklaces, as well as items like belts, handbags, clothes and jackets, and many other applications. Here is a brief folklore and history of glass beads: The Egyptians introduced new techniques to glass beads and beadmaking, such as mosaic work, and they used glass beads to replicate other precious stones like turquoise.

During the Mediterranean era, after the collapse of the ancient Egyptians, glass beadmaking was taken up by the Phoenicians (now known as Lebanon), using a technique called “Core”. The Etruscans also dabbled in glass beads during the same era as the ancient Phoenicians, combining polychrome glass beads with their gold beads. Next came the ancient Romans, who developed a large number of innovative techniques, including “Blow Pipe” to make lighter-weight glass beads. In Venice, Italy, the older techniques of ancient civilizations were once again brought back as mass-production of glass beads were on the rise. Glass beads now are used for jewelry making primarily, but also seen in apparel and accessories like belts and purses. For a stunning glass bead bracelet, you will need the following materials: approximately 15-20 millefiori glass chip beads (size should be between 4-7mm in diameter or length) and a length of memory wire or silk cording (if using memory wire, you will also need a claw clasp for the ends); to make this bracelet, simply string on the glass chip beads and secure the ends with the clasp. If you use silk cording, use knots between the beads and knot the ends for securing.

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Why Africa Will Not Progress by Field Ruwe… from Reens

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Field Ruwe

Why Africa Will Not Progress by Field Ruwe… from Reens
They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day.

“It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.”
Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist.

“My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat.
I told him mine with a precautious smile.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Zambia.”
“Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.”
“Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.”
“But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.”
My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who shuttle between Africa and the U.S.
“I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga. From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and the healthy.”
“Are you still with the IMF?” I asked.
“I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a check twenty times greater.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …”
He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has not fallen for the carrot and stick.”
Quett Masire’s name popped up.
“Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.”
At midnight we were airborne. The captain wished us a happy 2012 and urged us to watch the fireworks across Los Angeles.
“Isn’t that beautiful,” Walter said looking down.

From my middle seat, I took a glance and nodded admirably.
“That’s white man’s country,” he said. “We came here on Mayflower and turned Indian land into a paradise and now the most powerful nation on earth. We discovered the bulb, and built this aircraft to fly us to pleasure resorts like Lake Zambia.”
I grinned. “There is no Lake Zambia.”
He curled his lips into a smug smile. “That’s what we call your country. You guys are as stagnant as the water in the lake. We come in with our large boats and fish your minerals and your wildlife and leave morsels—crumbs. That’s your staple food, crumbs. That corn-meal you eat, that’s crumbs, the small Tilapia fish you call Kapenta is crumbs. We the Bwanas (whites) take the cat fish. I am the Bwana and you are the Muntu. I get what I want and you get what you deserve, crumbs. That’s what lazy people get—Zambians, Africans, the entire Third World.”
The smile vanished from my face.
“I see you are getting pissed off,” Walter said and lowered his voice. “You are thinking this Bwana is a racist. That’s how most Zambians respond when I tell them the truth. They go ballistic. Okay. Let’s for a moment put our skin pigmentations, this black and white crap, aside. Tell me, my friend, what is the difference between you and me?”
“There’s no difference.”
“Absolutely none,” he exclaimed. “Scientists in the Human Genome Project have proved that. It took them thirteen years to determine the complete sequence of the three billion DNA subunits. After they
were all done it was clear that 99.9% nucleotide bases were exactly the same in you and me. We are the same people. All white, Asian, Latino, and black people on this aircraft are the same.”
I gladly nodded.
“And yet I feel superior,” he smiled fatalistically. “Every white person on this plane feels superior to a black person. The white guy who picks up garbage, the homeless white trash on drugs, feels superior to you no matter his status or education. I can pick up a nincompoop from the New York streets, clean him up, and take him to Lusaka and you all be crowding around him chanting muzungu, muzungu and yet he’s a riffraff. Tell me why my angry friend.”
For a moment I was wordless.
“Please don’t blame it on slavery like the African Americans do, or colonialism, or some psychological impact or some kind of stigmatization. And don’t give me the brainwash poppycock. Give me a better answer.”
I was thinking.
He continued. “Excuse what I am about to say. Please do not take offense.”
I felt a slap of blood rush to my head and prepared for the worst.
“You my friend flying with me and all your kind are lazy,” he said. “When you rest your head on the pillow you don’t dream big. You and other so-called African intellectuals are damn lazy, each one of you. It is you, and not those poor starving people, who is the reason Africa is in such a deplorable state.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I protested.
He was implacable. “Oh yes it is and I will say it again, you are lazy. Poor and uneducated Africans are the most hardworking people on earth. I saw them in the Lusaka markets and on the street selling merchandise. I saw them in villages toiling away. I saw women on Kafue Road crushing stones for sell and I wept. I said to myself where are the Zambian intellectuals? Are the Zambian engineers so imperceptive they cannot invent a simple stone crusher, or a simple water filter to purify well water for those poor villagers? Are you telling me that after thirty-seven years of independence your university school of engineering has not produced a scientist or an engineer who can make simple small machines for mass use? What is the school there for?”
I held my breath.
“Do you know where I found your intellectuals? They were in bars quaffing. They were at the Lusaka Golf Club, Lusaka Central Club, Lusaka Playhouse, and Lusaka Flying Club. I saw with my own eyes a bunch of alcoholic graduates. Zambian intellectuals work from eight to five and spend the evening drinking. We don’t. We reserve the evening for brainstorming.”
He looked me in the eye.
“And you flying to Boston and all of you Zambians in the Diaspora are just as lazy and apathetic to your country. You don’t care about your country and yet your very own parents, brothers and sisters are in Mtendere, Chawama, and in villages, all of them living in squalor. Many have died or are dying of neglect by you. They are dying of AIDS because you cannot come up with your own cure. You are here calling yourselves graduates, researchers and scientists and are fast at articulating your credentials once asked—oh, I have a PhD in this and that—PhD my foot!”
I was deflated.
“Wake up you all!” he exclaimed, attracting the attention of nearby passengers. “You should be busy lifting ideas, formulae, recipes, and diagrams from American manufacturing factories and sending them to your own factories. All those research findings and dissertation papers you compile should be your country’s treasure. Why do you think the Asians are a force to reckon with? They stole our ideas and turned them into their own. Look at Japan, China, India, just look at them.”
He paused. “The Bwana has spoken,” he said and grinned. “As long as you are dependent on my plane, I shall feel superior and you my friend shall remain inferior, how about that? The Chinese, Japanese, Indians, even Latinos are a notch better. You Africans are at the bottom of the totem pole.”
He tempered his voice. “Get over this white skin syndrome and begin to feel confident. Become innovative and make your own stuff for god’s sake.”

At 8 a.m. the plane touched down at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Walter reached for my hand.
“I know I was too strong, but I don’t give it a damn. I have been to Zambia and have seen too much poverty.” He pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something. “Here, read this. It was written by a friend.”
He had written only the title: “Lords of Poverty.”

Thunderstruck, I had a sinking feeling. I watched Walter walk through the airport doors to a waiting car. He had left a huge dust devil twirling in my mind, stirring up sad memories of home. I could see Zambia’s literati—the cognoscente, intelligentsia, academics, highbrows, and scholars in the places he had mentioned guzzling and talking irrelevancies. I remembered some who have since passed—how they got the highest grades in mathematics and the sciences and attained the highest education on the planet. They had been to Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), only to leave us with not a single invention or discovery. I knew some by name and drunk with them at the Lusaka Playhouse and Central Sports.
Walter is right. It is true that since independence we have failed to nurture creativity and collective orientations. We as a nation lack a workhorse mentality and behave like 13 million civil servants dependent on a government pay cheque. We believe that development is generated 8-to-5 behind a desk wearing a tie with our degrees hanging on the wall. Such a working environment does not offer the opportunity for fellowship, the excitement of competition, and the spectacle of innovative rituals.

But the intelligentsia is not solely, or even mainly, to blame. The larger failure is due to political circumstances over which they have had little control. The past governments failed to create an environment of possibility that fosters camaraderie, rewards innovative ideas and encourages resilience. KK, Chiluba, Mwanawasa, and Banda embraced orthodox ideas and therefore failed to offer many opportunities for drawing outside the line.
I believe King Cobra’s reset has been cast in the same faculties as those of his predecessors. If today I told him that we can build our own car, he would throw me out.
“Naupena? Fuma apa.” (Are you mad? Get out of here)
Knowing well that King Cobra will not embody innovation at Walter’s level let’s begin to look for a technologically active-positive leader who can succeed him after a term or two. That way we can make our own stone crushers, water filters, water pumps, razor blades, and harvesters. Let’s dream big and make tractors, cars, and planes, or, like Walter said, forever remain inferior.

A fundamental transformation of our country from what is essentially non-innovative to a strategic superior African country requires a bold risk-taking educated leader with a triumphalist attitude and we have one in YOU. Don’t be highly strung and feel insulted by Walter. Take a moment and think about our country. Our journey from 1964 has been marked by tears. It has been an emotionally overwhelming experience. Each one of us has lost a loved one to poverty, hunger, and disease. The number of graves is catching up with the population. It’s time to change our political culture. It’s time for Zambian intellectuals to cultivate an active-positive progressive movement that will change our lives forever. Don’t be afraid or dispirited, rise to the challenge and salvage the remaining few of your beloved ones.

Field Ruwe is a US-based Zambian media practitioner and author. He is a PhD candidate with a B.A. in Mass Communication and Journalism, and an M.A. in History.

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PARACETAMOL (PANADOL) … from Mahendra

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PARACETAMOL (PANADOL) … from Mahendra
Panadol: (… a discovery background)
When we were in Mumbai (India), a learned History professor there told us that the Parsees (a group of Zoroastrians who immigrated into Gujarat in India) used to take their Dead & lay them to rest @ huge ‘Wind Towers’ (round structures that Look like Giant Water reservoirs, but open to the air)…The Parsees never buried their dead, nor burned them.They leave them to the Birds of Prey (Vultures) to be eaten thus completing the Life Cycle. Around 10 years ago, it was noticed that the Birds are dying off. Not many of them were left to consume the dead bodies (which started rotting away)…So, the Parsees had to change this mode of dealing with their dead.. BUT, they wanted to know why a Custom that survived for hundreds of years, had to be suspended?!!
They did Autopsies on Dead Birds (they were dying in huge #’s)..What was the Culprit??? PARACETAMOL (aka PANADOL)…!!
People started consuming pain-killers a decade ago, Panadol STAYS in the Liver for a Long Time…It ultimately accumulated in the Birds’ systems & they couldnt cope with it!

Interesting to know…

PANADOL

My husband was working in a hospital as an IT engineer, as the hospital is planning to set up a database of its patients and he knows some of the doctors quite well. The doctors used to tell him that whenever they have a headache, they are not willing to take PANADOL / PARACETAMOL.

In fact, they will turn Herbal Medicine or find other alternatives. This is because Panadol is toxic to the body, and it harms the liver. According to the doctor: Panadol will remain in the body for at least 5 years…..!!

And according to the doctor, there was an air-hostess who consumed lots of Panadol as she needed to stand all the time and work under lots of pressure. She’s now in her early 30′s, and she is undergoing kidney cleaning (DIALYSIS) every month.

Whenever we have a headache, that’s because it is due to the electron / Ion imbalance in the brain.

Some alternative solution to cope with this matter is Drink lots of water.

Another method will be to submerge your feet in a basin of warm water so that it brings the blood pressure down from your throbbing head.

As Panadol is a pain killer, the more Panadol you take, the lesser would be your threshold for pain (your endurance level for pain). We all will fall ill as we age.

Imagine that we had spent our entire life popping quite a substantial amount of Panadol (Pain Killer), when you need to have a surgery or operation, you will need a much more amount of general anaesthesia.

The thought is scary enough to turn me to Herbal Medicine or other healthier alternative. Value your health, value your life, THINK TWICE before you easily pop that familiar pill into your mouth again.

Please don’t take PANADOL always and try to send this e-mail to people you care.
Here in India it is sold as CROCIN or METACIN

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