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Edna Pennywhistle's Chin Hair

Edna Pennywhistle was as bald as a balloon but for one solitary strand of sliver hair that sprouted from her chin. But what a hair it was. It grew at a phenomenal rate: six yards a day! Doctors explained: “In compensation for your otherwise baldness.”

In the summer giggling children would dangle from it whilst Edna swung them this way and that. Occasionally the hair snapped, dumping a child on its bottom or tossing it into the vegetable patch. But moments later, with tears dried and hair regrown, the game would resume.

Everyone agreed that such a remarkable hair should be put to good use. Uncle Eddie suggested Edna use it to abseil down to inaccessible cliff ledges and rescue stranded puppies.
Old Jack McPratt tempted her to tie a maggot to one end and use the hair as a fishing line. Reverend McVicar insisted her amazing chin hair was a sign from God-Almighty-Himself (though of what exactly he didn't say) and urged her to become a missionary in foreign lands, spreading the word and lending her hair as rope for various Anglican construction projects.

But years of living as a figure of fascination had their effect on Edna's mental wellbeing, and she developed darker ambitions. She took to using her hair to lassoo cats and fling them over walls, pull chairs away from elderly people in tea shops, garrott passing motorcyclists, and on more than one occasion she trained her chin hair into a dish, covered it in pasata and choaked an unwitting dinner guest.

But the hair that caused so much trouble was redemed when it one night it grew straight into an electrical socket and that was the end of Edna Pennywhistle.

Comments (0) . Sunday, 22 August 2010

Flies

Aren't flies really annoying? You know, when you've got a big fat one buzzing around your living room. Buzz buzzzz buzzzzzz.

It's not just the noise. It's the way they nearly fly into you and you think they might go into your mouth or up your nose.

And they're so dirty. Every time they land you think: "Where's that bastard now? I wonder if he's busy spewing digestive juices all over my lunch". 

We once had a fly trapped in our living room for so long it drove us nearly insane, but then we had the inspired idea of thinking of him not as an disease-ridden irritant, but as a pet. Pets have names so called him Terry. Instantly our hatred transformed into warm fondness for our new little friend. 'What's Terry been up to?' One of us would ask the other on returning home from work, "Oh just buzzing around." the other would respond laughing. 

We even stopped being annoyed when he landed on our hair and we worried for him if he went missing for a while, what with flies being such short-lived creatures, poor souls. 

Then we caught hepititus from some meat he spewed on, so we killed him with a newpaper. Bloody fly.

Comments (0) . Saturday, 7 August 2010

Slurp

I like to think of myself as being an enlightened, tolerant man. I eat many types of vegetables; I embrace people of different faiths, sometimes three at a time; and I hardly ever mock people who stammer (although I consider it my duty to point it out).  

But despite my unquestionable British fairmindedness, there's one thing that instantly makes me want to disregard my civilised self and go on a murderous rampage: people who slurp their drinks.

This morning there was a slurper in my train carriage. I watched him get on, clutching his grande-decaf-skinny-latte-whatever and amble to a nearby seat. The scruffy sod. I knew it was trouble; I have a sense for trouble of the slurping type.

Then it began, slurp, slurp, slurp. The bastard. 73 times he disturbed my karma. I counted them. Slurp, slurp, one slurp every three seconds. I timed them. Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp. God only knows how many slurps he'd have managed had I not taken action.

It was an instinctive; I wasn't really in control. I didn't even realise I'd opened my lunch box, reached inside and taken out the pork pie. So it was as much a surprise to me as anyone else when I threw it, hard, at his big, stupid, slurping face.  

The slurping stopped. I think I broke his nose. Some skinny-binny-grande-slurpachino was splashed over a few other passengers. You'd have thought they'd have inderstood really, but no, they seemed angry with me! The police were called. I was obliged to leave the train (two stops early). It was worth it though.

The waves, they wash over your face, but if you stay underwater long enough they wash away your skin.

Comments (0) . Monday, 2 August 2010

Following Rules (a cautionary tale for lighthouse keepers)

Bernard Lovel lived by the rules. No lighthouse was ever so diligently manned as his. Every duty was attended to with upmost commitment and thoroughness; even the most trivial and pointless regulation was followed exactly and to the letter.

“Without rules society would descend into anarchy” he would say. Then he'd declare: “A world without rules is a world without Bernard Lovel!" (which is about as close to a joke as Bernard ever got).

Such was his dedication that Bernard even maintained a list of his favourite lighthouse regulations, which he reviewed weekly (on Monday evenings at half-past-eight). The list seldom changed and the top item was always the same: Fire Drill. 

Bernard loved Fire Drill as others might love a happy child, an expensive HiFi, or a new artificial limb that is way better than the withered stump it replaces. He looked forward to the monthly Fire Drills like an excitable child looks forward to fireworks. And who could blame him? Fire Drill was so wonderfully rulebound.

These are things that had to be done: Firstly he would pretend to press the alarm button. Then he'd mimic making a distress call on the radio. Finally he'd don a high visibilty jacket and assemble himself on the large rock outside the lighthouse. He would not let himself back in until he had checked his name off on the staff register.

Unfortunately Bernard's slavish dedication to protocol was to be his downfall. For on on November 23rd 2009, Bernard found himself enacting Fire Drill during a Force 11 Storm. Other, less committed souls, might have deferred the Drill, but not Bernard: he stuck to his task like superglue sticks flesh to plastic.

Who knows what satisfied thoughts went through his mind as he sat on the rock awaiting his fate. Perhaps he felt a small wave of pride just before he felt the massive wave of salty water that swept him from the rock. But on the other hand, maybe he finally realised what a tit he'd been all along.

Comments (0) . Wednesday, 28 July 2010

Five A Day

Do you get your five-a-day? 

Yesterday I had seven, but the day before I laid in 'til midday and only managed three. Some days I don't have any at all. If you're clever about it you can take advantage of a three-for-two and two-for-one together and get five-for-three, see?  

Grandmother swore by having nine but would have none until a quarter to midnight and then stuff them all in one go. Uncle Teddy has his whilst hiding in the bushes and spying through his neighbour's bedroom window. The dirty bugger. Mother said you get used to not having any when you live on a submarine, but when you reach dry land you can't get enough.

According to my doctor you should always wash them first but I once had a girlfriend who prefered them caked in mud. She had an amazing appetite; one day we managed 23 between us. It was fun at first, but I just couldn't keep up with her and we split up. I should have eaten more fruit and veg I guess.

Comments (1) . Saturday, 12 June 2010