Market Day

It was market day, so the square was crowded. There were rumours that Old Beachdrift had some new stock. No-one knew where he managed to source new supplies, but every few months or so he managed to bring some new stock to the market. There were rumours that his agents were moving further afield, out beyond the known seas in their search for fresh goods. They made good money and I was wondering if maybe I ought to think about setting myself up as a travelling agent while I was still young enough, at least for a few years or so, get myself a bit more put aside for a comfortable old age, if I lived that long.

Now, though, I was just there at the market to watch, to look, enjoy the spectacle and maybe learn a thing or two. If some chance of enriching myself came along, though, I would probably jump at it, despite the danger. In the busy market day taverns there was often talk of when a young man saw what was on offer at the market place, the sort of thing that only the rich men could afford, then the young man was willing to try anything, do anything, risk anything, to be able to afford something like that for himself.

So, when the first half-dozen chained women were led onto the stage and Old Beachdrift stepped up and asked what he was bid for the first one, while she was led up and down the stage, I was willing to risk it all just for the chance of owning some of that soft flesh myself.

The End of Stories

She would be there waiting for me each day. I did not want to disappoint her, let her down. She had been through enough disappointments for one life already. I did not want to be another one of those men whose dark shadows haunted her dreams and left her days hollow and empty.

I knew, though, that one day all my stories would be gone. One day, I would have no tale to tell her. One morning, she would come to me, expecting some tale of the woman she knew was her and how – somehow – she overcame the life she seemed destined to live, to break free into some new world where everything was possible once again.

This morning, though, I was reluctant to go to her. My bag of stories was empty. I had nothing left to give her. When I stared off, too, into that distance where the stories come from, there was nothing there to tell her, just the wind blown trees, all winter bare and cold.

When we met, she could see there were no more stories in my eyes, that I did not have any new tale to tell, so she sat me down under our favourite tree and told me the story of the storyteller who had no stories left to tell.

Vital Hallway Enhancement Issues

Of course, you may very well be the kind of person who has never – once – considered the possibility of enhancing the entranceway to your home with a life-sized plastic Thomson's gazelle. However, pause and think for a moment of the myriad advantages the placement of such a plastic mammal will henceforth have on your lifestyle.

Many poor unfortunates in this poor benighted world have never had the tremendous pleasure of having a life-sized imitation animal in their entranceway or hall. Never once have they had to pause in their progress around their dwelling space to negotiate their way around such an inconvenient obstacle.

Just think of the endless opportunities for reflection and philosophical speculation that having an inconvenience in your hallway offers. Not for you the blithe featureless progress through a place now made uninteresting by bland everyday familiarity. With such an imitation animal inconveniencing your progress you are forced to wonder just why you purchased such a – on the surface – useless item and from there it is just a moment’ speculation to discover other facts about your existence you never questioned before.

Therefore, it stands to reason that having a life-sized plastic imitation Thomson’s gazelle in your hallway is not only desirable but essential for your peace of mind. Don’t delay – order one today.

Toast Aplenty

Now is not the time to stand aghast in your local dolphinarium, especially if you have been stunned into immobility by an interlocutor with all the perspicacity of a wiper blade and the intellect of an educationally-challenged daffodil bulb. For we may be about to enter upon a new age of wonderment and intellectual fulfilment the like of which this planet has not seen since before the days of classical civilisation, or at least black and white telly.

Now, you would be right to question the veracity of my claim, merely by wandering down your local High Street on any day of the week. There witnessing the legions of moorlocks that gather there to gawp at the shiny things and to paw at their mobile phones with all the dexterity of thumbless simpletons attempting to open a greasy Cheese Quavers packet in the rain.

However, I while not gainsaying your scepticism, will however, point out that even though the world seems at times to be o’er brimmed with the less than endearing and their tendency towards dribbling incomprehension, there is – and there always will – in this the best of all possible worlds, toast aplenty and a myriad of marmalades.

As we know, marmalade exists in order to turn that which is merely miraculous – the buttered toast – into that which surpasses all of mankind’s arts, sciences, philosophies and ladies in the scantiest of possible underwear doing naughty things to each other… possibly in a bubble-filled bath.

So, do not despair, arm yourself with bread , butter and the finest of you marmalades and venture forth into salvation.

Oh, and while I you are in the kitchen, put the kettle on for a cup of tea, would you?

The Holy Spanner of Nhigel

Well, now. It has often been said – well, it has been said, according to the historical record, twice since the infamous Night of the Teaspoons – that someone in search of the famed Holy Spanner of Nhigel will – unless they find it, come to a rather unpleasant end, including vats of boiling oil and some rather dubious choices in knitwear.

Of course, it almost goes without saying that like all other supposed and purported religious tales the stories of Nhigel and his mates have little or nothing to do with the historical record. For, as we all know, religions distort, twist, deny and invent everything around them in order to make the reality fit their conception of how they would like things to be. In this, the Uttabollux religion is no different from any other religion. In fact, Uttabolluxism is itself far more cavalier about matters of historical veracity and fact than all the other religions combined.

For, as number 217 in the famous Utterances of Nhigel has it: ‘Truth, mate, is whatever you can get away with, know what I mean?’

Anyway, the Holy Spanner of Nhigel was – according to legend – the last tool Nhigel took from his toolbox on the night of the Last Kebab, the time when Nhigel was – according to the Uttabollux religion taken up to heaven on the back seat of an angelic mini-cab. Rumour was that Nhigel had taken the spanner from his toolbox in order to explain some rather tortuous theological concept to Barry the Tosser, one of the mates of Nhigel, when he was suddenly called to heaven because the Uttabollux God – The Skhighhibhoss - needed someone to fix his telly, which was on the blink again.

The next day – according to the legends – no-one could find Nhigel or his holy toolbox, even though they looked in several nearby pubs. The only earthly sign of Nhigel was his spanner, left near the unconscious body of Barry the Tosser.

Soon as the Uttabollux religion spread, the Holy Spanner of Nhigel became the most holy Uttabollux relic with pilgrimages made to Barry the Tosser’s house in order to worship the relic.

However, these days there are several Holy Spanners of Nhigel spread around all the strict Uttabollux countries, with – quite often – intense theological debate, often utilising invasions, heavy armour battles and air strikes, over which is the one true Holy Spanner of Nhigel.

Nibble My Trowel

This is the helicopter of your desire. I hold it in my hands and pray for rain. How that happens no-one can tell, especially when I have hidden the instructions. I keep my hand in my pocket at all times. I know too how the frog hops.

Shall I show you how to clean out your zebra enclosure, Deirdre? I shall let you become my zookeeper, and let you walk through my life with a bucket full of fresh fruit.

I know now what green means and I will always be your favourite adjustable spanner, right down to the last day of our spring viewing schedules.

Nibble my trowel.

Nibble my trowel.

I don't often ask how you name your own particular Tuesdays, especially not when it is Friday again, so don't ask me to dress up and pretend to be a whippet again, especially not now, now my thighs are so sore.

Let us pickle eggs together, naked in the moonlight. I shall always remember how you held my spatula, and the place where you kept all the interesting chins.

I shall vow, from this day forward, only to wear the clothing that bears the sign of the unwelcome Christmas gift, for I have seen what happens to useless Fridays.

Everything is Everywhere

Here, there and quite probably down the back of the sofa, or – if you are not careful – somewhere in the midst of Hartlepool. That is the trouble with stuff – it is all over the place. Although, if scientists are to be believed, and on the whole we should believe them, after all wishful thinking hasn’t got a patch on verifiable evidence – then there is stuff throughout the universe (and Wales).

Still, on the whole, it is probably better to be in a universe of stuff, because after all we are stuff too and if there was no stuff there would be no us. Admittedly, that would solve some of Earth’s more pressing parking problems and reduce the queues at nearly all the supermarket checkouts in the known universe, but it does – on the whole – seem rather a steep price to pay, even if it does make the place a lot tidier.

Of course, on the upside, it would solve humankind’s most pressing problem of finding a cure for religion and politics, but it would seem to entail a severe curtailment of existence. Which is always a bit of a bugger, especially if you spend those last few minutes of existence embroiled in some mundanity of existence like putting the bins out, rather than pondering the eternal verities, or doing something very rude indeed with a bevy of naughty acquaintances of your preferred sexual orientation and compatible level of erotic imaginings.