Seagull swoops,
loops the loops,
and captures the moment,
that you lost your food,
forever, in your mind
the bird that had designs upon your treat;
swiped by beak and feet
in one mad rush of adrenalin…
gone!
But not forgotten,
as the gull gulps
his Ill-gotten gains,
upon your parade fall the rains.
See here for Linda’s blog – G:)
Fore Street was busy – for a Saturday – and all the funny footfallers, as I called them, were searching for a bargain. Four ladies individually saw it, in the window of Barnecutt’s, and collectively swarmed into the shop to become the proud owner.
Four pairs of hands grabbed it and it would have needed a photo-finish for anybody to declare a winner. Unfortunately, once clasped by four times ten fingers (including thumbs as fingers – as you must do nowadays) the prize became a battle for ownership. The outcome was foretold by an ancient goddess as ‘the one who keeps a hold when all the others have relinquished their claim shall be the victor’.
And so the battle for the spoils commenced – the rest of Fore Street focussed on Barnecutt’s and the four combatants. First, and foremost, to crumble was a Mrs. Fortuna Fumble who lost a single hand hold and slipped on the tiled floor, incidentally catching herself on the Formica work surface, and her claim was lost.
The trio left fought tooth and nail for the cup of wonder; Fortitude Trennewick had the upper hand; Felicity Forsyth the lower; Fenella Fudge the Fourth was betwixt and between them.
It was at this moment that Fenella Fudge the Fourth’s estranged (and strange) husband arrived upon the scene and Fenella’s fortitude left her, and she left the competition for better or for worse (as it was to be her case).
Felicity and Fortitude fought further.
The force used to retain their handholds on the trophy of tempestuous was fierce and no forgone conclusion. First Felicity, then Fortitude seemed to have the upper hand…
Until, finally, by a forefinger and a thumb the hard fought Battle of Fore Street (as it came to be known) was over.
Fortitude had claimed the day. She held aloft the last (and, now, very much reduced) cream horn of plenty in the shop.
It didn’t look much, all forlorn as it was.
“I don’t need a microphone.”
Mumble, mumble, mumble.
We looked at each other.
“He really does need a microphone.” commented Trudy.
“Can you hear me at the back?” he spoke on.
We couldn’t. Our minds started to wander wherever minds unleashed will go.
“Did he say ‘The Spaniards are Revolting?’ “ asked Sparky.
“Doubtful.” I responded. “His speech was supposed to be about the mechanics of sporting achievement, or so I do think.”
“Oh.”
Our minds returned from whence they came. I wrote notes on a few ideas for possible stories of the future – like this one.
And a pleasant evening was had by all.
People like you.
No, really, people like you…
are hard to fathom.
six feet.
Tall.
Un-yous-you-all.
And different;
not the same;
unique;
more unique (if there was such a state of being);
one in a million (or seven and a half billion and counting)
amounting to all that you are.
A star…
ting pistol goes off and we watch the human race
from afar,
or near,
depending upon the weather
and whether
we are here
or there.
Take care.
Memories,
if I remember correctly,
is only memorise spelt wrong;
as ‘snog’ is ‘song’
and ‘prognol’ is ‘prolong’ –
and, so as not to ‘prognol’
this any ‘regnol’
I shall ‘pots’ now.
Tears have ears;
only little tiny ones,
ones that you can’t really see;
but, be aware,
that they are there.
Pangolin!
Frangipani!
No, Pangolin!
You wouldn’t eat a Pangolin?
No.
But you can eat a Frangipani.
Isn’t it an animal?
No. It’s… type of pasta… I think.
So, it might be an animal?
Well, okay, yes it might. I don’t know. It was just the first thing I came up with after your Pandolin – which I thought was a musical instrument.
Oh. It could be. Perhaps we should check these things out.
What, before we go public?
Are we going public?
Obviously. Who could keep our amazing banter under wraps?
Philately!
Careful, you’ll burst a blood vessel if you carry on like that.
Sorry.
H Anna H
used to play rugby
running from end to end;
she tryed to touch the down
of a passing duck
but was out of luck
and she did frown;
had to pretend
that she’d done so.
Naughty H Anna H.
Owan: Never say ‘rabbi’ in a boat.
Duloe: Rabbi? It should be ‘rabbit’, never say ‘rabbit’ in a boat; though, saying that, saying ‘rabbit’ in a boat doesn’t make much sense either, but it makes more sense than ‘rabbi’.
Owan: Yes. But, what should I be saying in a boat?
Duloe: ‘Land ahoy! Raise anchor! Shiver me timbers!’
Owan: When was the last time you went on a boat? 1780?
Duloe: I come from a long line of seafarers – it says so on my family tree. My father went to sea at Newquay, as did his brother, and my mother, too. Until they got bored and gave it up.
Owan: Your parents were ‘surfers’ and they went in the sea at Newquay to surf – with a surf ‘board’.
Duloe: How do you know all this stuff?
Owan: Because we are brothers.
Duloe: Oh. Did your parents also go to sea, then?
Owan: RABBI!!!!!
Their dog then proceeded to jump overboard.
Both: Oops!
“National Writing Day!”
Every day is a writing day
for me;
whether it be a day
when any writing gets done
or not
Is another thing,
and why I write my prose
in poetry format
is anyone’s guess.
Yes, I know
it confuses the reader;
but,
it also confuses
the already considerably confused
writer, too.
Graeme Sandford 