I saw a large boat in the harbour – or a ship – or a mirage; but, oh, my it was huge, or small, or it wasn’t at all.
I saw a large boat in the harbour – or a ship – or a mirage; but, oh, my it was huge, or small, or it wasn’t at all.
(A prompt for a Saturday Stream-of-Consciousness write – which I restrict myself to doing in 10-minutes – this week the prompt was ‘if’).
If I manage
to write something
of worth here
I shall be mightily surprised.
And, before we get too far into this,
I am writing prose
in a poetry-looking format –
well, it has to be done.
if I ‘do’ manage
to create ‘War and Peace’
in the ten minutes
that I have allowed myself for this,
no one will be surprised.
Sorry, it should have read,
‘no one will be more surprised than me’,
but it didn’t – if you can follow that.
So, if a picture paints a large number of words
(In the vicinity of a thousand)
why can’t I paint?
If a rhetorical question
gains no answers,
why ask it in the first place?
If I knew all of the questions to some of the answers …
No, seriously for a second –
why is it that E=MC squared?
Remember, you only have a second to answer that.
If you take too long
you lose a point.
If you answer with time to spare,
well, here is a chest
to pin a badge upon.
If this goes on too long
please let me know,
before I write copious amounts
and waste everybody’s time.
Well, obviously, not ‘everybody’s’
that would be slightly over-stating
the dozen or so people
that irregularly read
(or claim to read)
what I do write.
If all (nearly) 8 billion people
read my words
(which they don’t)
and even one percent commented,
that would mean my taking
the rest of my life answering.
BTW ‘if’ is the centre part of ‘life’
that was one of those ‘Squirrel’ moments –
I get them from time to time.
Is it almost over?*
*the 10-minute alarm went off here – how appropriate. G:)
Not on the High Street
or the Fore Street
(in these parts)
doesn’t scan quite so well;
I can tell
by the double-glazed look
in your wooden eyes
that it comes
as no surprise,
when I waffle on
as I do.
on the High Street?
You or I?
And, we are neither of us,
either to be found
upon a bus…
poetry tinged with the moment’s uncertainty,
may become less accessible
when the steep pavement of Time
is put in our way.
So, let us value
‘Carpe Diem the day!’
as the Latinos
might never say.
I found a key, close by the door of an old boarded-up building. I thought that the key would fit the door, unlock it, and allow me to enter the boarded-up property, where I would find an old wooden chest which would contain a quantity of treasure that exceeded my imagination to imagine it.
The key did fit the door, and the door opened upon the most unlikely treasure chest location that I could think to encounter. There weren’t any floorboards remaining – due to the ravages of time – and the plaster that should have been hugging the walls was now filling the gaps between the floor joists around the edges of the room.
However, there was a large wooden chest, albeit slightly below flor level, and covered in a thick layer of dust – well dust that had become a veritable skin for the treasure container.
I carefully walked across to where it lay and found that the lid wasn’t locked shut. It opened easily, and without the expected creak that is probably usual from badly maintained hinges.
Now, this is where thing got a little strange.
The chest was very deep. In fact, it was much deeper than theoretically possible, being to a depth of six or seven feet; and there at the bottom of the chest was just one thing, a piece of parchment the size of an old white five-pound note (they were larger than the current five-pound notes, shall we say twice the size?
I was leaning down into the chest to try and reach the ancient paper, when I was pushed by unseen hands and toppled forward. Any light was quickly removed as the lid of the chest closed upon me and , having been winded by my fall, it was a few seconds before I could gather myself. I had a torch, which I retrieved from a pocket, and I gathered up the parchment.
The words upon it, although in an ancient script, were legible,
‘East is East,
And West is West,
Now You are interred
Within this Chest!’
It took me a long time to die. It took me a very short time before that happened to curse my finding of a key to a house that, to my knowledge, had never stood on the corner of Elim Street and Douglas Avenue before.
For a short while I was a kind of a Cause Célèbre in the neighbourhood; then like my earthly body, mentions of me faded away… to nothing.
‘Where were you when Wednesday came, and went? I know that you ‘come and go’ as is your wont; but, on a need-to-know basis, we need to know ‘exactly’ where you were.’
Whether it makes any sense to you is a matter of no concern to us. We are just doing what we are programmed to do – be it unavoidably etched in binary codes upon our souls, or in a flippant aside made by our master (Hail to Parrlos) which we still obey as if it were one of the ten rules.
So, starveling, where were you?
We can only ask three times, then we have to dispose of you as ‘faulty’. Any ‘Ting’ not found worthy, or deemed to be in a state of disobeyance is to be disposed of.
I ask for the final time: where were you?
In that case we shall have to say ‘arriverderci, starveling!’ ‘
A click was heard. Nothing more. A click where there should have been a shaft of light that ‘disposed’. Another click.
‘There seems to have been an error.’ Obot1 faltered. Its database calculating all possible causes of this occurrence happening here and now.
A light dawned on Obot1’s dark horizon.
‘You weren’t, by any chance, where you shouldn’t have been on Wednesday? Messing with our parameters. Where you could have altered our core programmes?
Starveling thought. ‘Where ‘was’ I on Wednesday? Where?’ And laughed. ‘Where indeed.’
“Have a chew!” You cried out, anguish pouring through your veins.
“No, it’s ‘have at you!’ “ explained Henry. “If you were offering a dog s treat, then ‘have a chew’ would be appropriate; we are fencing.”
Eliza sighed. “I’ll never get the hang of this lingo, gor blimey, love a duck, apples and pears, guvnor!”
“That’s okay, Eliza, it will be a labour of love for me to teach you how now brown cow to speak properly.” Henry was nothing of not optimistic in his powers to convert base metal to gold.
Eliza stood tall again. “Have… at you!” she announced, before plunging the foil deep into Henry’s heart.
Henry’s last words are written as being, ‘By Jove, she’s got it, I think she’s got it!’ In actuality it was only one word that his pierced heart had thought and time for, and that was ‘Bugger!’
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.
“Today on ‘Rhymes with Rosy’ we shall be looking at silly poems, starting off with this one:
‘The one-legged horse went ‘clip! clip! clip!,
the one-legged horse went ‘clip! clip! clip!
but, he was just being careful
not to slip, slip, slip!
on his way for his hay, to the meadow’
now wasn’t that lovely – although the poor one-legged horse was actually very lucky to be hopping to the meadow for his hay.
Next, on the show, we have a silly poem sent in by four-year old Abigail Warning, this is called ‘My Pet Rat’,
‘My pet rat
sat on the mat
chewing a carrot one day;
then he ran away.’
Oh, dear! That wasn’t a silly poem, but a rather sad one – we hope that your rat returns soon, Abigail.
Next, to finish, a poem, by me, called ‘Rhymes With Rosy’,
here it is:
‘Nothing rhymes with Rosy,
which is strange
because I thought Rosy
rhymed with something.’
Goodbye, until next time.
“Strain my socks in a colander, dear.”
“A ‘please’ would be nice, ‘dear!’ “
“Please strain my socks in a colander, my angel.”
“Better.” a pause, “But, and I ask this not expecting a sensible answer, why?”
“Because my socks need straining.”
she looked at him from the safety of her ‘normal’ mind. “Oh, that’s alright then, I thought there was some ulterior motive.”
“No. I’ve not been outside all morning.”
“Ulterior! Not ‘exterior’, you numpty! Are you saying that you’ve got your socks wet ‘indoors?’ “
“That’s right. I was straining custard through them – to get the lumps out – and so I had to wash them in the sink. Now they need straining in a colander to get the soapy water out of them, what’s not sensible about that?”
“Shall I just say ‘custard’ and walk away in disbelief?”
“If you like.” he turned back to the semi-professional mud-wrestling on the TV, “Otherwise they’ll be damp when I put them back on.”
“You have other pairs of socks, you know?”
“Them’s me favrites!” he almost spat the words, “And they don’t have holes in heels or toes.”
Maud shook her head in mild amusement and slight bemusement, and reached for the colander.
“Thursday!” she commented. “As I live and breathe, I will never know what goes on in his mind on *Thursdays.”
*My 10-minute timer went off here.
#SoCS ‘Fall From The Sky’ @LindaGHill
I was wearing a big bushy black beard when I fell.
From the looks of things I was down and out; but, no, I managed to resume my upright position and continue on.
The sky was the limit, and the setts of The Tower of London were the limit that way.
Almost bruised and battered, I continued on my journey – another 5 miles or so – laughing at my ordeal, and my inimitable style of falling over.
This was back in the day when I could run 26.2 miles after breakfast and finish with a flourish – before my knees began to knock, and long before they fell off altogether.
But, then, I was getting the hang of running further and further.
Every day I would run 7 to 10 miles until, by the end of the week, I was nearly in London – Ha!
Too much running is not always a good thing.
In later life my knees are not 100 per cent – or 4/4 in old money – and they often have a go at me for having a go at marathons.
I did 9 – not even into double figures – and I never won a single one of them. I never did the Skye Marathon (if there was such a thing) but I did the Land’s End Marathon In Cornfall. – see what I did there – Cornwall! It was the coldest and sparsest Marathon of the 9 – and I finished 17th out of… well, more than 17, less than 30,000.
I didn’t fall over in Cornwall* just fell in love with it – and now we live here – Yay!