Tag Archives: #prose

One Day, On The Farm.

One Day, On The Farm.

Why do herds

suddenly appear…?

Maybe it’s because you’re a farmer carrying a large bale of… hey!

What?

Those cows.

Yes?

They’re herding this way.

Ah! I see, you are a punster.

Yes, and the name farmer is derived from the old ‘Fermor’ which meant tax-collector.?

But, my name is not Farmer it’s Doug. And I have a shovel.

“Clang!”

Touché, Doug.

That’s Mr. Doug, to you.

Touché, Mr. Doug.

Précisément!

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In the Garden

In the Garden

On any given Sunday

(for they are truly ‘given’)

you can find a person

(not a parson – they will be in a church)

in the garden;

or, if they are not there,

then they shall be found somewhere else.

I can say no more than this,

as even saying this

has stretched my resources

to near breaking.

PS this is not a poem

(even if it looks like one).

Notice

NOTICE

This is a lamp post,

it is ‘not’ for putting poetry on –

so, please do not do so.

Anyone found putting any sort of poetry

upon this post will be given a long custodial sentence – in prose!

“Sing a Song of Sixpence!”

“Sing a Song of Sixpence!”

(LWG prompt for 20-08-2019:)

“Sing a song of sixpence”

sang Simon’s sister, Sue.

“Four and twenty blackbirds

set out for Timbuktu.

“Alliteration and rhyme?” she queried;

“That will never do.”

“She sells seashells upon the seashore;

she has sold a lot of seashells,

but there are many millions more.

“I shouldn’t really rock the rhyme…

contemplated Sue,

“But, bees and fleas all come in threes;

hoopoes and gnus are found in twos.”

Sue sighed sadly,

“Song, song blue, ev’rybody knows one;

bing bong boo, Benny bought a Bath bun.

Four and twenty blackbirds

waiting for a worm;

Four and nineteen blackbirds,

they fidget and they squirm;

one little blackbird,

I think his name was Spot,

was cool, calm and collected,

and he squirmed not a lot.”

One, two, buckle my shoe,

Three, four, ‘Knock! Knock!’

“Who’s there?” I had to stare

at the monster shyly standing there.

“Trit trot! A troll I’m not,

even though I seem one,

as I look like a fridge,

and live under a bridge,

I assure you, I’ve never been one.’

‘Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,

And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;

For many a year he had gnawed it near,

For meat was hard to come by.

Done by! Gum by!

In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,

And meat was hard to come by.’

(JRR Tolkien)

A sixpence is, or was, a coin of currency in England back in the days when England had an umpire – or was it when there were werewolves and vampires? Anyway, it was certainly a long time ago. I received my first sixpence in the reign of Elizabeth – the second, not the first – when it was worth the price of a bag of chips, a small haddock, named Ernie, and as many peas as you could mush. Nowadays, it won’t even even be enough to buy you a single pea (mushed or unmushed) – this is largely due to the invention of Decimalisation by ten Frenchmen called Frank back in 1000 AD. They decided that all measurements should be in multiples of dix. It wasn’t until the early 1970s – when the English translated an old document, from the time of Edward The Something, that it was realised how ‘beneficial’ a new currency would be.

Six ‘pence’ became two and a half ‘p’ and the humble sixpence was consigned to history. Six ‘p’ is not sixpence – and don’t let any Tom, Dick, or Harriet tell you that it is.

Back in the time of the sixpence proper, even musicals were written based upon this famous coin: ‘Six Brides for Sixpence’, Around the World in Eighty Days (for Sixpence), and ‘Half a Sixpence’; because, yes, the coins of the realm could be cut into pieces. A sixpence could be cut into six equal pieces, all worth one penny, or into halves, equalling two half of three pennies’ worth.

‘Half a sixpence, is better than half a thruppence, is better than half a penny, is better than half a farthing (a very small penny worth an eighth of a penny) is better than nothing at all’ so the song from the musical went.

This mnemonical phrase was taught in mathematics lessons up and down the country, all the way from Southwark to Camden from 1963 to 1971 – when it was dropped from the curriculum due to it’s umpirical leanings – remember, England now no longer had an umpire.

‘Sixpence, My Love’ is one of the most loved songs in the famous West End musical ‘Cabaret, English-Style’ where ‘Sixpence makes the world go round, the world, go round, the world go round;

Sixpence makes the world go round,

it makes the world go round!’

Yes, pop another Sixpence in the slot and the world shall revolve around its axis for a full three minutes – or one point eight Metric Minutes.

And, also, being a round coin, the Sixpence was exceptional useful if, for any reason, you needed to roll a coin – you try rolling a modern day twenty or fifty ‘p’ coin – even the pound coins have lost the ability to roll properly!

So, sing a song of sixpence in memory of the coin that gave us a gallon of petrol, a pint of beer, a ha’penny of starch, and still change enough for a ride on ‘tram.

‘Co’ #SoCS, @LindGHill

‘Co’ #SoCS, @LindGHill

See here for Linda’s fabulous WordPress sited

The room was quite…

well, quiet.

Copious amounts of the absence of noise.

Consequently, when I heard a pin drop, I was startled to say the least,

“The least!”

Thank you.

Who had dropped the pin, I did not know.

I looked around – I was not a square.

Pin’s location and hurler, I knew not where. Nor did I care.

I picked up the pin, and remembered the rhyme:

‘See a pin, pick it up, all the day you’ll have a pin.’

which never made sense to me.

‘Cobalt is a colour: it could be brighter, it might be duller.’

which is something I’ve just made up – is there no beginning to my talents?

“Indigestion, My A**e!” – the musical.

“Indigestion, My A**e!” – the musical.

From an original idea by

Golden Sack Productions

Featuring a motley crew of scallywags and ne’er-do-wells

In the prequel to the sequel of…

Not the Monty Python’s Flying Nine-o’Clock News Circus’s…

Screen adaption of the book of the novel of the graffiti of the recipe of…

The stage musical of the freebie…

Of Mark Goldsack’s

Acclaimed inversion of a Chekhov (not from Star Trek) play, set in 18th century Venice (or Burnley)…

The reward-winning…

“Indigestion, My A**e!”

No Repetition Story (WIP)

No Repetition Story (WIP)

(200 words without repetition.

Any comments gratefully received) – G:) )

“What are you doing?” shouted Lady Melanie Montmorency. “Get out of my brand new jacuzzi immediately!”

Brendan o’Briain leapt about three feet skywards into clear air at his landlady’s voice, unwillingly exposing a pale nakedness for her Ladyship’s unwanted delight.

“Sorry!” was heard uttered upon the Irish lumberjack’s sudden departure.

“Funny fellow; but, so well endowed.” sincere sounding approval soaked smoothly within those virtuously aristocratic words.

Disaster avoided, said water-filled garden feature, receiving some needed cleansing attention, soon returned to its former glory.

Later, ‘Dive-In Thursday’ commenced; all behaved impeccably; ubiquitous aperitifs were copiously imbibed, perky petit-fours neatly nibbled, clandestine conversation eloquently colluded.

Observing proceedings, Tangworthy Times’ lead reporter, Mrs. Fenella Finglewort, vividly reported: ‘absolute debauchery, total mayhem, flagrant philandering – so jealous!’ Pictures left nothing unimagined.

Friday’s headlines read: ‘Upper Class Street Theatre Brings Down Lasting Shame!’ which nobody understood – heavy editorial restraints meant little, as subsequent salaciousness could be experienced per highly detailed pictures printed within.