Magpie 213

 "I can't stand that wallpaper, Fred!
That great moth hanging over the bed!
And how could you choose
Those bare legs (with tattoos)?
Please, can't we have rosebuds, instead?"

"Darling, rosebuds are terribly twee.
They'd suit you, but would  never suit me.
We could both compromise
With rosebuds on those thighs,
And a nice little flower on each knee?"

"Oh, let's not have wallpaper at all!
We could just demolish the wall.
Then we'd have a nice view
Of the bath, and the loo,
And a glimpse of the stairs and the hall."

They set  too with a will (and some tools),
They ignored regulations and rules.
They were finally found
Six feet underground
Crushed by rubble. Poor ignorant fools.



(With thank to Tess at Magie Tales for the picture)

How some scientists spend their time

Three recent piece of "research":

1. One has concluded that the reason for the menopause is that if women continued having children for the rest of their lives, then their grandchildren would have to compete with these new babies for food. Did anybody bother to ask a woman before wasting their time on this rubbish? Have any of them tried running after a toddler all day after, say, the age of about 55, or coping with those endless broken nights? Did it not occur to them that women have to live long enough to see their children out of the nest (men, it would seem, do not)? If we women carried  on breeding for ever, there would be octogenarians running in the mothers' race on sports day, and breaking their hips.
 

2. The reason brides (apparently) put on an average of five pounds after their weddings is still not conclusively proved. Well, here I (or again, any woman) can help. You know that ever-so-slim dress the bride wore at the last wedding you  went to? Did you honestly think she was always that shape? Of course she wasn't. Brides put on weight after their weddings because they no longer have to fit into their frock. Guys, why didn't you ask a bride? It would have saved you  a lot of time.

3. Women apparently reach their sexual peak at 31. Really? How do the researchers know? Can anyone reading this identify the age at which they reached (or hope to reach) their sexual peak? What is a sexual peak, anyway? I can barely remember being 31, never mind sexual peaks.

4. (This morning's Times) Goats are intelligent.

And we're supposed to be in the middle of a recession.

Magpie 212

MODERN ART

"Now, this is Tracy Emin's bed,"
The gallery curator said.
"Next door, you'll find a cow and calf,
Sawn (by Damien Hurst) in half.
These sell for bucket-loads of cash,
But me? I think they're utter trash."


(With thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the picture)

Marmite (2)

The woman was carrying a heavy bag containing what looked like twenty four jars of Marmite.

"That's a lot of Marmite," someone observed.

"I love Marmite," was the reply. "Arnold couldn't stand it. Said he was allergic."

"All those additives, perhaps?"

"No additives. Just yeast extract and vitamins."

"Is that so?"

"That is so. It says so on the jar."

She took the bus to the seaside. Arnold had hated the seaside, too. There were a lot of things Arnold had hated. He had quite probably hated her.

She left the bag on the shingle and paddled in the sea. Arnold had hated paddling. She then sat down beside her bag, and ate her picnic of Marmite sandwiches.

Arnold had had Marmite sandwiches for his last meal. She'd told him the sandwiches were cheese. He only managed one bite, though, as it turned out he'd been right about being allergic. By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late.

She waited on the shingle until the tide came in,  then she went to the water's edge and threw each Marmite jar far out into the sea. They landed with twenty four little splashes. Twenty-four splashes of ashes. Twenty four little bits of Arnold.

Revenge can be savoury, as well as sweet.

Marmite

Oh my dear, you look terrible, what have they been doing to you, I thought you might like a visit, I'll sit here on the edge of the bed if no-one minds, I bought you these, I always think they're nice and easy to eat, no pips of course, they might get stuck under your plate, oh no, you're not wearing your teeth, are you, I see them in a glass on the table, now what have I got to tell you, the woman down the road, the one with the funny hair and the nose, I told you about her before, she was burgled, and you'll never guess what they took, just a necklace and a jar of Marmite, fancy that, stealing Marmite, did you ever hear anything like it, I hope you won't mind me eating just one of these, I didn't have any lunch, not even a Marmite sandwich, haha, I can't get that burglar and the Marmite out of my head, silly isn't it, I mean the necklace you can understand can't you, but not the Marmite, it's not as though he would be able to sell it or anything maybe he just liked Marmite, but then most people can afford to buy their own Marmite, oh dear you're not looking too good and you've gone very quiet, do you want me to call a nurse, or a doctor, you're not breathing and your eyes look all funny, I'll press this bell shall I, and get some help, but I do wonder how anyone could actually notice they were missing a jar of Marmite....


(I have absolutely no idea why I wrote this, but never mind. That's the nice thing about blogs. You can just go on and on and on and no-one has to read it.)

Posh food

I've posted about this before, but it bears repeating.

We've just got back from two nights in a (beautiful) posh hotel (anniversary treat). Room, service, staff all faultless. But oh, the food...pretty little (actually, minute) arrangements which closely resembled  the 'gardens on a dinner plate' children's class at the village show when I was a kid (but a lot smaller). You know the kind of thing I mean; pretentious, esoteric, exotic  (smoked cods' eyes on a bed of baby pine needles and Japanese cress seeds). And all adorned with a dribble of 'jus' (when did a sauce become a jus? Do you serve food with a jus? What exactly is a jus?).

My best friend lost her sight several years ago. I often try to imagine what it's like to suffer this terrible deprivation. What on earth would she have made of all this?

It made me dream of fish and chips (and I usually only dream of horses, heights and deadlines).

Talking of knickers..

...which I was, a post or so ago, I was reminded of the disastrous bright blue knickers with which my unconventional mother equipped me for grammar school. I was scarred for life by those knickers. They feature in my novel, The Birds, The Bees and Other Secrets, as does a mother who closely resembles mine (I just came across the  unedited proofs of the novel, while searching for scrap paper, and suddenly thought this was an ideal opportunity for a tiny bit of advertising. I am quite exceptionally  bad at advertising, so please bear with me. Fellow-writers will understand.)

Mum was packing my school trunk, the uniform list at her side, piles of clothes scattered over the bed.

“Skirts, navy, two. White blouses, five. Five white blouses? Whatever do you need five blouses for? Three should be plenty.” She ticked them off her list. “Long grey socks, six pairs. Six pairs of socks? You’ve never possessed six pairs of socks in your life. What can they be thinking of. I’ll send four.”

We had already been through all this in the uniform shop, so I didn't take too much notice. After all, no-one was ever teased for having only four pairs of socks.

The knickers were another matter.

Typically, my mother had refused to buy underwear at the uniform shop where, it has to be said, the prices had been craftily hiked up to match the prestigious standing of the school. Knickers and vests could be bought anywhere, she reasoned. There was no point in paying the earth for knickers and vests.

“I’ll get them, Cass,” she’d said. “No need for you to come with me this time.”

She had returned in triumph.

“Really cheap, Cass. A bargain, and good quality, too. One hundred percent cotton.” She tipped out her purchases onto the kitchen table. “How about that?”

To this day, I shall never know how my mother managed to find royal blue knickers. School knickers, as everyone knows, come in bottle green, grey, or navy. No-one wears royal blue knickers. No-one (as far as I know ) even sells royal blue knickers.

“But Mum - they're the wrong colour.”

“Blue. They’re blue. Nice bright blue knickers.”

“But the list says navy! I can’t wear those. I’ll get into trouble.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cass. Of course you won’t. Who’s going to see them, anyway?”

“Everyone!” I wailed. “Everyone will see them. I’ll have to do gym in them. It says so on the list.”

“Oh, gym!” said Mum dismissively. “What does it matter what you wear for gym? It’s not as though you’re going out in them.”

This is exactly what happened to me. I never quite forgave her. And I never found out where she found those horrible knickers.