Friday 29 April 2011

Which One's the Princess, Daddy?

I didn’t know, or I did but forgot and all until Catnip reminded me that there was a Princess, and a carriage, and we had to watch it, and, and, and...
...We did. Have done. I had my day all planned and with hands ready to bang together, to dust things off and be jolly chuffed before moving on to the next breadbin of work. And here and the day has just begun. For in Tolly Maw it seems we are patriotic. The young men have gathered. We are off to retake the Crimea. Outside and crows are roasting whilst in great vats tripe sizzles in pints of old wives vinegar. Strangers are haggis and the children of the town have been armed, to beat the bounds, and make sausages of the unwary. Gawd bless our country ways!
I’d more normally be expected to stand up, to protest, and to scorn the very idea of such a wedding. But I don’t, and I won’t, and even with Paul relating every moment I’m just happy for so many, who are made all the happier by the day. That and because Stinker has been casting his usual bile on every mention of the wedding, and Stinker has a power, a power that makes the world contrary to his every view within three minutes of it being expressed. In person he’s rather a pleasant chap, but he likes to whisper through post boxes or with his speaking trumpet announce wherever he is, and he will insist on Paul going with him everywhere. He’s in hiding in Tolly Maw for wetly touching three cyclists to death – for not being cyclist enough.
So soon and indeed already starting there are street parties I knew nothing off, celebrations I am expected to attend, and doubtless dancing, merriment and it seems the ghost of Quentin Blake. Nice chap. It was his idea for me scrawl now, sweetly early, for later and there will be less time and half as much sobriety.
There is to be a great chicken-lip chow down. Chickens it seems have lips and it is true, else from where would the eggs come?   

No comments:

Post a Comment