It has been many months since our first visit to the buddha clan. I am pleased to report that King Pink Buddha was not usurped by 'disco buddha.' It seems the ginger goddess is fickle in nature and what she once considered shimmering in glorious light, soon became tacky over priced bits of broken mirror.
In fact, it seems King Pink Buddha has been rewarded for this difficult time where his throne was in disrepute. He has been given a jaunty tequila hat to emphasise his jolly disposition and make him the same height as the serene buddhas who flank him.
The ginger goddess has also bought him a pet. A tiny golden buddha, this buddha hangs round his neck and gives him nuggets of wisdom on all matters. In fact, yesterday, as King Pink Buddha was reaching for a second portion of coconut pudding, golden buddha whispered the calorie content in the dessert. With a heavy sigh King Pink Buddha realised where his moobs come from.
Despite the sobering health messages, King Pink Buddha has grown to love his little advisor and, goodness, the little guy has a cheeky sense of humour. Just the other day he was playing hoopla with one of the goddesses rings, tossing it over the serene buddhas pointy hats and chortling with merriment.
At this point, the ginger goddess wandered into the living room. Quick as a flash the buddhas froze as any good personified household object should when a real life person enters the room. She saw the ring on the pointy hat and laughed, thinking the brunette goddess had put it there, just part of her odd sense of humour. The brunette goddess thinks the ginger one did it, and is becoming concerned for her sanity.
But what of the rest of the clan? It has grown in size and personality. The buddhas are taking over the windowsill and beyond. General Pewter Buddha still tries to rule the roost, but as life is going so well for the buddha clan, as they are so loved and revered by the goddesses, he is more often than not ignored.
The most exciting new addition to the clan is... well, a female buddha. An unexpected twist to the tale! She is kept inside a glass house and gold flakes float about her person, adding to her beauty and mystery. The rest of the clan adore her and often lay lotus flowers at her feet. Sadly she cannot touch these flowers, her glass house restricts such contact.
But who of her male admirers will she choose? Will it be nearly headless buddha, the brave warrior who lost his head in a battle with the great emperor Christmaswrappingpaper, but was rescued with the speedy application of some glue? Or perhaps it will be giant golden buddha and his sidekick, not so giant golden buddha. Perhaps her protecter, the old, wizened and er, wooden rotting buddha will win her heart with his devotion and experience. Perhaps one of the serene buddhas will entice her with their sweet fables told with melodic voices. Or lazy buddha, laying back with a massive smile, bulbous belly and offerings to the gods will press her buttons? It is always difficult to foresee which way a lady's affections will swing.
King Pink Buddha is a little concerned with the new yearnings in his clan. All this idle chasing of a woman is distracting the buddhas from their true service to the goddesses. What if they notice? What if they are not appeased? The black sack of evil could take them all!
He is hatching a plan. A plan of sacrifice of lady buddha to the goddesses. Surely that will appease them?
However, it's pretty tempting to just have her for himself, that will stop all this ridiculous pining in the clan and what woman doesn't love a jaunty hat?
Besides, he is the king after all, it is he who should have a wife the entire clan reveres...
Showing posts with label sillyness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sillyness. Show all posts
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Dr Robotham and the 'evil' Roasted Penguin.
There was once a world where mice drove tube trains. The mice bloody loved it and you could hear them squeaking with delight through the trains PA system.
In this world, plays at the theatre would consist of women laughing and little else. And women in general were ruled by the pendants on their necklaces. As little girls, who had not yet been chained by the pendants desires for beauty and love, they would run amok in the fields filled with contentment and happiness.
When each girl hit 13, their fathers would construct a pendant that characterised what he wanted his little girl to be in life. Often, the fathers were kind and gave their daughters pendants of birds so they could continue to be free, although of course, still tempered by the need to be graceful. The girls who were given heart pendants were the worst off, for all they desired in life was the good love of a man, not an easy thing to find at any stretch.
For the daughter of Dr Robotham, there was only one thing her father felt able to give her... a robot pendant that he had named 'Mini Dr Robotham.' He hoped Mini Dr Robotham would guide his daughter through life without the shackles of love and vanity.
She despised Mini Dr Robotham all through school. While her friends had pendants of flowers, hearts, birds and keys (keys to the heart, get it?) she had a clunky robot with diamonds for eyes. But Mini Dr Robotham forced her to study hard, to be clever and disciplined. By just 16 she had already achieved great things.
By 26, she was a celebrated scientist, forging the way in the treatment of cancer. All day, every day, Mini Dr Robotham pushed her on, worked her harder, forced to strive for great breakthroughs.
It was then that she met a man. A fellow scientist who went by the name 'Roasted Penguin.' So called because when he was very angry or very excited about something, he would go red in the face and hop from side to side, like a penguin who had been shoved into a hot oven. Despite this unflattering characteristic, he was exceptionally good looking, kind hearted and in love with, well, Dr Robotham (because that is what she was now, although we'll call her Jennifer, to avoid confusion).
Of course, her miniature hated him and thought him evil. If his protégée was to sense Roasted Penguin's feelings it would stray her from the wrong path! She would forget all about order, good sense and discovery and her life would slide into daydreaming and gooey lovey doveyness (ick). These two traits were not productive! He had to keep her on the right path. Save her from the fates of other women who mooned and cried over men all day and made no real achievements in life.
Whenever Roasted Penguin smiled at Jennifer or helped out with some small deed in order to win her affections, Mini Dr Robotham's diamond eyes would blaze and cause Jennifer a small pain in her chest. He hoped this aversion therapy would put her right off the whole concept of 'love.'
Unfortunately for Mini Dr Robotham, Jennifer assumed the pains were pangs of longing for Roasted Penguin and a desire to no longer be lonely with just her work. For Mini Dr Robotham was merely a little robot and didn't understand the human need to be loved. Despite his best intentions and his attempts to keep them apart, Jennifer returned Roasted Penguin's feelings.
Happily, despite his concerns that their love would lead to a lack of productivity and sentimentality on the part of Jennifer, he was wrong. He had trained her too well to love like that.
And the old adage that two brains are better than one was certainly true here. On her own, Jennifer was a very clever woman, but with Roasted Penguin by her side, she was pure genius.
N.B. There is a man out there who actually goes by the name: 'Roasted Penguin.' I barely know this man and this story has nothing to do with him. I just really liked the name.
Similarly, there is a real person out there who goes by the name 'Dr Robotham.' This is a man I do not know at all and again, this story has nothing to do with him. I just really liked the name.
In this world, plays at the theatre would consist of women laughing and little else. And women in general were ruled by the pendants on their necklaces. As little girls, who had not yet been chained by the pendants desires for beauty and love, they would run amok in the fields filled with contentment and happiness.
When each girl hit 13, their fathers would construct a pendant that characterised what he wanted his little girl to be in life. Often, the fathers were kind and gave their daughters pendants of birds so they could continue to be free, although of course, still tempered by the need to be graceful. The girls who were given heart pendants were the worst off, for all they desired in life was the good love of a man, not an easy thing to find at any stretch.
For the daughter of Dr Robotham, there was only one thing her father felt able to give her... a robot pendant that he had named 'Mini Dr Robotham.' He hoped Mini Dr Robotham would guide his daughter through life without the shackles of love and vanity.
She despised Mini Dr Robotham all through school. While her friends had pendants of flowers, hearts, birds and keys (keys to the heart, get it?) she had a clunky robot with diamonds for eyes. But Mini Dr Robotham forced her to study hard, to be clever and disciplined. By just 16 she had already achieved great things.
By 26, she was a celebrated scientist, forging the way in the treatment of cancer. All day, every day, Mini Dr Robotham pushed her on, worked her harder, forced to strive for great breakthroughs.
It was then that she met a man. A fellow scientist who went by the name 'Roasted Penguin.' So called because when he was very angry or very excited about something, he would go red in the face and hop from side to side, like a penguin who had been shoved into a hot oven. Despite this unflattering characteristic, he was exceptionally good looking, kind hearted and in love with, well, Dr Robotham (because that is what she was now, although we'll call her Jennifer, to avoid confusion).
Of course, her miniature hated him and thought him evil. If his protégée was to sense Roasted Penguin's feelings it would stray her from the wrong path! She would forget all about order, good sense and discovery and her life would slide into daydreaming and gooey lovey doveyness (ick). These two traits were not productive! He had to keep her on the right path. Save her from the fates of other women who mooned and cried over men all day and made no real achievements in life.
Whenever Roasted Penguin smiled at Jennifer or helped out with some small deed in order to win her affections, Mini Dr Robotham's diamond eyes would blaze and cause Jennifer a small pain in her chest. He hoped this aversion therapy would put her right off the whole concept of 'love.'
Unfortunately for Mini Dr Robotham, Jennifer assumed the pains were pangs of longing for Roasted Penguin and a desire to no longer be lonely with just her work. For Mini Dr Robotham was merely a little robot and didn't understand the human need to be loved. Despite his best intentions and his attempts to keep them apart, Jennifer returned Roasted Penguin's feelings.
Happily, despite his concerns that their love would lead to a lack of productivity and sentimentality on the part of Jennifer, he was wrong. He had trained her too well to love like that.
And the old adage that two brains are better than one was certainly true here. On her own, Jennifer was a very clever woman, but with Roasted Penguin by her side, she was pure genius.
N.B. There is a man out there who actually goes by the name: 'Roasted Penguin.' I barely know this man and this story has nothing to do with him. I just really liked the name.
Similarly, there is a real person out there who goes by the name 'Dr Robotham.' This is a man I do not know at all and again, this story has nothing to do with him. I just really liked the name.
Saturday, 22 January 2011
For Dan, Hannah and Oscar... for they are the only three who might get this.
Upon once a time there was a lady. She was a great beauty with dark hair and cat like eyes. But more than this, she had charm and depth and a frivolity that was impossible to resist.
On this particular evening, she was flanked by two gentlemen, two gentlemen who were entirely different but entirely the same. (I believe in modern terms, this is considered a bromance.)
First of her gentleman guards there was Oliver. A tall, blond and handsome man who often did push ups behind red velvet sofas (apparently the motion wakes him up, very odd indeed) and secondly there was Daniel, a gentleman of Indian decent who was a master of the piano and an all round 'laugh.'
The three tonight had to look after a ginger creature named Shelley. She drank and talked a lot but her jokes were often amusing, so she was easy to tolerate.
On this particular evening, after an hour or so in what is often known as an 'old man's pub' on Long Acre, this lady and her posse found themselves in an enchanted cave. The cave was decorated with many dancing men, men dressed in fine materials, green sequins, gold silks, purple sashes and silvery pointed shoes. Some men were more than dancing, they were doing difficult yoga positions or swinging on swings. It was quite the sight to behold.
After a glorious meal of stewed meat and pumpkin, lentils and yogurt (generally left for its boringness), the lady felt she should take her posse to Hospital.
Oh I don't mean a hospital with doctors, no one was ill you see. I mean a hospital of the soul... A bar that serves cocktails containing egg whites for a mere nine pounds and sofas covered in faux animal skin. What more could the human condition ask for?!
It is here that the story becomes a muddy affair... the cocktails were of the very strong variety and so the night became blurry... fun, but blurry indeed with conversation and far too comfortable sofas for a trendy bar.
This is where our tale moves to the ginger creature. You see, our fine lady did not overdo her drink and elegantly and easily found herself a bus back to Kensington where she resides. However, the next thing Shelley knew was sitting on an overcrowded night bus back to East London sans posse, pondering why the girl with the shaved head next to her was crying and why the could-be-gay-but-no-one-is-100%-sure man opposite her was rubbing her shoulder and telling her that 'Dave' needed to grow up, that although he loved her he couldn't deal with how special this shaved headed lady is and so had legged it.
And so it is four in the morning and the ginger creature with the terribly amusing jokes and over convoluted vocabulary is tapping away at her lap top trying to tell the tale of her typical Saturday night in London...
In short, when it comes to London ladies and gents, Shelley has one thing to say: Oh baby, it must be love.
On this particular evening, she was flanked by two gentlemen, two gentlemen who were entirely different but entirely the same. (I believe in modern terms, this is considered a bromance.)
First of her gentleman guards there was Oliver. A tall, blond and handsome man who often did push ups behind red velvet sofas (apparently the motion wakes him up, very odd indeed) and secondly there was Daniel, a gentleman of Indian decent who was a master of the piano and an all round 'laugh.'
The three tonight had to look after a ginger creature named Shelley. She drank and talked a lot but her jokes were often amusing, so she was easy to tolerate.
On this particular evening, after an hour or so in what is often known as an 'old man's pub' on Long Acre, this lady and her posse found themselves in an enchanted cave. The cave was decorated with many dancing men, men dressed in fine materials, green sequins, gold silks, purple sashes and silvery pointed shoes. Some men were more than dancing, they were doing difficult yoga positions or swinging on swings. It was quite the sight to behold.
After a glorious meal of stewed meat and pumpkin, lentils and yogurt (generally left for its boringness), the lady felt she should take her posse to Hospital.
Oh I don't mean a hospital with doctors, no one was ill you see. I mean a hospital of the soul... A bar that serves cocktails containing egg whites for a mere nine pounds and sofas covered in faux animal skin. What more could the human condition ask for?!
It is here that the story becomes a muddy affair... the cocktails were of the very strong variety and so the night became blurry... fun, but blurry indeed with conversation and far too comfortable sofas for a trendy bar.
This is where our tale moves to the ginger creature. You see, our fine lady did not overdo her drink and elegantly and easily found herself a bus back to Kensington where she resides. However, the next thing Shelley knew was sitting on an overcrowded night bus back to East London sans posse, pondering why the girl with the shaved head next to her was crying and why the could-be-gay-but-no-one-is-100%-sure man opposite her was rubbing her shoulder and telling her that 'Dave' needed to grow up, that although he loved her he couldn't deal with how special this shaved headed lady is and so had legged it.
And so it is four in the morning and the ginger creature with the terribly amusing jokes and over convoluted vocabulary is tapping away at her lap top trying to tell the tale of her typical Saturday night in London...
In short, when it comes to London ladies and gents, Shelley has one thing to say: Oh baby, it must be love.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
The history of the dumped coffee table.
Nicola found the coffee table in the local recycling bin on a Saturday night.
It's a beautiful bit of furniture. Ornate and elaborate in design carved from thick, extremely good quality wood. Nicola knew it would be expensive, she had an eye for these things. So she did what any self-respecting Phd student would do. She got her dad to pick it up and take it home.
It looked just perfect next to the book shelf with her twenties style retro lamp (purchased four years ago from TKMaxx for only £24.99) sat atop it. Her materialistic sister and flatmate loved it as well. It appealed to her faux bohemian sensibilities.
Not once did Nicola ask herself why someone would throw such a lovely piece of furniture away. Not once did she wonder where the coffee table had come from. She was too busy relishing her damn good luck that she had found it.
Just four days prior, a couple stood in their flat, either side of the coffee table. And they were screaming at each other. This wasn't some little lovers tiff, they were ready to destroy each other, rip each other to shreds. You see Jack (that's the boyfriend) had discovered that Amy (the girlfriend) had slept with his best friend. But she insisted that she only did it because she knew that Jack had slept with every woman from Mile End to Earls Court and back again. Yep, he was a busy man on that District Line.
Amy also found Jack's best mate bloody attractive but that's by the by, she was too consumed with hatred and revenge for her philandering, womanising arsehole of a soon to be ex-boyfriend.
His face was also contorted with rage. He couldn't believe the little slut had just blamed him for her betrayal, that she had slapped him round the face.
As Nicola had calmly cooked her boyfriend and her sister seafood spaghetti and apple crumble, Jack had smacked Amy so hard that she had flown head first towards to coffee table, cracked her skull open and died as her blood seeped into the carpet and her soul into the table. The table was very special to Amy, it had been a gift from her late and very wealthy grandmother.
Panicked, Jack had wrapped up Amy's body in bin bags and, in the middle of the night, crept down to Regent's Canal and chucked her into the water. He had used Vanish stain remover to sort out the carpet and reported Amy missing to the police. For just four short seconds, Jack thought he had got away with manslaughter.
But the coffee table had other ideas. For four days the table haunted him. Whispering at him with her voice. Filling his mind with grotesque images, plaguing him with guilt for cheating on her and killing her. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Amy, covered in blood and crawling out of the table. Of course, when he looked over, there was nothing there. He barely slept, his dreams were filled with torment.
By day four it had got too much. In a fit of rage, which tempered on borderline insanity, he picked up the coffee table and flung it in the local recycling bin before joining Amy in the canal.
Just four minutes later, unsuspecting of the tables dark and trecherous past, Nicola put out the weekly recycling and was delighted to make her discovery.
It's a beautiful bit of furniture. Ornate and elaborate in design carved from thick, extremely good quality wood. Nicola knew it would be expensive, she had an eye for these things. So she did what any self-respecting Phd student would do. She got her dad to pick it up and take it home.
It looked just perfect next to the book shelf with her twenties style retro lamp (purchased four years ago from TKMaxx for only £24.99) sat atop it. Her materialistic sister and flatmate loved it as well. It appealed to her faux bohemian sensibilities.
Not once did Nicola ask herself why someone would throw such a lovely piece of furniture away. Not once did she wonder where the coffee table had come from. She was too busy relishing her damn good luck that she had found it.
Just four days prior, a couple stood in their flat, either side of the coffee table. And they were screaming at each other. This wasn't some little lovers tiff, they were ready to destroy each other, rip each other to shreds. You see Jack (that's the boyfriend) had discovered that Amy (the girlfriend) had slept with his best friend. But she insisted that she only did it because she knew that Jack had slept with every woman from Mile End to Earls Court and back again. Yep, he was a busy man on that District Line.
Amy also found Jack's best mate bloody attractive but that's by the by, she was too consumed with hatred and revenge for her philandering, womanising arsehole of a soon to be ex-boyfriend.
His face was also contorted with rage. He couldn't believe the little slut had just blamed him for her betrayal, that she had slapped him round the face.
As Nicola had calmly cooked her boyfriend and her sister seafood spaghetti and apple crumble, Jack had smacked Amy so hard that she had flown head first towards to coffee table, cracked her skull open and died as her blood seeped into the carpet and her soul into the table. The table was very special to Amy, it had been a gift from her late and very wealthy grandmother.
Panicked, Jack had wrapped up Amy's body in bin bags and, in the middle of the night, crept down to Regent's Canal and chucked her into the water. He had used Vanish stain remover to sort out the carpet and reported Amy missing to the police. For just four short seconds, Jack thought he had got away with manslaughter.
But the coffee table had other ideas. For four days the table haunted him. Whispering at him with her voice. Filling his mind with grotesque images, plaguing him with guilt for cheating on her and killing her. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Amy, covered in blood and crawling out of the table. Of course, when he looked over, there was nothing there. He barely slept, his dreams were filled with torment.
By day four it had got too much. In a fit of rage, which tempered on borderline insanity, he picked up the coffee table and flung it in the local recycling bin before joining Amy in the canal.
Just four minutes later, unsuspecting of the tables dark and trecherous past, Nicola put out the weekly recycling and was delighted to make her discovery.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
The Tale of the Wonky Poster.
Once upon a time there was a poster named Amelie.
Amelie was wonky. She sat on the far wall, pretty much the first thing everyone saw when they entered the large, white living room. She could have been beautiful, with her green background, red dress, dark hair and big eyes. If it weren't for that damn wonk, she could have been the most beautiful poster in all of Flat 7, 52 Globe Road, perhaps beyond.
All the other posters in the living room were perfectly perpendicular, not to mention practically perfect in every way. The twin Banksy posters were perfectly aligned in look, thought and feel. The jazz singer and her contemporaries stood perfectly straight and elegant.
Being surrounded by such perfection must have been bloody depressing. Amelie felt like the fat, ugly sibling, not perfect in any way. This was of course, Amelie being a touch overdramatic, she was only imperfect by an approximately 27 degree angle, but hey, just you try to reason with neurotic, teenage shiny paper, it's like talking to a wall...
Amelie was desperate to straighten out. Every time someone entered the living room they stared at her with mild irritation upon their faces. She heard comments, how annoying she was because of her wonkyness. If she hadn't been so shy and retiring she might have got angry and accused them all of bullying her. But Amelie was so mild mannered she just took the nasty, prejudiced anti-wonky comments to heart and drooped further down the wall.
For some bizarre reason, her two owners loved her wonky disposition. Whenever she heard comments from guests about how she 'just needed to be straightened out and then this room would be perfect' (I mean seriously guests, how hurtful, what must those words have done to poor Amelie's self-esteem?!) her owners spouted that it gave her and the room character, how they celebrated her difference, and because of her wonk she was 'special' and 'unique.'
Amelie cringed when she heard her owners say these things. "Why can't the lazy buggers just get up on a chair and straighten me out?" she thought to herself.
Then, everything changed. One Saturday night in early November, her owners held a gathering. The comments about her wonkyness were coming thick and fast. This particular group of guests found her wonkyness particularly offensive. Amelie desperately tried to pull up, to make herself appear as straight as possible. But nothing worked, the more she pulled, the more irritated the group got. Eventually, they all left. Her hideous wonkyness forced them out of the living room and down to the local pub. They couldn't take her anymore it seemed.
Miserable and lonely, Amelie dozed off to sleep.
Then, in the middle of the night she was woken by a rough pulling. Opening her eyes she discovered a beautiful maiden with tumbling brown hair removing her from the wall.
"I can't handle this poster anymore," the maiden muttered, "I know Shell will be pissed off, but I have to straighten it out."
STRAIGHTEN IT OUT! Oh wonder and joy! Amelie was on top of the world. Finally, she would join the world of perfection. No more comments and mutterings anymore, no more stares of mild irritation. Amelie was going to be just like everyone else!
Amelie couldn't sleep anymore that night from sheer excitement. She couldn't wait for daylight when she could announce herself to the world as a 'perfect poster.' Part of the perfection gang.
But daybreak did not bring her the adulation she craved and hoped for. In fact, the look of utter disappointment on her owners faces made her feel mild shame.
But it was the response of the guests that upset her most. None of them admired her for her straight beauty. In fact, they didn't seem to notice her at all. They were indifferent to her, it was like she was invisible.
It was then that the jazz singer poster rather bitchily said something (in poster language, it's not something us humans can hear) that made her new found joy crash to smithereens: "I'm glad they straightened you out. All your character meant that you always got the attention. Our owners always loved you more, we were all ignored because compared to you we were straight and boring."
And that's when Amelie realised, being the same as everyone else is all well and good but there is nothing special or unique about aligned perfection.
Amelie was wonky. She sat on the far wall, pretty much the first thing everyone saw when they entered the large, white living room. She could have been beautiful, with her green background, red dress, dark hair and big eyes. If it weren't for that damn wonk, she could have been the most beautiful poster in all of Flat 7, 52 Globe Road, perhaps beyond.
All the other posters in the living room were perfectly perpendicular, not to mention practically perfect in every way. The twin Banksy posters were perfectly aligned in look, thought and feel. The jazz singer and her contemporaries stood perfectly straight and elegant.
Being surrounded by such perfection must have been bloody depressing. Amelie felt like the fat, ugly sibling, not perfect in any way. This was of course, Amelie being a touch overdramatic, she was only imperfect by an approximately 27 degree angle, but hey, just you try to reason with neurotic, teenage shiny paper, it's like talking to a wall...
Amelie was desperate to straighten out. Every time someone entered the living room they stared at her with mild irritation upon their faces. She heard comments, how annoying she was because of her wonkyness. If she hadn't been so shy and retiring she might have got angry and accused them all of bullying her. But Amelie was so mild mannered she just took the nasty, prejudiced anti-wonky comments to heart and drooped further down the wall.
For some bizarre reason, her two owners loved her wonky disposition. Whenever she heard comments from guests about how she 'just needed to be straightened out and then this room would be perfect' (I mean seriously guests, how hurtful, what must those words have done to poor Amelie's self-esteem?!) her owners spouted that it gave her and the room character, how they celebrated her difference, and because of her wonk she was 'special' and 'unique.'
Amelie cringed when she heard her owners say these things. "Why can't the lazy buggers just get up on a chair and straighten me out?" she thought to herself.
Then, everything changed. One Saturday night in early November, her owners held a gathering. The comments about her wonkyness were coming thick and fast. This particular group of guests found her wonkyness particularly offensive. Amelie desperately tried to pull up, to make herself appear as straight as possible. But nothing worked, the more she pulled, the more irritated the group got. Eventually, they all left. Her hideous wonkyness forced them out of the living room and down to the local pub. They couldn't take her anymore it seemed.
Miserable and lonely, Amelie dozed off to sleep.
Then, in the middle of the night she was woken by a rough pulling. Opening her eyes she discovered a beautiful maiden with tumbling brown hair removing her from the wall.
"I can't handle this poster anymore," the maiden muttered, "I know Shell will be pissed off, but I have to straighten it out."
STRAIGHTEN IT OUT! Oh wonder and joy! Amelie was on top of the world. Finally, she would join the world of perfection. No more comments and mutterings anymore, no more stares of mild irritation. Amelie was going to be just like everyone else!
Amelie couldn't sleep anymore that night from sheer excitement. She couldn't wait for daylight when she could announce herself to the world as a 'perfect poster.' Part of the perfection gang.
But daybreak did not bring her the adulation she craved and hoped for. In fact, the look of utter disappointment on her owners faces made her feel mild shame.
But it was the response of the guests that upset her most. None of them admired her for her straight beauty. In fact, they didn't seem to notice her at all. They were indifferent to her, it was like she was invisible.
It was then that the jazz singer poster rather bitchily said something (in poster language, it's not something us humans can hear) that made her new found joy crash to smithereens: "I'm glad they straightened you out. All your character meant that you always got the attention. Our owners always loved you more, we were all ignored because compared to you we were straight and boring."
And that's when Amelie realised, being the same as everyone else is all well and good but there is nothing special or unique about aligned perfection.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
By request: Cheeky the grumpy kitchen monkey.
I wish it could be said that Cheeky is a happy soul.
Unfortunately his name couldn't be more of a juxtaposition to his temperament. Cheeky is grumpy, difficult and always complaining about his balconette home above the kitchen cooker. First it's too hot, then it's too cold, and then it's not enough temperature of any kind at all. Good lord, Cheeky is not a happy monkey.
Many have blamed his stature, or rather lack of it, for the giant chip on his shoulder. It's a tough life for a chap suffering from short monkey syndrome. Or perhaps it's a monkey lady from his past, a romantic disappointment that has caused him such pain and turned him into a life hating grump. Maybe she ran off with a towering and much more handsome monkey. Maybe that's why people irritate Cheeky so.
Like those chavvy Essex girls that insist on cooking in his kitchen. Do they have to be so loud? Do they have to squeal so? And most of the time, they certainly don't understand the delicate science that is cooking. What do they think they are doing, shoving vegetables into a frying pan with a pre-made pesto sauce from Lidl? Or eating eggs and baked beans for dinner? They consider that food?! And this 'sauce factory' they create every fortnight, that they freeze and then defrost at a later date to sip out of a bowl with bread or mix with cheap twirly pasta. It's an abomination as far as Cheeky is concerned. A destruction of all that is good in the culinary world. As well as being a grumpy bugger, Cheeky is somewhat of a food snob.
But to be fair to the girls, sometimes they do pull some classy meals out of the bag and then, well then, Cheeky is in seventh heaven.
In quieter times, when the girls are skint and living off the aforementioned sauce factory Cheeky dreams of those days, the grilled mango and halloumi salad, roasted whole chickens stuffed with an entire lemon and herbs, beef lasagne made entirely from scratch (even the bechamel sauce!), chicken and cream puff pie, giant chocolate whoopie pie cakes with marshmellow filling, banana cake and Cheeky's absolute favourite, peanut butter cookies. Oh, how his lips tremble with hunger, he salivates as the smells waft up from the cooker and make him delirious with pleasure.
It really is the most tragic thing that Cheeky's lips are nothing more than a piece of string across his furry face and he will never get to taste the foods he covets.
Suddenly, it's not such a mystery why Cheeky the kitchen monkey is so grumpy.
Unfortunately his name couldn't be more of a juxtaposition to his temperament. Cheeky is grumpy, difficult and always complaining about his balconette home above the kitchen cooker. First it's too hot, then it's too cold, and then it's not enough temperature of any kind at all. Good lord, Cheeky is not a happy monkey.
Many have blamed his stature, or rather lack of it, for the giant chip on his shoulder. It's a tough life for a chap suffering from short monkey syndrome. Or perhaps it's a monkey lady from his past, a romantic disappointment that has caused him such pain and turned him into a life hating grump. Maybe she ran off with a towering and much more handsome monkey. Maybe that's why people irritate Cheeky so.
Like those chavvy Essex girls that insist on cooking in his kitchen. Do they have to be so loud? Do they have to squeal so? And most of the time, they certainly don't understand the delicate science that is cooking. What do they think they are doing, shoving vegetables into a frying pan with a pre-made pesto sauce from Lidl? Or eating eggs and baked beans for dinner? They consider that food?! And this 'sauce factory' they create every fortnight, that they freeze and then defrost at a later date to sip out of a bowl with bread or mix with cheap twirly pasta. It's an abomination as far as Cheeky is concerned. A destruction of all that is good in the culinary world. As well as being a grumpy bugger, Cheeky is somewhat of a food snob.
But to be fair to the girls, sometimes they do pull some classy meals out of the bag and then, well then, Cheeky is in seventh heaven.
In quieter times, when the girls are skint and living off the aforementioned sauce factory Cheeky dreams of those days, the grilled mango and halloumi salad, roasted whole chickens stuffed with an entire lemon and herbs, beef lasagne made entirely from scratch (even the bechamel sauce!), chicken and cream puff pie, giant chocolate whoopie pie cakes with marshmellow filling, banana cake and Cheeky's absolute favourite, peanut butter cookies. Oh, how his lips tremble with hunger, he salivates as the smells waft up from the cooker and make him delirious with pleasure.
It really is the most tragic thing that Cheeky's lips are nothing more than a piece of string across his furry face and he will never get to taste the foods he covets.
Suddenly, it's not such a mystery why Cheeky the kitchen monkey is so grumpy.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
A bit of Microfiction: The buddha clan on my windowsill.
"We must assemble in random formation!' screams General Pewter Buddha. His importance bourne from his weight. Pewter is heavier than wood and plastic and all the other buddha's on the windowsill know this.
"How can you have a random formation?" mutters one of the triplets. The triplet buddhas are identical but for their colouring. One is brown, one silver and the other is brown and gold.
But he is merely being facetious, a rebellious desire to back chat to the rather pompous General Pewter. They all know why their assembly is random. It is to please the artistic temperaments of the brunette and ginger goddesses.
The goddesses are giant and rather odd beings, just the other day one of them seemed to be knotting herself into odd positions in front of the television, all for the sake of fitness. The other one stares at a small computer screen for hours, muttering mathematic equations and burning long smelly sticks from the chest of holy buddha - so called because of the hole in his chest. It is a sad fate for him, but one he must bear for the greater good of the clan.
For it is at the whim of these two goddesses that the buddha clan survives. If the two goddesses wish, they can remove the entire clan, throw them into the dark sack of evil next to the fridge. But for now the goddesses are merciful, leaving the clan to live in peace. And this is all thanks to King Pink Buddha. He knows the brunette goddess well and has served her for many years. At one time, she housed him on the skin of a goat to reward him for his devotion and service. He has promised that one day they shall all be on the goat skin - even keyring buddhas, which are the lowest of the low. They fear the dark sack of evil more than anyone.
King Pink Buddha is flanked by two of the slenderest, most serene and beautiful buddhas in existance, these two guards are originals from the holy land - Thailand. They whisper sweet fables, of a giant gold buddha lying in the ground. It must be a lovely life for King Pink Buddha to listen to them day after day.
But recently, even the King is nervous. There has been talk of a new King Buddha to take over the clan. The ginger goddess has spoken of a 'disco buddha' to usurp him. This King shimmers and shines in the light, he is covered in beautiful mirrors of joy. King Pink Buddha is frantic and feels betrayed after all his years of loyal service for brunette goddess. He misses the days when he had brunette goddess to himself on the goat skin.
Now he lays in wait for ginger goddess to make her decision. It is agony. Worse than when the goddesses watch that programme The X factor and you're waiting to see who will leave the competition. He gives General Pewter more power to boss the others around and hopes she will remain appeased. But he doesn't know what more he can do to save himself.
"How can you have a random formation?" mutters one of the triplets. The triplet buddhas are identical but for their colouring. One is brown, one silver and the other is brown and gold.
But he is merely being facetious, a rebellious desire to back chat to the rather pompous General Pewter. They all know why their assembly is random. It is to please the artistic temperaments of the brunette and ginger goddesses.
The goddesses are giant and rather odd beings, just the other day one of them seemed to be knotting herself into odd positions in front of the television, all for the sake of fitness. The other one stares at a small computer screen for hours, muttering mathematic equations and burning long smelly sticks from the chest of holy buddha - so called because of the hole in his chest. It is a sad fate for him, but one he must bear for the greater good of the clan.
For it is at the whim of these two goddesses that the buddha clan survives. If the two goddesses wish, they can remove the entire clan, throw them into the dark sack of evil next to the fridge. But for now the goddesses are merciful, leaving the clan to live in peace. And this is all thanks to King Pink Buddha. He knows the brunette goddess well and has served her for many years. At one time, she housed him on the skin of a goat to reward him for his devotion and service. He has promised that one day they shall all be on the goat skin - even keyring buddhas, which are the lowest of the low. They fear the dark sack of evil more than anyone.
King Pink Buddha is flanked by two of the slenderest, most serene and beautiful buddhas in existance, these two guards are originals from the holy land - Thailand. They whisper sweet fables, of a giant gold buddha lying in the ground. It must be a lovely life for King Pink Buddha to listen to them day after day.
But recently, even the King is nervous. There has been talk of a new King Buddha to take over the clan. The ginger goddess has spoken of a 'disco buddha' to usurp him. This King shimmers and shines in the light, he is covered in beautiful mirrors of joy. King Pink Buddha is frantic and feels betrayed after all his years of loyal service for brunette goddess. He misses the days when he had brunette goddess to himself on the goat skin.
Now he lays in wait for ginger goddess to make her decision. It is agony. Worse than when the goddesses watch that programme The X factor and you're waiting to see who will leave the competition. He gives General Pewter more power to boss the others around and hopes she will remain appeased. But he doesn't know what more he can do to save himself.
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