Miss Lacy and her Coco Ribbon Stockings

Jack Dimachio’s body was found face down in his New York penthouse suite. A Playtex stocking, the dowdy kind so thick my Sergeant used them to wash his car, wrapped tightly round his neck. As Sergeant Jones rolled him over, his blue eyes bulged out of his sockets, glazed with death.
Sergeant Jones whimpered. “Not a pleasant way to go that… Nice suit though.”
Jack Dimachio was the highest paid and best looking divorce lawyer in town, every rich dame looking for a good settlement and a rebound always fled to Jack. With his movie star smile and dark eyes, he’d made a killing with the ladies since he was just 21. Now, twenty years later, it looked like one of the ladies made a killing with him.
“You think he dumped some divorcee and she got her revenge Sir?” Sergeant Jones asked thoughtfully.
“Could be,” I replied, “it’s worth looking at all his previous clients, and a chat with Mrs Dimachio… who found him?”
“His last client Sir, Miss Stoke Lacy.”
“Miss? Why would a miss hire a divorce lawyer?”
“Take a wild guess.” came a husky drawl from behind me.
Stoke Lacy was no innocent. You could see from the look in her eyes, the wavy blonde hair and the perfect curves of her body. This woman was a danger to any man with a pulse.
“We were having an affair.” Stoke smiled, watching my eyes take her in as she took a drag from her cigarette, “It has to be his awful wife, she found out about us, forced him to end it.” 
As my eyes reached her legs her smile grew wider.
“I never wear Playtex stockings… What do you think I am, a housewife? I only ever wear Coco Ribbon. You can check.” She held out a shapely leg, her face mocking.
“No need Miss, you may go.” I said. Every man’s eyes following her as she sashayed out of the room.
“We need a talk with Mrs Dimachio, call her in Jones.”
“Of course sir.”

Two hours later, Mrs Dimachio peeped red rimmed eyes over her auburn fox furs, a frail slip of a thing. With her dark curls she must have been beautiful once, but now all remained was the strain of anorexia and a philandering husband.
“I never knew Miss Lacy” she sobbed bitterly, “But I know her reputation. She was poison, always carrying on with other women’s husbands and taking all their money. My Jackie, dead… it must have been her.”
“Please have a tissue Madam” I offered her a box of paper hankies as she collapsed into sobs.
This dame could barely hold up her own arm, let alone strangle a man with a stocking but I had to ask.
“What brand of stockings do you wear Mrs Dimachio?”
“What does that matter?” her voice squeaked, “Am I suspect?”
“We need to rule it out Mrs Dimachio.”
“Playtex, as does virtually every woman in New York. You’ll be a long time finding your murderer if all you do is check their stockings.” She simpered.
“That’ll do for today Mrs Dimachio.” I sighed.
As she left Jones came bustling in. “Sir, Lacy checks out, only ever buys stockings from Coco Ribbon. Here’s a list of Dimachio’s previous clients.”
“Good Jones, now get back to work.” I said gruffly, waving him away.
I slowly scanned the list, a sea of desperate, fed up housewives. Dowdy Playtex stocking after dowdy Playtex stocking. It could be any dame on here, but this wasn’t a crime of passion, this wasn’t some woman scorned, or even a vengeful ex-husband. Tests results showed not a single imprint on the stocking. Whoever did this, planned it.  I scanned down to the bottom of the client list… Miss Stoke Lacy. The woman needed another visit.

Turning into the darkened driveway I clasped my gun, I didn’t trust this dame one bit. Striding up to black door I slammed on the enormous brass Lionhead doorknocker.
“Police! I need to speak with Miss Lacy.” I barked.
“Why come in,” came a familiar husky drawl as the door opened
She looked ravishing, in a long black figure hugging dress. Her chest dripping with diamonds. “Do you like them” she smiled, her rich red talons fingering the jewels, “a goodbye present from Dimachio.”
“Where are you going?” I demanded.
“A gala opening.” She smiled.
“Seeming to be holding up without your lover aren’t you.”
She sighed. “I didn’t kill Dimachio.”
“You found him,” I hissed, “he dumped you for his wife, Did you use a Playtex stocking to frame her?” 
“Listen, there are things about Dimachio’s missus you don’t know.” Stoke snapped, “Maybe it’s worth checking her bastard child.”
She stared at me, eyebrows raised. A black Saab pulled in the driveway. Stalking away, she called “Now, if you excuse me, I have a gala opening, some of us have lives you know.”

Staring at the office ceiling, the clock ticked past 9pm. I thought of my ex-wife Jo sitting at home with her new husband.
According to the records Jones’ checked, Mrs Dimachio didn’t have an illegitimate child. I had zip. Nothing concrete on the mistress. Nothing on the wife. They both had motive. Lacy had just been dumped, she certainly had the nerve. The wife had been humiliated by his affairs for years, she wore the right stockings – but not the strength to hold them.
Throwing my pen down I saw Jones slumped at his desk.
“Come on” I grabbed his shoulder, “time to head home.”
Then I saw it crumbled in the bin, Mrs Dimachio’s family tree… she had an illegitimate child alright. Someone who certainly used Playtex stockings.

As the door creaked open, I grimaced at Mrs Dimachio.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
“How is the case?” she asked, her lips pursed.
“Couldn’t stand the affairs? Didn’t have the strength to strangle him yourself so you got your son to do it?” I growled.
Suddenly I felt the tip of a steel barrel pushed into my skull. “Not quite,” laughed Sergeant Jones.
Slowly I turned my head to see Jones staring at me, his eyes menacing. Reaching for my gun I flinched, it wasn’t in my holster, it was already in Jones’ hands. 
“I never introduced you to my mum did I sir?” he smiled.
I turned to see Mrs Dimachio, tears falling down her cheeks.
“Jones, what have you done?” I asked.  
Jones grinned, his eyes bulging, “Dimachio was my step father –  not that he accepted me, but I was still in the Will, mum begged you see.”
He twisted the gun further into my temple. “I figured I could wait it out, he drank too much, surely living so fast would kill him off. But when Stoke Lacy came along,” he sighed, anger furrowed his brow, “he made a fool of himself for her. It was hell having to watch that whore writhe her way into his will. He wanted to divorce mum and marry Lacy, leave her my entire inheritance.”
“But Dimachio dumped Lacy.” I said.
Jones sighed, “Lacy dumped Dimachio. He gave her mum’s diamonds to wear to the gala in a bid to get her back. It was only a matter of time before my five million would be lining her pockets.” He laughed, “My years on the force weren’t wasted, I knew a printless stocking would make you think it was some anonymous dame.”
Calmly, he pulled back the safety. I squared my shoulders, waiting for the moment to strike.
Out of nowhere a shot fired into the air, whipping his hand away, in one movement I grabbed his shoulder, barging him roughly to the floor.
“Darling!” Mrs Dimachio screamed, rushing over to her bleeding son.
Whirling round I saw her, a swirl of blonde hair emerging from the shadows.
“Good work.” She drawled, her eyes triumphant, “Well, better get on doing your job, arrest the criminals.”
I nodded and pulled out my handcuffs.
“Dimachio didn’t just give me diamonds you know,” she continued. “He was so desperate to get me back he had already changed his Will.”
Moments later she was gone. After scoring five million, Stoke Lacy and her Coco Ribbon stockings sashayed into the night.

Chicken Shit

I’m a chicken shit.

Forgive the American turn of phrase but I feel it best explains what I am. Frightened of my own fucking shadow.

I don’t blame you if you put this down right now, just stop reading out of lack of interest. Christ, I would. Who wants to read about a woman with no life. A woman who has done nothing. Who has no coherent line of narrative whatsoever.
I almost wish I was Bridget Jones, a whimsical mess she may be but at least she put herself out there, and she got a nice flat in London, her very own Mr Darcy and some top notch media job even though she seems to possess only a mediocre talent for the trade.
I’m a librarian. A 35-year-old single and quite simply bored-out-of-her-brain librarian. There are no kids. There isn’t even any romantic baggage to speak of.
When I was a teenager I had fantasisies of being some dominatrix French secretary style librarian. Prowling the book halls in spiky court shoes, a tight shift dress and leather whips aplenty. I certainly did that a lot in my twenties (minus the whip, well most of the time) and it certainly scared the crap out of Ms ‘High Priestess chartered librarian in charge’ Jones.
So I drabbed down. To be honest the fight went out of me, shift dresses don’t look so pleasant after a bacon and chicken marks & sparks sarnie and you have a bit of a bloat on. And the effect of those heels? My crusted, scarred feet still have yet to recover.
So out came the old woollies, the slippers, the yellow stained blouses, I even got myself a bike to ride to and from the library in. It has a sweet little bell and a basket, all very rustic and could be tres chic… if I lived in a cute country house next to the coast and not in the middle of a busy traffic infested city. 
In my drab attire I was much safer, a much more trustworthy and viable option for a promotion which never happened. They thought I would rot happily away with the musty yellowed family sagas.  
Which I, of course, am doing. Thirteen years has melted away. Thirteen long years where I have lived vicariously through my beloved books, Where I get lost in the pages, the stories, I became the princess heroine, the femme fatale, the hot shot city lawyer with a penchant for Christian Laboutins.
All the time this voice inside my head screaming the same thing over and over and over. I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. Do something different, something, something frightening.

My flat echoes all previous descriptions of myself. It’s small, it’s clean, it’s mostly white and it’s full of books.
I often sit at my bed and I wonder, what it would be like to take to the high seas, to feel the wind in my hair, the nausea in my stomach. What would it be like to walk into Prada and buy everything on credit, not a worry in the world about the bill. What would it be like to eat blowfish by the forkful, not caring if you survived or if it finished you off.
I always wonder in threes. Three scenarios, three daydreams. Everything happens in threes. I read in Aspects of Interior design that three is the magic number. All decorative ornaments, be they vases or candles, should be placed in threes. It is the number of beauty, of good taste. Then there is the triangle of the lord - the father, the son and the holy spirit or the three sixes stamped on little Damien’s head. The superego, the id, the ego. Even Freud thought in threes. That comforts me on some level. Are you finding me creepy yet? I find me creepy on occasion. It’s the ultimate horror movie jibe, the woman scorned, the woman ignored, she seems so meek, so mild yet here she is going on the rampage with her menstrual blood. I assure you I am not creepy. That if you journeyed into the inner recesses of anybodies mind your findings would not be altogether sane or comfortable. Especially the mind of a woman who hasn’t had any form of sexual contact in three years. That kind of frustration is enough to send anyone a little off kilter. The last man was a blind date who forcefully shoved his hand up my skirt. In my shock I said nothing until he muttered something about the quiet ones being the wettest. I came to my senses then and legged it, sobbing all the way to my front door. How humiliating, 32 and being treated like a teenager by some pervert with his hand in my pants. Men are not pleasant creatures.
And so I am a near on recluse. No dates, a very small amount of friends, no family to speak of since my mother died last year. I am alone. In my flat, with no money and no reason to go on. Do I have choices? Could I just quit, just leave and spend my days roaming the red light district in Amsterdam. Should I run to New York and sing like Sting. Should I apply for a makeover show and watch my confidence blossom as pushy presenters shove me into wrap dresses. No, I know what I will do, I will hide in books and watch as life slowly filters by.

My shoe has a hole in it. I was standing behind the counter, smiling inanely at a customer when I felt it. The edge of my little toe was creeping for freedom, escaping from the leather insoles. I can’t afford new shoes. Flustered I pull out some superglue, whisps of fuzzy brown hair drop into my face. Is it the light or are they streaked with grey? Pulling off my shoes I dap the glue at the split sole, praying again this will work. Then he appears… he is all radiance and smiles with his perfect lock of dark hair dropping on his forehead. He cocks his head to the side when he sees me, like he’s a bird, like I’m his prey. He’s sizing me up and is deciding when is best to strike, when to go for the gullet.
“What are you doing Kate?” he drawls, loudly, so every customer in the library spins round. It’s Kathy, but I don’t bother correcting him.
“Hole in my shoe.” I mutter, desperately looking for a file to bury my head in.
“Buy some new ones for god sake woman.” He tuts, before focusing his broad grin at a quibbling teenage girl who looks like she might orgasm at the very sight of my beautiful but very bossy superior. It makes me sick that at just 26 he is already a chartered librarian. One more step and he’ll run the whole library. It makes me dread the day Ms Jones leaves.
Well, almost.
“Kathy! I need you to recatalog the entire Mills & Boon section. That old lady Janice Dickenson has run amok with them again.” Comes her booming voice, she strides past me, hair in a tight severe bun, lips pursed. Who knew such a short skinny woman would inspire such distaste in me.
“Peter, darling” she coos, clasping his muscular and veiny hand as he leans against the counter. I should have known they would be in it together.
I nod and run to the Mills & Boons, aghast at the mess. Mrs Dickenson has started ripping the raunchy sections out for her own personal collection. I know I should charge her, but since her husband Fred died I can see how lonely she is.
“I just want to remember what it feels like to be touched” she whimpers at me every time.

You and me both sister.     

Later, Peter announces loudly that he has a date. He smirks at me. No idea why he feels the need to do this. It’s quite obvious for anyone who happens to look upon us that he, as some Adonis of the librarian world would have a date with some elegant blonde, whereas I, the greying spinster in the long brown cardigan would not. Why he feels the need to show off and rub it in is truly beyond me. Self-esteem is a funny thing. I trundle off home on my bike. The wind is cold against my face and I wish I had worn gloves. I start to think about death. It comes as if from nowhere and gives me a bizarre sense of pleasure. Wouldn’t it be so dramatic if I lay on my red carpet and slit my throat. If the blood intermingled with the carpet and by the time anybody found me they wouldn’t be able to see any blood at all. They would think I was merely sleeping. That would certainly get some attention. The thought consumes me so much I almost don’t see the cab coming toward me. I almost don’t see it as it crashes into my bike, crunching the front wheel. But as I come flying over the handle bars I see the big black cab then. I see the headlights, I hear the screech of the tires. I feel the smooth hard cold bonnet as my body crashes against it. I hear the crack in my neck. Slowly I roll off the car and crash onto the pavement. Real blood rising into my mouth. And I think, this is it. This is the change, the something different I had been waiting for. My heart slows. All goes black around me and I wish to god I had stuck with my spiky court heels. Who rides a bike in spiky heels.

Yogi the Orangutan vs. Pedro the Tiger

What a day in the wrestling world! The two arch rivals Yogi the Orangutan - a German reared in Berlin and famed for his flexibility and endurance - and Spanish Pedro, with his handsome demeanour, smooth talking style with the ladies and claws tougher than steel nails, are going to clash once more.
For many months Yogi has been consigned to second place, he has cowered beneath the bed but he hasn't been lazy, he has trained hard, refined his technique - the crowd all have eyes for the underdog today as he makes his way to the mattress soft training ring. You would think the soft ground makes it easier for our dogged contestants, but in fact, it just makes balance and core strength a very key component to this fight.
With his many years of yoga training, you would think Yogi a shoe in for winner every time. But his long limbs fail him. The flail around and Pedro's stouter body has always fared him well in previous fights.
They're waiting for the ref, pumped and eager to begin the first round.
She arrives, her red fair falling about her shoulders, they both draw a breath as she enters the ring.
Round one has begun!
The pair stalk around each other, Yogi on his knuckles, Pedro's lean powerful shoulder muscles working. Yogi makes the first blow, tossing Pedro towards the wall of the ring. Here he collapses with a thud.  But he's up again, takes another blow from Yogi. This is not a good start for Pedro, has he become cocky with his previous wins? And Yogi has him round the waist, but Pedro is fighting back, he has Yogi off him, has whacked him hard in the face with a claw - that must've hurrrrt. And another whack from Pedro, throwing Yogi almost clear out of the ring! After a great start Yogi is suffering now. Can he hold on for round two?
The ref signals the end of the round by rolling into position for round two. The pair retire to their seperate ends of the ring. Yogi can barely hide his frustration for coming in too fast. Pedro is worried, he shouldn't have allowed his opponent such an open hit straight away.
Round two has begun!
The two storm towards each other with such ferocity! There's no hesitation this time, no sizing each other up - oh look at that blow from Yogi straight to Pedro's chest. Pedro wastes no time in retaliation. Oh, this is a close match! Pedro's stout body is once again faring him well but the strength in the long limbs from Yogi is incredible - how can Pedro fight when Yogi has him all wrapped up in his arms and legs? Just one playful smack from Yogi's giant hand would kill a human man. But don't underestimate the strength of Pedro's teeth and claws, he could rip Yogi's chest apart if Yogi drops his defence for just one second...
And there's the end of round two!
This is a match that could go on all night. Actually, it does. Every night.
For Yogi and Pedro are teddys that sit on the bed pillow of a woman in her 20's. (Apart from when the boy stays, they they are safely tucked away under the bed.)
Every night they battle to retain pole position on her bed. If the woman had any idea this was occuring next to her flame haired head while she slept she would be outraged. But she has no clue, she sleeps soundly as they wrestle away. The one or two times she has awoken and seen them, she has put it down to yet another odd dream.

A world without daydreams

Some time in 2047 instant teleportation was invented.
Yes, some incredible supergeek developed a chip that could be placed into the thumb. The initial prototype meant that you could be transported to the place in your mind you most desired to be. However, Mr Supergeek adapted his idea when he kept turning up in pretty girls beds. The screaming just got a bit too much.
So, for his final design to work, you had to say where you needed to be out loud. He also created parameters around houses. Rather like a vampire, if you wanted to enter, you had to be invited across the threshold.
Soon, Mr Supergeek was so wealthy and powerful he made Mark Zuckerburg look like a stupid pauper. He turned the world into a fantastically productive place. Procrastination was eliminated from the dictionary and great leaders envisioned a world where people became these demi gods who never had to stop, who became greater and richer and more productive all the time!
Except, they didn't.
There was a bizarre side affect to Mr Supergeeks new invention he didn't anticipate.
The death of daydreaming. There were no more people staring out of windows on trains or cars or planes, planning futures and admitting to their minds their deepest desires and wants. Or creating silly stories in their heads, or coming up with crazy inventions such as teleportation via microchips in thumbs.
Truely, the world was a very productive place. No one faffed around. No one experienced delays. The world was an efficient machine where no one needed to read books, make up stories or feel desire or longing or excitement. (Well, how can you feel longing or excitement if you get something immediately?)
Despite what Mr Supergeek thought, that people would be teleporting themselves to crazy, amazing locations - the death of daydreaming meant that people just went where they needed to be. The office, that meeting, the supermarket. Couples didn't transport themselves to waterfalls and frolic in the surf because they had no time to create such a fantasy. They were so busy being productive. Getting things done. Ticking off lists. They went through the motions, day after day, in their perfect mechanical way.
One morning as Mr Supergeek awoke, his surgically enhanced bronzed beauty by his side, a deep sadness he couldn't understand or place in his heart, he saw something sticking out of the corner of his bed.
With confusion he realised what it was... something he had not seen in a long long time. A real (i.e. not computer generated) playing card. A queen of hearts.
The queen spoke to him in a way no one had spoken to him in many years. She said one word. Just one little word that had been missing from the world since his invention launched.
Magic.

What about me?

I often think about what Marilyn Monroe's last thoughts were before she died.
In fact, I often think about what people's last thoughts are before they go. Morbid I know and a weird thought for a mini champagne bottle like me. I'm Moet by the way. Well, my full name is Moet Chandon Brut Imperial the third, a junior officer of the champagne order. But my friends call me Mo.
I'm honestly not prone to depression or anything, despite having a candle stuck in my head and melting down my body.
Bloody barbaric the things humans do, they either smash us, or if we're pretty they stick wax on top of us and burn us. They have become more humane as the years have gone by and started to send us for reincarnation so we can have many lives, not just as champagne bottles but also water bottles or beautiful paper to be handwritten on, or toilet roll... admittedly that one's not so glamorous. 
Anyway, back to my morbid ponderings. I just don't believe your life will actually flash before your eyes. I really don't. I mean, death takes a second, there is no way a lifetimes worth of memories can flash into your head in that time, your synapses will explode. It's clearly something people say as comfort. The thought that as you are going you will get to relive the best bits, see the ones you love one last time.
I think people will be thinking something much more mundane. Something like, 'I should have eaten the cauliflower instead of the broccoli.' Or, perhaps petulantly, 'this isn't fair.'
I've decided that Marilyn would have been thinking, 'what about me?'
I feel a great connection with Marilyn Monroe. I think it's because we are both glamour icons. I know for a fact she drank a lot of my kind too. Probably more senior officers. Lucky buggers.
Would she have regretted being a vacuous sex symbol? Felt enormous frustration that she was nothing more than the male attention she received?
Despite the book after book she devoured no one saw more than her curves and pretty smile. No one listened to what she said unless it was sung in breathy tones. I know how that feels, no one pays any attention to me unless I'm full of joy and bubbles.
Would she have hated the double bind she felt stuck in? The fact that she craved and hated this attention from men? The fact that the entire world thought she had everything because every man wanted her. Well, at least the symbol of her. But no one really understood the thoughts in her head.
Would she have hated the pressure she felt to always be a performing monkey of charm and seduction? I've watched women have to do it, I'll be poured into a retro champagne glass and I watch as women smile and listen animatedly to dull men because they so desperately need these ridiculous and rude buffoons to like them, to feel loved. To be an eternal seductress, worth only what the last man thought of you, oh god the pressure of being an everlasting flirt in a sexually saturated world.
And it's not just that, it must have been tough for Marilyn to always be dealing with other women's jealousy because of how she was desired, but in the same breath she needed to keep it up at all times, needed to be the most beautiful woman in the world time and time again, just having one man think it once was not enough, she needed all men to think it constantly, always. Because to this world, that was her entire worth.
With all this swirling round her head it's no surprise she took her own life...  
Sometimes I'll be burning away, the creamy wax dripping down my neck, the only attention I'm paid is for that of my outer image and those thoughts will creep into my head too: "What about me?"
I have thoughts, feelings, and I'm rather good at long division. Will anyone pay any attention to that? I am not just a beautiful empty vase for candle burning.
What about me?

The clock.

I am the clock. I am never late. Always on time. Always to be relied upon.
As I, the clock, strike two, Jack is not on time. He is late and thus, cannot be relied upon.
He has his excuses set out, the district line was down, his ex-girlfriend kept calling, being the crazy bitch she is, then his trainers got eaten by the dog and thrown into a pit of fire by the dragon that attacked his dog and flew away with them. And obviously he had to follow the dragon and get his trainers back because his loafers didn't work with the rest of his outfit and certainly wouldn't work for the romantic picnic he had planned today with his new girl Jess. 
Well, I have said new girl, but being the clock I know what Jess is doing by my time, and as I strike two, she is going into Primark. She is not interested in unreliable Jack. She had a man like him in her past, a man who was unreliable and she vowed to never go down that route again. So in her mind Jack, though he does not know it yet, is dumped and Jess is off out shopping to buy that long floral maxi skirt she's had her eye on. Having been let down yet again by yet another man, she thinks she might deserve it.
Sometimes I, the clock, wonder if relationships are worth the hassle. I watch time and time again the lies couples tell around the time they keep. 'I was in the office dear,' he says while he was actually playing golf.
'Sorry I'm late, massive queue at the supermarket' she says, when actually she was in a hotel room banging the life out of her dental nurse. (The audacity of it, she could of at least have gone for the dentist).
It's 2.12pm and Jack is at Jess' door. He rings and rings but there is no answer. He's getting nervous. Did they definitely make plans for today? It was definitely today, he's not going mad. She had made that comment about disliking lateness. Is she punishing him? At 2.20pm he rings again, no answer. He decides to wait. He really likes Jess, hasn't felt this way about anyone for a long time. Shit, he should have been on time. God he thinks she's beautiful with her long brown hair and hazel eyes. Really nice bum too. And her laugh, just lovely. I strike 2.35pm and now Jack is very nervous.
Jack should be nervous, at exactly this hour Jess is walking down the high street, skirt in hand and a smile on her face. She catches the attention of everyone who walks by. Jack is not really on her mind at all.
I, the clock, wish more women were like this. So many women sit by me counting the seconds for his arrival. They don't go out and find their own joy, even if it's a simple pleasure, like a walk in the park or a new skirt. They wait for a man to give them pleasure, to give them worth.
It's funny because although I wish more women were like this, it really is rather detrimental to me. If they are out searching their own pleasures, they rather forget about me. I pass them by, like the wind, and they barely even notice I'm going. I don't get the same love, care and attention.
Jack should have given me that. He should have paid me some attention. Now it's going to take a great deal of effort to regain Jess' affections. I'm not even sure flowers will cut it. She has drifted away from him on the breeze and it's quite possible her feelings no longer remain. All because he was a couple of hours late. He didn't pay me, the clock, the respect I deserve.
That makes me feel rather good, like some sort of god. I don't want to be a tyrant with my powers, though it is tempting to ration myself. The less time everyone has the more precious I become. It would be nice to be considered a rare jewel. No one appreciates me when I'm generous.
And so I strike 3.54pm and Jess is back at her door. Jack is still there, looking rather glum with his wilted flowers and pathetic looking stale sandwiches. He has waited for nearly as long as he made her wait. Perhaps this will be enough for Jess?
'We could have spent the last four hours together you know.' Jess says to him.
Jack is full of apologies. It will never happen again he swears. 'Our time together is too precious.'
Ahhh, there ladies and gents, is the respect I deserve.

The Buddha Clan: Part II

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...

The tamed Lion

Once there was a lion named Jazz. He spent his days sat on a desk. His mane was... well I would say enormous but these things are all relative. Compared to the rest of his body his mane was enormous. But compared to a real lion's mane Jazz's springy orange tendrils were,without meaning to be rude, rather lacking.
Because you see Jazz was a mascot. A very tame Lion. He idly sat on this desk, a symbol of all that his owner could achieve in her working life. A muse, if you will. To her he represented courage, power, fiestyness, determination. You'd think representing such immense traits would be a lot of pressure for a tiny fuzzy little lion to undertake but in reality, he was very frustrated. You see the problem with being a symbol, a muse, is that you don't really get to achieve much yourself. You are just a representation of someone elses achievements and self worth. So much potential trapped in a gilted cage of mere inspiration.
And so Jazz dreams of much more than the spurious life he is currently assigned too. He dreams of being wild, running through the woods, the fields, the desert on his own four paws. Fighting knights and roaring at the stars. He dreams of having a real mane rather than tendrils of wool, of having intimidating muscles rather than cotton fuzz.
He cares for his owner, he knows he helps her through the day and he is grateful for this small job. He knows she thinks he is beautiful. But he envies her reality. She runs on grass with her own two feet and dances through the streets of London late into the night. She rules her own world, fights her own battles and rescues herself over and over. She is not tame like him and oh, how he is jealous of her. While she is out feeding the world with her song of passion, resentment, hatred, love and joy Jazz sits on her desk dreaming of the night sky he never sees.
Some days when she is sad, when she is feeling the pressure of the world and thinks perhaps it would be easier if she were tame too, just someone's muse, he wants to roar at her. He does everything he can to use his paws to scratch at her face and make her realise how lucky she is to be wild and free. That if she would give him the chance he could turn into a true almighty beast who could take her and her freedom on. 
One night a different cleaner comes to the desk to wipe down the computer screen. Unlike the usual cleaner who finds Jazz the mascot very sweet, this cleaner has a nasty ambivalent face. He plucks up Jazz from the desk. 'What is this bit of tat?' he mutters with disapproval. Sighing he chucks Jazz into the black bin bag and continues to drag it about the office.
Panic fills up poor little Jazz's heart. His owner! His desk! His life! His beautiful gilded cage! It's gone, all gone. He is stuck in the darkness, lost to the wilderness. He feels as though he is suffocating, the stench of rubbish about him, dread weeps through his body. The bag is tossed through the air and Jazz knows that if he were able to vomit he would be retching everywhere by now. The bag hits something with a shudder and Jazz comes rolling out with a whimper. It is a different kind of darkness now, a cold darkness with twinkly lights. He claws at the other black bags in the garbage truck, starts to roar with fear at the starry night sky...
With that, Jazz starts to realise what has happened. He is no longer tame but wild and it is terrifying and beautiful and wonderful. He continues to roar but it takes on a different quality, full of hope.
He is free and roaring at the stars.
  

The hedonistic puppet.

There was once a little blonde puppet dressed in purple. She had little purple clogs, a glittery purple dress and even purple eyeshadow to match her purple eyes and dainty little mouth.
If a fairy had appeared from nowhere and turned her into a real girl, then she would have been considered someone who was a people pleaser, someone with low self esteem, a worrier perhaps prone to anxiety and depression. As a real girl she may have sought herself help from a cognitive behavioural therapist.
But as it is, she is a dancing puppet with a penchant for purple clothes and glitter.
She often goes on dates with boy puppets (alas, she has not yet found her Pinocchio), and on these dates she truly sparkles. She is witty, sexy, interesting, full of big smiles and giggles. The boy puppets generally always ask her out again. But as she smiles, inside she feels rather, well, wooden. Her heart has not yet come into play and without any real emotion to fuel it, her sparkle is splintering. It is too bright, too needy. And she is becoming so very very tired with her 'oh please like me, please like me!' dance.
She doesn't only do this dance for the boy puppets. Day in, day out, she performs this dance for anyone who shows a smidgen of interest. Everyone she speaks to. She whirls and twirls on her strings, her expensive glitter swirling around for anyone who might look. She is full of smiles and positivity. She lives a whirlwind of hedonism to make those around her smile. To entertain them with her stories and parties. Without it all she worries everyone will see her for what she is, just a plain wooden puppet.
After another day of whirling and twirling in ernest, desperate for love, attention and belonging. Our lovely purple puppet droops to the ground, her eyes virtually closed, she is caged by self loathing and the need to please others. Yet again her dance has drained her and still she has not recieved the love and appreciation she so craves.
That night, her dreams were visited by a kindly looking fairy dressed all in green.
"Are you going to turn me into a real girl?" asks the puppet.
The fairy shakes her head and instead puts a rather ugly, bony hand on her head. Her kindly face morphs into something far more sinister. She tugs at our puppets hair until tears spring into her large purple eyes.
"If you want to be free, you have to cut your own strings" hisses the fairy before she dissolves into dust.
Although it's agonizing, our brave little puppet pulls down each string and rips at them with her teeth. It feels like it takes hours, all night in fact. As she rips apart one string another seems to appear. But she continues, silently sobbing through the pain, ripping the strings away.
The next morning she wakes with an odd feeling. She is no longer wooden! She has flesh, skin and bone. No longer does she feel self conscious, desperate for others love and desire. Instead of sparkling with need, our purple puppet shimmers with self assurance and worth. She doesn't even feel the need for the purple eyeshadow.
With this new found self love and respect, she is free from pandering to the demands of others. She finds everyone is looking at her differently. Contrary to her expectations, they are looking at her with real admiration, real respect, they really like her.
Finally, our puppet's heart comes into play.

A Gentleman Caller.

For the past few months Miss Mayer has been entertaining a Gentleman Caller.
He's tall, attractive, works out and looks after his health. He's actually a bit blonder than you would expect... perhaps a little gingery? He definitely has a bit of a beard. A man like that always gives Miss Mayer terrible stubble rash but she secretly quite enjoys it, even though it can make her face very sore. Sometimes he wears glasses, but not always.
He's a bit retro in his ways and this is marked by the fact that he likes to wear a hat. Men nowadays never seem to wear hats, it's a real travesty.
The Gentleman Caller has a lovely voice. His accent can often change, sometimes he's northern, sometimes Welsh, sometimes a posh southern boy. A couple of times he has been a bit of an Essex boy. But one thing never changes, Miss Mayer loves listening to him and every intelligent, interesting, sometimes slightly geeky thing he has to say.
He takes the mickey out of her a lot but it's clear he adores her and her ditzyness. He adores the fact she can't put up a tent to save her life or even with a google map in her hand, will still end up going the wrong way. It means that he can sometimes look after her a little bit. Put her to bed when she's had too much to drink and is gabbling away about some rubbish.
I could go on and on about the thoughtful, romantic gestures that the Gentleman Caller could give. But that's not his way and it's not even really what Miss Mayer wants. Flowers on special occasions are nice, he knows that and does his best. But really he just loves being with her, doing things together. He loves it when she bakes for him, he loves it when they lie in bed and read together.  
He's a very decent, reliable and kind man who puts Miss Mayer first. She's more important to him than beer and the boys but only just! And he knows she needs her space to go out with the girls or even just be alone sometimes.
His sense of humour is pretty daft and silly. He's also creative, confident in himself and imaginative. Miss Mayer is always impressed by the fact that he seems to think quite differently to other people, he thinks like her.
He isn't too moody and is quite laid back but this doesn't stop him from being ambitious and passionate.
Although he is a massive softy, he's still a typical bloke. He still watches gory action films, the odd bit of football and/or rugby and is a bit obsessed by breasts and sex.
Despite fulfilling her checklist of 'perfect man wants' the most important thing about Gentleman Caller is that he loves Miss Mayer and would do anything for her. Oh and he thinks she's damn hot stuff. He tells her of these things sometimes, but often he doesn't need to. She can tell by the way he acts.

Yes, the Gentleman Caller really is the perfect man. What a shame he is a mere figment of Miss Mayer's imagination and lives only as the shirt of one of her former boyfriends (we'll call him 'A') and the tie of another former boyfriend, 'B', and a man's trilby she found in a shop in York and thought would rather suit her, all hanging on her clothing rack.

Last week Miss Mayer had an epiphany. She realised she could never move on with her life if she held on to the past, and to an idealised notion of what the perfect man would or could be. She decided that the two former boyfriends would not miss their tie and shirt, considering she'd had them both for a very long time and neither had come back to reclaim them. So she took the tie and the shirt and threw them in the bin.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.