how that it was

how that it was what it was and because is a nebbulate. See Gloucester for the old sparrow. I like pipping rain. I think never should hamster because bad. litigate against tremendous tree. spelling hazard.this is french for my aunt.

arise to undress the issue. now. because i am lip. anyonewould think that a slight cold in the head shouldn't make you feel so swoozy. I only imbibe whiski vicariously when the others havvit. So why these words so weird and wandersome? Splerhaps itth the lateneth of the hour.

This is the thing is the thing is the thing. poetry starts happening this way and then you see

once you have stopped happening that it is thus - it just thinks itself on the underbelly of your brain and you don't need to be there. only floating somewhere far away.

this is my picksure of this weak.... it is not pertickularely of a whale. Only I like jelly fish, belly fish, becaus they are so pearly and when I was a child I wished they were real jelly, because the taste of purple-blue jelly seemed so amazing only it wasn't really because i tasted it and it wasn't.

oh and one funny thing happened this week... Widget, by which (i mean whom) i mean tiddlebat and all those things, woke up the morning after we had installed a new sort of cubbid of shelves in our room which is extremely useful for keeping all our mess in... and he said "it's a box full of boxes... a whole lot of holes." I want to remember that so is why i am writing it down. (he wiz probbly only half asleep you see.)

deep water

When I was at boarding school I spent a lot of time at the bottom of the diving pool. I liked it there. It made my ears hurt like crazy but I loved it, so I just stayed down there. For as long as I could of course. Sometimes I had to come up for air. Or diving into it – splash into the blue – eyes open – stream of light through chlorinated blue – bubble-world- just me swirling-turning – coming to rest at the bottom of a pool of light – fish-world in which the only fishes there were me – that was my haven – the bottom of the diving pool. Or any water really. That was where I lived most of the time is not too great an exaggeration when I grew up in South Africa and water was always there and the sun, to make you want to get in. That is what I miss most of all. These days I keep having surreal nightmare-istic dreams about boarding school. Every night almost. Dormitories and horrid toilets, always toilets and house-mistresses, prefects and bitchy girls, but never the great blue beautiful diving pool, so very, very cool and deep.
Schweetch. I so wish I was there right now.

The Sneakret Prankery of The Long Kitten

This was a week which saw the end of the brief but glorious reign of the hand-operated paper-shredder – which is what tends to happen when you jump out of bed and forget to put your glasses on. Gerblash!! And my new system of shelf-edge labels to bring some semblance of other-than-anarchy to the dissolute mayhem of the kitchen cubbids only provided The Long Kitten with further opportunity to wreak his particular brand of subversive prankery when I found the word “napkins” had been subtly altered so it read “mirkins.” Anyone who doesn't know what George Bush meant when he said “I'm proud to be a mirkin.” may be puzzled about why this particular wig would have suited him so extremely well. Look it up, I'm too embarrassed to tell.
The first instance of The L.K.'s fiendish prankery occurred nowhere other than the desktop off the compuker whereon (&of) I write. This is how he did it thusly like so: there was a picture of a fish in murkshades of underwateryness which we treasured apawn the very desktop whereof I now speakest. Well he sneakretly sneaks the appropriate file into Photoshop and adds untow it - pasted upawn the topp in the centre somewhat - the screenshot of a google image search whose terms were the words “Goose-Porn”. When Tiddlebat discoverst this he trieth many times to click upon the fake buttons of the phony window and discoverest that it do not close. Wot do he then but to shut down the entire compuker and is verily much puzzled when the same window is still open upon restarting the accursed machine. Meanwhile L.K is convulsed in fits of merriment in the corner watching all this go on. Truly that child is possessed of several devils.
When I was a child my mother had a lively horror of frogs and toads. I'm afraid that I used to frequently place them inside the gumboots she used for gardening hoping she would encounter it with her stockinged foot. I also put them in her bed often enough, horrid little brat that I was. Perhaps that is where The L.K. Gets it from, which raises all kinds of questions about the genetic component of evilness. I shall crawl off into a dark cubbid to consider these while I gnaw upon the bones of dead bats.

Dreamspiders

Tiddlebat had a funny dream – I don't know if it was funny ha-ha - or funny peculiar – or that other kind of funny which something sometimes tastes like and I don't know why – cos it's never made me laugh. O-mi-gosh I ate a very funny tasting egg today, ha-ha-ha-ha.... I don't think so somehow. And what do dreams taste like anyway?? Well I suppose if this one had a taste – it would have tasted funny, but I think maybe it would have tasted of chocolate and wet straw... heehaw. In the dream a delivery boy had brought a package for us and later on Tiddlebat discovered him standing on one leg trying to sleep outside our door. So he tried to find a place for him to sleep, but all the buildings were deserted and full of scary tramps and stuff, so then he decided to make a box for him to sleep in, only it had to be standing upright so he could sleep in it standing on one leg. Yowks. Once I dreamt about a spider called Pezerenski that turned into a byrd and flue away, but that was when I was very young (ie 20) and it was a cute kind of spider with a fat round body and wiggly legs – like the kind that you draw, not the kind that horrifies the living daylights out of you. On one occasion I asked Long-Kitten to throw one such spider out of the widow – he's not scared of them you see and Tiddlebat is. So the fiendish child put it in a glass jar and put it in the fridge where I had to go through the untold horrors of finding it again. Oh whyyyyyyy????????????

d'oh

In the ongoing saga of my groaning jelly – oh wot I mean is the inglested torturture of my gluts by glue-tin and other fowl agentures I made a terrible blups. For weex I woz baking wot I believed to be superlatively springy - virtually edible - glue-tin free bread. Simultaneously I develipped wot eye beleeved 2 bee a terrible viral infextion of gargantuan enormity. It felt like adolf-bloody-hitler had set up concentration camp in my flumick – oh flootch, but it hurt like a hundrid nives. Anyhoo, can yoo imagine how dementedly stupid I felt (I like felt... hmmm..... fuzzy)... woops change of subject not good for impending confession of monumental stewpidditty, not to mention supermarketshelf blindness, which is like cupboard blindness, only you get it when yoo r not @ home – and which is a close derivative of male-fridge-blindness. Anyway wot hactually hoccurred was thus – being in a manner indisposed in my occular (and oraccular) abilities I had purchased upon one very faitfill day …. tadum-rum-titty-tum (a role of drums for effect) A Packet Of (ghasp, faint, schock) Semo-Bloody-Lina instead of coarse or medium maize-bloody-meal otherwise known to pundits of a more extravagant dispossession as Polenta. Now in the faithful and goodly belief that I was strirring 200g of Polenta/ maize-meal into my homemade gluten-free-bread (which I usually adds for to make it less gluey, tasteless and generally foul) I was in fact stirring in a foul pestilence of Gluten-Containing-Semolina – which is also yellow – and is next to the polenta on the shelf of the Big-Shark-Supermarket-Company-inc. The result was bread which was significantly “breadier” in texture – but which was causing foul weevils and stuff to sprout in my innards and thus I was in pain and stummick disorders for weeks before I discovered my mistake. Oh how futile, how foolishly, foolishly inane and dumb. Oh dear.
Anyway – on the upside – my salivations over gooey crumbs on underside of fish-fingers no longer need torment me in vain cos the Big-Shark-Supermarket-Company-inc (better known as “Tesco”) has brought out Big-Shark gluten free fish-fingers. (Not really made of shark... I don't think.... at least I hope not anyway.) This is most wondrous and blithe and oh if only they didn't put too much pepper (and salt) into their crumbs I could almost forgive them for their various heinous crimes.... one of which is putting too much salt into almost everything they make and another is ripping off other company's products all the time exettera exettera and gloingk. Anyway I have been enjoying being able to consume Coating-of-Crumb again... so boring that u have to eat the fishy bit in the middle too.... but sutchizlife and anyone hoo sez it izn't is probly not the most truthful of sorts. Anyway... I will spare everyone the torturous childhood antidotes this week – I am rahther tired... yawn, oh yes and I have to order my weekly groceries from the big pigs or sharks or wotever they call themselves. goodnite xxx

FRoGLiTs

YYYYayyyyy, whoooo, whipeeeee! I have a blog! Now I have one more thing to feel guilty about. Omigod I haven't made a blogentry for absolute ages. Well – I've been bizzy – and it was Easter - my family all needed emergency dental treatment after eating my “patented” yeast-free hot-cross buns. Well, anyhoo – here's more about my maudlin and thickly thweet childhood. Somebody once asked if adults have as much fun in adultery as children do in childhood, which is beside the point really – let's get to the frogthingy......
“Actually the most incredible thing was when there was frog-rain. It had rained on the farm and for some reason thousands of tiny, tiny baby frogs came out and hopped about in the puddles on the road. As a child it was just one of the most magical things I had ever seen, they were all so very small and so perfect and so hilariously hoppy and jumpy. All this was in the sudden clear brilliance and stillness that always followed a sudden shower of rain, every leaf and stone was suddenly washed clean of dust and the habitual dust had been rinsed from the air. The smell that dried earth gives off that is frequently starved of rain is quite different to the smell, or lack of it that is given of here in rain-soaked, water-logged England. It is like an enormous sigh of relief – the smell of the first wet splashes on the dry earth and the mingling of dust with the drops of water in the air – it is such a smell of goodness, of minerals, the fundaments of life. When I was a child and we had built an extension to our farmhouse (originally built in the 1800's) I used to lick the bare walls to try to release that same smell from the sand grains in the grey cement, I loved I so much. The smell was similar, if I ignored the hints of ammonia from the cement, I suppose it was the hot climate as well – taking warm wafts of essence-of-minerals from sand and rocks and earth when they were moistened. I used to eat stones as well – soft lose crumbling shards of a purple stone that I found beside the road. It was soft enough to chew up – and I ate it – creating rain-moisture-aromas in my mouth. I guess that's what comes from living in a drought-stricken place, and perhaps from being slightly weird as a child.”
Slightly!!!! Gawrsh hawr hawr hoorukidding weirdo!!???? grovel, glkunk and dinggggg! She myowls mizeribly into the knight. (yoo should really try howling into a suit of armour sometimes - it makes a gloriously hollow sound which more than compensates for the smell of medieval armpit) By the way we (ie me and my 2 sisters) managed to capture some of the magical miracle miniature frogs and took them home to watch them swim in the hand-basin. We also used to cultivate tidpoles in a plastic container on our windowsill, but they never grew into froglits for some reason... probably cos we used to swallow them all.... that was my older sister's idea and I was too young to kno better. Oh dear this is all getting a bit too Persinill. better gnoe. bye! (ps all this sounds much better when heard in the internal voice of various characters from the simsuns. yatooch me hearties avast there be pirates on the mizenmast. (that was captin pugwash) ogod pleez stop. orlright. bleep bleep blep bleep. ovary&out. )

London Mayor encourages Pants-Wetting on the Tube

Greetings my fellow mortalth. Herewith continueth the pathetic tale of my childhood on the “Farm”, how I was locked in the dungeon of neglect and how I performed many admirable feat-th of heroithm, magic and origami. Well, not quite. But anyway it was all quite heelariouth – ha ha ha I am laughing tho much it ith really quite uncomfortable. Ahem. The truth is that I grew up in woeful ignorance of urbanity (otherwise known as Sitty-Lyfe.) On the occasion of a familial visit to the hair-raising wonders of the coastal Sitty of Elizaportabeth I was asked would I want to work about the blok, oh blammit I think it reads “walk about the block”, but I coodint spell in those days either, anyway my sweet and innersint response, which I lithped in dulsint tones, woz to whit (to who?) ahem, woz such - in the three simple words that reveal so much of my simplified and unspoiled state - such worms being: “wot iz a blok?” Well it's acksherally 4 words if you count “a”, which is “a” debatable point. The other oh-cajun upon which my youthful and fetching ignorince was revealed will involve a description of the workings of a shearing shed. Maaa-aa-aa. The point being that after the sheep had been tickled they needed to get from point A to point B and my father, who was forever inventing things provided they could be welded together from rusty bits of mettle, devised an ingenious system of lifts, into which the freshly tickled sheep were deposited before being whooshed down to a holding pen in the depths of the earth. (A distance of some 6 to 8 feet, ha ha.) The “lifts” were really no more than a kind of mettle pan with low sides, sufficient to contain a sheep of moderate size and aspirations.
Whell! Picture this – I overhear an adult conversation in which it is related that my uncle Woolly had become stuck in a lift during a daring visit to some far-flung and dizzying metropolis. Yowks. As a small and possibly dim-witted child whose only experience of a lift was the kind used during the tickling of sheep, it took me many years to discover that my Uncle Woolly had actually become stuck because of some mechanical failure of a large box-shaped apparatus into which many adult humans could fit with relative ease. I was quite firmly convinced that the lift he was in was identical to the ones used in the shearing shed and the reason he had become stuck was that his arse (if you will pardon the pun) was too big for it – and that he had been inextricably lodged in it and could not be pulled free in spite of the efforts of sundry strong gentlemen etc. The whole (imagined) incident made a rather vivid impression on my young mind.
It is hard to imagine that I have progressed from such rural quaintishness to living in the gargantual sprawl of urbanity that is London, glawp. It took me some years to learn how to cross the road, I was terrified of those metal whizzy things with people inside. And the underground – yawp, eeks, oop. Take the other day for instance - there I am standing on a 60 foot near-vertical escalator trying not to faint, when Tiddlebat reads from one of the interminable posters that you pass on the way down (and again on the way up... growch, groan, sigh) the words “Pants-wetting is fun!” With my usual rural ignorance I came to the immediate conclusion that it was Boris Johnson's way of dealing with the fact that they supply no public conveniences whatsoever on the entire underground network, or perhaps a way of reassuring those less able to control their bladders when faced with the sheer terror evoked by the near-vertical plummet into the bowels of the earth. Anyway it turned out Tiddlebat had actually read the words “pants-wettingly funny” - from one of those gawstly boring ads for another gawstly boring goddam West-End play. (They should come to the East-End, we don't play about around here, haw haw!!) It was just as well he told me actually, I was about to try it out. Ha ha ha, I am such a fool..... or perhaps I am just terminally incontinent. Eeeek squelch, ooops, better go..... farewell my furry little friends... until next time.