Mulled Vine

Shock news today as Douglas Fairbody the renowned architect was sacked from the Westminster Renovation Programme. Mr Fairbody, famous for the controversial introduction of stained glass solar panels at Canterbury Cathedral, had proposed to install an eco friendly water system that would take purified urine from the lavatories and feed it back in to the drinking supply.

Ministers were unanimous in their outrage and rejection of this proposal. John Carter, Energy Minister, said “we turned a blind eye when Mr Fairbody removed the heating system in view of the amount of hot air allegedly generated during parliamentary sessions, but this is taking the piss.”

Literally.

I looked around appreciatively, “This is a very nice room.”

He looked at me, face devoid of emotion, waiting.

I continued, “Yes, very smart, bigger than our little rooms back home. This is why I like to travel: to see the world.”

He continued to wait, his hand extended.

I looked at him, at his hand, and realising my faux pas, dug into my pocket for some change and offered it to him.

He continued to stare at me, ignoring my hand, and eventually spoke, “What floor, sir?”

Her name was Susan and she was my first love – at least, what passes for love at the tender age of seven.

We were inseparable as friends, and impish to the core, like the time we decided to make a real spider web in her room with 2 balls of wool and a pot of honey; I was banned for a while after that, but Susan’s tears soon sorted that out.

Then one fateful day the spelling test came. I did well as usual, but came second, having misspelled ‘honour’, however she did better and won the coveted lollipop prize. I was so proud of her, genuinely, and only a little jealous.

But then I found out she had cheated; I did not speak to her again, ever.

Six months the house had been on the market, and not even one viewer, but today that was going to change. We scrubbed the place top to bottom – even the kids got involved, though as usual they tended to get more in the way than be of any real use. Fiona and I even managed to argue no more than once: I thought baking bread was excessive, she didn’t, and in hindsight I must admit that it did smell pretty good.

The agent from Peers Homes came at around 2pm with a family: Mr and Mrs Jerry Perkins and their two children Tom and Amy, similar ages to ours. She wore a sharp London suit and inappropriate high heels that click-clacked on our mahogany wooden floors, leaving a trail of fine indentations. Fiona glared at me, but I just shrugged. She was the best, this Tamara Fairfax-Blythe, coming highly recommended. Dents in our beloved floor were a small price to pay for a sale.

She wafted through the house, pointing out its various delightful features and opportunities to the obviously impressed Perkins family who followed her like a flock of dumb sheep bleating appreciatively at the required moments. My Perkins tried to ask a few pertinent questions but after some deft parries from the razor sharp Ms Fairfax-Blythe, settled down and enjoyed the show. And what a performance it was. I think we would have bought the house if we didn’t already live in it.

So it was without much further ado that the sale went through and the Perkins family moved in 1 month later.

Little Jo asked if she could play with Amy, but I said no, explaining that it would never work.

We were, after all, dead.

We stood before the priest below the altar of our Lord Hunahpu, the wind tugging at our white robes; she turned to me, “Do you love me?”
I returned her gaze and smiled, taking her hand in mine, “You know I do, my love, and I would go to the ends of the earth just for one smile from your lips.”
She looked down, but did not smile; then said, “But would you die for me?”
I fell to my knees and raised up my hands to her in imploring supplication, “Anapu, my life is yours. you know it is – why do you need to ask?”
She sobbed, tears flowing from her eyes, and turned to the priest nodding.
He raised his arm in blessing, the knife glinting in the golden Mayan sun.

Life…

Serious side effects that would require immediate medical attention include:

+ Loss of sense of humour
+ Tendency to lovelessness
+ Excessive self interest
+ Death

Saw this today…

Serious side effects that would require immediate medical attention include:

• chills, infection
• dark urine, decreased urination (oliguria)
• difficulty swallowing or breathing (signs of angioedema), allergic reaction (anaphylaxis)
• hoarseness
• itching
• rapid weight gain, stomach pain
• yellowing of skin or eyes (jaundice)
• abdominal pain, bloating, vomiting
• chest pain or tightness, dizziness, lightheadedness, fainting (syncope)
• dry cough
• fever
• joint pain
• rash
• diarrhea, loss of taste, nausea
• drowsiness, headache, tiredness
• change in mood/ irrational behaviour
• blurred vision
• muscle cramps
• fainting / blackouts
• Sexual Dysfunction
• Death

I can hear the conversation now: “Doctor, I think we need to change them medication.  I just died.”

Just got back from the doctor’s.
“Bad news, dear. I have terminal cancer; nothing they can do, not long to go, 2 months at best.”
She looked at me sadly, but then suddenly perked up, “It’s not all bad, you know.”
I looked at her quizzically, “It isn’t?”
She beamed, “Well, look at it this way. At least you have decent life insurance!”

The night was as black as the witch’s heart and I knew she was out there waiting for me. The fire burned brightly in the hearth, filling the room with the fragrance of autumn, yet I was cold. It was as if she had reached icy fingers through the dark forest, through the rough walls of my home and grabbed hold of my heart. I stood up, mesmerised, unable to resist the hexen call, and walked to the front door, opening it. Daisy whined pitifully but I paid her no heed.

She called … waited … hungrily.

As a child I believed there was a bogeyman under my bed, and so on going to bed at night would turn out the light and sprint for the bed, jumping the last yard so that he would not grab my ankles. My parents laughed at my silliness, and my elder brothers teased me mercilessly, but I knew – he lay there waiting for me.

Then on my 12th birthday I decided that it was high time I stopped this childish silliness. Bedtime came and I turned the light out, walking slowly towards the bed, pausing before taking that final step, waiting, listening to the creaky dark that surrounded me, while a thin shaft of light from the hallway illuminated my way.

Then, bravely, closing my eyes, I stepped forward.

I still believe there is a bogeyman under my bed, and though he doesn’t think I’m as tender and juicy as I might have been, he says I will do.