Mulled Vine

I loved the girl next door, and watched her daily as she frolicked amidst the summer daisies in the field behind our houses. She danced with delightful, childish exhuberance, waving her dandelion wand like the faeries of old. She knew I watched her from my dark curtained prison, and frequently cast a wave or sunlit smile my way, beckoning me to come and join her.

Oh, how I longed to, but Mama said it wasn’t right to mix with white folk. I tried to tell her this was the 21st century and racism was a thing of the past, but she just beat me with the rod and told me to grow up. Papa looked over at me and shook his head in shame before returning to his Financial Times.

He stood in the pouring rain, holding out a plastic cup. It didn’t look like he was begging because apart from a few inches of water he hadn’t collected anything, and he was finely dressed. I stopped, intrigued, and stared. Rude, I know, but this was London and I thought I could pass for a tourist. He saw me looking and then suddenly smiled: a great, big, friendly grin that caused a involuntary reciprocation on my part.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
He looked at me with a puzzled expression.
“Collecting water.”
“Er, why?” I continued.
“To have a drink, of course.”
By now his expression had turned to bemused incredulity.
“But you’re getting soaked?” I ventured.
He nodded thoughtfully and then replied, “That does tend to happen when it rains.”
His tone had become kindly and gentle, as if explaining a rainbow to a child, and my irritation grew.
“But why don’t you just buy some water instead of getting wet like this? You’ll catch your death.” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with a complete stranger.
“Don’t you have any money?” I continued.
“Oh, I do,” he replied, “but I then I wouldn’t get wet.”
“You want to get wet?”
“Yes.”
It was obvious this fellow was a complete nutter, and I was about to move on when he said to me, “Would you like to join me? There is plenty of rain for everyone.”
I declined, bid him good bye and hurried on my way to catch my train. It was packed with damp, gloomy and unhappy commuters and I got home late, tired and irritable. Little Lucy greeted me at the door with her usual, energetic exuberant, “Daddy!” I picked her up and hugged her tightly, the day’s stress gradually fading away. Emma was preparing supper in the kitchen. I put Lucy down and went over to her.
“Hello, my love.”
She looked up, startled. Perhaps I’d interrupted a day dream.
“Oh, hello. I was miles away. Had a good day?”
“So, so. It’s good to be home.”
“Supper will be ready soon.”
“OK.”
I turned to go upstairs but then stopped, remembering the man in the rain, and seeing that it was still pouring outside suddenly changed my mind. I took off my jacket then went outside into our garden. The rain fell heavily, splashing me with great, fat, juicy drops from the trees overhead. I spread out my arms and looked up at the falling rain. You could see drops starting like dust specks in the grey sky then rapidly grow as they fell towards earth. It was glorious and I stood there for ages like a daft egit, until my reverie was interrupted by a little voice from the doorway.
“Daddy, what are you doing?”
I looked at her, water dripping from my hair and nose.
“Being a rain man,” I replied.
“What’s a rain man, Daddy?”
I smiled. “It’s someone who does this.”
That seemed to satisfy.
“Can I be a rain girl?”
I hesitated, watching Emma cooking in the kitchen, then nodded, “Sure, why not?”
She squealed with delight and ran out into the rain. She stood next to me, extending her arms in imitation of her old man, and we stood side by side drinking in the divine nectar.
Suddenly a stern voice spoke from the back door.
“Robert Vine, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”
I went over to my wife and wrapped my arms around her. She protested at first but then laughed. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Come join us,” I pleaded.
“Well I may as well now. You’ve soaked me through!”

So there we stood, we three, of an early autumn evening, in the rain like three strange, exuberant trees. No doubt the neighbours would think we were mad, but that day sanity didn’t seem like a very fun thing at all.

Two guys, Cameron and Nyiko are sitting at their favourite bar, drinking
beer.

Cameron turns to Nyiko and says, “You know, I’m tired of going through
life without an education. Tomorrow I think I’ll go to the community
college and sign up for some classes.” Nyiko agrees that it’s a good
idea.

The next day, Cameron goes down to the college and meets the Dean of
Admissions, who signs him up for four basic classes: Math, English,
History, and Logic.

“Logic?” Cameron asks, “what’s that?”

The dean says, “I’ll show you. Do you own a lawnmower?”

“Yeah.”

“Then logically speaking, because you own a lawnmower, I think that you
would have a yard.”

“That’s true, I do have a yard.”

“I’m not done,” the dean says. “Because you have a yard, I think
logically that you would have a house.”

“Yes, I do have a house!”

“And because you have a house, I think that you might logically have a
family.”

“I have a family.”

“I’m not done yet. Because you have a family, then logically you must
have a wife.”

“Yes, I do have a wife.”

“And because you have a wife, then logic tells me you must be
heterosexual.”

“I am heterosexual. That’s amazing, you were able to find out all of
that because I have a lawnmower.”

Excited to take the class now, Cameron shakes the Dean’s hand and leaves
to go meet Nyiko at the bar. He tells Nyiko about his classes, how he
has signed up for Math, English, History and Logic.

“Logic?” Nyiko says, “What’s that?”

“I’ll show you,” says Cameron. “Do you have a lawnmower?”

“No.”

“Then you’re gay…..”

It came to pass long ago, when the earth was young and the internet a fishing term, that a baby boy was born to the farmer and his wife. The farmer was immensely pleased, as he had worked hard to build up his farm and needed a son to help him at his labours. The boy grew up quickly into a fine, handsome young lad of golden disposition, however it soon became apparent to the farmer and his wife that their son was bone idle. At first his mother attributed it to an artistic strain in their family, but since he did nothing but spend his days dreaming under the apple tree on the hill, they eventually realised that there would be no practical manifestation of his gift. Perhaps this is all a little unfair on the young lad, because whilst he had idle notions, he did sometimes show promise: like the time he thought to weave a 3ft daisy chain for his mother. He was however so immensely proud of this achievement that he kept the floral necklace for himself.

The years went by, and it was not long before his parents had passed away and the lad, now a young man, sat idly under the apple tree, contemplating what to do with his inheritance. The farm he had of course sold immediately as he knew not, and indeed cared not, what to do with it. The bag of gold sat heavily in his lap and he regretted having asked for quite so much.

An apple fell to the ground and rolled down the hill towards the road, and the young man in that instant decided to follow it and see the world that had not bothered him much before. He set off with a jaunty stride, gold in hand, dreams in his head, whistling a little tune his mother had taught him.

Not long after that, perhaps not even an hour, he began to feel hunger pangs and he wondered what he would do for food. It was quite a problem as he was in the middle of nowhere. In the distance however he spied a man sitting next to a cow, seemingly eating his lunch. He smiled, pleased with his good fortune, and ran towards the stranger. On arrival he greeted the man and asked if he could have some of his bread and cheese. The man looked at him with some surprise, no doubt wondering whether an exchange was to be offered, but since none was forthcoming and being a charitable fellow, he shared his lunch with the young man. They fell to talking, or at least the young man talked at length about himself, until he noticed that the cow was a milk cow.

“Sir, I don’t suppose you would give me your cow, so I can have milk the rest of my days and need not go hungry?”
The man replied, “Son, I have just acquired this cow through a trade and am not inclined to give it away.” The young man looked so downcast that the man continued, “However I did exchange some magic beans for it, and if you hurry you might be able to catch up with the youngster I gave them to. Perhaps he would give you one or two.”

The young man cheered up immediately and was about to run off when he thought, “this bag of gold will slow me down, I shall give it to the man.” So he did, and set off at pace. Nightfall fell, as it usually does, and he came to small cottage in which a cosy light shone. He knocked on the door and enquired if he might have lodgings for the night. The owner of the cottage, an elderly woman and her young lad were only too glad to have visitors, for it had not been a good day. Their only cow, Tulip, had been foolishly exchanged by her son that morning for a handful of supposedly magic beans. The young man made himself at home an regaled them during supper with dreamy tales. When they enquired as to his destination he said he was looking for some magic beans he had heard about.

“Magic beans?” cried the woman, “Not you too? How strange Fortune is. We have some beans lying outside our window which you may freely have, but I doubt they are magic. However it is late and I suggest we turn in and attend to this tomorrow.” They bade each other good night and settled down to sleep, the young man sharing a bed with the woman’s son.

Dawn broke, but instead of the radiant morning sunshine, a green hue shone through the cottage windows. At first the occupants thought that the world was about to end and fell to praying, but when nothing happened, decided to go outside instead and investigate. It will no doubt not come as a surprise to you that a gigantic bean stalk had grown overnight from the magic beans and extended many miles up into the sky.

“Let’s climb it!” exclaimed the lad.
“No, it is not safe.” replied the mother.
The young man turned to her, “Do not fret, you have been so kind to me. I will hold it steady while he climbs.” The reality was that he had developed over the years a keen nose for strenuous activity and how to avoid it and this bean stalk had strenuosity written all over it!

The lad clambered quickly, watched anxiously by his mother, and soon disappeared from their sight. They stood a while, but since chores wait for no one, the mother soon went inside to attend to them. The young man settled down for a nap under the leafy shade of the bean stalk. He must have slept for a good few hours because when he awoke the sun was past noon. He wondered what had awoken him, but soon heard frantic rustling as the young lad climbed down with a hen under his arm.

“Quick, quick!” the young lad cried. “Fetch the axe.”
Fortunately his mother heard, because the idle young man knew not what fetch meant, and detecting the urgency in her son’s voice ran out with the axe.
The boy reached the ground, gasping for breath. “Giant… hen… golden eggs… coming … cut it down!”

Seeing that the young man was not hearing him, and indeed had wandered off into the orchard to look for apples, he grabbed the axe from his mother and began to frantically chop at the bast of the bean stalk. A giant roar from on high only served to increase his pace and soon the bean stalk gave a violent creak and tottered mightily. A second roar was heard, this time more like a screech, as the bean stalk began to tumble to the ground, casting its gigantic clamberer to the earth, to his death, into the apple orchard, where a young man of idle notions wondered when his fortune would hit him.

If you are a familiar reader of such fairy stories, you will no doubt be wondering what the moral is. Well fear not, here it is: “Don’t you have anything better to do than read tales of idleness?”

Three kids come down to the kitchen and sit around the breakfast table.
The mother asks the oldest boy what he’d like to eat. “I’ll have some f*ckin’ French toast,” he says.
The mother is outraged at his language, hits him, and sends him upstairs.
She asks the middle child what he wants. “Well, I guess that leaves more f*ckin’ French toast for me,” he says. She is livid, smacks him, and sends him away.
Finally she asks the youngest son what he wants for breakfast. “I don’t know,” he says meekly, “but I definitely don’t want the f*ckin’ French toast.”

The twister came from nowhere and my family fled to the storm bunker. I however was too late and stood stunned as the huge column of writhing air enveloped our house and lifted it piece by piece into the air, round and round and round. I cannot adequately describe the sound, the immense thundering, the scream of a thousand banshees, the groan of twisted metal. Round and round and round, higher and higher and higher, joined by pieces of wreckage, the neighbour’s terrified dog Maisie, and a plaintively mooing cow. I was surprisingly calm, considering, almost full of wonder at this immense spectacle around me, God’s very own whirlpool. Then suddenly, just as quick as it had come, it disappeared, and I found myself suspended 3 miles above the patchwork that was my home town. I started to fall, slowly at first, but soon reaching terminal velocity, and thought that it wasn’t so much the falling that I minded, but the stopping.

“Come on girls, we’re late already.”

“Coming Dad,” they replied in sarcastic unison. I smiled, remembering when they used to think the world of me, before teenage years arrived and ended all of that. This was the way of the world and there was no use bemoaning it – I was an awful teenager myself and still cringe at the memories.

We reached the front door of the apartment and pressed the door bell. Inside the inappropriate sound of Big Ben chimed, followed by the footsteps of presumably my mother since my dad was such a lazy sod. The door opened and indeed it was her, wearing a happy beam at the arrival of her family. The smile however soon turned to concern, “Where’s Amanda?”

“Er, she’s not feeling well, so begged to be excused,” I lied. Amanda hated my parents and since neither of us could face another tense family reunion we agreed to this mutually acceptable way forward.

“I hope its not serious?” my mother enquired.

“Oh, no, just a migraine. You know she gets those a lot.”

“Yes, I’m sooo sorry, but do come in. It’s sooo nice to see you.”

She hugged the girls who squirmed reluctantly under her embrace. They seemed to be too old for anything these days but I had warned them on pain of death to me nice to their grand mother … and bribed them with a tenner each, just in case longevity wasn’t enough of an incentive.

I kissed her on the cheek as a dutiful son, hoping it wasn’t cottage pie again.

BRITISH SURVEY


A recent survey in the United Kingdom
asked the following question:


Are there too many foreigners in this country now?


Answer:


18% said: YES


82% said: معهد الأمن العالمي بوا! شنط

I am a firm believer that the family who prays together stays together. I know its a corny saying, but it is true, so I encourage my children to pray before they go to bed, at mealtimes, and whenever there is a need.

Angelica however does not want to pray; I don’t what it is, but try as we will she refuses point blank to pray. My wife thought she might be possessed but I told her not to be silly, that this house was under the protection of the Almighty.

Then today, at Thanksgiving, with all the extended family gathered around, she astonishingly began to say grace: “Dear Lord, thank you for the food you give us, and the nice things you give us, and Lord, please provide clothes for the children in Africa, and all those naked ladies on Daddy’s computer.”

“What contract?” I asked, pretty sure that I had signed nothing since that last disastrous time I did that when my whole family had been taken off into slavery and I was left with the dishes.

“The one you signed when you rubbed the lamp,” replied the genie, eyes twinkling with infernal glee.

“You have got to be kidding me – how can rubbing a lamp in any way constitute a binding agreement on my part??”

The genie chortled, clearly delighted with himself: “Those are the rules, as you should well know, since they are inscribed on the underside of the lamp, and according to sub-clause 12.2 it is the responsibility of you, the bearer of the lamp, to read the terms of the contract before embarking on any rubbing of said lamp, and furthermore under clause 32 that only one wish may be granted by myself, the dweller of the lamp, referred to as “the genie” henceforth, and any attempt to wish for further wishes …”

“Oh, I wish you’d just shut up!”

“Certainly, Master, your wish is my command”, replied the genie as he and the lamp disappeared in a puff of red tape.