GOOD WITCH, BAD WITCH

The following tale was written for my daughter Erin's 5th birthday.

There was a thunder storm that night and a terrible wind. Outside it sounded like a team of wolves and a team of ghosts were having a ‘being noisy’ competition. Every now and then, a giant clapped his approval after a particularly good effort by one of the teams.

Erin tossed and turned in her bed. She could not get to sleep. Lightning flashed and cast momentary shadows of dancing monsters on the bedroom walls. Erin was scared. She needed to hide. She needed to get away from the wolves, away from the ghosts, away from the giant and away from the monsters. She got out of bed. Lottie was fast asleep beside her, dreaming pleasant dreams, blissfully unaware of the noisy competition. Erin went out onto the landing. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs and froze with fear. The footsteps got closer but Erin couldn’t move. Then around the corner came a figure a little taller than her. Louis stopped in his tracks, startled to see someone standing there. Then they both recognised one another and began to laugh.

“I can’t sleep,” said Erin.

“Me neither,” Louis replied. “I hate thunder storms. Let’s hide somewhere. I’ve brought my torch. What about in here? The monsters will never find us in here.” Louis pointed to the little door at the top of the stairs. Erin nodded. Louis opened the door and they stooped a little to go inside. Then they both stood with mouths agape as they suddenly found themselves somewhere quite unexpected.

In front of them was a long wooden path. The wood of the path was dark and shiny and smooth at the sides, but down the middle it was rough and worn, as if many feet had passed this way before. Either side of the path was a high fence. It was too high to see over and there were no gaps to look through. Louis tried to reach up to the top of the fence. He could not. He tried jumping. Still he didn’t come close. Then he tried lifting Erin up to see if she could reach. But it was no use. Louis reached into his pocket and found a coin. He took it out, threw it over the top of the fence and waited to hear what sound it would make on the other side. He waited some more. He looked at Erin. They both waited some more. No sound ever came.

On walked the intrepid adventurers, feeling more than a little uneasy about the coin experiment, but determined to see what lay ahead. Eventually, the path led to a tall arch. After walking through the arch they found themselves in a small room. A thick red carpet covered the floor. It also covered the ceiling and the walls.

“How strange,” Erin thought. “A carpet on the ceiling. What ever can that be for? Nobody ever walks on the ceiling. Well, spiders do of course, and flies and daddy long legs. Maybe the carpet is for them.”

In the middle of the far wall was a picture frame. There wasn’t a picture in the frame. It just had a large red letter A in the middle on a plain white background. In the centre of the room was a small black table and on the table stood a white box with a single red button in the centre of it.

Before Erin had time to think about it, Louis strode confidently forward and pressed the button. Suddenly the letter in the picture frame changed quickly to a B and then a C and then a D. It kept changing again and again, going through all the letters in the alphabet. After Z it changed back to A again and then B again and then C again. This continued until all the letters in the alphabet had appeared three times. Then the changes became slower. Each letter stayed just a little longer. Eventually the letter stopped changing. It stopped at the letter W. A faint cracking noise could be heard and the outline of a door began to appear around the picture frame.

Erin and Louis looked at each other, their eyes wide, and then looked back at the newly appeared door. They looked at each other again. Without speaking, they both began to move towards the door. The new door had no handle. Louis pushed on the right side of the door. It seemed stuck. Erin pushed on the left side. This time, the door swung open and they walked through into what appeared to be a shop. There were a counter and various shelves with bottles and bags of what looked like crushed up dried leaves on them. Behind the counter, a woman stood over a stove on which stood a large black cooking pot with steam rising from it. The woman wore a blue dress and an apron with red and white checks. Her hair was fiery red and was tied neatly in bunches. Her eyes were deepest blue with delicate wrinkles either side and her skin was pale with brown freckles.

“Hello there, my dears,” said the old lady. “What can I do for you?”

“Who are you?” asked Louis.

“My name’s Claria. I’m a witch. What brings you here? I don’t think I’ve seen you two before.”

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” asked Louis.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” replied the witch.

“You know! Are you wicked or are you kind?” Louis explained further.

“Hmmm,” pondered the old lady, rubbing her chin for an extra boost of thinking power. “Do I have to choose one or the other?”

“Yes, of course! Everyone knows that all witches are either good witches or bad witches. You can generally tell by looking at them. You know: the bad ones are green with warts and great big hooked noses. They talk in croaky voices and cackle instead of laughing. What’s more, the things they laugh about are usually not funny at all, but really horrid,” explained Erin.

“That’s right!” Louis agreed. “And good witches are beautiful with pretty pink dresses and wands with stars on and silver crowns and they use big bubbles to fly around in instead of broomsticks and their voices are like a carol-singing choir, only with the volume turned down a bit.” Louis often saw little point in separate sentences.



“I see,” said the witch. She rubbed her chin some more, calling on her last reserves of thinking power by vigorously going over a bit she had missed the first time. But still the answer did not come to her. “Do you know,” she said eventually, “I really don’t know. Nobody ever asked me before and as you can see, I don’t really fit either of your descriptions. Do you think someone should have told me what sort of witch I am? Maybe my mum should have told me when I was little, or do I just have to decide for myself?”

The two children looked at each other for a moment, each one hoping that the other might know the answer. After a little while, Louis thought of another question: “What kind of witch was your mum?”

“My mum?” the witch pondered. “My mum wasn’t a witch at all. She was a goatherd.”

“What’s a goatherd?” asked Louis.

“Like a shepherd, only you look after goats instead of sheep,” the witch explained.

“Oh, right!” Louis exclaimed. “So someone who looks after cows must be a coward!”

“Why are you a witch then?” asked Erin, returning everyone to the question.

“Why? I don’t know really. I suppose I was just very good at spelling when I was at school,” the witch answered, sounding none too sure of herself.

“I know!” Erin suddenly had a flash of inspiration. “Do you do nice spells or do you do nasty spells?”

“Yeh! Nice or nasty?” reiterated Louis, pressing the point.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” the witch had to admit. “How do you tell?”

“That’s easy,” Louis chipped in. “When you do nice spells, you will feel nice inside. In here,” he pointed to his chest. “You’ll feel all tingly and warm. Also, some people might smile at you and say ‘thank you’ to you in a soft voice. They might do something nice for you in return. When you do nasty spells, you will feel a bit sick. A bit further down,” he pointed to his belly. “People will shout at you and tell you off. They might stop speaking for a while or they might even never speak to you again. They might do something nasty to get back at you.”

“I see,” said the witch. “Well, now you’ve explained it, I think I probably do both kinds of spell.”

“Both!?” exclaimed the children in unison.

“You can’t do both! You have to choose one or the other. Otherwise, how will anyone know what kind of witch you are?” Erin continued the questioning.

“I’ve never really thought about it like that,” the witch had to admit. “I didn’t know that people needed to know what kind of witch I am.”

“Oh, yes.” Louis confirmed. “People need to know what kind of witch you are. If they want a nice spell casting, then they go and see a good witch. If they want a nasty spell, then they go to see a wicked witch. I think you’d better decide what kind of witch you are right away.”

“Hmmm,” the witch pondered some more. This time she scratched her head as she had lost all faith in her chin. “How can I decide?”

“Well, which kind of spells do you like best?” Erin asked.

“That depends, really,” the witch answered. “Sometimes I am tired and fed up. Sometimes people are horrid to me or to my friends. Then I think I like the nasty spells best. I can get my own back on them and teach them a lesson. But at other times, people are really nice to me. When the nice people need my help, or I want to thank them, then I feel much more like doing the nice spells.”

“But you must like one better than the other,” Erin continued. “What about that feeling you get? Do you prefer the one in your chest or the one in your belly? Do you like people to smile and say thank you or do you prefer them to shout and get cross?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” The witch decided. “The first ones for definite! No contest.”

“That’s settled then,” said Louis. “You should definitely be a good witch. It’s good spells for you.”

“But what about when people are horrible to me?” The witch asked. “Can’t I just do a few little nasty spells to get back at them?”

“Oh, no, no!” Erin answered. “Good witches must never cast nasty spells. If you want to be a good witch, you must only do nice spells. That’s the rules.”

“Not even a teeny tiny nasty spell?” the witch asked. “I don’t want to turn anyone into a toad or anything. I was thinking more along the lines of a bit of an earache, or maybe a verruca.”

“Nope. Absolutely forbidden I’m afraid. I’m something of an expert on these things. I’ve watched the Wizard of Oz nine times, don’t you know?” said Erin.

“But what am I supposed to do when people are nasty to me?”

“Well,” said Erin. “I’m not sure about that one. I don’t think that was in the Wizard of Oz. Maybe you could try doing a nice spell for them anyway. Perhaps they are just feeling a bit tired and fed up and you could do a ‘wide awake not fed up’ spell. Or maybe someone else was nasty to them and you can do a ‘forget about the nastiness’ spell. Or maybe you could just ignore them and do a nice spell for someone else who you think deserves it.”

“I like the idea of that!” said the witch. “Thank you children. Can I do a spell for you now?”

“We can’t sleep,” said Louis. “There’s a thunderstorm. Can you make it go away?”

“I have just the thing,” said the witch. She reached up to a high shelf and took down a dusty green bottle. She dusted it down and pulled out the cork. “Take some of this, each of you. Half for you and half for you.” she said.

Louis and Erin both took a drink from the potion and the room around them began to fade.

The next morning, Erin was awoken by her little sister. She was back in her bed, and the thunder storm had stopped.

“What a strange dream I had!” Erin thought to herself. “Wait until I tell Louis about it.” She got up to go to the toilet and noticed the little door at the top of the stairs was ajar. Slowly she opened it further an inch at a time. Behind the door there was just a cupboard full of boxes. Erin laughed to herself. Of course. It was just a dream. Then out of the corner of her eye she noticed something familiar on the floor. It was a green bottle with dust clinging to it in places. Its cork lay next to it. Erin picked up the bottle and looked inside. It was empty. She thought she faintly heard a coin landing somewhere and spinning to a rest on the ground.

THE END

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FOUR LEGGED CHEERING UP

A few years ago I decided try try my hand at a new profession. The profession I chose was animal psychology. I couldn't be bothered with the whole training to get proper qualifications thing, so I just decided to get some business cards printed at one of those cheap machines you see at train stations and airports. I added some important sounding letters after a false, slightly foreign-sounding, name. Then off I went into the merry world of four-legged cheering up. How hard could it be?

To my unceasing astonishment, I was an immediate and resounding success. People would bring their dogs and cats along to me who were off their food or had started showing an unhealthy interest in rubber garments, and I would rub my chin for a little while and look pensive whilst asking a few relevant-sounding questions, the answers to which I paid no attention to whatsoever.

Then I would say, "Hmm, yes. Leave Rover with me for half an hour and I'll see what I can do."
I would then take the problem pet into a back room and say something like "For goodness sake get a grip. Pull yourself together. Life's not a rehearsal you know!"

Anyway, it seems like I unwittingly stumbled upon a winner with this no-nonsense approach and nine times out of ten it did the trick. Off-colour dogs stopped moping around looking sad and immediately returned to the much more healthy state of mind which is indicated by chasing a ball and bringing it back over and over and over again until their tongues are touching the floor. Cats with low self-esteem returned to their surly 'take take take and I'll let you stroke me every now and again if you're lucky' arrogance.

Very quickly my reputation spread and soon folks from far and wide were heading in my direction with their fed-up furry friends in tow. Elephants with amnesia. Belligerent sheep. Noisy mice. Rabbits that had lost their sex-drive.

Quite frankly I was starting to get a bit out of my depth. My original formula worked fine for crabby canines, forlorn felines and even pissed-off piscines, but I couldn't really take the same approach with these more complex animal issues. What was I to do? It was only a matter of time before I was exposed as a shameful psycho-charlatan. There was only one thing for it. I decided to fake my own death in a tragic terribly uptight tiger tantrum accident.

I got a few steaks from the butchers, and then let out a terrible scream, then quickly climbed out of the window, chucking the steaks and a ripped up bloodstained white coat in the direction of the tiger as I left. When the circus owners burst into the room, all they saw was the tiger polishing off the last bit of the steak and what was left of my white coat on the floor.

The incident made the front page of the local newspapers and there were some rather pleasing quotes from former customers, but my adventure into a new exciting life was over and now I have returned to the more mundane world of computer science. Win some lose some I guess.

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ELF IN LOVE (OR ELFIN LOVE)

A couple of weeks ago I went to visit my parents and left Walter in charge of the flat on the strict instructions that he is not to admit any more imaginary creatures or pantomime characters in for comedy knees-ups, drug smoking, political meetings, shoemaking, fashioning of magical rings or pretending not to realise that someone is behind them. He phoned me on my mobile one night, all forlorn. Turns out he is having girlfriend trouble. His voice is pretty squeaky at the best of times, but he was sounding noticeably very upset. He's always been a bit of a jack-the-lad before, bringing home a different tiny pointy-eared female every couple of weeks. They were always a little worse for wear and I long since resigned myself to the fact that I would always very soon be hearing the sounds of tiny elfin bedroom gymnastics from within the sofa.

But lately I had noticed a distinct change in him. The regular sofa guests stopped. I was pleased about this as it meant I didn't have to explain the noises to E & L when they stayed. He seemed very restless and unable to concentrate on his normal everyday tasks and he started stopping and smelling flowers for no reason and waxing lyrical about how beautiful everyday things were. After questioning him about it, I found out the reason. Walter was in love! Her name was Tallina Breeze . A tree nymph from Bolton Woods. Walter spoke of her in an enchanting lyrical fashion. Such a contrast from the usual crude descriptions he gave for his latest conquests. Beauty, fear, honour, privilege, longing. affection, constancy and love all of a sudden became part of Walter's vocabulary.

I had the pleasure of meeting her one evening. Walter sent me out to the shops for a teeny tiny dining table and dolls china dinner set and he locked himself in the kitchen all afternoon from where tantalising smells wafted into my nostrils like an amusing game of Name that Smell. When Tallina finally arrived for Walter's repast, I was pleasantly surprised to note that she was markedly different from Walter's usual arm trophies. She had a winning smile and was pretty and striking in a quite unique teeny tiny way. She and Walter seemed to get on effortlessly and the evening was filled with squeaky laughter, despite the notable absence of Walter's usual inebriation.

A number of similar evenings followed and when I left Walter in charge of the flat that week, it was in the rather confident hope that he had put his wild oat sewing and hedonism days behind him and was now forging an altogether more lasting happiness. So when I heard his voice on the phone, betraying signs of personal devastation, my heart sank for my little love-struck squatter.

To cut a long story short (well, not that short, but I'm trying my best), Tallina has gone all cold on Walter. He can't understand it and frankly, neither can I. From what I saw of them together, she seemed as besotted with him as he is with her. From what Walter has told me about what she has said to him, it seems she has been rather badly let down in the past and is frightened to open herself up to such hurt again. Walter quoted something particularly poignant which Tallina apparently said to him in cartoon-mouse like tones:

"because it's easier not to have something than having to worry about how to keep it and look after it"

The poor little things. Sounds like they are both experiencing some considerable angst and anguish. I hope that they can work it out with time and that Walter doesn't go off the rails in the meantime.

Next Story - Interview With A Furniture Elf >>

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DEUTSCHES ZUR MIETE

If you are planning a wedding reception (Therese and Martine - listen up) or a house party, you just want to have some fun for the weekend, or are having a family get together, you may be searching for something to make that occasion just a little bit special.

If you are prepared to spend a little bit of money to make your party go with a swing, I think I may have found just what you need.

I quote directly from the reasonable attempt at English on the Rent-A-German website which I encourage you to visit.

Imagine to appear with your German at parties, family events, or just hang out with them at the local shopping center.

No matter which occasion you choose, you will surely impress your environment by presenting an original German.

There are now 240 genuine Germans to choose from, all guaranteed to liven up even the dullest bash.

Here are a couple of quotes from satisfied customers:-

"I will never forget, when I went to the beach with the German.
My friends had a good time, eating chicken with him under the sun of Ipanema beach. Next time, I will buy him a new swimming trouser."

Leila R., 36 (Rio de Janeiro)


“It was awesome! Having a German at the office for a week was a huge success! Since then, my relationship with my co-workers has improved big time! I’ll definitely do it again- It was, like, oh my god, this is so it!”

Adam G., 48 (San Francisco)

What are you all waiting for?

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CHEETAH BICYCLES

I've been thinking up an idea for livening up Natural History programs on the telly. Think about it. A really fast man can sprint at about 20 mph, but given a fairly decent bike, might reach a sprint speed of 50 mph or more.

If you assume the same is possible for animals, this means that a cheetah could reach speeds around 175 mph on a bike. Obviously, in the interests of fairness, you would have to give bikes to gazelles and springbok and such like too, but I think you'll agree that this idea could bring back a lot of interest to these now frequently seen natural contests.

Of course, there would need to be a period where the animals were taught to ride the specially designed bikes, probably using stabilisers to begin with. Then after a couple of months, the daddy animal could take off the stabilisers and hold on to the back of the bike to begin with, then keep saying to their cub or fawn 'I won't let go' and 'it's all right, I've got you' even though they had already let go several seconds before. Once the animals have mastered the basic riding, the predators will probably need some training from a stunt man in order to perfect the skill of leaping from the moving bike and onto their poor unfortunate brown-eyed prey.

I've contacted Sir David Attenbrough but as yet have had no reply. He's probably mucking about with his gorilla mates again and not answering his e-mails. If he doesn't go for it, then maybe it will work for horse and greyhound racing instead.

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BEAUTY

One of my friends recently posted a video to my Facebook wall which was made by the Dove Campaign For Real Beauty.

You can see the excellent video that my friend sent me here.



Please take a couple of minutes to watch it before reading on.

The funny thing is, even at the end, that woman isn't attractive at all to me. The same would go for a lot of models and celebrities and I'm fairly sure I am not atypical. A lot of men would much prefer the 'girl next door' in real life.

Yet women and especially young girls aspire to that and it it so damaging. They are aspiring to be something nobody really wants them to be and something that they can never achieve. Destroying their self-esteem and their health in the process. Two things that are crucial if a woman wants to be truly attractive.

As a father of two young girls I sincerely hope that something changes before they get old enough to be seriously affected by the media distortion.

A lot more excellent information is available on the Dove Campaign For Real Beauty website.

Thanks again, Bee.

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ANIMALS

Here's another amusing coversation that I had with my daughters one day:-

ME: What is your favourite animal?

LOTTIE: I like all animals.

ME: What, even wasps?

LOTTIE: Wasps aren't animals.

ME: Really? How do you know they aren't?

LOTTIE: They don't have any fur.

ME: But what about elephants? They aren't furry.

LOTTIE: Animals have eyes.

ME: Does that mean that a worm isn't an animal?

ERIN: Anyway, we have eyes and we aren't animals.

ME: We aren't? Why do you think we aren't animals?

ERIN: We just aren't! We're us.

ME: Why not? I think we might be animals.

ERIN: Animals have four legs and we have 2.

ME: What about chickens?

We continued in this fashion for some time. At the end of it, I don't think there was any firm conclusion about how one decides what is an animal and what isn't. Please leave your suggestions in a comment.

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ZIG A ZIG AH

"What's on tonight then, love?" asked Jim as he sat back in his arm chair after a satisfying evening meal. With his favourite mug full of tea just how he liked it in one hand and his Yorkshire Post in the other, Jim felt deep contentment. Every evening he followed the same routine. It was comfortable. It was safe.

"Turn it to ITV will you? Time for Coronation Street," Jim continued.

A deep and heartfelt sigh came from his wife at the other side of the room.

"What's up, love?" asked Jim. "You've got the remote there haven't you? You know we always watch Coronation Street at this time."

"Oh, yeh. Don't I just know it," replied Brenda with a sarcastic tone that was so out of character it took Jim by surprise.

"Is something up, love?" asked Jim "Come on, out with it or we'll miss the start."

"Is something up?" Brenda repeated his question, her tone becoming more sarcastic with every syllable. "No, Jim, something isn't up. Fucking everything is up."

Jim had lived with Brenda for 26 years and not once had he heard her use the F word. He sat there with his mouth open wide and very slowly put his favourite mug onto the coaster that sat atop his side table to prevent unsightly stains.

"Wha...?" said Jim, momentarily unable to form a complete word.

"For fuck's sake Jim! You are soooo unutterably dull! Every evening the same thing. 'What's on tonight love? Turn it to Channel 4 love. Rory Bremner's on. We can tape Eastenders and watch it later.' FUCK!! For years we had no choice. The routine enforced by having to work around the kids. For years I waited because I thought there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I thought we could really start to really live our lives again when the kids grew up. Let me tell you, this is NOT what I had in mind. Do you think this is what I want Jim?"

"Wha...? I... I thought you were happy Brenda. I thought we loved each other. I love you Brenda, I am content just to be in your company. I thought you felt the same. We have a nice home in a nice area, no real worries. Another couple of years and I will maybe be able to retire. We have a nice life Brenda. What is it that you want that you don't have?"

"I'll tell you what I want. What I really, really want."

"So, tell me what you want. What you really, really want."

"I want to....I want to....I really, really, really want to zig a zig ah."

"I'm sorry? You really want to what?"

"To zig a zig ah."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Don't swear Jim, it is not like you."

"You fucking started it. What the fuck is 'zig a zig ah' ?"

"Oh, Jim, if I have to explain that to you then there is no hope is there? What is the matter with you? What happened to the Jim I once knew? Where did all your va va voom go?"

"So, you would like to zig a zig ah and you are concerned that I have lost my va va voom. Oh, well that's very straightforward. Yes, of course. I will attend to those two things immediately. Is there any other unintelligible bollocks you would like me to be thinking about while I am at it?"

"Don't get sarcastic with me Jim. You know I don't like that."

"Well, I thought I knew what you do and don't like Brenda, but now it all seems to be up in the air doesn't it? Because apparently I should have been paying more attention to my Vorsprung durch Technic all this time rather than working hard to provide a stable home for you and the kids. And maybe I should have been concentrating on my doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo as well to make sure that you were able to get all the rama lama dingdong that you are so yearning for. Forgive me if I got it wrong, but maybe it was the fact that YOU HAVEN'T SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THIS FOR THE PREVIOUS 26 YEARS that threw me off track a little."

"Please don't be nasty with me Jim. I am telling you now because I don't think I can take it any longer. God knows I have tried. Are you really happy with this? Same thing every single evening. Emmerdale, Corry, Eastenders, The Bill. Cup of tea. Yorkshire Post. The odd comment about the newspaper or aimed at the TV and never talking to me. Never really talking."

"I am happy Brenda. At least I was until this. Because I thought you were happy. That is really all that matters to me. I am shocked to be honest. I really do feel content just being in your company. I thought you felt the same. I thought we were good together Brenda. Comfortable."

"Maybe 'comfortable' is a bit overrated Jim. Remember exciting? Can't we try exciting again just a little bit, Jim?"

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YELLOW

One day a few months ago I was talking to my youngest daughter Lottie (three years old at the time). The conversation went something like this:-

DADDY:
What is your favourite colour, Lottie?

LOTTIE:
Yellow.

DADDY:
Still yellow? You haven't changed your mind?

LOTTIE:
No. Sometimes I wish the whole world was yellow.

DADDY:
If the whole world was yellow, how would you find your bananas?

LOTTIE:
You would look for the black bit on the end.

DADDY:
But if the whole world was yellow, then the black bits on the end of bananas would be yellow too.

LOTTIE:
Oh, well. Then you would just have to sniff them out.


Genius!

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XMAS DINNER

A couple of years ago I invented a special attachment for dinner plates at Christmas.

The original concept started as a special plate with a hole in it. It had a tube attached to the bottom (obviously the hole has a raised rim to prevent gravy going down it). The idea is that you can put your brussels sprouts down the hole and they go down the tube and into the hutch of a grateful rabbit or guinea pig. If you don't have a rabbit or guinea pig, the tube can just go into a bucket, the contents of which are taken to the compost heap of a wizened old allotment owner later. At other times of year it could be used for that nasty curly lettuce which reataurants and chefs on TV use all the time, but which basically just tastes like paracetomol. However, this would require some kind of suction device at the hutch end of the tube as lettuce does not have the rolling qualities of a brussels sprout. I fear this may make the cost prohibitive scare the rabbit.

After a little bit of extra brainstorming, I decided not to go for a hole in the actual plate, but a funnel type affair which can clamp onto the side of your plate or table and feed into the down tube. The advantages are obvious. Consumers will now not have to fork out for a whole new set of holey crockery or drill big holes in their tables, but instead can keep using their favourite plates and just pull them near the table edge when engaging in sprout disposal. The device can also be taken to restaurants and dinner parties provided they don't mind you bringing your rabbit. Come to think of it, I reckon most rerstaurants would mind you bringing your rabbit.

Therefore, what we need is some kind of cute furry animal and cage concealment device. That is, a device which can conceal cute furry animals in their cages rather than a cute device which can conceal furry animals in their cages or a device which can conceal cute furry animals and cute furry cages. Cages are generally neither cute nor furry, so inventing a concealment device for cute furry cages would be a massive waste of time and resources. And the device itself need not be cute unless our primary target market is pre-teenage girls.

Now I just need a financial backer with huge piles of cash and we can go into production.

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WERESHEEP

One day a few years ago I picked up a personal training client. In this story I will call him Larry. I have a duty of care to make sure that I don't injure or in any other way cause harm to my clients so it is necessary at an initial consultation for them to fill out a questionnaire about their general health so I can find out any underlying problems they might have.

This consists of a number of yes or no questions covering the major issues such as heart disease, diabetes, blood pressure, joint injuries etc. At the end there is a box for the client to write anything else they think might affect their partaking in exercise.

"So, Larry. You have ticked 'no' to most of the questions. That's good. But at the bottom here you have put in the box 'I am a weresheep'. Would you care to tell me a little bit more about that?"

"Yes Doc. Sure thing."

"I'm not a doctor. But please, do carry on."

"Right coach. I'm fairly OK most of the time, but every full moon I am powerless to stop myself taking on sheep form and rampaging about the neighbourhood going 'baaaa', eating people's grass and generally being shit scared of anything that moves."

"I see. Well, that is an unusual problem and I sympathise. But to be honest, I don't think that will have much effect on your training. As long as you avoid training when it is a full moon you should be fine. Maybe you should get a little patch of grass in your house and when the night in question comes around, get someone you trust to lock you in."

"Yes, thanks coach. I do already do something along those lines. I have had this for quite some time now."

"Oh, right. So why did you feel the need to tell me?"

"Well, the thing is, even when I am in human form, I still have sheepish tendencies. It's especially bad when I am confronted with a decision that I can't avoid. Then I will tend to lose it and I feel like I want to run around in little zigzags, desperately trying to find a group of people to latch onto so that I don't have to make the decision as an individual."

"Hmmm. To be fair Larry, that sounds pretty similar to what an awful lot of humans do anyway, be they ovine lycanthropes or not."

"What, so you don't think that will affect my training?"

"Well I don't think so Larry. I will tell you what you need to do and as long as you follow that, you will get the results you desire. In fact, folks who do what I tell them to the letter are the ones who get the best results so it may well be that your lack of independence is a bonus in this case."

"Thanks Doc, that's a weight off my mind."

"I'm not a doctor, Larry. Let's crack on shall we?"

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VICTORY

In July 1759, Mr Edward Allen, Master Shipwright of Chatham Dockyard received a letter from the Principle Officers and Commissioners of the Admiralty directing him:

"To make preparation and to prepare costing for a First-Rate Ship of 100 guns, to be built and fitted for sea at Chatham".

The name for the new ship was chosen by The Board of Admiralty in 1760 (although it was not completed and launched until Sunday 7th May 1763.

"Gentlemen. Today we have the task of naming the new First-Rate Warship being built at Chatham dock. Tradition has it that we use one of the seven names reserved for this class of ship. As six names are already taken by ships in service to His Majesty, this should be a fairly simple matter."

"Sir, are you sure that is wise in this case? The ship which we are replacing with this new vessel was lost at sea with all crew members. Perhaps we should break with tradition and choose a new name. It would seem that this name is an ill-fated one and even if we are not to believe such things, it may still strike fear in the hearts of any crew."

"What name did you have in mind?"

"Errmmm, how about HMS Fingers Crossed? We don't want to get too complacent after all. Pride comes before a fall and all that."

"Hmm. You might have something there. Our bravado did not work very well with the last ship did it?"

"That's right chief. Maybe it's time to admit that all that positive thinking and God is on our side because we are British stuff is a load of old bollocks and go back to good old fashioned superstition. I mean, just the other day I saw seven crows and a couple of hours later won 25 sovereigns on the gaming table down at the Old Salty Seaman Tavern."

"It's six for gold isn't it?"

"What?"

"One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret ...."

"Is it? OK, hang on. No, that was it, I saw one crow before I had my win."

"One crow? One for sorrow?"

"Ah, no. I am going by the other rhyme now. One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready etc."

"That's Elvis. Hasn't even been written yet."

"Who?"

"Elvis."

"Who's Elvis?"

"Oh, never mind. About this ship. Have the rest of you any suggestions?"

"Yes chief. How about HMS You Never Know Your Luck. That should keep the sailors onside. They aren't going to fall for another super-positive name like we had last time, but that at least gives them a bit of hope. Not superstition as such, just pragmatic realism."

"Any more ideas?" Those around the table looked at their big buckled shoes to avoid catching the High Admiral's eye, thus indicating they had nothing further to say.

"OK, so we have three choices before us. HMS Fingers Crossed. HMS You Never Know Your Luck and the original choice, HMS Victory. What say you? Shall we have a show of hands? Thank you gentlemen. It seems the traditionalists amongst us have won the day and we shall go with our original plan. "

So tradition was followed and the new warship was named HMS Victory. It was later to be captained by Admiral Lord Nelson as he led the British Fleet to victory in The Battle Of Trafalgar in 1805, defeating the combined Spanish and French fleets and changing Britain's fortunes in international affairs for many years to come. Nelson was fatally wounded on the deck of HMS Victory during this battle.

One can only ponder if history may have been different had the name HMS You Never Know Your Luck been chosen.

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USING 'UTERUS'

*** WARNING: Very Polite Sexual Content ***

One evening a couple of weeks ago I was talking on the phone with one of my female friends and we got onto the subject of 'talking dirty'. If you are worried about my moral integrity at this point, may I please assure you that this doesn't happen all the time and that I usually stick to subjects such as hairdressing, interior design, lovely fluffy bunny wabbits and cute little lambs gamboling through lush green pastures dotted with golden buttercups on balmy spring afternoons.

Anyway, somehow this topic came up and my friend suggested that it would be rather amusing if couples talked dirty but used the very polite / medical terms for the acts and body parts which they were describing.

Give it a try! It is indeed very amusing. I particularly recommend putting on a voice like Noel Coward when you do it.

Here is an example but do feel free to experiment with your own. :-)

"Darling, you are looking quite wonderful tonight. More blood than usual has flown into my penis. It is larger than normal and it is in a state of rigidness. I really would like to engage in sexual intercourse with you."

"Oh, yes my love. I too am rather keen on engaging in sexual intercourse. It will probably be facilitated by the fact that I am currently secreting vaginal fluid which will act as a perfect lubricant when your penis is inserted into my vaginal canal and will help prevent any painful friction."

"Oh, baby! I am going to insert it and then I am going to perform some vigorous pelvic movements, stimulating the super-sensitive nerve endings of my glans until I reach a point of ecstatic climax and am unable to stop myself filling your uterus with my spermatozoa."

"Oh, yes. Go on then love machine! Insert your erect penis into my vaginal canal. I want to feel your glans (which is rather swollen due to the unusual amount of blood flow to the region) touching my cervix as you engage in sexual intercourse with me. I am also looking forward to feeling the contraction of your bulbospongiosus muscle which will propel your spermatozoa into my uterine chamber."

OK! You can write the rest yourselves!

Thanks to my friend for the very funny idea :-)

One last thing. If you want to engage in talking dirty proper, I cannot think of a thoroughly naughty way of saying 'uterus'. The only other word I can think of is 'womb' which you would have no problem saying to your grandmother. That just will not do!

Please leave your filthy word for 'womb' suggestions in a comment!

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THINKING

If you haven't met me in person, you may be surprised to learn that I am a fairly quiet individual. The strong, silent type. I am usually fairly happy to go for long periods without speaking at all. That isn't to say that I can't have a good old conversation, but I tend not to initiate them much. This is in rather stark contrast to writing or chatting on MSN which I like to do rather a lot of!

When I am in a reasonably long relationship with a member of the wonderful opposite sex, these periods of silence often prompt my partner to ask the dreaded question:

"What are you thinking about?"

Why is it a dreaded question? Because I am very often thinking about nothing at all. But in my experience, women just won't accept this as an answer. They are aware that I am fairly intelligent and therefore cannot get their head around the concept that I might be just sitting there not thinking about anything.

This often leads to a bit of conclusion jumping.

"Pete must be thinking about something. Therefore he must be thinking about something he doesn't want to tell me. Is he thinking about another woman? Is he thinking about leaving me? Is he in a mood about something and won't say?"

I have learned this will happen and therefore when I am faced with the question 'What are you thinking about?' and my real answer is nothing, I have to decide whether to make something up to avoid the conclusion jumping.

But this is fraught with danger too. For women have special magical powers which can detect lying and I have a moral code which makes it difficult for me to do.

However I choose to answer, I am heading for a row. A row about NOTHING. Totally fabricated in the imagination of my partner who nevertheless will not accept this to be the case and will press on with her interrogation.

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S.F.O.

One day a few of years ago, I was showing a chap round the gym where I worked as a fitness trainer. It is good to try and create a bit of friendly rapport on such occasions, to make the client feel at ease, so I asked the chap what he did for a living.

"I'm a detective, mate," he said. "Silly Fraud Office."

"I'm sorry?" I said, thinking that I may have mis-heard him.

"A detective. Silly Fraud Office," repeated the man. "You've heard of the Serious Fraud Office, right? They deal with the Conrad Blacks of this world, the major financial tricksters. Well, there's an awful lot of silly fraud going on as well. That's where my department comes in."

"I see!" I said with considerable surprise in my voice. "What kind of things do you investigate then?"

"Well, I can't speak about any current cases. But I'll give you some examples from a few years ago. One time there was this gang of particularly nasty silly villains who cheekily named themselves Cereal Swindlers. They set up a nationwide network of forgers who would buy boxes of cereal which had a special offer of a little plastic toy if you sent in 5 coupons from the packet. Some of their early attempts at forging these coupons were pretty crude. But after a while they started to use more sophisticated techniques and the folks over at Kellogg's and Nestlé were unable to distinguish their work from the real thing. We estimate that as many as 450 little plastic cars, action figures an twirly rainbow spinning tops fell into the hands of these villains and were then sold on the black market for whatever price they could get. They were completely oblivious to the fact that they were depriving children of the life lesson of diligently cutting out and saving up their coupons over a number of weeks."

"Really?" I said while mentally starting to calculate how much of my hard earned taxes might be going to fund this department.

"No lie mate. The bastards had no scruples whatsoever. Here's another example. This one happened back in the days before entrance to museums became free for all. Those were dark days and dark days often see the rise of dastardly characters. You may recall that you could get into museums free or half price if you had a Blue Peter Badge. Another group of forgers started churning out their own Blue Peter Badges and handing them out to members of their underworld organisation so that they could go round dressed as schoolchildren looking at the bones of dinosaurs, old paintings and really stupid modern sculptures without paying their share for their up-keep.

"We sent a few of our boys into the most popular venues disguised as janitors and museum guides. It was fairly easy to catch out the culprits in the end. They made the mistake of being actually interested in the exhibits (one actually did some sketches) rather than just charging around the museum shouting, laughing at phallic statues and trying to think up ways of getting to snog the girl who developed breasts before all the others.

"Some of them were really hard to break when we got them back to the station. They just stayed in school-child character and refused to cooperate with our questioning. Because we couldn't prove their age, we had to get a Duty Social Worker to sit in with them. But one of my colleagues came up with an ingenious method of sorting out the real villains from the occaasional actual schoolchild we picked up who turned out to be just a really dull swot.

"We leave a brand new all singing and dancing mobile phone on the desk along with a packet of cigarettes and then make an excuse to leave the room. When we returned, nine times out of ten, if it were a swotty kid, they had found out how to play sudoku or chess on the phone and were happily sitting there wiling their lives away with mental stimulation. The real villains virtually never touched the phone or if they were clever and rumbled our little game, they would try but fail dismally faced with the baffling array of options presented on the screen. Sometimes they would take a photo of their ear by mistake." The detective concluded his tale.

"I don't want to be rude about your profession, mate. But aren't these things all a bit trivial? Surely the money you spent solving these petty crimes could be put to better use," I questioned him.

"I often get this question. We believe it is very important to nip these things in the bud. To show the silly ne'er-do-wells where the line is that must not be crossed. If we didn't do something with these cases, where would it end? You'd have people up and down the country opening bank accounts under false mustaches, sending paintings into competitions saying they were 8 1/2 years old when they were actually 9, getting into the pictures half price by sending the short kid whose voice hasn't broken yet to buy the tickets while the others hide near the pick and mix. The economy would be in ruins. This let the little things slide attitude is what is leading this country to the brink of ruination."

Just before he finished this speech, the chap stood up with a flourish of patriotism , clenching his fist in defiance before I ushered him towards the next exercise machine shaking my head slightly with incredulity.

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RUDENESS

I am renowned amongst people who know me well for my honest and frank expression at all times. I am proud of that. I never lie, ever. This sometimes gets me the reputation of being a tactless, rude individual. Shucks.

Those who joined in the little discussion in 'My Questions', which started with the question 'Is it OK to lie so that you don't hurt someone's feelings?' will already be familiar with some of my views on this subject. But I will try to spell them out a bit more here.

I think that lying, however well meaning it is, always causes harm. I want people to always be completely honest with me and I always strive to do the same. The kind of examples we discussed in 'My Questions' were based around the 'Does my bum look big in this?' theme.

If the answer is yes in my opinion, I will always say yes. I want people to always say yes to me too, if that is what they think. My 88 year old grandmother is brilliant at this. She is the Queen Of Tell It Like It Is. Without her I would long since have stumbled down the rocky road to ruin.

I will give you a good example. Last summer I had to look after my daughters full time for several months and this meant that I could not exercise regularly as I usually do. I tried cutting back on my normal eating habits to counteract this and thought I was doing OK until I visited my grandmother who said in her usual matter-of-fact way:

"Peter, you are getting bloody fat."

Now THAT was just what I needed. That spurs me into action. All the people who I had encountered before this who has said I looked fine or said nothing, shame on you! It is so easy to delude oneself. To slip into the habit of wearing looser fitting clothes, to avoid looking in mirrors or to look in them without focusing properly, to steer clear of the scales. And you slide and you slide until some brave hero tells you it straight!

Now I have done something about it and I am 'bloody fat' no longer. But I wish someone had told me sooner, then it would have been less hard work!

A very common scenario where blatant lying goes on all the time is relationship break-ups.

"It isn't you it is me. You're really so very lovely but I'm not ready for a full-on relationship right now."

FUCK OFF! Stop lying!

"I have decided to stop seeing you because I discovered after getting to know you better that I don't really like you that much and here is why ........"

Think of it as a bit like a job interview where you didn't get the job. A good bit of constructive feedback can help you get the next one.

Furthermore, I will go further and state that I don't consider it to be my responsibility if people take offense at what I say. It is their responsibility. If people take themselves so seriously that they can't hear the honest opinion of one individual without getting offended, then I'm afraid I think that is their problem.

It can't be my responsibility. If it were, every person would get offended in the same way by what I say. But they don't. I know many people who welcome the fact that I will tell them straight that I think they have a crap haircut or that their current partner is a twat. Others take umbrage. It therefore must be their responsibility, not mine.

"Men are disturbed not by the things that happen, but by their opinion of the things that happen." - Epictetus

Let me make it clear, I only say these things if they are what I genuinely think and if someone asks my opinion or if I think that being told would really help them (as in my getting fat example).

I don't go round telling people their haircut is shite out of the blue just for fun. I do, on the other hand go round telling people their haircut looks great out of the blue if I think it does. So I think that by and large I leave a positive mark on the world.

I will leave you with one of my favourite pieces of honesty, which was not written by me, but I can't remember where I saw or heard it:

"Does this dress make me look fat?"

"No, it is your overeating and siting on your arse all day that does that."

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QUEEN ELIZABETH II (GAWD BLESS HER)

**Hear Pete read the poem here.**



When I was just a little boy, much younger than today,
My mother took me to one side, her wisdom to convey.

She said: "Now, son. You mark my words. These things you'd best remember.
If you ever find yourself encountering a member

Of the landed aristocracy or one of the Queen's brood,
Because unlike you and me they think quite harmless things are rude.

It's best not to discuss the way your Nigels really stink
If you're meeting with the Duke of Kent, he's liable to think

That you're lacking in decorum and have not been brought up proper
If you tell him just how much it pongs each time you do a plopper.

If you're summoned to The Palace to be made into a knight,
Don't ask the future King if Princess Di's was nice and tight.

It's also rather likely that Prince Charles will get quite riled
If you question whether Harry is another feller's child.

With Liz herself take extra care, she really won't be happy
If you tell her that her picture on the money looks real crappy.

With other females of the clan, one also must take care
Don't ask Fergie all about her ginger pubic hair.

If you're introduced to Princess Anne, don't feel her on the bum
And don't get out your throbbing cock when meeting The Queen Mum.

If you keep these things in mind my son, they'll stand you in good stead.
Oh, one last thing, don't try to make Prince Philip give you head."

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POLITICAL RALLY

One day a few months ago I arrived home from the gym, hoping to relax with a jam sandwich and a copy of Pedant's Weekly, but was disappointed to find that Walter had invited about twenty of his mates around for a political rally.

"And what's more comrades," Walter orated. "We will no longer stand idly by, allowing this trend towards simple Swedish furniture. I suggest an immediate keeping of all loose change that falls out of people's pockets, as well as keys, bank-cards, lighters and small shreds of paper with attractive girls' phone numbers on them."

"Right on Walter," agreed the multitude in high-pitched harmony.

"We're right behind you!!" they added.

" Walter!!" I interjected. "What the f&*k is going on? Who are this lot? And who said you could invite them here?"

"These are my comrades from the Terribly Reasonable Union of Furniture Elves, or TRUFE for short. Sorry. We were meant to meet at Gary the sideboard elf's place but he had to cancel at the last minute. Isn't that right, comrades?"

"Right Walter," the crowd agreed.

"What do we strive for??" said Walter , back in Arthur Scargill mode.

"TRUFE!!" they answered in unison.

"OK, OK," I said. "Fair enough. But I was hoping for an early night. How long were you planning on carrying on for?"

"Carrying on?! CARRYING ON???!!" said Walter, clearly offended."We're not 'carrying on'. This is deadly serious. We've got families to think of, you know!"

"No you haven't. You all live alone inside pieces of people's furniture."

"Well, yes. Technically that's true. But some of us put it about a bit. Take Dave the washing machine elf for instance. He has three kids to three different imaginary woodland characters. That takes a bit of keeping on top of, let me tell you."

"Yes, Walter," I said. "You don't have to tell me about how expensive children are. But isn't that kind of his own problem? Hang on a minute! Washing machine? That's not furniture. That's a household appliance!"

"Yes it is," answered Walter. "He used to be part of our sister union, the Big Union of Technical Equipment Elves. We amalgamated about nine months ago. Now we just use either name. They're interchangeable."

"So BUTEE is TRUFE and TRUFE is BUTEE?" I asked.

"That's it," said Walter. "One for all and all for one. That's our motto."

"No it isn't. That's the Three Musketeers' motto."

"Oh, f&*k off. OK, then. One for elf and elves for one."

"Hmm. Doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it?"

"Look, Gulliver, will you just stop taking the f&*king piss? How would you like it if your home was threatened with being changed from plush leather to stressed pine and cotton covers stuffed with foam? That's what's happening, you know! What do we want?"

"No more IKEA."

"When do we want it?"

"1998!!"

"OK. Fair enough," I said to Walter. "But can you keep it down a bit? I was hoping for a quiet night in."

"Don't worry, big man. We can be quiet if we want to. We don't need to shout. The TRUFE always comes to the fore eventually."

"Cheers, Walter. Catch you tomorrow."

Shocking language these elves. It wouldn't have happened if we still had compulsory 2 year military service for imaginary woodland creatures (National Elf Service).

Next Story - Elf In Love (or Elfin Love) >>

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OBLONG

When I was at Primary School we learned all about shapes. Circles, triangles, squares, diamonds, stars, and oblongs.

Some years later shapes became geometry, diamonds became rhombuses, oblongs became rectangles and the subject became much, much more dull. The transition from a childhood full of fun and laughter to an adulthood often full of stress and boredom often seemed to be marked by such sudden changes. Why do they have to occur?

Oblong is so clearly the better word for me. There is something cuddly about the word. Rectangle is harsh and clinical and dull.

Another example which sticks clearly in my mind is that the dinosaur which for many years was known affectionately to a young lad fascinated by dinosaurs as a diplodocus, suddenly started to be called a diplodocus by all the teachers. I don't know what it is about it. But that saddens me.

I have a fairly serious point to make here. Above are just little examples which stick in my mind. Somewhere between early childhood and adulthood, most people forget what it is like to just have fun, to be interested in everything. To have that Friday feeling every single day of every single week because the world is a wonderful place to be savoured.

Now you may argue that this is because kids have no responsibilities and in adult life we are overwhelmed by things that we have to think about so we don't have time for the things we want to think about. Is that really the case in our affluent modern world? If you have so much responsibility, how have you got time to find and read this?

I would argue that the education system I remember is responsible for systematically squeezing all the fun out of children until they reach adulthood drained of all creativity and free thought, ready to be 'good citizens'. Don't think for yourself, learn how to pass exams. Don't question the teacher or the text book. Just repeat what they say at the end of the year.

Thankfully, there are some exceptional and remarkable teachers who understand how the retention of an eager, questioning mind is crucial for a successful and happy adult life. These heroes stand out like beacons, in spite of the constraints of an ever increasingly bureaucratic education system. Like lifeguards plucking beautiful minds from a sea of mediocrity and sending them out into the world to light the way and give us hope.

It is a shame that this is necessary. It is a terrible shame that all children are not encouraged to retain their child-like enthusiasm. I think that humanity would be in a much better place if they were.

But life is as it is. To the heroic lifeguards: I salute you. To any parents reading, teach your beautiful children to swim against the tide.

That there is a diplodocus.

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NUISANCE

When I still lived with my arch nemesis (see Idle and Justice), we used to get a few annoying sales calls, particularly round about the time when we had just managed to get Erin to sleep and were finally able to exhale.

Our phone number was listed under her surmame (we never married). I will use Smith for this tale as I don't want to be binned from Blogspot for defaming a particular individual (although, for the record, SHE IS A TOTAL TWAT!)

When answering the phone calls I used to take pleasure in taking a very minimalist approach with my responses. The callers really don't expect this and it completely throws them. Here's an example:-

CALLER: Hello, is that Mister Smith?

ME: No.

Pause while caller expects me to say something else.

CALLER: Oh, OK. Is Mister Smith in please?

ME: No.

CALLER: (already rather rattled) Can I speak to Mrs Smith then please?

ME: Who?

CALLER: Mrs R. Smith? Is Mrs Smith in at all?

(Even if The Evil One was home, she was not called Mrs Smith.)

ME: Nope.

CALLER: Do you mind if I ask who you are?

ME: Yes.

CALLER: Sorry?

ME: I said yes.

By this time the caller had usually completely lost control of proceedings, but would find it really difficult to end the conversation as I had not actually said anything to indicate that I wanted them to.

CALLER: Do you mind if I take ten minutes of your time to tell you about blah blah blah de blah?

ME: Yes.

CALLER: You mean yes, yes you want me to tell you?

ME: No.

No offense to people who work in cold calling. Everyone has to earn a living. I just used to so enjoy the mental jousting!

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NIGEL

When I was still at an age when I snapped young whippers, I often used to visit my cousins at their home in Darlington, Co Durham. They lived in a large terraced house and the walls between the houses were rather thin.

In the house next door lived a large and rather rowdy West Indian family, including a young man called Nigel who was a Rastafarian, much to the displeasure of his Christian father.

It was often possible to hear some quite spectacular rows coming from next door and Nigel and his old man were the champions at it. Many times one of us kids would hear a row brewing and quickly gather all the others into the best room to hear all the juicy details.

One row went down in history. I cannot recall what the row itself was about. It went on for a good half an hour at least at the end of which there was a short silence and Nigel's father spoke this immortal line in a broad Jamaican accent:-

"Nayjell, you ees a greeeat beeg shit!"

(Translation: Nigel, you are a particularly large turd!)

From that day forth the word Nigel became synonymous with the word shit in our family.

"I wish I hadn't had that kebab, now I'm dying for a Nigel."

"I wouldn't go in there for a while if I were you, I've just had a thoroughly stinky Nigel."

"How did England get on in the cricket yesterday?"

"They were absolutely bloody Nigel!"

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