flashback with Doctor Who mumbling very loudly about losing someone or other
while Rev’s wife shouts back tearfully saying it was the fault of the woman who
was about to give birth to her pregnancy padding in the street while the man
with small eyes who is meant to have murdered these children in the next door
garden to his makes his escape from Doctor Who who is ( that is Who is) driving
a car he is not allowed to drive while possibly fighting off a heart attack in
pursuit of somebody or other.
This is not and was not what is called a case of Pareidolia, that is seeing faces in things – the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast, Mother Theresa in a bun, etc – this is and was a case of actually seeing a face that is a face and the face has just appeared in a painting on which I am working. Suddenly. Out of the blue. Out of the the everywhere.
I’ve just written about this on my Facebook page so forgive me, friends, for my repetition but I wanted this to reach a larger audience because I can evidence this and I can show you the photographs of the painting and you will be able to see the face for yourselves and judge, as some of my Friends have done, as to the disposition of the features and the extraordinary detail and character of the image.
THE DOG’S WHATEVERS
It was the moment every dog owner dreads – no, I have to
refine that. It was the moment every male dog owner dreads – the time when you
are told by your vet They have to come Off. The reason They had to come Off
apparently was because all that testosterone was making the boyo a little
aggressive. But then not really. The vet
might have found him a little aggressive because he sunk his canines into the
vet’s derriere when the vet shoved a thermometer up the boyo’s derriere and I
must say I can’t blame the boyo for that, having recently had one of those male
moments myself with a doctor - however.
The 2nd Viscount Stansgate was alas a political hyperbole. More famous for his insistence on being called Tony than for any worthwhile political notions, how he has handed in his dinner plate he is being lionised for his pantomime ambition to turn Labour into some sort of Eastern European socialist party. in fact possibly his greatest ambition would have been to see Britain turned into a satellite of the USSR. He was a deluded Leninist who seemed from his rhetoric to have been more consumed by hatred than by compassion, (he 'loathed' the EEU - his words - and had little time for Germany either) which is hardly a good base for true socialism, two of his earliest and most burning ambitions being to remove the Sovereign's head from postage stamps and to ban off shore radio stations.
I write of two clowns. One is called Paterson, the
other is called Kaye. Of these two comics, one has already earned immortality
through his work while because of his foolish recklessness the other is fast
gaining notoriety and with a bit of luck will soon hopefully be gone and long
ADVICE TO THE LOVELORN
of happiness is that it is not visible. It is not a material thing. It is an
intrinsic thing, an abstract, and as soon as people try to analyse it, it
becomes even more invisible.
CORONET AMONG THE GRASS
remember so very well when this delightfully funny book was written. Being
Clever Drawers, I should do, but I’ll resist making any Clever-Drawer-ish sort
of remarks here. All I will say that having just finished preparing this second
volume of my beloved wife and partner’s youthful autobiography to me it is
still as fresh and totally original as the day it was written. The one thing it
is not is one however, is one of the things it was claimed to be when it was
first published, that is brilliant.
A SMALL EARTHQUAKE
NO ONE HURT
the crime scale of one to ten this barely even rated. Someone broke into a cottage
on the estate and did a bit of rifling. I noticed it when I walked by because the
mattress was sticking out of the window and a light was shining from the fridge.
A closer look showed a side window (double glazed too) smashed and forced and noting a
bit more of a mess than usual within I called the fuzz.
days later a very small policeman wearing a very small car called.
It sits above us like an incandescent orange box,
situated high on a promontory in order to optimize the view and so spoiling the
same for everyone else. It is meant to be a house but what it totally resembles
is an orange railway carriage, one parked carelessly without a thought for the
consequence and unless the ground opens up beneath it (if only) or Armageddon
arrives sooner than scheduled it is there for evermore.
You can’t ignore it. It forever catches the eye
and when it does the eye becomes very sore.