Francine went over to the kiosk.
Are you selling penguin pies? she asked.
Of course not, said the man behind the counter. There aren't enough penguins here as it is. They're protected, you know.
Well my friend is eating one right now, said Francine.
Then I'm calling the police, said the man.
Francine walked back to the table. Gaius had finished his pie.
You've eaten the evidence, said Francine.
What evidence? asked Gaius.
Of your crime, said Francine. Possessing and eating a pie containing a protected species.
It was a joke, said Gaius. Have you no sense of humour?
Some joke, if it was a joke, said Francine. So you were just trying to avoid sharing your pie?
Yes, said Gaius. I was hungry.
You could have said so, said Francine. Now the police are involved.
Good heavens! What shall I do? said Gaius. My reputation will be in tatters.
Don't worry, said Sweezus. I'll take the blame. I don't have a reputation.
But why do it? asked Camus.
I'm exploring nihilism, said Sweezus. What does it matter? Why should I care? Mother died yesterday, or was it the day before? That sort of thing.
Good for you, said Camus.
What's this about your mother? asked Gaius.
Nothing, said Sweezus. Ask Camus.
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Enter Gustave Flaubert
He is a friend of mine, said Pliny.
Who is, Flaubert?
Yes, Flaubert. As luck would have it he is in town at present for the Cabaret Festival. Would you like to meet him?
I would, Pliny, I said. Why don't you invite him round.
Certainly, said Pliny. I'll give him a call.
So it was that later that evening there came a knock at the door.
Knock! Knock!
Pliny opened it.
Ho ho! Come in old friend, he said.
A portly man with a walrus moustache came in.
Ah, it is good to see you again, mon cher ami, he said to Pliny. Good evening, madame, he added, glancing in my direction. May I ask why you are staring at me in that fashion?
Oh, I said, forgive me Monsieur Flaubert, but I was expecting you to have a beard, either pointed or fringed.
No, no, said Flaubert, I have never grown a pointed or a fringed beard. I take it you have been reading my Sentimental Education?
I have, I said. Am I right then in assuming that the character with whom you most associate is the moustached Frederic?
Indeed, said Flaubert, puffing out his chest and twiddling his moustache. Frederic, c'est moi. As a younger man, of course.
He's a bit of a drip, you know, I said. He's passionate, but he never follows anything up.
I know, said Flaubert. I blame it on his mother.
Who is, Flaubert?
Yes, Flaubert. As luck would have it he is in town at present for the Cabaret Festival. Would you like to meet him?
I would, Pliny, I said. Why don't you invite him round.
Certainly, said Pliny. I'll give him a call.
So it was that later that evening there came a knock at the door.
Knock! Knock!
Pliny opened it.
Ho ho! Come in old friend, he said.
A portly man with a walrus moustache came in.
Ah, it is good to see you again, mon cher ami, he said to Pliny. Good evening, madame, he added, glancing in my direction. May I ask why you are staring at me in that fashion?
Oh, I said, forgive me Monsieur Flaubert, but I was expecting you to have a beard, either pointed or fringed.
No, no, said Flaubert, I have never grown a pointed or a fringed beard. I take it you have been reading my Sentimental Education?
I have, I said. Am I right then in assuming that the character with whom you most associate is the moustached Frederic?
Indeed, said Flaubert, puffing out his chest and twiddling his moustache. Frederic, c'est moi. As a younger man, of course.
He's a bit of a drip, you know, I said. He's passionate, but he never follows anything up.
I know, said Flaubert. I blame it on his mother.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Kisskisskiss
dear kobo dear kobo dear,,,,,,i am very glad you liked my story,,,,,but i'm sorry you're surrounded by tomatoes,,,,,,
first things first however,,, clikclik,,,,let me answer what you asked me,,,,yes it is really me i finished moulting i am really HARD,,,,,,don't get too excited,,,,,,haha that is what you said to me remember,,,,,don't get too excited,,,,
secondly yes i thought the man might be their daddy but then,,,,,he looked a bit too young,,,,perhaps he was their brother,,,,,,,perhaps he was the brother of the one who hugged him,,,,,, OR,,,,,perhaps he was the brother of the other one,,,,that was what i wondered,,,,,
the woman was the mother she wore a cotton bonnet like a mother on the beach,,,,,,,
would you like to know what happened next,,,,because that was not the end of the story,,,,,,,would you???? i will tell you if you want me to,,,,,,
this feels like before, when you told me the story of the sand,,,,,,bit by bit,,,,,it was exciting,,,,
but now i want to write a thirdly,,,,,, THIRDLY,,,,,,this is going to be about tomatoes,,,,,,,,i was thinking you know that tomatoes cannot speak,,,,,,,and since you cannot see,,,,dear kobo,,,,,it may be there are tomato bugs inside the tomatoes and it is they who chatter,,,,,,i know something of tomato bugs,,,,,being a lobster,,,,,,,they are a kind of relative,,,,,,,haha you are saying,,,,, but no,,,stop laughing,,,,,
they are soft and fat and segmented, and where the segments join they are the colour of tomatoes,,,,,,what a pity you cannot look and see,,,,, but i can speak their language,,,,although not well,,,,would you like me to teach you a few words???
let me know, dear kobo,,,,, let me,,,,,,,,,,
your friend ageless,,,,kisskisskiss
first things first however,,, clikclik,,,,let me answer what you asked me,,,,yes it is really me i finished moulting i am really HARD,,,,,,don't get too excited,,,,,,haha that is what you said to me remember,,,,,don't get too excited,,,,
secondly yes i thought the man might be their daddy but then,,,,,he looked a bit too young,,,,perhaps he was their brother,,,,,,,perhaps he was the brother of the one who hugged him,,,,,, OR,,,,,perhaps he was the brother of the other one,,,,that was what i wondered,,,,,
the woman was the mother she wore a cotton bonnet like a mother on the beach,,,,,,,
would you like to know what happened next,,,,because that was not the end of the story,,,,,,,would you???? i will tell you if you want me to,,,,,,
this feels like before, when you told me the story of the sand,,,,,,bit by bit,,,,,it was exciting,,,,
but now i want to write a thirdly,,,,,, THIRDLY,,,,,,this is going to be about tomatoes,,,,,,,,i was thinking you know that tomatoes cannot speak,,,,,,,and since you cannot see,,,,dear kobo,,,,,it may be there are tomato bugs inside the tomatoes and it is they who chatter,,,,,,i know something of tomato bugs,,,,,being a lobster,,,,,,,they are a kind of relative,,,,,,,haha you are saying,,,,, but no,,,stop laughing,,,,,
they are soft and fat and segmented, and where the segments join they are the colour of tomatoes,,,,,,what a pity you cannot look and see,,,,, but i can speak their language,,,,although not well,,,,would you like me to teach you a few words???
let me know, dear kobo,,,,, let me,,,,,,,,,,
your friend ageless,,,,kisskisskiss
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Rusty Solar Panel Flower
The third unconventional flower in my Coastal Flowers collection is the Rusty Solar Panel Flower.
Now this really looks like a flower. You hardly need to define a flower loosely. It has a stem ( the pole), a head (the solar panel) , and seven stamens ( seven short wires sticking up on top ). And if that were not enough, the Rusty Solar Panel Flower is cream, red, brown and orange.
It is a pole, in a prominent position on the esplanade, just south of the Arch of Remembrance and the Brighton jetty, opposite the fish and chip shop and the Esplanade Hotel.
If it is a piece of street art, it is more ingenious and tricky than a seaside council would generally allow. It is a pole with a solar panel on the top. The lower part of the pole is black, then there is a narrow band of red, and the rest is painted cream. The metal pole has rusted in the most spectacular fashion, and a brilliant efflorescence of rusty reds and browns has broken through the yellowing paint, so that the pole appears to glow.
I stopped to take a photo of this pole, just as a mother stopped to take a photo of her baby. She did not want the pole in hers, but happened to be standing by the pole. Our photos would have crossed. She let me go first.
And that is why my photo doesn't show the sign on the pole, or what it says. The sign was side on to me, where I was standing.
I would like to tell you what the sign says, but I didn't see it face on. That is neither the mother's fault, nor mine. It is just the way it happened. But I have seen it before. If I remember rightly it doesn't say anything about the solar panel. Instead it features a linear map of the coastal walking trail, and underneath the map it says that some parts of the trail are not accessible.
Now this really looks like a flower. You hardly need to define a flower loosely. It has a stem ( the pole), a head (the solar panel) , and seven stamens ( seven short wires sticking up on top ). And if that were not enough, the Rusty Solar Panel Flower is cream, red, brown and orange.
It is a pole, in a prominent position on the esplanade, just south of the Arch of Remembrance and the Brighton jetty, opposite the fish and chip shop and the Esplanade Hotel.
If it is a piece of street art, it is more ingenious and tricky than a seaside council would generally allow. It is a pole with a solar panel on the top. The lower part of the pole is black, then there is a narrow band of red, and the rest is painted cream. The metal pole has rusted in the most spectacular fashion, and a brilliant efflorescence of rusty reds and browns has broken through the yellowing paint, so that the pole appears to glow.
I stopped to take a photo of this pole, just as a mother stopped to take a photo of her baby. She did not want the pole in hers, but happened to be standing by the pole. Our photos would have crossed. She let me go first.
And that is why my photo doesn't show the sign on the pole, or what it says. The sign was side on to me, where I was standing.
I would like to tell you what the sign says, but I didn't see it face on. That is neither the mother's fault, nor mine. It is just the way it happened. But I have seen it before. If I remember rightly it doesn't say anything about the solar panel. Instead it features a linear map of the coastal walking trail, and underneath the map it says that some parts of the trail are not accessible.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Time Trials
The Team Philosophe riders are waiting for their turn in the time trials. They have mixed feelings about racing through Bordeaux.
The VeloDrone: What a crime to ride past all those wineries without stopping!
Le Bon David: After all the wine we drank last night? I don't think so!
Jean Paul Sartre: When's our turn?
The VeloDrone: David's next! He's the slowest.
Le Bon David: Here I go! Wheeeee! Wish me luck!
Jean Paul Sartre: Existentialists don't wish people luck.
The VeloDrone: Oh, put a cork in it, Jean Paul! Good luck David!
Jean Paul Sartre: That wasn't to say that I didn't hope he would do well.
The VeloDrone: Hmm.
Jean Paul Sartre: Everyone always misunderstands me.
The VeloDrone: Stop feeling sorry for yourself. To be misunderstood is perfectly normal.
Jean Paul Sartre: My father died when I was fifteen months old.
The VeloDrone: So what?
Jean Paul Sartre: I was raised by my mother and grandfather. Oh, how I loved my mother. Then, when I was twelve, she married again. My step-father bullied me.
The VeloDrone: Poor little Jean Paul! Oh look. You've missed your call! Now what will you do?
Jean Paul Sartre: It wasn't my fault. I shall go and complain!
The VeloDrone: What a crime to ride past all those wineries without stopping!
Le Bon David: After all the wine we drank last night? I don't think so!
Jean Paul Sartre: When's our turn?
The VeloDrone: David's next! He's the slowest.
Le Bon David: Here I go! Wheeeee! Wish me luck!
Jean Paul Sartre: Existentialists don't wish people luck.
The VeloDrone: Oh, put a cork in it, Jean Paul! Good luck David!
Jean Paul Sartre: That wasn't to say that I didn't hope he would do well.
The VeloDrone: Hmm.
Jean Paul Sartre: Everyone always misunderstands me.
The VeloDrone: Stop feeling sorry for yourself. To be misunderstood is perfectly normal.
Jean Paul Sartre: My father died when I was fifteen months old.
The VeloDrone: So what?
Jean Paul Sartre: I was raised by my mother and grandfather. Oh, how I loved my mother. Then, when I was twelve, she married again. My step-father bullied me.
The VeloDrone: Poor little Jean Paul! Oh look. You've missed your call! Now what will you do?
Jean Paul Sartre: It wasn't my fault. I shall go and complain!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Amo marem
I'm trying out the motto, I love the sea, or Amo marem.
I love the sea. I must be near it. If I'm not within half an hour of it, I feel trapped. Travelling inland, I am uneasy, and long to escape to the coast.
That is not strictly true.
This is true: When I am inland in a foreign country, I feel uneasy and long to escape to the coast.
I used to think this was because I am descended from a tribe of coastal dwellers. But perhaps I just want to go home.
My grandmother loved the sea. She liked to live close to it. She would stride along the shore, taking in deep breaths of salty air, and say "Smell the ozone!" As a child I thought that ozone smelt like seaweed.
My mother loves the sea. She lives near it. She deviates to look at it, gazing through the windscreen of her car on a windy day. In fine weather she sits on a wooden seat and dreams of sailing.
I do not dream of sailing. I do not smell the ozone as a conscious act. I am the sea.
The light gleaming dimly like eels through the shallows on a summer's evening gleams through me. I am as thick as turkish delight. I lick the apple peel seaweed and the threaded brown polyps. I fizz around a discarded corn cob, and shift a shell. I hold dolphins and lift green inflatable dinghies with boys inside. My waves run on golden rails. I outstay the orange sun, and the sand which is violet and grey. I fluoresce momentarily. Electric blue, then black.
I love the sea. I must be near it. If I'm not within half an hour of it, I feel trapped. Travelling inland, I am uneasy, and long to escape to the coast.
That is not strictly true.
This is true: When I am inland in a foreign country, I feel uneasy and long to escape to the coast.
I used to think this was because I am descended from a tribe of coastal dwellers. But perhaps I just want to go home.
My grandmother loved the sea. She liked to live close to it. She would stride along the shore, taking in deep breaths of salty air, and say "Smell the ozone!" As a child I thought that ozone smelt like seaweed.
My mother loves the sea. She lives near it. She deviates to look at it, gazing through the windscreen of her car on a windy day. In fine weather she sits on a wooden seat and dreams of sailing.
I do not dream of sailing. I do not smell the ozone as a conscious act. I am the sea.
The light gleaming dimly like eels through the shallows on a summer's evening gleams through me. I am as thick as turkish delight. I lick the apple peel seaweed and the threaded brown polyps. I fizz around a discarded corn cob, and shift a shell. I hold dolphins and lift green inflatable dinghies with boys inside. My waves run on golden rails. I outstay the orange sun, and the sand which is violet and grey. I fluoresce momentarily. Electric blue, then black.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
