Surfboard, pink tulips, sausage dog

Colin the sausage dog was the ‘bomb’, the ‘bee knees’, the most sexy sausage dog you’ve probably ever seen (if you’re a dog that is).  When he walked down the promenade with his swagger and glossy floppy ears swishing besides his high defined cheek bones, the wolf hounds wolf-whistled, the labradoodles drooled, and the chihuahuas, well, the chihuahuas chi-woooo-WOOed at him!

One day, on his morning stroll, Colin spied a beautiful lady sausage dog checking him out.  There was something about her that caught his eye.  Maybe it was the way her tail wagged, in an irregular flutter in time with her eyelashes?  Or perhaps it was the way she lightly panted with her head slightly tilted to one side?  He couldn’t put his paw on it but he knew he couldn’t let this moment pass and he must approach her.  With his mouth, he tore a bunch of pink tulips from the flower bed to his side, and casually trotted over to her, cool, collected and extremely charming.  She immediately rolled over and wide eyed looking up at him, proceeded to paw his ears, nibble at his neck, whilst growling lightly.  He moved across to sniff her bottom.  It sounds extremely forward and unromantic, but in the dog world, this is PRIME flirting material.  With one long anus sniff, he found out her name was Audrey, her favourite colour was orange and she was a Libra.  On the second long whiff, he found out that she had a weakness for Jarlsberg cheese, and penchant for squeaky toys shaped like bananas.  On the last and third ‘snnniiiffff’, he discovered that she was a worldwide surfing champion!  This latest revelation impressed Colin immensely whilst at the same time, it made him feel a little inadequate as he knew, he still used arm bands to swim.

They rolled around on the promenade floor, nipped at each others ears and then chased each other around the coffee cart.  She was responding to his flirtatious ways and he knew his luck was ‘in’!  She took him back to her place, showed him her surfboard, they ate some cheese and fell in love.  The End.

Peanut butter, pickles, caterpillar

Mr Chunky the caterpillar took a long hard drag on his cigar as he flicked through the wad of notes wedged between his grubby mitts.  It was a very good night so far.  The lady bugs at Madame Cheri had put on a sterling performance and had drawn in a crowd of stag beetles, who were lapping up the show and dishing out the money in large quantities.  The biggest attraction was yet to come, Miss Penelope, a red lipped, voluptuous, curvy lady bug, and her unusual routine that centred around a bunch of green grapes.  She was the top attraction and the other lady bugs were incredibly jealous of her popularity.

Miss Penelope went to her dressing room to get ready for her performance, as she always did.  However, her grapes were missing!  They weren’t on the table where she had left them!  She checked her bag, the closet, the bathroom, under her feather headpiece, but nowhere could they be seen.  ‘Hmmmmmm’ she wondered if this had anything to do with Miss Pickles.

Both Miss penelope and Miss Pickles had started at Madame Cheri at the same time, and since Miss Penelope was given the headline act, Miss Pickles had been showing ever growing streaks of envy.  The latest nasty rumour that circulated, was one of Miss Penelope stealing her grape routine from a recent trip to Thailand, with the added bombshell that she was not in fact a lady bug, but a lady boy bug!

Miss Penelope didn’t have time to go to the green grocers to buy another bunch of grapes, she had to come up with another solution and quick!  The clock was ticking and it was only minutes before she had to appear on stage and perform.  She frantically scanned her dressing room and saw a tub of smooth peanut butter on the table by the water jug.  There was a knock at the door and two spindly antenna followed by a wide eyed triangular ant shaped face popped it’s head around the door.  “You’re up love” he coughed, with a cigarette wobbling with his tight lips.  She grabbed the peanut butter pot and took to the stage.

Once on stage she started her routine as she always did and the stag beetles in the crowd ‘bleated’ and ‘roared’ with delight!  Seductively she undid the lid to the pot.  Her creative instincts took over and she was soon flirtatiously integrating her new salty prop.

She was covered in peanut butter and the punters loved the sticky mess they saw before their eyes.  Big Benny the lecherous slug began to get a little over excited and he pulled Miss Penelope off the stage closer towards him.  He moved his slimy body nearer and she shuddered, with his foul body odour overpowering her senses.  As he rubbed up against her something began to sizzle and he winced in pain as the salty peanut butter burnt into his skin.  He fell to the floor squirming and looked up at Miss Penelope defeated and feeble on the floor.  Relieved, she climbed back onto the stage to continue her act, thanking the gods that she couldn’t find her grapes and instead had the peanut butter!  From that day onwards, she merged her routine of grapes with peanut butter, just in case any more dirty slugs appeared in the club.  The End.

Pink Christmas tree, camel, flute

I expect you’ve heard of the Pied Piper, the man with the recorder and a following of rats, but have you ever heard of the Fluffy Flutist?  He himself isn’t fluffy (well, perhaps just a bit fluffy around the tummy area), he is called this because he has a remarkable ability to draw people’s fluff out of their belly buttons with his twinkly flute playing.  Mozart or Celine Dion, it does’t matter how his fingers dance on his tuneful companion, it still has the same desired effect.  (His favourite melody of choice, however, was always the theme tune to the popular seventies television show ‘Rainbow’.)  Belly button fluff would somehow be attracted to his musical vibrations.  Even in winter when multiple layers of thermal vests and thick knits stood in the way, nothing could keep the fluff from flying out of the belly button and into the air towards the flute nozzle.  Sometimes, the effect was so powerful a little bit of fluff would get sucked up the end of the flute and make him cough up a fluff ball.  Whenever this happened, his cat would look at him with a squinty eye (it was a one-eyed cat) and an air of suspicion that the Fluffy Flutist was trying to mock him.

He started to become well known for his spectacular fluff attracting talents.  He was invited to the magicians convention in Las Vegas and whilst there, a group of very rich Arabs with very hairy bellies and a lot of button fluff were in awe of  his performance.  They insisted it was the most wonderful thing they had ever seen and they declared that he MUST visit them back in Dubai and play for the Prince on his birthday next month.  “You can have anything you want, gold, wine, women” he was offered, but it was the present of his own personal camel that was the decider for Eric, aka the Fluffy Flutist.

The Prince’s birthday was like nothing Eric had ever before experienced.  It was extravagant to the highest degree!  Amongst the hundreds of guests, there were pink flamingos, about ten Elton John look-a-likes, an olympic sized swimming pool full of champagne, with lilos made of Swarovski encrusted pink marshmallows, and trained emperor penguins as the waiters, smartened up with little pink bow-ties.  The Prince had a bit of a thing for the colour pink, so Eric was sprayed pink from head to toe, which made Eric’s hair frizz up like a pink christmas tree on top of his head, and even the flute had a rosy make over.  This did not stop his magic fingers from making marvellous melodies and him a wild success at the ‘do’, and as promised, Eric was given a camel as payment.

After all the birthday celebrations, the Fluffy Flutist went back to his cottage in the South Welsh Valley of ‘Ka-leid Oscope’ with his camel in tow (or is it toe?).  The camel slept in the spare room with an electric blanket, because he liked the heat, and every morning Eric was pleasantly greeted by a plate full of stacked yummy maple syrup pancakes waiting for him in the kitchen.

Snot, caviar, tarantula

Charlie didn’t have an unusually large nose for a boy of twelve, nor was he constantly suffering from a nasty cold, in fact he was really quite healthy, however, he did produce abnormally large amounts of snot.  With such vast quantities of green gloop coming out of his hooter, it soon became quite difficult for Charlie to find places to hide this annoying problem.  Charlie often opted for the back of the sofa in the lounge room, or under the desk at school, or behind the driver’s seat head rest in the car, or sometimes on the back of the TV remote, if he was having a particularly lazy day.  There really was so much, it had to go somewhere!  One day, he decided to collect a days worth of bogies, just to see how much on average he could produce.  He scooped up the results and kept them in a pot by the margarine in the fridge.  That same evening, just as his mother was serving up canapés for her dinner party, she mistakingly took it for caviar and very nearly served it to her room full of guests, but thankfully Charlie noticed and whilst his mother’s back was turned, he threw the canapés on the floor for the dog, saying Bruno (the dog) had jumped up and knocked the plate over.

He often wondered whether his snot had special properties which would make it revolutionary in the science world.  Perhaps it could be packed into the jackets of North Pole explorers to help keep them warm, as a super thick insulator, or when squeezed together at great force, it would become super bouncy and could be used in trainer design to help olympic athletes jumps EVEN higher, or perhaps it could be a new ecological rocket fuel to take astronauts to space?!  It would be easy to think the latter, once you saw him sneeze, PHOAR, it was like a rocket missile itself!

Charlie had a particular craving for a banana one afternoon whilst walking home from school, so he went into the local grocery shop and picked a big bunch of ripe, yellow bananas.  He pulled off one banana and as he did, something fell onto the floor by his feet.  It was a tarantula!  “Eeeek” he screeched, more out of shock than being scared.  He bent down to investigate and as he did a large pool of snot dripped onto the tarantula.  The tarantula wriggled about on the floor excitedly and suddenly the goo disappeared!  ‘Did it just eat my snot?’ thought Charlie.  He bent down for a closer look and he could have sworn that the tarantula was looking up at him, with a little leg pointed towards it’s mouth, longingly wanting more.  So, Charlie picked a big lump of snot out of his nose and dangled it above the hairy spider until it dripped, and once again ‘gobble gobble’ the snot was gone!  Yes, the tarantula HAD eaten his bogies.  “Gross!” he said, almost instantly followed by a “cool”.  This gave Charlie an idea.

He took the spider home and made it a lovely home, in a big glass box on his chest of drawers.  From now on, this little eight legged friend was Charlie’s solution to his overactive nostril problem.  They went everywhere together, Charlie ungrudgingly producing lots of snot, and the tarantula, happily eating it up.

Peacock, electric guitar, nose job

Another meal for one, under the bright, moonlit, incredibly romantic, sky and Ellen was getting twitchy for a change.  It was a new year and time for a new beginning.  If she wanted a mate, and she did, she really did, something had to be done.

Ellen, was a natural bombshell-stunner, she always had been a vision of beauty.   One would think the result of which would be the recipe for hundreds of dates, however, this was just not the case.  Yes, she had many, many admirers but most were generally too shy to approach her, and the ones who did, well, if they didn’t stammer over their words and give up, they were far too cocky in Ellen’s opinion, and only interested in a pretty bird on their arm.  She wanted a partner who would love her for her wit, brain and inner beauty.  Not just for her petite facial features, large alluring eyes and plump breast, for Ellen was the most voluptuous, seductive owl I believe you will have ever seen.

She came up with a cunning plan to decipher the shallow male potentials from the genuine.  She joined a dating website, added all the usual information about her favourite films, hobbies, activities, but when it came to the profile picture, she had an idea.  With some model making clay, she cleverly gave herself a nose job.

It worked, nobody seemed to notice the colossal, beaky extension as a piece of fakery.  Her first date with Allen the flamingo, was well, confusing.  She didn’t mind the ‘Hairspray’  musical and she thoroughly enjoyed the lengthy conversations about shoes, but when they got to dinner, he, on more than one occasion pinched the bottom of the hot, Spanish waiter, and she thought that he probably wasn’t all that interested in her, truthfully.  Her second online match Henry, was a right cock (a conservative rooster).  She was a lefty, it was never going to work.  Her third potential, Warren the wren, got off to a good start, but a few dates later proved that the old saying was true, size did matter.

Three lousy blokes later and she was back surfing the site again.  ‘Where was her knight in shining armour to swoop her off her talons?’  There was a new addition to the listing.  A very handsome peacock called Francis. ‘Ooo’ and she liked his profile information.  He is well travelled, favourite food is dormouse (the same as hers), his favourite pastime is playing the electric guitar and to top it off, he was GORGEOUS.  Nope, she wouldn’t contact him, he’d be just like all the other handsome fellas, a pretty picture but a total birdbrain.

A day passed and ‘beep beep’, one new message in her inbox.  She clicked the link and to her surprise, Francis had sent her an invitation to meet.  Well, perhaps she would give him a go, after all, they did seem to have a lot in common.  She was always punctual and she got to the restaurant ten minutes early.  With a glass of wine to calm her nerves, the nose extension in place, she awaited his arrival.  The blue tit waiter approached her with the menu and as he did, he tripped and fell towards Ellen, knocking her wine down her plumage.  ‘What an absolute TIT’ she thought and she ran off to the ladies room to clean up the mess.  When she returned to the table she was all a fluster and not at all in the mood for a date.  She waited over half an hour for Francis, but he never showed.  She wondered if she missed him whilst she was in the bathroom removing all traces of the wine incident.

At home there was a message in her inbox from Francis saying that he was terribly sorry to have missed the date but  there was an emergency and he couldn’t make it.  He wanted to make it up to her and invited her out again, this time to go rollerskating.  She accepted and they arranged to meet by the fountain in the city centre.  She sat on the edge on the fountain wall, again ten minutes early and kept a look out for a handsome peacock.  From out of nowhere, the waiter from the other night, the blue tit, came speeding towards her, and flew straight into the fountain taking her with him.  ‘SPLASH!’  They both got up, absolutely drenched with water.  “It’s you again, you tit” she hooted at him.  He gurgled, with his head half under the water “Giimmm slooorrrpppppyyyy . . .(spurt) . . . I’m sorry”.  They stood in front of one another, eye to eye.  “What on earth are you doing here, again?”  There was a silence and he looked at her straight in the eyes and held her gaze.  Then he fell over again ‘SPLASH’ and she noticed his roller skates.  She began to think that this was more than just a coincidence.  “Francis?” she asked.  He nodded.  With a raised voice she shouted at him “you deceived me with your picture, you’re supposed to be a peacock not a great tit’.  He said “here I think you dropped something” as he passed her a wonky, clay beak “and I’m a blue tit, but it doesn’t matter.  You’re right.  I am a GIGANTIC tit.”  Ellen sheepishly took the misshapen clay nose and her cheeks turned a lovely crimson colour.  “It seems we both might have told a few pork pies”.  She smiled and he did also.  He had a truly beautiful smile and Ellen’s heart began to beat slightly faster.  He took her wing and lead her out of the water onto dry land.  They skated and skated, until their feathers had completely dried.  She was thoroughly enjoying herself and even allowed herself to daydream about names for their children.  Near the top of one of particularly steep hill, just as they turned a steep corner going high speed down hill, Francis couldn’t put his brakes on quick enough and he bumped Ellen off the edge of the hill side.  The added weight of her skates meant her little wings couldn’t fly and just as she was free falling fast, and her very single life began to flash before her eyes, in from nowhere swooped a golden eagle, who clutched her in his firm grip, moments before she plummeted into the ground beneath.  As she lay in his wings, looking up, with the world soaring past them at high speed, she knew he was ‘The One’.  Forget the little tit, he was a liability.  This magnificent creature was the knight in shining gold armour she’d always dreamt of.

The end.

Donkey, drunk baboon, ocean of cheese

In a land 200 miles and 35 degrees North North East of Billericay, where the trees grow upside down, the lions get fake tanned but the birds aren’t vajazzled, a donkey was wandering around, mainly in circles, looking for his tail which he had lost, again.  Now you would assume that it would be rather difficult for a donkey to lose it’s tail, but not this Donkey.  He lost his keys last Tuesday, his novelty glasses with attached moustache on the Friday and his long haired, albino guinea pig named Boris Johnson the Wednesday before.  He’d lost his mind once or twice before.  Found it in the fridge.  No idea why he’d put it there.

He decided to retrace his steps in order to find his tail.  ‘It has to be somewhere!’  He thought.  He started walking backwards along the path he’d just travelled but kept bumping into things, so he turned around and walked forwards.  He met a transvestite antelope on his way and asked him “you haven’t seen a tail lying about anywhere have you?”  The antelope shook his head and his long dangly earrings hit the sides of his cheeks.  “Try asking Martha the Magpie who lives on the third branch down on the weeping willow tree, first right, past the hedge which looks like an angry badger.  She might know, I hear she collects all sort of unusual objects.”

So the donkey, Anthony was his name, went to find Martha, who tried to sell him a feather duster in place for his tail.  “See, little a bit of tape here, et voila beau-ti-fool, proper new tail.”  He insisted he only wanted his original one and she tutted and told him he was a silly donkey, a feathered tail would be much more useful, plus it’s all the rage these days, but Anthony gave up and left.

He rang his cousin Eeyore, but the line was terrible.  “Where are you?” shouted Anthony “what’s all that . . . giggling?”  “Sorry couz, quieten down February and December” a half muted voice said “I’m trying to have a conversation here”.  Eeyore explained that he’d been feeling a bit depressed lately, so a couple of old mares decided to cheer him up in the hot spring watering hole.  He would help Anthony to find his tail later on.

Anthony thought he’d just about give up when he came across the ocean of cheese.  It was notoriously smelly.  Worse than parmesan that had already been eaten five times.  It bubbled away like hot quick sand, and not much lived in it’s murky, yellow depths, except for a few pepperoni pirañas.  It was however a terribly good heat retainer and animals from all around would collect tubs of it to fill their hot water bottles.   As a young boy, he’d been told by his mother, never to cross the ocean of cheese as it is very, very dangerous.  If he fell through the Jarlsberg holes of doom, he would perish in a slow and horrible fondue death.  However, he had heard that a wise old baboon, over 331 years old, lived on an island in the middle of the ocean of cheese.  Some people said he was so wise he told the three wise men which gifts to give Jesus.  Originally, they just wanted to take around a box of After Eights, and the wise baboon helped them make a more sophisticated decision.  Which doesn’t make all that much sense given that he’s wasn’t even born.  Perhaps his mind was so wise it existed before his body?  Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

Anthony hired a little tinny speed boat and sped across the ocean of cheese, all the way to the island, managing to dodge flicks of hot smelly bishops finger that tried to poke and scold him.  When he reached the island, he saw the old baboon, sprawled out on a deck chair, legs akimbo, very ungentlemanly.  Anthony told him that he had mislaid his tail and asked him if he knew where it could be.  The baboon replied with an incredible slur ‘heeeeeee who learns but does not think, is lost” . . .  “what?” replied the donkey.  “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee who learns to drink gets lost, so think . . . . heeeeeeeeee who thinks about learning, is drink, therefore one who drinks is lost in learning” . . . “come again?” said Anthony.  “It’s in the fridge” replied the baboon.  Momentarily the baboon, feel asleep and started to snore louder than a wheezy tuba.

Anthony got back in the tinny speed boat, traversed the ocean of cheese and returned home.  Once in the kitchen he took a deep breath and opened the fridge.  Wedged between the milk and butter was a very cold and neglected tail.  ‘The drunk baboon was right!’ thought Anthony, “I can’t believe I didn’t look there in the first place” he said to himself.  He was overjoyed and warmed his tail carefully by balancing it on the bagel rungs on the top of his toaster, before reattaching it to his rear end with a bit of super glue.

Bean, Owl, Sound of the Ocean

It was just a normal saturday afternoon when something quite wonderful occurred to change Bean’s life forever. Whilst strolling along the white sandy beach, he picked up a shell to listen to the sound of the ocean.  Instead of the sweet, soothing, mellow tones of the waves lapping against his ear, he was greeted with an “Oi, what are you doing?!” which screamed into and down his ear canal, with a thud and a squeeze against his ear drum.  A grumpy little crab who was living inside, poked his head out the shell and exclaimed “Whoever you are, put my house down at once, I’m trying to sleep!”

Bean replied “Oh hello, I’m Bean, the Bean, sorry to disturb you.”  He bent down to replace the shell on the floor and the crab spoke again, which stopped Bean in his tracks.  “A bean?!  No, you’re not a Bean” replied the crab, “you’re an owl”.  This came as an incredible shock to Bean who had thought for his whole life he was a bean, as that’s what people called him.  He knew he wasn’t a Runner Bean, because he wasn’t very fast, and he knew he wasn’t a Broad Bean because he was very little and scrawny, and he knew he wasn’t a Butter Bean because when he licked his arm, it tasted like pinecones.  He had always just assumed he was some sort of other bean that hadn’t been invented yet,  and he didn’t know which kind.

“Marvellous thing to be an owl” said the crab.  Bean’s face full of confusion encouraged the owl to continue “you do know all the wonderful things you can do as an owl, don’t you?”

Bean shook his head and told the crab that he really didn’t think he could do much at all.  “There’s nothing special about me” he replied with a sigh “except my ability to make swans out of napkins, whilst hanging upside down and singing the Elvis’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’ backwards in the key of B minor.”

“You can fly!” said the crab.  “Flap your wings together, yes, like that” and Bean took off up into the sky, doing a loop high above the crabs head and swooped down, landing back down on the beach with sand and feathers flying everywhere.

“WOW!”  Did you see me?!” said Bean excitedly.  “What else can I do?!”

“Well, you’re one of the wisest creatures on the planet.  So, tell me, what would you do if a large crocodile put a yummy cake in it’s open mouth and said ‘here, I have a present for you, why don’t you crawl into my mouth and take it?’

Hmmmmm Bean thought about it.  “I”d . . . not go into it’s mouth because it might gobble me up!”  The crab immediately said “Correct! See, you are wise.”

Bean suspected that most people would just consider that common sense, and not particularly wise.  Although, he thought it wise not to mention this to the crab because he didn’t want to make it grumpy again, just in case this time he snapped his big crab claws onto his beak.

“What else?!”  said Bean.  “Well” said the crab, “wizard’s just seem to love owls, so I suggest you go and find yourself a young wizard, and leave me alone to sleep.”

So that is exactly what Bean did.  He left the beach and the crab, and went home to scour the classified section of the newspaper for wizards.  There weren’t any for sale that day but he did find an advert for an event in the local town hall, ‘Learn How to Turn a Frog into a Prince’ convention.  Using the wise part of his brain (the left side, the right side was reserved for thinking about chocolate), he went along and met a lovely young wizard called Adzuki.  He didn’t look much like a wizard.  He didn’t have a long white beard or pointy hat.  But Adzuki assured Bean that he was a wizard, he just hadn’t learnt the ‘Grow a Big White Beard’ spell yet.  Bean stuck some cotton wool  to Adzuki’s chin with sellotape just so other people would know he was a wizard.  Bean told Adzuki wise tales and Adzuki taught Bean how to make a mouldy piece of bread turn into a large chocolate egg.  It was the beginning of a beautiful long friendship in which Bean loved being an owl, and not a Bean.  The end.

Pony, Tantrum, Signpost

Porkchops the scruffy little pony, awkwardly moped back to the tree when his friend Mr Nutcheeks (the squirrel) was sitting, sipping coffee & reading the paper.  “She said no”, Porkchops whined to Mr Nutcheeks.  “Why is it that none of these mares will accept my invitation to take them out for apples?”  Mr Nutcheeks sighed and replied “Well, frankly my friend, you need to get a little more confidence when you talk to them.  Look them in the eyes, puff out your chest and say “hello gorgeous”.  Nay in your lowest tone, shake your hair and they’ll be putty in your hooves.”

Hmmmmm, Porkchops thought about this for a while.  He went home and brushed his hair, and teeth and practised talking in the bathroom mirror.  “You’re a sexy, strong stallion.  You’re a sexy, strong stallion”  he repeated over and over.  After an hour or two of affirmations in front of the mirror, he had built up quite an appetite.  He went to kitchen to make a sandwich and saw on the counter a box on ice cream cones.  He had an epiphany!  If he could attach a cone to his head convincingly, he could pretend he was a unicorn.  The ladies would love that, he thought to himself.  So he gave a cone a lick of paint and glued it to the top of his head.  “Daddddaaaaaaa”  he said checking himself out once again in the mirror.  “What a handsome fella”, he winked at himself.  Confident and ready for smooth talking those dappled mares, he trotted back outside to the field where they gathered.  His very favourite lady friend was Eleanor.  He puffed out his chest, looked her in the eyes and said how gorgeous she was.  She blushed, looked down at her feet, and then look up back at Porkchops fluttering her eyelids.  ‘It’s working!’ he thought.  Not wanting to pass an opportunity, he asked her out on a date and to his great surprise, and relief, she agreed.

Later that afternoon they met under the large Oak tree.  “I thought we could go for a bike ride together?”  “Lovely”, she replied.   They followed the signpost saying ‘Bikes for Hire’ and Porkchops asked the man for a tantrum bike.  ‘”Tandem bike you mean?”, replied the man hiring out the bikes.  “Oh yes, tandem” Porkchops said clearing his throat and feeling awfully embarrassed for messing up in front of Eleanor, but she just continued to smile.  ‘Gosh she was gorgeous’ he thought.  They put on their helmets and cycled together around the park and through the bluebell covered wood.  They laughed, sang, and told jokes along the way.  The date was going swimmingly.  Porkchops was very proud of himself and his unicorn horn idea, it seemed to be working a treat!

They got off the bike at the lake for a pitstop and a quick drink, laying their helmets on the floor.  Just before both their heads reached the water, he leant over and gave her a kiss.  She didn’t turn away, she kissed him back.  It was the most magical moment in his life!  He smiled at her, and her at him.  They then lowered their heads to take a drink of water and to his shock horror, Porkchops noticed that the horn was missing from the top of his head.  In a panic he started to choke on the water, spluttering as he tried to hold it together in front of Eleanor.  She looked him straight in the eyes and said “Porkchops, you knocked your horn off hours ago when you put your helmet on.  I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to embarrass you.  You’re so gorgeous but silly for thinking that would make me want to go out with you.  You’re adorably goofy and clumsy, and that’s the pony I like.”  Porkchops blushed, and she kissed his cheek.  They went back to his place and stayed up all night talking, laughing, drawing silly pictures and drinking tea.  It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  The end.

Kiwi’s, Lizard, Zimbabwe

These three words inspired me to get poetic!

There once was a lizard called Tom,

Zimbabwe is where he was from,

he sat on a rock,

in a beautiful frock,

as he wanted to look like his mom.

A transvestite lizard with style,

and he strutted his stuff with a smile,

he loved ladies clothes,

even varnished his toes,

the campiest I’ve seen in a while!

One day in the afternoon rays,

Tom slept enjoying the blaze,

then the temperature dropped,

the heat suddenly stopped,

and it woke poor Tom up in a daze.

Something was blocking his sun,

a large object spoiling his fun,

he adjusted his eyes,

to identify the guise,

what was it, something or someone?!

‘Twas a kiwi fruit dressed up in plaid,

that plunged sleepy Tom into shade,

she said “How do you do?

My name’s Vicky Maloo,

would you like to attend the parade?”

With these words Tom started to see,

that the fruit was a gorgeous kiwi,

and he sat bolt upright,

it was love at first sight,

and his heart was pounding with glee!

To conclude, the pair fell in love,

got married the next week by a dove,

they had four babies,

little lizard-kiwi’s,

named tulip, rose, ash and foxglove.

Fabulous, Bikes, New York

The first thing Lisa said when she woke up was “FABULOUS”.  After her morning cup of tea, “FABULOUS”, standing on the bus next to a sweaty man’s arm pit, “FABULOUS”, and before going to sleep at night after making love with her husband, “FABULOUS!”  Everyone thought Lisa was an extremely positive person, when in fact she has a rare form of tourette’s which made her shout out extremely positive remarks (with no reflection of her actual mood).  She used to say “poobumwilly” but ever since her trip to New York when she got trapped in an elevator with Paris Hilton for five hours, she’s been saying “FABULOUS!”

One summers day when cycling home from work through the park, a gang of youthful scallywags on their suped-up bikes sped past Lisa, narrowly missing her and causing her to lose her balance, diving head first into the duck pond to her side.   Then the resident ducks made a beeline for her, attacking this new strange creature that might steal their delicious stale bread.  She splattered about in the muddy water trying to gather herself and fend off the excitable ducks.  She made for the edge as quickly as she could, with feathers flying in all directions.  Once clear of the duck barrage, she pulled her bike from the pond and rode home with brown glum spinning off like a earthy kathryn wheel on firework night.  Ever since this day, instead of shouting “FABULOUS”, her new vocal tic is the word “DUCK”.  Which quite amusingly confuses many people when she shouts it out.