Messant was a druffle by far!
He preferred to wuffle in the deep unjies than take to the swelt.
I’d always looked upon the dreg as a ruffle friend but he’d fly less keenly than a rufus pig!
But he had engee unseen. Panting fervantly he’d clamber and amber wherever i weemed.
And oh did i weem?!
High upon the tail down deep furrow swail, over laugomy hills and farzee,
farzee way. Our Rifid awkes all chaffed and forlorn, would return to our messant and slump down our lawns.
But though might we swelt we’d feel so alive and share all our oggles and feed each our sights.
And when Messant left, i would welt were he sat, and fumble and fidget and feel all clat.
Sum up thy rebel and thwart the wibble, i found him again and told my heart.
We ploughed through our plies, and wooshed at our sides, and kept the fever alive.
We journied many moons, sought rumble in shadows, fought muffle in gaddows but kept just alive.
Our galant arrival to some distant yarn, a fair grooble city upon a far distant land.
Steeples so high that a terra would swear, colours so fragrant to dribble our cares.
We met hooglees and mangrants, fair magrees and foul. Ate hoofers and mushees too valpor to cower.
And all through our moos and our ringlid astare, we loved only both and finally returned to cout air.
But time stands for flagrant, and worms still need groo, and our meeshes ran dry in the harsh home we shrued.
So away with the Nigress we flew, and settled on farmland and there we pusherood.
But now Messant is old, and his varpels are crimpled, mine too are bedrayed and we can no longer voopaloo.
So we stay in most evenings, and share our memories with strangers from Varkran and Soomly for you.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Peters brass box
Peter was my old friend.
He used to stand on the Platform facing London and i used to regularly chat with him whilst we waited for the 7:34 train. This was a slow train (even by British railway standards) and we pretty much chatted all the way to London every weekday morning.
Now Peter has left his job and started a farm way up north in Scotland. We still email each other but for me its too far to go and visit him, i am after all 58 and don’t much like long journies anymore.
Just before he left he gave me a small brass box, no larger than a matchbox. He told me to keep this safe for him for one day he may want it back. I remember asking him what was inside the box (since although hinged and latched it didn’t open freely) but he just replied “oh nothing of importance, just a keepsake for nostalgia”.
Peter was married to Sylvia who worked up near Birmingham. Both quit their jobs when the Farm idea finally became a reality.
Apparently a long lost uncle died and the solicitor contacted Peter (since both his parents had died when he was in his twenties).
The strange thing was that the Uncle had specified Peter directly in his will. Strange because Peter had no idea who this uncle was and to the best of his knowledge had never met him.
Anyway it seemed to have been a dream at the back of Peters mind for many, many years. I do remember him nattering on about looking after livestock a few months before the news about his uncle.
Someone had pulled the cord somewhere near Basingstoke and it was a good hour before the culprit was found and detained by the conductor and the train moved on again.
Anyway i received a letter from Peters wife this morning (saturday). It appears that he had bought a brand new tractor last weekend and was getting used to driving it when he had an accident. Perhaps in some circles it would seem slightly comical but he had stalled the tractor whilst trying to navigate over a ditch. He’d then stepped out of the vehicle, tripped on a metal wrung and fallen head first into a hedge of blackberry bushes.
Not only that but he’d stumbled into a wasps nest on the ground and got himself stung about 20 times.
Apparently he was in such agony he’d forgotten about his mobile and just crawled (on hands and knees) back towards the house.
Sylvia was apparently putting some washing out when she heard his faint screams. She rushed him to the local A&E last wednesday and he’s just come out of intensive care today.
Apparently he’s been asking Sylvia about the brass box. Sylvia didn’t know about it but wants me to send it to her. I rang her just now (even though its 23:30) and she was in a bit of a state. She sounded as if she’d been crying for most of the day and she can’t understand why the box seems to have any significance at all to him.
I told her on this occasion i would deliver it in Person since i would like to (at least) give Peter some moral support.
And this is the strangest thing..
On me suggesting i visit, Sylvia immediately told me she would love to see me but (being in the same room) Peter swore at her and told her not to let me come and after asking why not, Peter had taken the phone and (apparently) thrown it clear across the room!
I definately think i will head to Scotland if only to support Sylvia. It sounds to me like Peter lost his marbles a bit.
I am now about to depart. I have the brass box with me but i've found something rather strange with it. It rattles now.
I say now because it never did before. I assumed it might have been one of my friends who put something in there so i've just opened it... well actually i put a bit of force into it and got the darn thing open after all these years.
Anyway it's empty and there's no sign of where the rattling comes from. But this is when things go completely weird. I sit down and turn the box upside down to relieve anything within. Something clearly falls out for it lands on my lap but i'll be darned if i can see it. It's not there.. well i actually have it here, it seems to be like a key but i can only feel it, its invisible!
He used to stand on the Platform facing London and i used to regularly chat with him whilst we waited for the 7:34 train. This was a slow train (even by British railway standards) and we pretty much chatted all the way to London every weekday morning.
Now Peter has left his job and started a farm way up north in Scotland. We still email each other but for me its too far to go and visit him, i am after all 58 and don’t much like long journies anymore.
Just before he left he gave me a small brass box, no larger than a matchbox. He told me to keep this safe for him for one day he may want it back. I remember asking him what was inside the box (since although hinged and latched it didn’t open freely) but he just replied “oh nothing of importance, just a keepsake for nostalgia”.
Peter was married to Sylvia who worked up near Birmingham. Both quit their jobs when the Farm idea finally became a reality.
Apparently a long lost uncle died and the solicitor contacted Peter (since both his parents had died when he was in his twenties).
The strange thing was that the Uncle had specified Peter directly in his will. Strange because Peter had no idea who this uncle was and to the best of his knowledge had never met him.
Anyway it seemed to have been a dream at the back of Peters mind for many, many years. I do remember him nattering on about looking after livestock a few months before the news about his uncle.
Someone had pulled the cord somewhere near Basingstoke and it was a good hour before the culprit was found and detained by the conductor and the train moved on again.
Anyway i received a letter from Peters wife this morning (saturday). It appears that he had bought a brand new tractor last weekend and was getting used to driving it when he had an accident. Perhaps in some circles it would seem slightly comical but he had stalled the tractor whilst trying to navigate over a ditch. He’d then stepped out of the vehicle, tripped on a metal wrung and fallen head first into a hedge of blackberry bushes.
Not only that but he’d stumbled into a wasps nest on the ground and got himself stung about 20 times.
Apparently he was in such agony he’d forgotten about his mobile and just crawled (on hands and knees) back towards the house.
Sylvia was apparently putting some washing out when she heard his faint screams. She rushed him to the local A&E last wednesday and he’s just come out of intensive care today.
Apparently he’s been asking Sylvia about the brass box. Sylvia didn’t know about it but wants me to send it to her. I rang her just now (even though its 23:30) and she was in a bit of a state. She sounded as if she’d been crying for most of the day and she can’t understand why the box seems to have any significance at all to him.
I told her on this occasion i would deliver it in Person since i would like to (at least) give Peter some moral support.
And this is the strangest thing..
On me suggesting i visit, Sylvia immediately told me she would love to see me but (being in the same room) Peter swore at her and told her not to let me come and after asking why not, Peter had taken the phone and (apparently) thrown it clear across the room!
I definately think i will head to Scotland if only to support Sylvia. It sounds to me like Peter lost his marbles a bit.
I am now about to depart. I have the brass box with me but i've found something rather strange with it. It rattles now.
I say now because it never did before. I assumed it might have been one of my friends who put something in there so i've just opened it... well actually i put a bit of force into it and got the darn thing open after all these years.
Anyway it's empty and there's no sign of where the rattling comes from. But this is when things go completely weird. I sit down and turn the box upside down to relieve anything within. Something clearly falls out for it lands on my lap but i'll be darned if i can see it. It's not there.. well i actually have it here, it seems to be like a key but i can only feel it, its invisible!
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