15/07/2013 - A TALL SHINY PINNY

A tall shiny pinny wrapped around her fluttering gums, laced at the back of her nepotistic hairdo. It was a sly dig at deforestation law, a parley with the desired effect held in absentia with linked metaphorical arms over some symbolic chasm. The ham salad was just too enticing for her and she couldn’t help but retract her incisors and canines and gnaw her way through to the heavenly bone. She had endured many a penny plight, many a dollop of spontaneous liability, many a musk rabbit in her light and airy undergrowth. She was a drugged up hooker at parties and a saintly business ball buster at West Sussex parties, throwing on dresses and casting off castanets and irretrievable lutes that floated out of the way of passing traffic. She was the slimmest of personalities, the shabbiest of thinkers and the sternest of naked bodies in soggy action films. Her husband was a bus conductor who could walk on staplers alone and not fall down on the wrong end before the egg timer shot him up into the sky. He aimed to please her but mostly just clung onto her arm and talked transmogrification and cheap plonk prices.

One day she forgot to feed his box and all the edges became all runny and opaque and she almost lost her temper in the process of vigorous cleaning. She tightened her apron strings and walked the dog with finesse and a level of calm that was borderline undignified. When she finally returned to the task at hand, she pulled off both her rubber gloves and formed them into a righteous spiral and span it over the problem area, causing a tumultuous twister to climb out of her ne’er-do-well region and spit elastic all over it. It was a rambunctious sight to behold, rest assured. Her husband came home halfway through and did several double-takes without his glasses on. We asked him what he saw and said that it was histrionic triangles and that we should shut up or else they’ll turn on us and slander our names over the next century or so. We didn’t know what to think, we just watched her moving about and jiggling her hips and making contemptuous remarks from over her leaf blower-mounted shoulder. She kicked the shit out of the stains and turned her attention onto us.

Fortunately I was out to lunch within seconds and all she could do to me was issue a stamped and addressed challenge to my corduroy torso. It totally broke my weave and made me a laughing stock to those who could still wheeze out the alphabet without courting bloody coughs. It was an invasion on my sensibility, a crashed VCR on my sanity metre. I remember thinking ‘Perhaps we didn’t, perhaps we shouldn’t’ve, perhaps this opening theme has gone on too long and the players are ready to jam rubber stamps up our nepotistic bottoms.’ I was half right. The asinine thing was I couldn’t even forget my name.