Yellow Monster

I was watching breakfast television this morning when I heard a woman say that some children have more taste buds on their tongues than others. Apparently this causes some children to not like certain vegetables, they demonstrated this by feeding the victims kale. The pained expressions on their little faces said it all. Then the EVIL woman said, and I quote, “if your child doesn’t like certain vegetables, keep feeding it to them and they will get to like it.” Sounds like child abuse to me, I mean to say kale is bad enough but the sadist said we should feed them Brussels sprouts. MY GOD, SPROUTS, Who in the entire universe could be that CRUEL.

The boy was about ten years old and he was looking forward to Guy Fawks night. In nineteen fifty seven Britain fireworks were only enjoyed once a year, along with a bonfire. Two weeks and a few odd days before fireworks night he accompanied his father to the tiny shop in Horchurch which normally sold toys but at this time of year it stocked an interesting selection of pyrotechnic supplies. They made their choice, which included some large rockets, roman candles, aeroplanes, jumping jacks, bangers and of course some pretty ones which sprayed coloured sparks into the air. The young chappies favourites were bangers, jumping jacks and aeroplanes. The aeroplanes had wings with opposite corners turned up and when lit went spinning into the air. However, before the fifth of November arrived he had dreamed up a fascinating idea for one of the large rockets. Some weeks earlier he had made a pair of wings from balsa wood and newspaper and he even persuaded his dad that attaching them to said rocket would prove interesting.
On the Saturday night nearest to the fifth the fire was lit beneath the Guy and when it was blazing brightly his father commenced lighting the fireworks.

Mum dad and urchin watched their display, and those of many neighbours, and then it was time to launch the “winged rocket.”

The boy slipped the rocket stick into the steel pipe embedded in the lawn. He looked at his father, who grinned, lit the blue touch paper and retired immediately. They both watched from a safe distance. The rocket fizzed and a jet of sparks rushed out, and continued to do so. They waited a short time and then the rocket slowly crept into the air. It rose to the height of three metres, tipped over, performed three, two metre diameter circles and exploded sending coloured sparks all over the garden.
The father looked at the boy and said, “I don’t think we’ll try that again,” and he grinned.

Sadly, I think, my monster friends need to relax and chill out, lest our fragile world descends into chaos and cannibalism.

While they are trying to sort themselves out and restore peace and tranquility, why don’t you try a little light reading with this week’s effort – drunken hedghogs.

You could try writing your own piece about these little critters.

Drunken Hedgehogs

The man sat in his living room reading an article in the newspaper. It was all to do with slug control using methods other than slug pellets.

His garden was plagued with the things, always chowing down on his vegitables, and he didn’t like using slug pellets as they were a little too harmful to more pleasant wildlife.

The article suggested beer traps. These were, it seemed, easy to construct. You simply filled an old yogurt pot with beer and pushed it into the earth so the slugs could get to the contents.

He decided to give it a try. After all is said and done, two or three pots of beer wouldn’t use all the can and he would drink the remander.

His garden wasn’t large so he placed just two pots in the soil, fairly close to his vegetables.

The following morning he was rewarded with two pots full of drowned slugs. He was ove joyed. Well, quite pleased, shall we say; and he repeated the proceedure for the next few days.

Then, disaster. He checked the traps one morning and found no slugs and no beer. What could have happened?

The next two days were the same. Even though he had covered the pots with pieces of stone.

He decided to try once more. So that evening at nightfall he set four traps instead of just two. Half an hour later he crept quietly into the garden with a torch to see if anything was happening.

One by one he inspected the traps. the first one was empty. He shone the light on the lasty one and there was the culprit lapping the beer from the pot and grunting quietly.

The man smiled down at the spikey little beer thief. ‘Well, well’, he murmered. ‘A hedgehog. I suppose you thought you’d wash down the slug banquet with a drop of beer..’

He laughed as he watched the little animal finish off the last of the beer and begin rooting around the vegetables, a little unsteadily, in search of either slugs or more beer.

As I am sure, you will remember Red Monster and I visited Green Monster, with the idea of cheering the timid monster up, which seemed to be working until Blue Monster arrived and tried to apologise for scaring Green in the first place. At this point there was a marked decrease in Green’s happiness field – people who follow the chaos theory will understand the term field here.

Quite how Blue managed to cause so much confussion with trying to be pleasant is something of a mystery to me.

My turn to apologise for going off at a tangent; please feast your eyes upon a story about badgers. I hope you enjoy it, you fortunate indigenous bipeds.

Try picking an endangered animal and writing about that for ten minutes.

Badgers

I was having a quiet conversation with my daughter one day upon the subject of badgers.

It was probably my fault as I had seen a badger pounding across the road as I was driving home from work, a touch on the late side of midnight, and mentioned it.

We were merrily discussing these interesting black and white mammals when I mentioned that I had never seen one up close.

‘Oh they’re really cute and friendly’, she said.

‘Really?’ I asked with a hint of disbelief. I was thinking of the chap on television who some years ago explained why antique badger tongs had once been essential for the preservation of ones’ hands. It seems that the animal in question has a very loose skin and if you were silly enough to sieze one by the scruff of its neck, with the intention of picking it up, it can twist its head round and make a serious attempt at biting your hand off at the wrist.

My daughter gave me an odd look. ‘Yes’ she answered ‘me and David used to feed them peanut butter sandwitches at the bottom of the garden.’

For a moment or two I was speechless. I didn’t even know that we had badgers living anywhere near our home. ‘Er, do you know how dangerous they can be?’ I asked

‘They were always freindly to us’ she replied with a mischevious grin. ‘They just eat the sandwitches, pushed each other round a bit and trotted off happily.’

Still at a lose for anything sensible to say, I made do with the first thing that came to mind. ‘I wondered why you and your brother used to eat all those peanut butter sandwiches when you were children.’

She giggled, ‘It was their favourite’

I decided it was time for the usual parental happiness damping comment, ‘I guess you were lucky not to catch T.B.’ I said in a serious manner.

She beamed at me, ‘We were inoculated, weren’t we?’

I dont know about you, but I just hate it when my children make me feel as stupid as I really am. The trouble is, the older I get, the more they seem to be able to do it.

It’s a real bummer, isn’t it?

As I am sure, you will remember Red Monster and I visited Green Monster, with the idea of cheering the timid monster up, which seemed to be working until Blue Monster arrived and tried to apologise for scaring Green in the first place. At this point there was a marked decrease in Green’s happiness field – people who follow the chaos theory will understand the term field here.

Quite how Blue managed to cause so much confussion with trying to be pleasant is something of a mystery to me.

My turn to apologise for going off at a tangent; please feast your eyes upon a story about badgers. I hope you enjoy it, you fortunate indigenous bipeds.

Try picking an endangered animal and writing about that for ten minutes.

Badgers

I was having a quiet conversation with my daughter one day upon the subject of badgers.

It was probably my fault as I had seen a badger pounding across the road as I was driving home from work, a touch on the late side of midnight, and mentioned it.

We were merrily discussing these interesting black and white mammals when I mentioned that I had never seen one up close.

‘Oh they’re really cute and friendly’, she said.

‘Really?’ I asked with a hint of disbelief. I was thinking of the chap on television who some years ago explained why antique badger tongs had once been essential for the preservation of ones’ hands. It seems that the animal in question has a very loose skin and if you were silly enough to sieze one by the scruff of its neck, with the intention of picking it up, it can twist its head round and make a serious attempt at biting your hand off at the wrist.

My daughter gave me an odd look. ‘Yes’ she answered ‘me and David used to feed them peanut butter sandwitches at the bottom of the garden.’

For a moment or two I was speechless. I didn’t even know that we had badgers living anywhere near our home. ‘Er, do you know how dangerous they can be?’ I asked

‘They were always freindly to us’ she replied with a mischevious grin. ‘They just eat the sandwitches, pushed each other round a bit and trotted off happily.’

Still at a lose for anything sensible to say, I made do with the first thing that came to mind. ‘I wondered why you and your brother used to eat all those peanut butter sandwiches when you were children.’

She giggled, ‘It was their favourite’

I decided it was time for the usual parental happiness damping comment, ‘I guess you were lucky not to catch T.B.’ I said in a serious manner.

She beamed at me, ‘We were inoculated, weren’t we?’

I dont know about you, but I just hate it when my children make me feel as stupid as I really am. The trouble is, the older I get, the more they seem to be able to do it.

It’s a real bummer, isn’t it?

Sorry if I offended Blue. But although blue Monster is convinced that he has never been so insulted, I am sure he must have been.

I am concerned about Green Monster as he seems to he having a hard time, but Red and I will do our best to cheer him uip.

Oh, dear Green, I dont think you should read this weeks little story, but the rest of you can. Behold the Loo Roll Eating Monster. Enjoy.

Writing about embarrasing situations can produce some interesting results – why don’t you try it?

Loo Roll Eating Monsters

Many, if not most, people regard it as an unsubstantiated legand or just a figment of an over-active imagination.

However, the unfortunate victims of the unprovoked ‘attacks’ of the “the beast” are often permantly scarred, mentally at least, and have a very different opion of the loo roll eating monster.

Even the mention of its name brings on a bout of terror-driven shuddering.

It’s bad enough at home when you are seated comfortably after a heavy session and you reach for the loo roll which you know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, is on the holder – and find nothing.. But it’s nothing to panic about as you know there is always a replacement one, often hidden beneath a soppy doll in knitted crinolin. You reach for it and find the loo roll eating monster has got there before you.

Now is the time to panic.

But as bad as that situation is, it is nowhere near as bad as being trapped in a superloo with no hint of paper in the dispenser. Well, you can imagine the frantic searching of the pockets in the hope of finding a few tissues, or indeed any piece of paper other than the dirty and crumpeled five pound note in your wallet, before the door automatically unlocks.

Yes, I am afraid, that the legendary loo roll eating monster is alive and still has an utterly insatiable appetite.

Green, Green, Green, try to relax a little. Take a deep breath and continue your excellent reviews. Always listen to Blue’s sound advice and if you don’t agee, just do as I do and ignore it. But if you still believe you have problems, just read about the character in my meagre effort, “empty salt pots”, and you will realise that you have nothing to worry about.

You might want to do a little bit of writing on the subject of condiments yourself.

Empty Salt Pots

Have you ever picked up a salt pot and found that it contains nothing but salt flavoured air?

No! Then you are the lucky one, aren’t you? Becuase in my house, which has two or, more likely, three of these articles, I always seem to get the empty one.

I have also noticed that I seem to be the only person capable of refilling them. That’s two with ordinary table salt and one with the twisty top for the equally fancy sea salt.

I wouldn’t mind it quite as much if it wasn’t for the fact that if I go a resturant – which is only once every two years – I get the only empty salt cellar in the building – every time.

Sometimes we have a meal with other people. Oh, yes, we all sit around the table chatting and laughing. The splendid meal is is served hot and tasty-looking. The salt pot is passed from person to person and when it finally reaches me I find the guest who handed it to me, and doesn’t like too much salt on their dinner, has empties the last twenty-seven grains onto their food. There are times when I could just cry.

I bet if I had been a sailor in Nelsons Navy and had been flogged for complaining about the lack of salt on my weevils, I believe they would have run out of salt to rub into my wounds. I bet we would be moored in a river, too, just to be certain there was no salt in the water they threw on my back to rinse off the blood.

I’m most pleased that the other monsters have calmed down a little and are touching the real problem of human beings and their journey into the world of litrature.

In the meantime, see what you think of this halloween tale. You might want to write something yourself based on the concept of novelty lights.

Eyeball Lights

The old man entered his daughter’s house and stood for a moment or two while he examined the halloween decorations. He paused and looked at a string of eyeballs hanging across a bookcase. They appeared dull and lifeless.

His daughter greeted him in her usual warm and friendly manner. “Hello, Dad! The kettle’s on for your coffee and I’d love a cup of tea, while you’re making it. Afterwards there’s a couple of little jobs for you…’ He shuffled off to the kitchen with a resigned, and slightly crooked, smile.

As they sipped their beverages, she detailed the jobs. The first, and most important, was a little weeding, and the second was to put new batteries in some of the decorations.

After an hour of cold and discomfort in the garden he came in and, after locating the batteries, he started to work on the decorations.

He worked his way through an assortment of skulls, pumpkins and tombstones until he reached the last item. It was the string of eyeballs. He replaced the batteries and after a little adjustment and more than a little jiggling succeeded in getting them to light up. However, as usual, one was just a little tardy and occassionally flicked off for a moment.

He eventually gave up and left it flickering even though he was left with an uneasy feeling that it was winking at him.

Monsters, I think it is time to pull together and cheer up a little. After all is said and done most of us are on the same side, aren’t we?

You are all doing a great job so be cool and enjoy.

Lets now enjoy a tale of the sadly misunderstood. And with the credit crunch crushing us lets write about having no money to cheer us all up.

Wallet Moths

There are times, not as rare as I would like, that certain members of my family hint that I might be considered, by some, to be a little careful with my money. They sometimes refer to me as Scrooge, tightwad, miser, skinflint and anything else that their cruel heartless minds can dream up.

Naturally I disagree. After all is said and done, you can only be mean if you have plenty of money and refuse to spend it. I on the other hand have no money because my family spend it for me. Often faster than I can earn it.

So when I am in a shop and open my wallet, to pay for something they want and they crack feeble jokes about the moths escaping I feel justified in pointing out that there are no moths in my wallet because its always empty because they have already spent what little money I get.

Oh dear, it seems I have inadvertently upset Blue. However, I feel that it is my duty to take him to task for upsetting Green, who is doing a Stirling job with his reviewing caper. Well done Green, I say. Keep up the good work and perhaps my pal Blue will err mellow.

But for everybody else I am forever blowing bubbles and that is the subject of today’s writing exercise – I want to see a full A4 page of writing from each of you – well maybe.

Fairy Bubbles

It was a little girl’s third birthday and after the excitement of opening the parcels containing new toys and the inevitable clothes she pawed at the last package.

With a little assistance from her mother she finally reached the prize within. After she had opened the box she sat on the floor and studied the four plastic fairies, each one a different colour. Mummy watched her closely before telling her that they were bottles of bubble mixture.

The child jumped up and down excitedly asking for bubbles. Mummy obliged and blew streams of small bubbles with a few large ones mixed in. The girl was given the bottle and preceded to blow an odd bubble occasionally while dripping vast amounts of bubble mixture on the floor, toys and herself.

Before it got too bad her grandfather took over and blew an assortment of bubbles and managed to drip only a small amount on the floor and himself.

There was a huge amount of fun and laughter as they watched the girl standing inside a cloud of bubbles and trying to burst them before they reached the floor.

The adults took turns to blow bubbles until it was time to stop and eat.

It was much latter when the adults had to crawl on their hands and knees to clear the spilt bubble mix. Most agreed it was worth the trouble.