Saturday, May 31, 2008

Why must the doctor refer to my upcoming procedure as "Operation Market Garden"?

When what more one is really concerned about is that any tampering with the Nazcalizated scars currently and already ensconced upon the noggin with for any could be anything changed- meanings, I mean.

I'm nowhere near half-past way to decoding the current bun(ch) and already here they are want more. Needs must I should perhaps get the razor out sans fuss and cut back the growth up there, then parade myself somewhere high-up, chin up, head washed and let whomsover can read these from above on high read them from above on high.

Behind enemy lines, my arse.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Department of Fish & Teeth


There is a man- and nobody will admit to having bagged him in the immediate aftermath- who insists that it is possible to grow the sections we need. One can't tell from the few blurred photographs available just what it is he is doing. Nor can the few pages of his notes to survive the death by Tallboy of the construction tunnels be made to fit any existing pattern of research. The mind seeks to make links, of course, and cannot help but wonder at possible connexions with the reports of one's own eyes and ears to the effect that at least some of the last of the the die-hards to surrender could only be described as factory-made. Which is enough to remind us that each of them- the ones brought under close arrest to the Institution- had a wallet in the inside pocket of his service tunic. And that each wallet contained the same photo of the same girl.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

On a lighter note: See if you can guess which one is me


Every suggestion involved goggles, and trips to the cellar, where he kept the river

"Come, let us wet our whistles in the waters of destiny", cried Norwood, raising his glass. There was nothing in the glass, however, so the toast may not count. And if it does not count, then perhaps we are still at home, and this has all been a most unwelcome dream?

I thought not.

Days and nights in the frying pan.

Even in my memory, she cycles away. Squeak of that back wheel I'd long promised to fix for her. Can of oil would probably have done it. And of course she still has my combination lock which, even if I was to recover it, would be all but useless for any other purpose now. To say nothing of her habit of not answering the telephone.

For a start, that's not even him.