It has been a very busy weekend and so the attention span neccessary to write something longer has eluded me. SO today you get three mini stories, like having different flavoured ice creams. The flavours served at Digestive Press today are: marmalade, arms and tarmac.
I was in town the other day and saw a man who looked like your Uncle. He had the same cheeks as him, the same cheeks you’ve got. It set off a chain of thoughts which occupied my mind… like… it was like… ok, imagine you’re walking along and you suddenly notice a discarded piece of orange peel on the pavement. It’s a piece of orange peel in the shape of a scottie dog. But not just any scottie dog – it looks exactly like a bright orange scottie named Molo Molo who belonged to a pen pal you had in Seville. Of course, you spend the rest of the day thinking about marmalade.
AN ANTICLIMACTIC STORY ABOUT ARMS
“Happy Birthday, I got you longer arms.”
She kissed me on the cheek and handed me a box, five foot long and smartly wrapped. I tore the paper off and opened the box. The set of arms were certainly longer than mine. They were sleek and silky smooth and had go faster stripes painted on. I stroked them lovingly.
“Well, go on. Try them on,” she urged me.
I snapped off my arms and replaced them with the new ones. I could reach my toes whilst stood up straight.
“They’re brilliant!” I exclaimed and threw my new extra long arms around her.
Over the next few days I got used to my new arms. They were so useful for reaching lots of places I couldn’t reach before – high shelves and cupboards, under the bed, further up into the trees. Yes, I was very happy with my new arms.
And that’s it really. I know, I know this story is supposed to end with some tragedy occurring due to having long arms but that’s not what happened. They were just really useful. It’s nice that sometimes things work.
I have been having a recurring dream. In the dream I am walking underneath an open car park barrier and the heavy metal pole comes crashing down on my head, knocking me unconscious. Whilst I am unconscious they pour tarmac over me and make me into a speed bump.
I have tried communicating with other people trapped in speed bumps by knocking loudly on the tarmac and shouting, “hello,” but it seems that they are unable to open their mouths for all the tarmac. I have pleaded with the council to dig them up to check if there is anyone trapped but they refused. I suppose that the possibility of being made into a speed bump is a danger that we will just have to face on our own for the time being.
If I suddenly go missing please look for any fresh-looking speed bumps.