The Australian music artiste Kylie Minogue said it best, I think, when she said
“Cast not a clout for he for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee. And unless I’m greatly mistaken, thee are a “she”, not a “he”. So let’s be accurate here”.
In a way, I suppose we all have our own individual bells tolling for us. I know I do. Mine is operated by the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, who chimes it every twelve hours, or sometimes at pre-arranged extra times, from his majestic bell tower in Pari . Of course it isn’t really his, but he does live there and therefore derives much personal enjoyment from his job. I’ve been trying to find some way of deducting this from his wages as “benefit in kind”, but alas to no avail.
I’ve always had a major problem with my avails. I think it’s because I’m not from a sea-faring family. We have always much preferred to travel by land, no matter what the consequences. This can be an awful nuisance when travelling overseas, as we have to drive along the ocean floor in a submarine, and we get seahorses and things all over the windscreen. Not that I have anything against seahorses, you understand. It’s just that I’ve never appreciated their obsession with remaining wet all the time, while their land cousins are happy to run about in a dry wind and risk breaking their legs and being put down, all in the interests of having fun. That’s what’s missing from today’s exotic sea-creatures, you know. No sense of fun. Just yesterday I performed an (admittedly unrehearsed) trampoline act for a group of them at my local aquarium, and not one of them could be bothered even to applaud.
Not that I do these things for recognition, you understand. No. I do them for money. I find that money is a much more liquid asset than recognition, and it comes in especially useful when you’re hungry. I prefer not to spend money. I consider that to be rather common and vulgar. Instead I have joined a local barter system, whereby we exchange assets such as cash or chequebooks for other assets such as food and clothes. For example, I might have a collection of one Euro coins, which I would “barter” for a couple of pints of milk. It works much better than simply buying things.
You know, there’s a lot to be said for the way things used to be done. In the old days, if you wanted to light a fire you didn’t have to go out and buy matches. Instead you simply got a couple of old matchsticks and rubbed them together until they started to burn. Then you used the resulting heat to power a small portable matchstick factory, producing, at it’s peak, a couple of hundred boxes of matches a day. Of course nowadays the politically correct anti-smoking lobby is at the throats of the small matchstick producer. Many of us have had to diversify and instead of making fire we now convert our matchsticks into crude drawings and hangman games and the like.
But that’s not the point. You are greatly mistaken if you think it is. Unless I’ve got this all wrong and you are right, in which case my humble apologies to you and to all of your family who must feel greatly humiliated. I really am most dreadfully awfully sorry for all of the pain and distress that I must have caused you. Anyway, two cats break into a matchstick factory. One of the cats smells bacon and immediately hides behind the cafeteria door, because if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s roasted pig.
The other cat notices a policeman nearby, who appears to be rather deviously roasting a pig on a spit, in order to scare into hiding any cats who might be trying to break in to the factory. This approach, which has been adopted by the police in recent years has of course got it’s advantages and disadvantages. On one paw it prevents cats from going ahead with such robberies. On the other, it scares them into hiding so there is no chance of them being caught red-handed, not least because they don’t have hands.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, the end.