Invasion of the Body Snatchers

At last, I am able to return to my website. Only to find that the grass is overgrown and the weeds have taken over. There is much to be done.

My poor old blog desperately needs a good spring clean. There are typos and grammatical errors to attend to and I have a whole heap of posts sitting in my ‘draft’ tray, waiting to be spruced up and despatched.

Why the long absence and dereliction of duty? Well, it’s all down to James Parkinson and his army of body snatchers (BS) who marched in suddenly, quite without warning and started running things their own way. Since I was caught completely unawares, my defences were down and the BS were able. for a limited period, to hold sway. In order to establish their superiority, they called in imps from the pit to add to my torments.

However, one of the things of which the BS had taken no account, was that I was trained to a very high standard in the art of death-defying escapes from Parkinson’s. I also had a whole regiment drawn from the pharmaceutical sector who were supplying me with hundreds and thousands of their very finest drugs:

Medicatioin

Medication, medication,

Instant buzz and cool sensation.

And if you will just look this way,

You’ll see the menu for today:

If there’s no ‘R’ in the month, you take ‘Abbalin’,

Next, if you’re tongue tied, you’ll be prescribed ‘Babbelin’,

Irksomely, ‘Cabbalin’ counteracts ‘Dabbalin’,

So if you need both, you’ll do better with ‘Gabalin’,

And then there’s the truth drug that’s labelled as ‘Jabberlin’,

For people addicted to board games there’s ‘Scrabbelin’.

All kinds of tablets of various hues,

Greens, reds and yellows and beautiful blues.

Dual coloured capsules – magenta and teal

Or pillar box red, paired with cool eau-de-nil.

There’s pills you pop out of small blister packs,

And bottles of tablets (I’ve got them in stacks).

Their screw tops are childproof, at least, that’s the plan,

Whilst I can’t get them open, my small grandson can.

With this vast cornucopia of drugs as my backing,

I’ve kicked out the invaders and sent them all packing.

So, it’s back to my blog!

Maggie Smart

Chapter Three

Joris Bonson awoke with a start and immediately jumped out of bed. Today was an extremely important day and he had to be on top form because he knew that he’d be under the constant scrutiny of his fellow members, not to mention any Remanian marauders. Before considering the business in hand, Bonson set himself his daily mental work-out. He had devised a long series of IQ tests, comprising complicated word games, complex mathematical problems and other challenging brain exercises. Sadly, these tests were of very little use in enhancing his brain performance because he either knew them all by heart or had them squirrelled away on crib-sheets. Today’s mathematical challenge was to count down in five eighths from one hundred. Easy-peasy! Having peeked at the test the night before, he had craftily written down the answers on his left arm and was thus able to reel the numbers off. He jubilantly awarded himself a score of 300, the highest IQ that ever there was. Whilst congratulating himself fulsomely, he paused for a brief moment to reflect with disdain upon the likely performance of his associates in such IQ tests.

“Contemptable rag-tags,” he muttered.

Just then, his bedroom door flew open and in rushed Grease Bog, in full-on Julius Caesar mode, muttering to himself in very bad Latin. “De omnibus dubitandum,” he roared. (Be suspicious of everything) Bonson, who despite his Etonian education and degree in Classics, remembered not one word of Latin, totally ignored this outburst and addressed Grease Bog in patronising tones.

“Now look sharp old fruit,” he said, “we’ve got a busy day ahead. It’s been one hundred and twenty days since we last attended to this damned Brexit. It’s time to contact those rogues from Brussels a further extension.”

This would be the two hundred and ninety third application for a Brexit extension, all bar four of them made by Bonson himself. The irony of this was that Bonson had once vowed that he would rather lie dead in a ditch than seek an extension to Brexit and Grease Bog lost no opportunity in reminding him of this. Joris Bonson however, was completely unperturbed.

The sorry truth was, that in the matter of Brexit, everyone’s memory had, to some extent, clouded over. Most had only sketchy recollections of the procedure and of what level of significance had once been attached to it. Some, with sharper brains, had clearer memories of Brexit and could accurately identify the exact stage of negotiations that had been arrived at. It was this sector who were prone to re-writing history and exaggerating hugely the importance of their own involvement in the process. Finally, there were the lost souls, many of whom could still be found in the rubble of Westminster Hall, perpetually crossing and re-crossing the floor, for whom the word Brexit was utterly meaningless.

In summary, Brexit was by some, remembered as the antidote devised by great minds, to eradicate the unholy pestilence which had blighted fair Albion, since the long-passed days of the initial dalliance between Great Britain and the former European Economic Community.

By others, Brexit was recalled as a poisoned chalice concocted by ignorant, unprincipled individuals to disperse hostility and loathing.

Alas for the onetime glorious European Union, that mighty axis of power, whose central offices comprised 60 buildings, sprawled across Brussels, with additional headquarters strategically located in Strasbourg and Luxembourg City.

Alas indeed for the EU, for over the years, its objects had been gradually redefined, its responsibilities segmented and its powers eroded, until finally, its representation had been condensed into a small call-centre in Mumbai.

To be continued...

Dental Disarray

Just as we thought that we had finished with the dentist for 6 months, Giles came home from school minus his brace.

"Where is it?" I raged.

"I don't know." was the reply.

"Well when did you last see it?"

"Just before I stuffed it down Gary's neck."

I was speechless.

All I could do was phone the dentist and make a booking to start all over again, as quickly as possible. Luckily, he was able to fit us in the following week, which was half term. It was only when I was entering this up in the diary, that I realised that half term was actually the week after next. This was a disaster because the school really frowned on dental appointments during school hours. A grovelling apology was required.

Dear Mr. Wood,

I must apologize most profusely,

For behaving quite obtusely,

I'm well aware of the golden rule,

Make dental appointments, after school.

Lamentably though, the utter profusion,

Of dates to remember, has led to confusion,

Three sons at different schools and hence,

The letters roll in, one knows not whence.

A sports day here, a speech day there.

An open day - but whose ? and where ?

And in the midst of this array,

A domestic arrangement goes astray,

An appointment made with half term in mind

Turned out to be a week behind.

And what with our dentist's great reputation

Securing a booking can cause great frustration.

So surely its worth the aftermath,

Of Mr Wood’s disdain and wrath?

In short, the tardiness of Smart,

Is accountable in equal part,

To: overbite-protrusion / matriarchal confusion.

Maggie Smart