2326. Here comes the bride

Karen’s mother and I have been estranged for about twenty years. Karen was only three when Samantha packed up and left. She wanted nothing to do with Karen. Now suddenly it’s all lights and bubbles.

Karen’s about to get married – this very day in fact – and as soon as an engagement was announced Samantha appeared out of the woodwork and began organizing things. Karen wanted a small quiet wedding; Samantha wanted it big. Karen wanted it in a little country church; Samantha wanted it in a sprawling garden. Karen wanted to wear something new and lovely that she could use as Sunday best after the wedding (we’re not particularly well-off); Samantha wanted a full-scale wedding gown. Karen thought little home-made cupcakes could be fun; Samantha wanted a three-tiered wedding cake. The list went on and on.

Of course Karen tried to be nice. She tried to steer convivially between her own wishes and the demands of her mother. Not particularly successfully I must admit. The wedding is today. It’s meant to be outside. It’s meant to be with an extravagant wedding gown. It’s meant to cater for at least two hundred people. The mother of the bride has a new hat. And a new dress. And a new handbag.

Anyway, I’m happy to say it looks like it’s raining. In fact it’s currently hosing down. And I’ve just got a text message from Karen and Gilbert. They got married yesterday in a registry office before leaving for their honeymoon.

2230. Bravo Valerie!

Valerie was in charge. She’d been in charge all her life; in charge of everything. Now she had been promoted (at last! at last!) to become the Director of the Diversity and Inclusion Task Force at the University’s Department of Human Evolutionary Biology. At last she could demand real science from the lecturers. None of this namby-pamby nonsense of there being only two sexes. If multiple sexes were good enough for mushrooms it was good enough for humans. Had not fungi and humans evolved together on the same planet? If one wakes in the morning and feels like a marsupial then one is a marsupial.

We must rid ourselves of white, middle class, male, deeply-entrenched European concepts of science. When did we last teach the profound science of the Yoyontze Tribe? They could tell the time of year from the singing of birds. The weather was forecast in the flowering of the sontigaga vine. Warfare between villages was necessary to prevent the gene pool from getting too restricted. The science went on and on. And on. Butterflies are to be admired, not dissected. Oh look! There’s one now!

Yes, Valerie was in charge. She had expelled from the university’s teaching staff all who could not follow the science. After all, that’s what the Diversity and Inclusion Task Force was for. There are even rumours that Valerie is going to be nominated by the President to be the Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases – once the current holder kicks the bucket.

Bravo Valerie!

902. Casual Clyde

Clyde was a patient man. In fact, some thought he was a little too laidback. Every week he took a ticket in the lottery; always a lucky dip with numbers chosen by the machine at random; always at the same outlet.

This past week, a bossy woman had pushed passed him in the line.

“We can’t stand around all day while you make up your mind about what numbers you want, you drip” she said to Clyde. “Give me a lucky dip.” She paid and departed.

“I’ll have a lucky dip too, please,” said Clyde. And… HE WON! HE WON!! HE WON!!! The pushy woman got nothing. She would’ve had that winning ticket if she hadn’t pushed in front.

The bossy woman found where Clyde lived and hounded him. “That money should be mine, you little squirt,” said the bossy woman to Clyde. She hounded him. Hounded him.

Clyde used some of his one hundred and twenty-five million to pay a man to have the bossy woman “put down”. It took a while, and had to be well planned. But, as was said earlier, Clyde was a patient man.

To listen to the story being read click HERE!

677. Thora’s questionnaire

Thora was the epitome of both meddlesomeness and overbearingness. She was therefore rather taken aback, when she died and arrived at Heaven’s Pearly Gates, to be made to wait in line. She jumped the queue little by little and ended up at the front quicker than Saint Peter had originally intended.

Thora was further aghast. No, she couldn’t go straight through. Would she mind sitting over at that side table there and filling out a questionnaire?

“Of course I would mind,” said Thora. “A questionnaire?”

“Do it!” said Saint Peter.

Question One: List five people on earth who should be the next to die. State why.

“An excellent question,” thought Thora. “There’s Ena Bisset; she had that affair with the mechanic last week when she was getting an oil change for her car. Then there’s Tania Schonberger; she drinks far far too much and hides her gin bottles under the bed. And there’s Sharon de Silva; she…”

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” called Thora to Saint Peter. “Why do I have to make this list? Haven’t you been watching what goes on down there?”

Thora stood. She strode over.

“Step aside,” she said to Saint Peter. “You’ve been at it two thousand years and need a break. Okay, hurry up you lazy people, we have to get rid of this queue.”

Thora pushed some people through and rejected others. She worked tirelessly all day. She was in her element. Not once did she have to consult the notes Saint Peter had left. She knew everyone’s business by heart.

So if you happen to have the opportunity in the not-too-distant future of “passing through”, don’t be surprised to see Thora in charge.