And here in heaven at the Eternal Banquet there’s strawberries and cream. I’m not fond of strawberries, I once said. Everyone was shocked. They like strawberries. Just eat the whipped cream, says one, rather than insult the Cook. You’d think with all the resources up here and stuff like that they could provide more variety. But no! When Adam and Eve arrived they said everyone would want strawberries and cream. Certainly nothing with apples. Strawberries three times a day. Full stop. Period. Permanently. Then Queen Elizabeth the First of England (she’s got really fat – I mean really really fat) says that if I want variety I should go to the other place. Hell, I say, what do they eat down there? Raw quince and crab apples. All day and every day with no whipped cream. They’re all skinny as rakes. For a special occasion they get an uncooked cooking apple. Well, I say, it sounds like that other place sucks. So I get stuck into my strawberries and cream. I’ve been here two hundred and eleven years now and have never got used to the diet. Once in a blue moon, for a special occasion, we have a big feast; like the other day when Abraham and Sarah celebrated their four thousandth year since getting pregnant. We all got a dry pink wafer cookie stuck in the strawberry concoction. Honestly, I crave a hotdog. I wouldn’t mind if it came poked into the whipped cream. The other day some visitors popped over from the Conservative Sector for a social visit. They took one look and said, Bloody hell! Is that all you eat? You need to sack the Cook. So we’re having a meeting about it, all fifteen billion of us. The angel in charge said a decision has to have a 100% consensus before any changes can be made around here. That’s impossible, especially with some of the politicians in our Sector. I’m not putting much hope on our chances of firing the Cook. Besides, God loves to personally prepare the strawberries for us Liberals. It’s the reward we get for being always right. Bon appétit. To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.
Norbert Burtonshaw was heavily into natural food. By “natural” I mean organic and unprocessed. He liked to grow things himself and then he knew for sure what he was putting into his mouth. He grew lots of sunflowers and pumpkins. That way he could dry the seeds in the sun and spend a gloomy winter gobbling them up. If one needs to nibble between meals, what better than a sunflower or pumpkin seed or two?
His wife, whose full name was Constantia Margaret Burtonshaw, thought that Norbert’s obsession with food was ridiculous. “You’re not a canary,” she would say. “If God intended you to be a canary he would’ve given you a singing voice.” And indeed, she was right; Norbert didn’t have a musical note in his skinny body.
In the meantime, Constantia Margaret Burtonshaw would get stuck into her meal of animal fats and salt and sugar and everything under the sun that was processed and came out of a packet. Constantia called herself buxom; others called her fat.
Constantia and Norbert had drifted apart over the years, although they still lived at the same address. They never shared a meal together; their preferences were so vastly different. And then one day, Norbert dropped dead. Most people were expecting it to be the other way around.
At the post-funeral cup of coffee, Constantia Margaret Burtonshaw served a variety of little cakes imbued with all sorts of seeds that made a mess. “These little cakes are to celebrate the life of my late husband,” said Constantia. “However,” continued Constantia, “there are little bowls of whipped cream on the tables, and one can place a dollop of cream on each little cake if one isn’t a canary.”
Simon hated school, and today was his last day at secondary school. Next week he would start his first job at the Industrial Park with an apprenticeship.
On the last day of school, the principal held an assembly. This was to call each leaving student individually to the stage in front of the whole school. He would shake their hand and wish them well. Simon was ready. He hated the principal.
Simon had a cream pie. He didn’t even try to hide it. It wasn’t a proper pie. It was simply whipped cream from a can sprayed into a silver foil dish.
The principal shook Simon’s hand. Simon turned to the audience and shouted, “This school sucks and you can all get stuffed.” He then pushed the cream pie into the principal’s face and left the stage (and the building).
Needless to say, Simon’s future at the school was no longer guaranteed!
That afternoon he got a letter from the workshop where he was to begin his apprenticeship: We seem to be missing a document. Would you mind supplying a written reference from your school?