Regan was a school teacher. She taught “the littlies”! It was Christmas Eve.
Little Johnny brought his teacher some flowers. “Happy Christmas, Miss,” said Little Johnny.
“How dare you, you brain-washed son of bigots. If I was a male you wouldn’t give me flowers. You’re giving me flowers because I’m a woman, and that’s sexist. I won’t accept your dumb flowers, and besides I don’t celebrate Christmas. I thought I’d taught you to ignore all this silly superstitious stuff and live in reality. Dismissed!”
Regan was clearly in a bad mood. She and her sister, Goneril, were to go to a ball that very evening. The Handsome Prince was insisting that their other sister, Cinderella, was to come too.
I cannot love the sky
until I know the scientific names for all the clouds.
Look! how dramatic is Cumulonimbus!
I cannot love the garden
until I know the scientific names for all the flowers.
Oh! such lovely Lobularia maritima!
I cannot love the song
until I know the scientific names for all the birds.
Hark! to the rapture of that Turdus philomelos!
I cannot love reflections in the water
until I’ve checked for giardia,
those anaerobic flagellated protozoan parasites of the phylum Sarcomastigophora.
I cannot love you
until I have dissected your opinions
tested your resolve
verified your good faith
and checked that you don’t have a Daucus carota stuffed up your Sphincter ani externus
like some overcharged know-all who
I like wild bramble roses the best. I’m not sure why. It’s certainly not because of the prickles! I think it’s their simplicity. And also the joy of “suddenly coming across them” in all their profusion!
I don’t want no flowers. I don’t want no cards. No funeral, just a cremation and no one’s to come. Nothing. I’d like everyone to know that I hated them as much as they hated me. Burn all my stuff. No free handouts for my greedy relatives.
P.S. Guess what Diamonique? The family are having one hell of a party.
Terry and Heather had an “old-fashion” marriage arrangement. Terry worked on the farm, and Heather worked in and around the house. The children had grown up and left, and apart from visits from family and friends, they led a fairly ordered and predictable life.
Terry would help with the dishes every evening after the meal, and Heather would help with the hay-making when the season came. But the truth was that if anything happened to Terry, Heather wouldn’t have much of a clue as to what to do on the farm; and if anything happened to Heather, Terry’s culinary expertise amounted to reheating a pre-cooked dinner in the microwave.
Then Heather got sick and had to go to the hospital for a week. A friend brought some lovely flowers before Heather went away.
“I’m going to leave these flowers on the dining table for you to enjoy while I’m gone,” said Heather to Terry. And she did. And she went.
For the first couple of days Terry dutifully watered the flowers in the vase. Then he noticed that one of the flowers was going a bit floppy.
“They have to last until Heather gets back,” thought Terry, and he put the vase of flowers in the fridge. That way they would stay fresh for longer. He knew that from the cool store he had in his shed for some cattle drench.
The week passed. Heather returned. Terry placed the flowers back on the table.
“Look at the flowers!” said Heather. “They’re still fresh and lovely. I hope you enjoyed them.”
“I looked at them every day,” said Terry.
He was rather pleased with his house-keeping skills.