Tag Archives: health

1866. The final meal

Troy Meadowcroft had waited on death row for what seemed like an eternity. He was due to be put down (in a merciful and humane way) any day now. The newspapers were full of it. The guests to witness his electrocution had been invited and were currently selecting what to wear before heading in that direction, looking at last to be able to avenge their loved ones murder.

One of the more interesting features reported on was the prisoner’s final meal. One could order (within reason) what one wished. Troy had never liked complicated food. He requested simply pork sausages and French fries with splashes of malt vinegar and salt.

Letter One: I was amazed at the reported menu of Troy Meadowcroft prior to his execution. You would think humanity would have dragged itself out of the swamp by now. Pork sausages and French fries! How irresponsible is that for the prison to allow (in fact espouse) such unhealthy food? Are there no principles left when the prison authorities care not a hoot about prisoners’ health? And all that salt! Goodness me!

Letter Two: My religion forbids the imbibing of hog meat. I was horrified at the casual attitude taken by giving the prisoner pork sausages, as if such things didn’t matter. It was nothing short of scandalous. It was an affront to all sincere believers. And to feed a prisoner pig meat when so close to death is an instant invitation to the fires of Hell. I was deeply offended.

Letter Three: I couldn’t help but think that the man called Troy Meadowcroft who was put down recently had a touch of class. No one these days thinks of putting malt vinegar on their pork sausages. It is delicious, and something we used to do frequently when we were younger. Three cheers to the prisoner, and I would wish him a long and fruitful existence of enjoying life’s simple things if that was still possible.

Letter Four: Quite frankly I hope the prisoner choked on his pork sausage. The combination of foods looked disgusting – especially the salt and malt vinegar. I’m normally against the death penalty but in this case I’ll make an exception. The world is certainly better off without him and probably safer. People these days, especially those with money, have no sense of taste. Like my auntie.

Letter Five: What a waste of good food. People don’t seem to realize that people are starving and all we hear about is how a prisoner about to expire anyway is fed pork sausages and French fries. If only they had electrocuted the man a few minutes earlier, and then all that lovely food could have been shared by people in need. Waste not, want not.

Letter Six: Electrocution and lethal injection for condemned prisoners is nothing short of the authorities taking the easy way out. In the old days when we lined people up against a wall to get shot I would imagine you could see the terror in their eyes. They were paying properly for their crime. Regarding the final meal; wouldn’t it have been funny if instead of pork sausages they had stuffed cotton wool inside the sausage skins? Then the man would start to hoe into his final meal and it would all be fake. And use garden fertilizer instead of salt. And French fries made out of chicken poo or something hilarious like that. Stuff like that. You know.

Editor: This correspondence is now closed.

1843. Hearty food

Dean’s doctor told him to start eating healthy. He searched online for healthy foods. There were links to different foods that said “Eat these for a healthy heart”. Dean clicked on them, link after link. It took a good half an hour to download all the pages each with a different healthy food.

The following, in this order, were good for the heart:

Oranges, kale, garlic, red wine, chocolate, sardines, lentils, almonds, pomegranates, blueberries, beets, salmon, turmeric, chia seeds, apples, avocados, eggplant, broccoli, carrots, chicken, chickpeas, coffee, cranberries, figs, flax seeds, red hot chilli peppers, ginger, grapefruit, green tea, kidney beans, kiwi fruit, mackerel, cashew nuts, oatmeal, pears…

Dean tried them all, one after the other, and it made no difference. He was still hungry. Health food doesn’t fill you up.

He finished off with a big slice of cream sponge cake and at last was satisfied.

1481. Late Uncle Vegetarian Dumpling

Brandon Branson was living proof that eating healthily wasn’t necessarily the healthy thing to do. In fact he wasn’t living proof at all. He was dead as a doornail.

Brandon had eaten healthy food since his teenage years. He’d meticulously read the list of ingredients on the back of every food package. He’d carefully counted the calorie intake daily. And then WHAM BANG! He dropped dead instantaneously at the kitchen bench while dicing a raw carrot.

This is proof, declared his niece Sonja who owned a confectionary operative, that healthy eating is a marketing ploy by the companies that monopolize the food industry. You can see why us nieces and nephews referred to him as Uncle Vegetarian Dumpling.

It goes to show, said Raewyn the President of the Big-boned Ladies Collective, that being skinny has few advantages. Brandon may have eaten healthy food but without a doubt he was never happy.

His death pulls the mat out from under the burnt-out trendy lefties who think we should all live miserable lives, said Norm Gladworthy the founder of the Fat Earth Society. I’m rather glad he died. It shows the falsehood perpetuated by head-in-the-sand trendy trendies and all those who belong to the Green Party. He exercised every day as well I’m told, and look at him now. There’s not a movement in his cold corpse. A fat lot of use it was living all that apparent fine fettle fiasco.

Dorothy McKenzie was a lone voice supporting Brandon Branson’s healthy lifestyle. He may be dead, she said, but surely he led a happy and productive life throughout his ninety-seven years.

1425. Research

Mrs Maisie Gilliver was a wonder. She was addicted to genealogy; not just hers, but everyone else’s as well. She had discovered that the more information she uploaded onto genealogical sites, the more free research time was allotted to her. She searched the internet and copied other’s family trees at will and then placed the information on other genealogical sites.

Mrs Maisie Gilliver was marvellously flexible, for example, Great Aunt Sylvia kept on having babies for a good decade after her death; three siblings were born within four months of one another; Uncle Harold played the church organ every Sunday for eleven years without missing a Sunday and in between Sundays he traversed the world in his sailing ship.

Mrs Maisie Gilliver thought she was being helpful. In fact, she completely stuffed up the chances of other researches finding useful and accurate information on the internet. It had been junked out.

Mrs Maisie Gilliver’s next project is to upload recipes…

And hints to stay healthy…

And history…

And science…

And…

1344. The Grim Reaper

Ramona and Wynton Clifford had a rather nice house with a rather long driveway. Ramona’s sister and husband, Fiona and Michael Croft, were staying for a few days. One early evening, suddenly, Ramona called out. “Quick! Everyone! Look out the window!” They gathered around Ramona.

Walking up the driveway towards the house was the Grim Reaper; complete with a skull face and scythe.

“It doesn’t look like a fancy dress,” said Fiona.

“It’s not,” said Wynton.

“It’s the real thing,” said Michael.

“Who’s it coming to get?” said Ramona. “Which one of us four?”

All four were healthy and fit; not a doctor’s prescribed pill needed be taken between them.

The Grim Reaper came closer up the driveway.

“I’m feeling fine,” said Michael.

“Me too,” said Wynton.

“It’s clear he’s coming to get one of us,” said Ramona.

The Grim Reaper neared the front entrance, pausing briefly to peer through the window.

“Oh God!” shrieked Fiona. “Who? Who?”

There was a knock at the door.

1336. A puff of smoke

Cedric lit a cigarette. It was his ninety-seventh birthday. He’d smoked a packet of cigarettes every day since his fourteenth birthday when his father had given him a packet of cigarettes.

“You should give up smoking,” Cedric’s doctor had said. “You’ll get cancer and heart disease. It will rot your teeth and give you all sorts of ill things. You’ll die earlier than you should.”

Well, today was important day – apart from being his ninety-seventh birthday. Cedric was dressed up to attend a funeral. His doctor had died suddenly, aged fifty-three.

1178. Healthy die-t

Renaldo’s mother was obsessed with tips about health that she gleaned from the internet. The things that poor Renaldo had to eat and do! The simplest piece of dietary advice was the old adage, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Anyway, Renaldo choked on a bit of apple and there wasn’t time to call the doctor.

1047. The secret to longevity

When Hilda Woolley turned 106 what a fuss was made. She donned a brand new pink frock with a blue jacket. She looked a picture!

She was the only person in town ever to have reached 106. What a record! What an achievement! Of course, the local paper had to get in on the act.

“What is the secret to longevity?” they inevitably asked.

“The secret is not widely known,” said Hilda Woolley. “You don’t want to believe what all these health fanatics say. Three eggs a day, a good bottle of wine, and lots of butter. If you like butter then spread it by the pound. The danger is to limit yourself. You have to devour these things every day so that the body learns to use the nutrients to its advantage. To have a bit here and a bit there, and not in a regular fashion, is what the health experts are on about. Three eggs, a bottle of wine, and butter, butter, butter, every day.”

“That’s fascinating,” said the reporter.

“That should kill a few of them oldies off,” thought Hilda Woolley. “All these old people trying to beat my record of 106!”

1038. In raptures

Maxwell was in raptures! He’d recently arrived in the village for his new work appointment. He was to live there. He couldn’t believe his luck! He couldn’t believe what he saw!

There were crowds of young people; vibrant, cheerful, fully alive. He never saw one sick person. Perhaps it was the mountain air, perhaps it was something in the water. Everyone was fit and healthy. Everyone was so energetic and creative!

What an animated, pulsating community he’d been sent to! His new job was going to be a breeze: overseeing the implementation of the new government regulation to euthanize old and sick and mad people who couldn’t pay their own way.

(Note: this little piece of fiction was inspired by an article I read HERE).

971. Funeral time

971funeral

(Dear Everyone, I have decided to finish this blog at story 1001, which will be on the 7th of July. Initially there were to be 555 stories – for no reason the number of sonatas composed by Dominico Scarlatti. Then I extended it to 1001 – the number of nights in the Arabian Nights. Then I extended it to 1066 – a number of significance to those who follow William the Conqueror. I’m not going to do the 1066 bit, and all that, but am going to stick to the 1001 stories. There are still 7 left to write!

The last monthly poem will appear on the 1st of July.

As for the weekly pieces of music: I had finished composing the weekly music up until mid September. So as not to waste them, from now until the 7th of July I shall post music two or three times a week, including the usual Wednesday.

The reason(s) for all this is that I’m tired. I have to move house on December 12th and haven’t found anywhere to go yet. This will be the 13th time to have moved in 16 years. I also have other things to do in life! and other things to perhaps write. The blog material will eventually be shifted over to my website at Stagebarn – where reside my novel, some short stories, an autobiography, and my plays and musicals.

Anyway – I’ve got to sort things out now. Here’s today’s story!)

Let’s face it; Giuseppe didn’t want to go to the funeral. His wife, Maree, said, “So why go?” But Giuseppe felt duty bound. Some sort of ex-colleague from Giuseppe’s pre-retirement days had passed on. Giuseppe wasn’t feeling too well himself, and wasn’t feeling too eager to have to sit for an hour or so in a cold church.

“With your poor health I wish you wouldn’t go,” said Maree. “It’ll be the death of you.” But Giuseppe insisted.

The funeral was at ten in the morning. Giuseppe arrived a good ten minutes early. There wasn’t a vehicle, a mourner, or a coffin in sight. He waited a while and then went back home. He checked the newspaper. Yes, definitely at ten o’clock, and at that venue. What a mystery.

The next day Giuseppe noticed something…

“Why,” he asked Maree, “is every clock in the house two hours slow?”