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.
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!”
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).
(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?”
Old Granny Brown figured a way to make a little money. She had always loved her goats. She had three nanny goats. She used them for milk and would make cheese.
Now that her husband had passed away, she could ill-afford to keep them; until she came up with her wonderful idea: she would sell the milk! She placed a sign at her gate: FRESH GOAT’S MILK! The milk was very popular, so much so, that Granny Brown wondered if she shouldn’t get another goat. She decided against it. Selling goat’s milk at the gate was so she could keep the three goats she already had and loved. There was no need to be greedy.
In the meantime, the Right Honourable Mr Stanislaus McCready, Member of Parliament for West Shaffton, introduced a bill into Parliament. We really must stop this unhealthy sale of goat’s milk on the road side. The milk has not been treated. Goodness knows what diseases are been passed on to the general population. The selling of goat’s milk at gates became illegal.
Granny Brown had to stop her sales. She could no longer afford to keep her beloved goats. In the new year, the Right Honourable Mr Stanislaus McCready, Member of Parliament for West Shaffton, was given the country’s highest award. He was now a Member of the Imperial Empire’s Brigade (MIEB) for services to the health of the nation. He had served the nation with his altruistic actions.
Not long after, the Right Honourable Mr Stanislaus McCready, Member of Parliament for West Shaffton, announced his retirement from politics. He owned a large goat farm and cheese-making factory, he said, and wished to put all his energies into developing that.