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peter.howden Posted Today, 11:04am
  More news from the village of Dreimire

The reputed author, learnt to scribble before learning to read, which became confusing because he could not cypher anything he accidently wrote. Now remember; what is seen in these said scribbles, not for the intellectually minded, only in the imagination of the reader of words….

Dreimire, as with all growing metropolises, there is a portion of dog fouling, mainly in the park, that proudly takes the name of the founder of Dreimire, Sir MacMount,

It is obvious this cannot be allowed to continue, for as well other dog fouling occasionally laid in the village lanes, this had been solved, not indeed to be swept under the carpet, as some other skulduggery regions do. When an offensive toley was discovered, operation ‘Cinderella was put into practice’. The dislocated dog toley was placed on a red cushion, scrutinized and measured, then frozen. Every dog from every knock and cranny in the district, physically checked for fit. Whines, moaning… and again bulging eyes, where present when the discipline was taking place.

No bum was left unturned, no hurdies to low. Once ownership was established, by process of elimination, an appropriate fine was made to pay, together with a severe handling charge imposed, also, the price of a new pair of gloves. The humiliation did the rest…illegal dog pooing was wiped out, in a single chilled stroke

Also, within the famous park, Sir MacMount, a competitive, activity between dogs and their owners, some may even see it as sport. Dogs crouching down, in deep concentration, waiting for their balls to be flung. all dogs are busy chasing bouncers from one corner to the next

The dilemma is, some enthusiastic mutts are tripping up other dogs, just to get their balls, long after the fetch whistle has been blown. They seem bent not to understanding the offside rule. One owner chucked a Chihuahua’s (nicknamed Techichis) in an effort to foul the other owner. Several dog lovers believe the reason why Chihuahuas have bulging eyes, is this very fear of being tossed onto the pitch, while kilts are dangerously swaying above, revealing all… in such a limited space.

After diligent research, this is not the case. They were used as ceremonial sacrifices by the Aztecs and the Toltec’s. Now, if you were the smallest dog in the world, and a dirty great Teuchter came up to you for such a ceremony, then your eyes would bulge as well.

It is rumoured, the first rugby teams formed in Dreimire village, the packs decided to practice unseen in the scrum, not with the oval ball, but with Chihuahuas…much more cuddly
peter.howden Posted 18th Sep 2019, 08:40am
  More news from the village of Dreimire

Welcome…welcome…welcome to our quaint village, where the residents of “Dreimire” certainly don’t have their heads in the sand, realizing the practice of the oldest profession in the world, takes place in the red light district, specially selected to be as discreet as possible, even with the protests of the minister, who unfortunately has a lisp.

What causes real excitement, is the clone life-size drawing of ‘Dolly the sheep’, tied up, outside the village mobile sex shop, every second night. with a notice secured in an obvious place, of the dangers of whiplash for passing motorists

Health and safety is always paramount, when choosing a blow up wellies for such a dancing occasion. Blow or suck to scale your own size, complete with tempting and tantalizing flavours hiding the taste of Dettol. It certainly makes the eyes water, while the ‘Military two step’, is performed by the gay Gordens trio, all privates, no dashing sergeants.

Dolly is certainly not the original call sheep, as there has been a few Shelia’s before… and a Morag if memory serves me well, though after the high jinks of a Friday night, complete with fish and chips, plus a bottle of Vimto… then anything can happen,

The lure of the night when hot blooded young men, and women, seeking more enticing things to satisfy their particular needs. Some young mistresses have to accidentally pass a dozen or more times, before setting upon more experience of this and that…whatever this and that is? … more news in the next edition .
peter.howden Posted 17th Sep 2019, 06:03am

The modern way in communication, via the computer’s reality of the internet, can mystify, and worry the older members of this crazy wonderful life. Yet, olden ways of contact can still disturb even the clearest and honest minds. The dreams of our ancestors carry messages bearing adventures of your soul (guise in different titles), equally essential as life itself,

Last night was one heck of a night for the collection of mysterious dreams rambling through my sleep, transporting my semi consciousness into the wonderland of dreams of the sea’s booming waves, animating their own stories of roving seahorses throughout the globe, landing on a distant shore…then way beyond.

Somewhere I sensed the belief in an imaginary friend, always there for me, but sadly shocked to discover my imaginary friend, has an imaginary friend he prefers to me. How can I compete? not to converse with him, whatsoever his name was

Strangely in the distance, I could see individual minute dung beetles, as if they were just underneath my feet, coming closer and closer, larger and larger, until one huge monster was above me. This fertiliser beast began to roll me in a ball of muck

Whisked forward into an emotionless structure, as an overzealous tattered prophet, dispersing his pious news, indulging in homemade text and phrases, how you are what you earn, reap what you sew… some two eons late.

Now wakened, how may I analyse the intricate jigsaw communication from the twilight zone, a sort of reverse in father Ted’s explanation to Dougal, what near and far away, meant !

For so many years my diary was dictated by other organizations agendas…now I’m free to impose my own agenda, with minor interference from anyone…. I’m still manure at organizing myself ….
peter.howden Posted 12th Sep 2019, 05:55pm
  The Journey

Jim stepped down from the train, immediately knowing where he was. “I’m dam sure this was not my original destination when I boarded the carriage, but I definitely know this place!” he thought inwardly. The guardsman hollered; “We’ll stop here for exactly two hours, repairing vital parts of the locomotive, don’t wander too far, but don’t worry folks, you will arrive at your unique destination, mandatory on your own personal ticket!”

It was at this instance or there about, Jim realized they had stopped at the township he grew up in. Jim appeared to walk aimlessly, for his feet seemingly had taken on an agenda of their own, leading him to an old run-down shop. This establishment had been his family’s business, almost as old as the township itself, seen the store in its prime and glory, but now about to collapse.

He left the tiny enterprise during the depression, while his parents were in dire need of unpaid help, but he needed to “Get away” and make his mark. He might have stayed on, yet the lore of bright lights, dictated his departure. His father suffered a stroke shortly afterwards, his mother never recovered from the gruesome toil to make ends meet. They are both gone now…Jim can’t remember being at their funerals. Sad, how things do change without warning, especially when there is a wanting not to see.

A stroll left him standing outside the church, used for all religions and ceremonies within the tiny community. The past intensely crept back into his mind, of his girl, Jane to be precise. The result of a unbridled fancy, a seed of life, formed with embraced love, the need to marry, to keep his beloved’s reputation being torn by the biases straight laced core in the small town…. he promised a hasty elopement. Not only did he take cold feet at the last possible moment, but swiftly vanished without trace. Not a word, as Jane waited at the hall door; causing her to face constant disapproval from the righteous bible brigade,

Jim swore he could hear the organist playing, rather badly, but with gusto and heart. He was almost sure catching a glimpse of his old love, but gnaw, it could not be. “I wonder what happened to her and my child”, Jim mutely moaned to himself. She was forced out of town, as the gossip’s glances were never of the kindly type.

Somehow, as if by magic, or some mysterious force, he was standing in front of the bank. It had managed to keep its business, struggling against two possible runs on the bank, common for that period of time. One thing, above all else, kept it going was it belonged to the people, and the community trusted everyone, for they were all in the same boat. Times were desperately hard, and the silver dollar was but a dream, and Jim had so many dreams.

This was the very reason he chose to scarper… however, I would not suppose the town would have given this act two thoughts, had he not taken $4,000 of their money. He persuaded himself having to get out of such a dreary place and make good of himself. The trouble was; he never did.

Perhaps nostalgia or time had placed soft sparling coating over his eyes, for the township looked warm to his mind….and after all, it was where he grew up… becoming the man he is.

A call out from the train’s guard, to hastily boarding the Pullman, then the train shot off like a bullet out of a gun. As it clattered along, the faceless ticket collector was high above him, as Jim slunk on the couch of the carriage, wondering if he had been fantasizing, as he could not remember where his journey started, or if he been sleeping all the way. . He was just about to inform the guard of his destination, when his ticket was punched, handed back without a word being spoken.

Jim glanced at his ticket, frowned with distrust at the words printed boldly; “a one-way ticket to Hell”
peter.howden Posted 11th Sep 2019, 10:41am
  Anecdotes from the auld Steamie

Turkish Twa;

In such neighbourhood’s picture houses, they did enjoy a good Wild West movie, to escape the reality of greyness’ in the late forties, fifties, early sixties, and let’s face it, who wouldn’t? Most kids wanted to be the good guys, wear the ever-white hat, except for Hoppalong Cassidy, never seemed to fall off their trusty steed. If they did, it was right back on with the next clip, racing towards a nail-biting dual. Out of all the he-men actors, the best would be, without doubt; THEE COWBOY… JOHN WAYNE

Apparently, the English populace believe we Scots, all suffered from Big John syndrome. compensating for the tiny ‘Mc/Mac’, especially with reputations of… ‘Wee hard men’.

For the mighty District Council, a period of Ben’s life was working as a Turkish attendant, in such an establishment already with two regular men working split shifts within its rooms. The first of these was Bob, chubby easy-going guy, who was rather tight when money was concerned. Being taken out, by stretcher, to an awaiting ambulance, after a heart attack, he asked Ben to collect his tip and bring it to the hospital.

His mate Gus, a huge man, hands like shovels, built like the side of a house. Being of John Wayne stature, he was the baths answer an ultimate weapon, only to be let lose when all else failed, and then you just closed your eyes and prayed. Woe betide any customer who dared to question anything to do with the service he was supposed to give.

Gus saw it in a different light, it was a service he deemed fit they should have. He exercised quite a phobia about the Turkish baths, how it may be a magnet for loathed gay guys. If he thought someone was, then that was the man labelled… dealt with retribution.

Big Gus, as his label was, had a moral code, a kindness of surprising quality. Once when a regular punter unknowingly lost his wallet in Bob’s shift. Gus found it as he finished his shift, knowing to whom it belonged, he decided to keep it, rather than handing it in, which the strict regulations demanded. Gus drove twenty miles out of his way to return it safely to its correct owner, simply because he was an old man, and the big fella liked him. Not for any reward but just for what he felt was right.

Joe the gaffer(supervisor) came in one late afternoon, telling how six of the local hoodlums had been causing a catalogue of problems while abusing the swimming baths area, and they had refused to pay. Now shouting obscenities, they were in the changing cubicles, right next to the Turkish door to the pool, which had swing doors something like the ones you always see in the cowboy movies in saloon scenes. Wearing just a small towel to hide his modesty, Gus stormed out straight to the poolside, physically clutched the first bloke, growled the question, “have you paid”. Before the guy had a chance to answer, Gus squarely punched him right in the face. Quickly moving to the second box, Gus asked the same question and again he left no pause for an answer, and again the guy received the same type of blow… if not harder.

By this time, the rest of the wild bunch grasped something was going on. the third supposed hard man, decided that a quick exit was in call, clinging to his hurriedly collected cloths, was about to dash for it as he opened up that swing door. Gus never asked him anything, just swung straight at the now scared bloke, forcing him to land straight back inside on the small ledge they used as a seat. Joe had been wrong for they had been seven of them and they were now behaving, well below the par of the Magnificent Seven.

The remaining four were beating a hasty retreat down the long passageway leading to the main door. They were in various states of attire, but all were in desperate haste, dropping some garb in the process, and leaving it, as they raced in a gallop for the horizon. Gus did not take the time to ask if they were the troublemakers, so there could have been another eventful outcome but “Hell No Pilgrim” as big John may have said.

Gus had more in common with the man who bore the names, Marion Michael Morrison, showing a persona to be feared, especially one Friday night on September weekend. Ben, acting shop steward, had just left four gaffers, two area managers and a district superintendent, informed how the staff were not allowed to work at treble time, No sooner had these words left Ben’s lips, Gus jumped into action, again with only a small work’s towel covering him, marched into the office where they all were, slam the heavy door. Some thirty seconds later…he returned to the hot rooms, declaring how Ben and him, were working at treble time that weekend…. but he couldn’t since he had other plans.

I am not trying to glorify the man, just to point out his uncontrollable manner, and how mainly other people saw him, but Ben would tell everyone, as far as confidence with other people’s money and possessions goes, then there is no second thought… for Gus was one of the few people who was trustworthy
peter.howden Posted 10th Sep 2019, 03:29pm
  A Fleeting tale

Yesterday comes again…masquerading as today

“Hi Joe, its dreich outside, how are things?”

“Haud yer wheesht wee man, it’s stoatin oot there, and ma heid’s mince”, came Joe’s brittle response, followed in a more serious mood, “Mobbed and Hoachin wae competition for slim pickings in here, gaun haufers, though we canna be too fussy, not like the auld days. Some headbanging clype swore its more hygienic now, or back in yon time, it was mingin. Their wrang… a gallus auld bird telt me, a bit of dirt didn’t hurt anyone, keeps the balance in the wee hormones. Gabbing about hormone’s, in the old days it was easier to get the birds, not politically today, noo it’s… the female of the species.

“Joe…every so often I don’t know what you are trying to convey, your dialect is so harsh to grasp”, says an exasperated Billy

“Jist haud yer wheesht Billy, shut yer geggy, fur yer up to high doh wae jorries in yer mooth… yer bum’s oot the windae…All I’m telling yersel is, young yin’s dinna ken their well aff… easy-peasy, tons in the grub department, everything in plastic cartons, tossed willy nilly all ower the joint…naw compulsion to pick up the crap, pap the lot in the bin. The pure dead brilliant times are done…thin pickings from now on, making it harder the older we get.

You’ll ken I’m noo hen pecked, but I don’t want to ruffle my missus feathers back at the howff. The wee woman is a bit cranky…thought she caught Cocci, but lucky it wisnna. Yer a wee bit peely-wally yersel Billy?” inquired Joe

Worriedly Billy informed Joe, “ Woke up this morning, in some weird place, with somebody forcing some kind of liquid down my gullet…then they disappeared left me woozy and sore, not myself…I had to use all of my inbuilt senses, through this terrible driech morning, to find my way to the station”, replied Billy

Joe checked to see what was happening around them, retorted slightly seriously, “ aye, me as well… left the cronies on my way hame, took a rest, put my feet down…wham…next thing I’m on the ground,, dizzy- lizzie disorientated, and bloody sore… left with ma feet killing me, naw pirlie-winkies ….hell of a hard using ‘Shank’s Pony’…anyway mustn’t moan…still alive… Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye!”…sound as the pound…right?”

Last week, while sipping coffee within a crowded Central station, this was my imaginary conversation between twa pigeons, wobbling around underfoot of the tables, pecking here, there and everywhere. One had no feet, just burnt crisp blobs where once there was. The other was a limping scabby bird hopping, totally unable to use its wings.[/size][size="3"]
peter.howden Posted 4th Sep 2019, 03:33pm
  JIM stepped down from the train ®

Jim stepped down from the train, took a few steps before noticing something was not quite right, oddly feeling out of step there, wherever there was, though he could not put his finger on what? Every now and then he glanced around these peculiar surroundings, spotting people, apparently carrying their own private business, luggage and boxes hauled in all directions, similar almost any other busy railway connection, or terminal, but to some strange degree, it was not true,

Jim had been travelling for such a long trip, his dapper trouser creasing had gone haywire. Brushing himself down, as if to loosen imaginary cobwebs, tilting his trilby hat…that’s when it struck him. They were all wearing identical cloth caps. Not the kind you find in the Black Country, or strolling down Tweedale Street, Rochdale, of a morning, but a cap the exact same on every one’s head. A sort of bluish faded colour for both male and female, as far as Jim could see. It was only then Jim also noticed the blinding obvious, they were all dressed consistently in the same kind of material.

It was a busy station, supporting loads of goods waggons, while individuals doing various jobs as fast as time would allow, but where was the usual hustling and bustling clatter. Missing? he also noticed there was no conversation either, between anyone. Jim did not know what to make of it, taking another gingerly step forward, all his instincts told him to be careful.

Taking out his bashed packet of cigarettes from his pocket, carefully lit one with no difficulty. As usual, while in an open aired public place, his helping hand acted as a windbreaker…but there was no wind or even a pathetic draft. From nowhere and without a word spoken, this person appeared in front of him, whisking the smouldering cigarette out of Jim’s mouth, stood on it, then, without one single utter of explanation, disappeared into the throng of the crowd.

He looked around, yet could not see where the individual had gone, except into the mass, where he did realize nobody was smoking, either a fag, or pipe, or even chewing. Every one’s appearance was the one in front, or behind, or ether side, in fact they looked all the same, as if clad in duplication from one frame... So much so, it was hard to separate the sexes. The absence of the bustle day to day clanking of a railway depot, came to Jim’s attention.

Yet Again, with a more detail gaze on his location, Jim focused on apparent workers acutely performing detailed duties, with jerky and deliberate clockwork precision. Bodies walked, back and forth in defined motion, rather than individual flows or ordinary activities. Another glance, plainly revealed mindless gazed expressions, frightening identical in each being.

There was something really disturbing about the whole scene. Jim started to be aware that terror was close to his thoughts, while he struggled to make sense or reason of the whole matter. A gigantic screen flashed a message above the multitude. Reading the missives growing horror, the following words were, “In the year four score and ten of Utopia, we, the governing body of human happiness, will announce new rulings to improve the wellbeing for all “. Jim froze; “Where the heck am I…but bloody more important, where have I been?”, holding a comforting grip on his chic trouser braces. Strange what you do while in shock.

His racing thoughts were instantly drawn on past discussions with acute scholars of life. ‘Utopia. had always been in serious conversation throughout any history, against politicians swearing their lives away, similarly to old quack peddlers selling ‘Snake oil’, reputed possessing rare medicine of questionable miracle liquid, one drop solves all. Why didn’t keep their word, but what word, they spout so much!

Esteem authors such as George Orwell’s later thinking in “1984”. Huxley’s having more human impression, in “Island”, or “Community-Identity-Stability”; from the brave new world. All have one thing in common. The Mass dictated to by one implemented compulsory vision. This should have been a warning.

Most warped minds, in this gene for the betterment of mankind, had no qualms exterminating lower class they deemed not fit, or having a gauge of performance to right of life. Simply being born was no longer a qualification. The plain logic of maths invaded taking any line as a start, to rid the population of its lowest living denominator, which would mean, the next slightly upper populace, now become the lower denominator … and so on.

Jim stopped reading the dictation on the massive notice screen, while the full horror dawned on him, if this was not reality, what state of mind had he become, or was this “HELL”. Sense utterly emptiness and alone, sinking in such a timeless void. He attempts one last effort, to converse to one person passing closely…ignored. Shouting at the top of his voice, to anyone just to reply… a deft silence…as he plunges helplessly into nothingness.
peter.howden Posted 1st Sep 2019, 07:36pm
  My Chronicles 01/09/2019…

If the going rate of living life, remains certainly death…then I’ve had a cracker of a bargain, for in the main part, the journey has been something else. I’ve been lucky, even in my crazy drinking days, which lasted too long. There are no regrets for anything done, as remorse is just a waste of time, solving nothing, though, attempting to learn from a multitude of mistakes, is hard to remember how I’ve managed to accomplish some blunders, way over the top. Two things I didn’t do, trigger irritation in the mind, but they only arise intermittently.

‘She who must be obeyed’, has always stated my lack of ambition, though my simpler opinion was being sort of lazily wishing for something not time consuming. Over the last 25 years or so, in this frame of mind, being involved mainly as a represented of Calvay Housing, allied with E.V.H, S.H.A.R.E, S.F.H.A, particularly with. G.W.S. Forum. This allowed contact with a wide bunch of peoples, linked with such grand institutions, fortunately cemented, with the bonus of a couple of China’s. Now, I have to keep in mind, although I’m keen as muster to meet with a few good friends still connected with such organizations, they have busy diaries…as for my China’s…that’s a whole different ball game

Have been asked if the hurly burly of the movement haunts me, or indeed the challenges it brought regularly. I don’t is the simple answer, though I do miss the enjoyment the people gave me. I manage to meet up with some staff once or twice, plus keep company in home ground of well kent committee members from Glasgow and surrounding villages and towns. It’s good to look inside…from outside.

One reason for leaving was my memory was failing, what seems to be rapidly, and even with my own family…recollection is wandering. Just yesterday, as we sat around the old wooden kitchen table talking about what Happened during the week.

Our electric salt dispensers had finally given up the ghost, having been accidently dropped to many times. The wirings were fine, but the casing was cracked, and would not hold the salt. These battery-operated salt/pepper machines, where bought for me, because the growing pain in my hand, due to Arthritus. We purchased two new smaller ones to take their place.

Phoning Nikki, our daughter, to explain in a whimsical way. Simon answered the phone, but was willing to pass on the bereavement message

I explained how her gifted presents, late one night, within the shadow of their cosy kitchen cupboard, the ageing machines experienced a ‘Immaculate Conception’, consisting of two baby distributors, and all were doing fine. Next morning the parents of this extraordinary happening, just gave up, ceased to function… their final duty completed.

While telling this tale, it was obvious Chris our son, looked despondent, holding his breath until I had completed the news. Then with a sly smile said…Dad… I was the one who bought the electric salt/pepper cellars.
peter.howden Posted 28th Aug 2019, 09:23am

It was still very early in the morning, as Jill lay in the warmth of her marital bed, yet for some reason, she just could not sleep. The crib itself was a huge king size, which suited both her and Bill. Bill was her lovely husband she just loved to bits.

They had been married a lifetime, though he just got handsomer &handsomer as the time just magically passed. Jill squiggled the pillow softly not to wake her man, contented. He was always on her mind, more than anything else, in her wakened and conscious mind. Her Bill.

Some may see this being over the top Jill told herself, but how could it be because in Lena Horne’s words “What a man” … or was it Peggy Lee, well!… whoever it was it certainly fitted Bill like a picture. In the Post office queue, it really worried her as to how some women talked about their men. I would not dream of treating my man any way but with love, cooed Jill as she instantly recalled how they met.

Some really sad stories, if they were true, had come out of that post office queue. Some men were really mean to their spouses, and for no reason at all. Wonder why that is? Perhaps they should have a king size bed to be able to snuggle up any time and keep the chill away.

A little bird landed on the window ledge, pleasantly surprising Jill, moving her hand towards Bill, just for comfort but careful not to wake him. It looks as if it will be a lovely day and Jill pondered for a while, where Bill would take her. She had not been down to the sea for some time, though she just could not remember the last time, not exactly anyway

Jill swooned inside the covers of the luxury of her wedded bed, as she happily listened to Bill’s sleeping grunts and groans, while being excited like a wee lassie, hoping he would wake soon. He deserved a late lie. Do you know, she demanded of herself, Bill has never even sworn at her, never raised his voice, not even that time when something or other happened and most men would have blown a gasket. They certainly broke the mould. I hope the other women don’t think she is a bore, taking about Bill as she does, but what else can she do. Not one bad word from him.

Just a minute, I think he is wakening…I need to look my best for him, she excitingly whispered to herself as she turned around

A fearsome screech from her, followed by terrified screams of exasperating bawling and crying as she fought off this total stranger, who somehow got into her room, slept where Bill should have been. Jill let petrified anger loose, biting, scratching and kicking as the ugly stranger’s hands tried to touch her, while she screamed for her very life.

Bill… where’s my Bill…what have you done to my Bill?

The man just sat there.... unable to do anything, but call out softly and touchingly; “Jill; but I am your Bill”.

Jill is suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s
peter.howden Posted 27th Aug 2019, 01:47pm
  Dig it

Cracking Up… This tale maybe appreciated astutely by the more credulous minded;

“Well I say that’s just the last straw, we should not be subjected to such indignities, no matter how high the peers are. Our proud physical surveying suffered enough…now it’s time for action. What do they think we do all day, just dig insignificant holes for the pure pleasure in doing so? Well lads, our last wiggle for natures ploughs, now down tools (so to speak). We Lumbricinanots refuse to excavate, till our dignity is restored, our environments protected, then most important… appreciation for our existence is shown!”.

Two whole weeks ago, those were the resolute words, spoken by the chief engineer/ shop steward, of the celebrated, ‘Worldwide Organized Righteous Miners Society’, based in Buckingham Palace. Since then, the strike has spread to the rest of the country and I can tell you, it’s causing havoc. Where once England’s pleasant and quiet green countryside, has now been transformed into a mini Holland. 6,000 species and billion trillion worms stop…I blame the insolence of the palaces stone-faced footmen, if they were undertakers, people would purposely stop dying.

It has been reported, Bonny Scotland has fared much better, holding on to the confidence in the Loch Ness Monster, who is transporting huge quantities of water away from troubled areas….and these Sassenachs bampots, used to scoff at his existence. Apparently, Wales has not noticed the difference, and no one had the manners to ask Ireland.

In dialogue with thee agronomic professor on the ground; he states it’s quite simply. Millions of worms per square yard, dig trillions, upon trillion of holes per day, and numbers so fantastically large, scientist don’t talk about them, but they are known. When the worms stopped digging …the rain had no place to go.

Right now, to break the deadlock, the authorities requested Her Majesty, and her ladies in waiting (they decided not to ask Prince Phillip along in case he swore) to have a word or two with the worm’s leader. I will just place the microphone nearer, to hear the royal ‘Tete-a-tete’ down in the noble earth.

“Yes, I see why now. If you are humbly digging away, the last thing you want is a horde of royal Corgi’s, imperial Matchkes(cats) dumping night manure on top…bare ass* affronted I would imagine, even if it had been myself. Now the Engineer worm, who, the royal we, was unable to catch his name, replied… “That’s right missus, no one likes someone shitting on them while they work, or indeed while they are at it? Can I request a stately favour… stop those fanfare blaring night and day, when ether some royal person, arrives, or when you go to the loo…? its most alarming; especially in the dark!”

The Queen majestically waves her hand, as to agree to the worms demands. The trumpeters are instantly dismissed and sent off to the Dalai lama; to remind him of his homeland. As for the Queen’s mutts, they have been put on a tight reign. As for Prince Phillip…who knows?

The worms were as good as their word and in no time at all things were back to normal [size="4"][/size]
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