Somewhere between Purgatory and Hell, there lies a town called Redditch. People tend not to talk about the town very much, because - let's face it - if you leave Purgatory and find yourself in Redditch, then you know that the next stop is not going to be a good one.
Fortunately for the little Chinese lady sat half way along the second carriage, the train on which she travelled was heading in the other direction.
As the train pulled out of Purgatory, the Chinese lady, who was known as Bob (long story), breathed a sigh of relief. The ordeal was over - no more having to look through Peter Seago's extensive collection of photographs for her.
Bob glanced around the carriage.
Odd, she thought, as she spied a morris dancer in full costume, sat at the back. Surely he should be heading the other way...?
"Tickets please!" declared the conductor, interrupting Bob's train of thought. (Train! Geddit?) He had just entered the carriage from a doorway at the front.
"Ta love, that's great," said the conductor, after he had punched Bob's ticket. Then he continued down the aisle towards the morris man.
"A day return to Ripley Bottom please," said Morris. Yes, that really was his name.
The ticketmeister just stared at him for a moment.
"You want a return ticket to Purgatory?" he asked, with more than a hint of disbelief.
Morris nodded.
"Pull the other one mate, it's got bells on," said the conductor.
So that is precisely what Morris did, complete with a little dance and much waving of handkerchiefs.
Suddenly the train lurched, slowed, then stopped.
Oh, good grief! thought Bob. They're going to take us back to Purgatory - the photographs! Or on to Redditch and beyond!
Suddenly there was a knock at the train's window. A very persistent knock. Bob tried to ignore it, but it would not go away. Bob began to panic. Her eyes opened wide, and she sat bolt upright.
She was in bed. It had all been a dream.
There was a persistent knock on the bedroom door.
"Come in," she said.
A tall, demented looking man came in carrying a mug of hot tea and a bacon sandwich.
"Breakfast time!" declared Peter Seago, as he set down Bob's breakfast on top of the drawers next to her bed. "Get that down you. Then we can crack on with some more of my photos. I bet I haven't shown you the ones of me on my latest trip to a bothy in Wales..."
Bob picked up the bacon sandwich and stared at it dejectedly.
More photos!
Bob thought for a moment about making a break for it and climbing out of the window. But where could she go? The road outside led only to Redditch. It was either that, or keep looking through Seago's photographs. How many more could there possibly be?
It was going to be a tough choice...
Showing posts with label Peter Seago. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peter Seago. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 February 2012
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
THE GIMLET TRIUMPHS AGAIN
The ageing nibbler was always amazed by the reasons his gimlet came up with for not brushing her spanglers.
Most days he was lucky to manage three passes before she came out with one of her excuses, like "look - a potato bus!" or "flush me, The Acts of Man sounds just like Camel!"
She was amazingly fluent for a gimlet only twice round the glowers. But even Old Grumby was unprepared for what she would put forth this day.
"I need to spenge my wickets, so I don't get jockwort in the thrubbards!" she declared.
Old Grumby was so aghast that he dropped his spangle twanger, and before he had time to recover, the gimlet rolled her puddings and started merrily bouncing on the third mattress.
"Flaming telepaths!" gasped Old Grumby. "Where in the name of Peter Seago's powdered spotlings did you pick up a phrase like that?"
The gimlet grinned like Benjamin Francis Leftwich on a picnic in a pet shop and pointed beyond the racks of the balanced flange-partridge at the twisted whistles.
Suddenly all became clear. Like a queefmeister on the eve of Burns Night - when all but the least flatulent of men take up their matches and light their own fogals - she had been bothering those stumps of quenge.
"Ah." The aging nibbler rolled his Steves up and reached for the superglue.
Even in the shadow of the hills of Mardley, there was no fooling Old Grumby.
And yet, once again, the gimlet had escaped a brushing. For the lights had passed over the final bending, with little but a cold gusting and slippy paths on which to greet the rustling.
Grumby sighed, glued the gimlet to the chimney and bid her good night.
There was always tomorrow.
Most days he was lucky to manage three passes before she came out with one of her excuses, like "look - a potato bus!" or "flush me, The Acts of Man sounds just like Camel!"
She was amazingly fluent for a gimlet only twice round the glowers. But even Old Grumby was unprepared for what she would put forth this day.
"I need to spenge my wickets, so I don't get jockwort in the thrubbards!" she declared.
Old Grumby was so aghast that he dropped his spangle twanger, and before he had time to recover, the gimlet rolled her puddings and started merrily bouncing on the third mattress.
"Flaming telepaths!" gasped Old Grumby. "Where in the name of Peter Seago's powdered spotlings did you pick up a phrase like that?"
The gimlet grinned like Benjamin Francis Leftwich on a picnic in a pet shop and pointed beyond the racks of the balanced flange-partridge at the twisted whistles.
Suddenly all became clear. Like a queefmeister on the eve of Burns Night - when all but the least flatulent of men take up their matches and light their own fogals - she had been bothering those stumps of quenge.
"Ah." The aging nibbler rolled his Steves up and reached for the superglue.
Even in the shadow of the hills of Mardley, there was no fooling Old Grumby.
And yet, once again, the gimlet had escaped a brushing. For the lights had passed over the final bending, with little but a cold gusting and slippy paths on which to greet the rustling.
Grumby sighed, glued the gimlet to the chimney and bid her good night.
There was always tomorrow.
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