Cock Robin

January 17, 2018 2:39pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 20 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing you Whimsy On A Wednesday!

People say that the best form of defence for your home is a dog. Mans faithful friend is the first to raise the alarm when something is awry. They’re loyal, protective and wouldn’t think twice about taking a chunk out of an intruder. A few weeks ago I would have agreed with this but not anymore.

After placing a bird table and seed feeder in my garden to combat the hysteria in the wisteria last year, I have now created a flocking lot of trouble. All sorts of birds come to my pad to fill themselves up on a variety of “taste the difference” seeds. I have gone to the trouble of making dining at mine a bit of a gastronomic affair. I offer a variety of seeds and nuts which I layer in my feeder like a Rothko painting in order that the birds won’t get bored eating the same thing; it also looks pretty – like the seed version of a mocha chocca latte.

The result is a testament to my ingenuity, bringing along a myriad of beautiful birds to feast at my five-star garden restaurant.

Right up until my new pet arrived…

Robin And His Merry Malice

Allow me to introduce you to my new guard bird – Little Robin Redbreast:

Isn’t he adorable? No. No, he’s not. In fact, he’s proper nasty.

I’m assuming his territorial behaviour is due to wanting to breed somewhere in my garden. This is somewhat alarming as I recently read that robins will nest almost anywhere. Recorded nest sites include plant pots, a pigeonhole in a desk, the engine of a WWII plane, and in the body of a dead cat. Charming.

At first sight, my little red-breasted friend looks like a picture-perfect specimen: he sits in my tree at the back of the garden singing his little head off from dawn till dusk. How beautiful. Nature at its finest.

However, what’s really happening is he’s surveying the garden like a predator. What you think is melodic birdsong is actually thuggish and aggressive cursing in bird lingo threatening other feathered friends of his intent should they put a feather wrong.

If some other bird dares to come and feast or stop for a break on his cherry tree, he has ‘em. I’ve seen him dive out from his branch and chase them off.  He will dart like an arrow across the garden and slam them into the clematis whilst screeching like a banshee at the same time. My robin is so fast that he nearly had my eye out last week when he went after a blue tit.

See this harmless little sparrow having a chance feed? That was a mistake. He now has a skull cavity and a bald patch.

 

Witness this serene, female blackbird pausing for a bit of a drink. She now has missing tail feathers and has never been seen again. Probably can’t fly due to losing her tail fin and likely falls to the ground like a dart.

Reap What You Sew

I haven’t managed to get any tit photos (don’t even go there) because they are on and off the bird feeder faster than the speed of light, they’re so petrified. And the now grown up baby pigeon that started all this malarkey wanders around oblivious to all this and still feeds on the floor like the village idiot of birds. All because of last summers pigeon fiasco I have to contend with a gladiatorial aviary in my garden.

In order to create balance and harmony in the ghetto, I decided to buy more bird feeders. My logic being that if there was plenty to go around, my ferocious little robin might calm down and learn to share. I hung them in various places all over the garden as he watched from his tree. I even made him some butter and suet seed balls *Plat du jour* and put them on his bird table, because naturally he’s laid claim to that, and he swooped down and ate them. I felt sure that peace would reign.

Fail.

Now he just darts around the garden like a bloody bullet covering each and every feeding station and I’m going to have to buy a crash helmet if I want to remain intact.

My advice? Don’t feed the birds.

Knock Your Socks Off!

January 10, 2018 12:05am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 24 Comments

Missing Sock

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

So, how’s your New Year going? Are you washed clean of your vices? Is dry January a revelation? Are you a better person than you were a week ago? Yeah…same here.

Read Your Way To A Better You

I got bought a couple of surprise books for Christmas. Proper books with paper pages and everything. I have a Kindle now but these people saw fit to buy me real books. I liked that. I found it interesting to see what my gift givers thought I should be learning. I wonder what made them think, “I must buy that for Jules!” as the title shouted out to them from the bookshelf.

English - Ben Fogle

English – By Ben Fogle – A Story Of Marmite, Queuing And Weather.

I can see why this was purchased for yours truly. Anything with Marmite in works for me. I also hate queuing and rain as mentioned in my bio. I can see that this book is meant to be in my hands. Not so sure about Ben Fogle as he’s a bit of a pretentious fop, but being a polite and proud Englishman and writing about mad English stuff gives him a pass right now. Besides, there’s something in this book about the existence of Marmite historians which I can fascinate you with in the future.

I also received this:

The Life Changing Magic Of...

The Life-Changing Magic Of Not Giving A F**K – By Sarah Knight

I’m pretty sure I should have written this rather than be reading it but, turns out, that a lot of the time we DO give a F…when we shouldn’t. There’s only so many F’s one can give in our F budget and these have to be used wisely. The time and energy freed up by not giving a flying F is worth it.

In this book, the author mentions another book called “The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up,”( that’s right – roll on the back of the wagon of success achieved by another) and how this best selling book changed her life. And, everyone else who has read it hence it being a best seller.Changed it. And her husband’s. How?  By simply sorting out one’s sock drawer.  Who knew?

Forget New Year’s resolutions and just buy this book. Apparently, sorting out your socks is intrinsic to self-realisation and can drastically enhance your future possibilities. I immediately downloaded this book on my friend ‘The Kindle’ because anyone who can become rich by writing about something we all know how to do both irritates and fascinates me. It makes me realise that I simply must write a snarky and realistic self-help book as this stuff is the new medicine.

The Day I Became A Feng Shui-ist

This is a story all on its own because my journey on this road was so out of my comfort zone it’s hilarious. However, once upon a time, I decided to learn the Chinese art of Feng Shui because it had just started to get attention. Since I wrote about interiors for a magazine I thought it would be a nice addition. Plus, I recognised this esoterica had £££ written all over it.

Off I went to Feng Shui school every weekend for a year studying the I Ching, the elements, the compass, the Bagua, the Phoenix and Dragon and harnessing beneficial chi. I pretty much scorned everybody on the course because they were freaky, tree-hugging hippies that ate bean stew and scared me. I made one lifelong friend out of it though who only came to talk to me because I had such a fabulous resting bitch face.

Turns out I was right about this furniture moving phenomenon and at the time (the short time it became insanely popular and died just as quickly) ended up making a lot of money advising rich people, hotel chains and businesses on how to improve their health, wealth and happiness. I even ended up becoming an FS guru for a local rag answering questions like a new age agony aunt. Furthermore, I was asked to run a weekly, evening college course on the subject where great academics would come and listen to me spouting off about the benefits of a blue coloured, north facing office. Having economics lecturers from the local University furiously writing down my wisdomous advice was a sight to behold.

The Ripple Effect Of A Gifted Book

Receiving these surprise books has taken me on a magical short journey to enlightenment.

English peculiarity has always been of interest to people, it still fascinates me and I live here! Ben Fogle’s book has made me realise I should not take this gift for granted.

The book about not giving a F**k  has driven me to be more precious about my time and energy and in turn, led me to another best seller on tidying up. The art of clearing one’s space reminded me of how I became momentarily wealthy making others wealthy through the art of free moving, healthy chi.

See how this all connected? Mystical…

I have ended up at my Eureka moment in just the second week of January and here is my conclusion: People always have and always will buy into arcane and self-help methodology and what with this seemingly increasingly anxiety-ridden world, it would be rude of me not to be of assistance. I have the accidental life coach experience, a modicum of talent, the strength to support my fellow man, the courage to tell it how it is, and the narcissistic self-belief that I am simply the best person around to write the only self-help help book people will ever need.

And all because I got a couple of books for Christmas? Wrong! It’s all because I cleaned my sock drawer.

P.S: Please send me socks as I don’t have many left. Not kidding. If you have my address send them now, if not, inbox me and I will furnish you with my details.

Now is not the time for cold feet.

Emergency New Year

December 31, 2017 2:25pm Published by Jules Smith in Off Piste Posting (Any day thoughts) 24 Comments

Stuck lift

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You New Year Whimsy!

It’s the final day of the year; what could possibly go wrong?

My December has been utterly atrocious having contracted virus after virus. I have lived like a hermit, housebound and mostly bedridden and swathed in layers of pyjamas, onesies and Vicks vapour rub. Two days before Christmas I ended up with the emergency doctor and put on antibiotics. Well, Merry Frikkin’ Christmas.

Jeopardy Junket

I’ve been poorly for 7 weeks now and it’s getting ridiculous. So, today I decided to go out. I’m much better than I was but I still have no business going out yet. I basically have no immune system; it’s gone. Totally. However, I thought a nice trip to the city for breakfast, coffee, and some much needed fresh air might make me feel better.

I parked in a private car park in the city. Because I’m incredibly famous, well known, manipulative, I know people in this town and therefore do not have to pay the extortionate car park fees of a public car park.

The parking establishment was empty. Nobody is at work in these offices since it’s a Sunday and it’s also New Year’s Eve. I entered the secret code, parked up and walked to Bill’s for some scrambled egg and bacon on a muffin. Nice.

Swedish Snake Oil

I then had a little walk to the health store for more alternative medicine.

“How can I help you?” asked the hippy health shop person.

“Well, I’m not sure. See, I’ve already had your super strength vitamin C, D and B and have had practically bathed in your extortionate Manuka Honey like a modern day Cleopatra, but I still feel poorly. I have no energy whatsoever. What else can you give me that will cure me of this wicked and dreadful illness?”

“Ahh – try this!” he said. “This is a Swedish formula (that alone should have caused doubt to sear through me but my instincts are off due to viral attack) that has been around since the 60’s. It’s perfect for post operations and illness. People swear by it.”

I parted with my hard earned cash and went outside with my new miracle potion. I sat on a bench and decided to have a spoonful of it immediately. It was then that I realised I must have misheard the man. People don’t swear by it, they probably swear at it because that’s what I did. This tonic is the most disgusting thing I have ever put in my mouth. Imagine the tar being milked from a thousand cigarettes and that’s what it both looked and tasted like.
I’m going to feed it to one of my plants for a week and see if it dies.

I have spent so much money in this bloody health store that I could have bought a Bugatti Veyron.

Shafted

After this experience, I decided I needed to go home. The whole breakfast event had worn me out and my face was exhausted, if that makes sense. I walked slowly back to the car park and called for the lift as right now I have the fitness level of a 90 year old and couldn’t even contemplate the several flights of stairs.

lift door
Somewhere just before the 4th floor, the lift stopped. It stopped and the door opened 2 inches. I might have lost a bit of weight with the virus from hell but there’s no way I was getting out of a two-inch gap.

I pressed the button again.

Nada.

I tried with all my post-viral strength to prize the door open.

Nope.

I kicked it with my cowboy bewwwts.

Stuck.

I pressed every single button in the lift several times over.

Nothing.

I was well and truly stuck in the lift and the only person with a car parked in the whole office complex.

Then I saw this:

I rang the alarm button for 5 seconds.

Nobody came.

I did it again.

Nobody came.

Eventually, the alarm connected to the emergency line that it clearly stated would happen when one gets stuck in an elevator.

It rang and rang and rang but NOBODY WAS AT THE OTHER FRIKKIN’ END.

All of a sudden I went into panic mode. I had visions of being stuck in this lift for the whole of the New Year period until people came back to work and found me dead in this tiny box with my fingers bleeding from having tried to claw my way out. This was it. The end of my life. Rather neat and tidy what with this being the last day of the year and all, but not how I had envisioned slipping off the dish.

I pressed my mouth up to the gap and began to call for help. This totally stressed out my not used for several weeks vocal chords and sent me into a violent coughing fit where I nearly bust a hernia. I sat on the floor of the lift gasping for my final breaths and wanting to cry but not having the energy to do so.

Then, I had a horrible vision of the lift suddenly plummeting to the ground and me ending up like the contents of a juice maker. I stood up and tried to remember if you had to jump before it hit the ground or hold on because you go head first through the roof. I’m not very good at physics, particularly when hysterical.

There was no other thing I could do but to call for emergency help. This is not something I have ever done before and felt somewhat stupid at having to ring 999 but what else could I do?

I called for the Fire Brigade.

That’s a nice long hose you have there, Mr Fireman

I always imagined that if I were to be rescued by hunky firemen I would be dressed in a sexy negligee with pretty hair and high heels on and would be carried out by a square-chinned brute and given the kiss of life.

Instead, here I was, sweating like a bastard in a tiny box with a pale, unflattering complexion and no makeup on. I fished in my bag for some mascara or lipstick but since I’ve not been out forever and a day there was nothing in there that could save me except for the nasty Swedish elixir that may, quite possibly, have been able to double up as fake tan. I took off my fur coat because I was dripping with fear and would have removed my fluffy jumper too but I had gone out without a bra on and there’s no way I was going to go all wet T-shirt in front of a bunch of firemen without my lippy and tangled hair.

I made a little bed with my coat on the floor and lay down to conserve energy and stave off a massive heart attack.

I heard the sirens in the distance and felt somewhat thrilled if not a little guilty for not being on fire.

“Hello?” shouted the burly voice of a fireman.

“Hello!” I returned, getting to my feet.

“Coming to get you!” shouted another.

*Swoon* Not from being saved but from heat stroke and claustrophobia.

I heard some banging about in the lift shaft and whatnot and then 5 minutes later a giant claw hammer prized open the door and I was free!

Firemen

“Thank you ever so much, ever so grateful, “ I mumbled.

“Our pleasure,” they said.

I shuffled off to the car fuelled by adrenaline and shame and somehow made it back to the safety of my home.

I am now suffering from massive PTSD and the Swedish elixir isn’t helping.

Despite the fact I shouldn’t have been in that particular car park, I’m going to tear the landlord a new arsehole if he doesn’t compensate my ‘trapped in his shitty lift’ trauma with a therapeutic holiday to Bora Bora.

Happy New Year.

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