Whimsy On A Wednesday
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Gourd of the Manor

October 23, 2019 5:20pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 21 Comments

Gourd squash shaped like a bird

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

So, I got a new pet.

His name is Gourd.

I always wanted a bird.  One of those really naughty ones that shout at people and throw things around.

Instead, I got a puppet.

But now I have Gourd.  Because someone thought this would amuse me.  They were right.

Gourd is very easy to look after: No walks, no maintenance, no feeding, walking or fussing. Unlike my other pets who are incredibly needy. Not Gourd.  You can take him anywhere without an ounce of trouble.

Unfortunately, he only has a life -span of about 6 months. That may seem harsh but it stops you getting attached.

You can stick him outside come rain or shine and he will not destroy your garden.

He will sit quietly until you fetch him inside.

He adds interest at dinner parties…

He makes friends easily…

After some persistence…

He even managed to sneak up on a sleeping wolfit…

And a Jack Russell Terrorist…

He even made friends with my outdoor pet crow (also maintenance-free)  I purchased the crow in order to attract a group of them to swarm over my house for Halloween.  I also got an app on my phone that calls them.  When you say this out loud it makes me sound weird. Huh.

But not Kevin. Kevin hates him.

I love Kevin.

 

 

The Daily Grind

October 9, 2019 11:28am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 29 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I have often said that coffee is not just a drink but an occasion. As a Brit Chick my natural go-to is a nice cup of tea and a sit down but coffee has made its impact as a staple part in my breakfasting and morning mental health. When in America I opt for a bucket of cold, creamy coffee because it suits the Texan heat, whilst in good old Blighty I’m more prone to a simple flat white or an extravaganza with a floating mini gingerbread man. Like I said, coffee is a party. 

Being a naturally caffeinated person I max out on three coffees before becoming unhinged so choosing my favourites is key. Nobody wants to be disappointed by the hot stuff. 

Out in the dirt

view over English country land.

 

Everyday I saunter off out for an hour or so with the wolfit to a local country park. Or should I call it perk? Because situated near the entrance is a little cafe serving coffee.  Not just any old brew, I might add, but a coffee with a fast growing reputation for being a superior sepia supper.  It’s called 200 degrees.  Apparently, they roast their coffee at a lower temperature to make it smoother and tastier. Naturally, it would have been rude for me not to try. 

 

disposable coffee cup

 

And I have been trying it every morning for the last few weeks with rather pleasing results. After meandering through the fields I buy myself a 200 degrees flat white and park myself on a picnic bench overlooking the view.  The coffee is good, the wolfit lies down at my feet and I have time to assemble the ramblings of my mind and return to my desk with vigour and focus. 

Bean Thinking

One of the most wonderful things about this particular coffee are the 100% compostable cups in which it is served.  On the back of the cup is written a Coffee Blog from 1642.  

 

story on the back of a coffee cup

 

After reading this I understood why I felt so sprightly, what with all its wondrous benefits, but what I wanted to know most of all is what the blooming heck is Kings Evil?

Basically, if you get touched up by a King you’ll be OK. 

El Tomato

October 2, 2019 12:02am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 10 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Welcome to cooking with Jules!  

Cooking what? Meth? What with me now living in Villainous Village you might be thinking there’s a bit of Breaking Bad going on in the neighbourhood. 

Talking of mobile miscreants…

Here’s the thing about living in the ghetto – you have to be on high alert at all times. So, when you are woken by texts just before dawn you pick up your phone.  There might be a raid going on.

Because I am now residing in Corruption County, people come to me for advice from far and wide. 

Mein Gott!

Bloody hell!

Talking of bloody – and Hell…

I went downstairs to prepare a nice, hot cup of tea. As I waited for the kettle to boil and watched the birds flocking around the feeder I noticed that something was bleeding to death in the neighbours yard and seeping onto my patio.

Really? 

Did someone not pay the Patron? See, this is the sort of ‘goings on’ you can expect nowadays, when you live in the middle of it all.  

 I stood and watched the river of red as it crept menacingly across the slabs.  I then turned around and looked for the dog incase its head was missing. 

This neighbour is a salubrious garden centre – well, so they say. More likely it’s a money laundering operation for the street scoundrels.  What a perfect place to dump a body, underneath all the winter bedding pants…

I called them and made them aware that something was bleeding into my garden.  There was a long pause, some muffled voices and then they said they’d get back to me and hung up.  I got my BB gun ready – it wouldn’t be long before the head honcho knew I was onto him. 

They called me back sometime later with the flimsy excuse that it was red paint that had been washed down a pipe that had broken.  I’m not buying that, are you? 

Don’t buy tomatoes from there. They’re only large and juicy because of the compost they’re using, if you get my drift.

Talking of tomatoes…

It’s great when you have friends that have their own allotment because they give you lots of fresh grown produce for nothing.  This helps a lot as going shopping in the ghetto means leaving your abode unattended and your knicker drawer free for rifling. 

This week I got a harvest of tomatoes, red and green.  I decided to make some fresh tomato soup.  A great big pan of it.  I worked on the premise that it’s not good to bite the hand that feeds you so becoming the soup kitchen of the area might elevate my status. 

Look at these juicy plump fruits! ( not a thing to say in the local pub)

They got a roasting.

Added to my magical pan…

And made into beautiful harvest soup that I have laced with tranquillisers  will give out graciously to any visitors. 

Happy Harvest!

Autumnal Art Philosophy

September 25, 2019 1:10pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 17 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Autumn’s here, it’s getting colder,

feeling tired and somewhat older,

Rain is forecast all week long,

To lingering light we say,“so long”

There’s no more eating out el-fresco,

Mince pies already on sale in Tesco, 

Summer has made a drastic exit,

Unlike the never-ending Brexit.

And that’s about how whimsical it is.

So, I went for a walk to find a bit of art philosophy.  Nature is man’s best medicine. 

What a grate idea!

Leaf it to the art philosopher!

Reddy at a drop!

As I was walking around the streets of England it came to my attention that I don’t have a puppy but in fact, a vigilante.  Yes, I am walking Batman…

And that is all.

Gypsies ‘Tramps’ and Thieves

September 18, 2019 12:02am Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 16 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

Let me just set the scene so you can feel where I’m coming from:  Beautiful, well spaced detached houses line the sought after street all overlooking the green and pleasant farmland of England. The fields roll on forever; so far into the distance that some say you can see the Russian steps. Sheep frolic in the pastures like clouds and russet brown dairy cows move from field to field, their haunting moo cow noises lingering in the fresh air. Hares can be seen jumping through the crops at dusk and sunrise, skirting their way diagonally through the corn. It’s idyllic and you can see all this taking place from the windows where I live.

What you don’t expect to witness are two police search vans, four cars, ten armed police, a handful of plain clothed CID, people with ‘equipment’ and other undercover cops in hoodies landing at your next door but one neighbours. 

No. Not where I live.

In The Ghetto

Astonishment took over me as I watched the scenario unfold.  People in rubber gloves were dusting everything and going backwards and forwards from house to van. A car truck rolled up and took away several vehicles – A BMW M5, Merc and a Range Rover. All day long they were there and I didn’t have a bloody clue what was going on. I fully expected the cops to come and have a chat with me to see if I knew anything because I’ve seen them do that on crime dramas, but no. I had to watch it all going on without being in the know. For a person like me that is absolute HELL. 

If only I’d been more sociable with the neighbours along the street I might’ve had a clue but I don’t like the idea of people close by getting close by, if you get my drift. Self preservation. 

Turns out that the millionaire a few doors down rented this said house out to a couple who were proper nice. Always mowed the lawns, paid the extortionate rent on time, bought gifts for the neighbours from their holidays -yours truly excluded. Right as rain they were. Right up until they got arrested for firearms and drugs. 

WELL OF COURSE THEY WERE NICE, DUH.

If I’d have been friendlier I could have had myself a free Glock and some internal psychedelic tripping. If only I’d known….

A Walk On The Wild Side

Needless to say, I felt a little on edge now that I was living in the ghetto. The Wolfit is not fully grown and is far too ‘puppy cute’ to instil fear and the lizard is a complete hermit.  However, you do what you can with the infant army you have, so when my best friend called me to the country pub up the road after her holiday I strapped up the wolfdog and stepped out onto the street with trepidation. 

I had given the pupster a rather large raw bone that was kindly donated by the butcher at the farm shop who can see the potential of being friends with a wolfdog owner. This, I thought, would help Tex T.Bone get in touch with his wild side and be an able protector. The ten minute trek to the pub from my abode in the ghetto becomes very countryfied with the pavement tapering into skinny single file.  In front of me, about halfway to destination, I saw a heavily tattooed man, clearly one pint too many worse for wear, sporting a skinhead and arguing with another fella. At the side stood his very bottle blonde girlfriend wearing a skirt that made a waist belt look maxi-long. Tied tightly to a lead (held only by the man’s Doc Martin) strained their Pit Bull Terrier as it spotted Tex the lone wolf Timber dog approaching. 

The Internal Dialogue

You know how it goes. *Internal sigh* How am I going to deal with this?

Why me?

Look, you can do this. You’ve been in Texan Redneck clubs and come out alive.  You’ve been the only chick at a deer hunting camp with homemade moonshine and firearm games and survived.  

Just go past them- somehow – without getting killed by side-stepping into the main road with 60 MPH travelling cars. 

How?  You can’t. Large and in charge. It’s the only way.

*You have to have lived in England to fully understand how mental people can be here. Not everyone is stiff upper-lipped in lace collars polite. The divide is very extreme.*

Maybe they’re customers of the dodgy neighbours? Brilliant. A nut job on withdrawal. Hopefully out of ammo. 

The Tex-Mex came to a halt, head down, hackles up and began to make the most extraordinary low whinny.  

You’re really not helping, I said. 

They didn’t move out of my way. Here we go. 

The chap turned around, glared at me and the dog, fell to the floor with open arms and said, “ Awww, look at ‘im, he’s mint! Come ‘ere big dog!” Both he and his pitbull fawned lovingly over the wolfit making him feel relaxed and happy whilst the acid in my stomach continued to eat me from the inside out. 

Just goes to show you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Talking of Books…

I arrived at the lovely country pub and met up with my best friend who had just come back from holidaying in the coastal town of Whitby.

“I’ve bought you a present,” she declared.

“I hope it’s Tramadol mixed with valium.”

“Better! I saw this in a little shop and thought of you. It was a quirky little shop with really interesting things and this was sitting in the window and I had to get it for you.”  She handed over the gift that was wrapped in a thick brown paper bag with a kitschy shop name emblazoned on it and it smelt of rustic quality.  The kind of bag you don’t want to open because it’s already perfect.

 And inside was the most delightful and aptly named book.

Tramping!  A trend I have brought back to life, it would seem! Except mine includes a truck. This darling little read from the 1920’s is about losing yourself to the wildnerness and how to do it properly.

Escape from the ghetto?  Yes, please. 

Even though its title was the reason for its purchase the contents of this book were made for me. As soon as I read the back cover, I knew.

Not past the ‘foreword’ and I became hooked.

Such wisdom.

 

Right?  Haven’t I always said, ‘Keep it simple’?

 

Don’t I know it. Read on.

And if ever a book could spread my soul onto paper, this called trumps. Or should I say, ‘Tramps’

Finally. Something in my language!

Tramping. It’s where the smart booted roam.

 

 

Wee Are As One

August 28, 2019 1:45pm Published by Jules Smith in Whimsy On A Wednesday 15 Comments

Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

It will soon be time for adventures now that the little wolfit is growing and allowed into the big outside in ten days.  

The truck is ready – the tramping gear is all sound. I have beds, cookers, tables, and hoo-yah off-roading wheels. The world is my oyster from Lands End to John O’ Groats.  

Bar one thing.

The Package

This little contraption was required to make all the difference.  

This 5” little plastic box will be able to transform and transport me into the fluidity of the future.

No. It’s not a lunchbox.

Nor is it a drugs container.

Or an ice pack.

What on earth can this vital piece of tramping gear be, you might wonder.

What A Tool

Pop off the cap and discover some some useful tools within.

A spoon for scoffing down one’s porridge? 

No.

A fake Unicorn horn perhaps?

No. 

A funnel from beer can to gob?

No. Not unless used first and once for this particular avenue of pleasure.

Don’t be Ri-DICK-ulous

This, my friends, is a Purple Plastic Penis. 

Also known as…

Shewee.

I can imagine eyes rolling to the back of heads right now as you read this but if anyone is going to have anything this ri-dick-ulous then you full well know it’s going to be me.  There’s no better person on this planet to test out the art of being able to “pee-like-a-he” than yours truly.

All Cock And No Balls

But dare I try it? 

There’s something a little scary about the Shewee that has stopped me from giving it a trial run.

As you can see, it has an extension tube. You can attach this so that your Purple Plastic Penis creates great envy by being longer than a French door.

Whilst I appreciate this has great sporting possibilities I’m not ready to take someones eye out just yet.  The instructions state that it may be best to first try out the Shewee in the shower incase of accidents.  

Err, no. Gross.

Urination does not occur in my lavender scented, pristine white shower cubicle.  I need to find a secluded spot outside in the woods and hope to God I don’t get reported by a passing jogger for flashing. 

Joggers are a colossal pain in the arse. They always happen upon you in the most random areas in the great outdoors when you are trying to have a wee. They must have special kind of non-twig-breaking trainers because you can never hear them coming  up on you. They whip past you like a nasty breeze.  

Silent joggers are probably the cause of many a splash-back mishap. It’s very difficult to remain unshakeable whilst crouched down to floor level, your feet (tiptoes to the point of calf cramping ) only allowed the stretching width of your knicker elastic whilst you try your best to balance on uneven ground with one eye on your angle and the other on the lookout for any creepy crawlies that might jump up your Dooh-Dah. It’s bloody stress central let me tell you! 

Hence the Shewee.

When I get round to having a go.

Baby steps. 

Pee-ple Skills

At the moment I’m practicing the art of carrying the Shewee around in my bag and using it in inappropriate or awkward situations as I do my Emergency Clown Nose. 

Arriving at a pub, taking out my sunglasses, my phone, my Shewee box and putting them down on the table next to my glass of wine creates a great ice-breaker. Or mass exodus.

My favourite of all is going to someone’s party or summer BBQ and saying, “Can I go to the loo?”

“Yes, it’s down the hall on your left, but I think Dave’s in there at the moment…”

“Oh that’s OK, I’ve brought my own!” I say, giving my hand a shake, the Shewee box clutched tightly.

I  pop the lid and remove  the tools, piecing them together as I wander down to the prize petunias at the bottom of the garden. Fortuitously, there’s always some stuck-up, sour-faced fun-sponge guest where I’m heading as I wave  the purple plastic penis in full, mighty extension in their direction.  Heh. You’d be amazed how quickly you get steered back to the bar or the hosts rather lovely en-suite – just for friends of course – where you get a splash of free expensive perfume from the dresser and a pee in peace.  

So, without actually even getting to watering the plants yet or revenge on silent, weirdo joggers, I can behave like a knob and turn a party around just by getting it out of my handbag!  

Looks like the Shewee is going to be a very useful and versatile tool. 

 

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