Friday, 11 November 2011

A Load of Bull

Mrs Pumphrey says...

'The Lady of the Manor has had a bit of a rough week. On minute she's being told she's in danger of being classed as a 'rubbish' teacher, the next she is being told she is a great teacher and the school love her. She is, as you can imagine, mightily confused and just a tad hacked off with the whole work thing. So tomorrow she has decided to have an 'art and craft' day. She is planning to knit a Nativity, to the background noise of a variety of possibly Christmas-themed DVDs. She is NOT to be disturbed...'
'She will be in possession of some sharp needles,' interjects Mrs Slocombe.
'Indeed,' says Tango Pete, who has arrived for a sleep-over-Strictly-Come-Dance-with-a-Cockerel' weekend.

'So I have stepped in to deliver today's blogeroo,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'And where is the Lady of the Manor?' says Mrs S.
'Holed up in her writing room with a bowl of frozen raspberries and a very loud CD of Queen,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'The raspberries will do her good. Give her teeth something solid to gnash upon.'
'I like a bit of Queen,' says Tango Pete. Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Slocombe stare at him. There is a stony silence. A ball of tumbleweed bowls across the kitchen floor. Somewhere, in the distance, a wolf howls.

'Anyway,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'what's the blog for today, Jim?'
'Jim?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Yes,' says Mrs S. 'You know, like years ago when Jimmy Young used to rule Radio 2 and he had a little squeaky voiced character called Raymondo who used to say, 'What's the recipe for today, Jim?' and then 'This... is do!'
'I'm not cooking,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I know that,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'I don't get it,' says Mrs P.
'Never mind,' says Mrs S. 'I expect you aren't the only one.'

'TODAY!' says Mrs Pumphrey, loudly, in order to gain ownership of the conversation once and for all, 'is Martinmas. And many years ago, in Scotland, there lived a farmer who had an unusual cow.'
'Was it a cow shaped like a chicken?' says Mrs S.
'No, it was a cow shaped like a cow,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'What was unusual about it was that its name was Hawkie and it insisted on being serviced by an elf-bull...'
'Not by Halfords?' says Mrs S.
'No,' says Mrs P.
'Is an elf-bull connected in any way at all to the elf-service?' says Mrs S.
'Just shut up,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'The elf-bull lived in the river and it was small and had fur like an otter...'
'Was it actually an otter?' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Was Hawkie in need of some elf-service spectacles? Ahahahahahahahahaha!!!'
'You are so irritating sometimes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'The elf-bull was very fertile and Hawkie produced fine calves every year. But one Martinmas Day, the Scottish farmer decided that Hawkie was looking a bit old and haggard so he thought he'd sell her at the Martinmas Fair.'
'How ungrateful,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'And Hawkie got to hear of his evil plan,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'So she broke the wall to the barn, called all her calves together and they all went to the river and jumped in!'
'To be with the elf-bull?' says Mrs S.
'Probably,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'The details are non-specific.'
'So what did the farmer do?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Spent the rest of the day searching for the moral,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

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