Carbonated Bananas and Catswinging

From 2005 or thereabouts, probably.

I’ve always been a great believer in the dictum “Esq quilillias acrobat agraphobius”, which of course means “There isn’t enough room in here to swing a cat, and if there was, I would not do so anyway, as I feel it would compromise my position as chairperson of the National Campaign against Catswinging.

Unless of course the room was in another nation. In which case, let’s party. I’ve got some Rice Krispie buns and a bottle of fizzy orange in the fridge”

And this brings me to my point. The number of chemicals that are put into oranges and other fruit these days to make them fizzy is an absolute disgrace.

For one thing, it is thirteen, which everybody knows is an unlucky number and should never be used under any circumstance. For another, it is not divisible by any other number that I know of, unless you’re prepared to lower yourself to the standards of those who would fractionise. I will assume that you are not. Therefore the number thirteen cannot be manipulated mathematically in any way should the need arrive, and if it does, a new number will have to be purchased at great expense.

But apart from that, all over the world monkeys are becoming seriously ill after eating these so-called fizzy oranges, soft-drink-ready lemons and carbonated bananas. And I for one say that it has to stop. Not least because it doesn’t happen, and the phenomenon is nothing more than a weird thought going round in my head like a moth going around dangerously close toyour open mouth at night.

As it happens, I always keep my bedroom brightly lit at night, to keep the bogeyman out. The bogeyman has very sensitive eyes, and cannot stand bright lights, so as a sign of goodwill I leave a jar of soothing eye cream for him at the exit.

I have never hard of eye-cream, and suspect that there may be no such thing, yet somehow I feel it is perfectly legitimate to make references to it in this piece of online journalism. Perhaps it is because I’m hungry, and would quite like some eye cream at the moment. I’m not sure.

I seem to remember the old silent movies had a lot of custard pies, which, strangely enough, were white not yellow, and people used to throw them at each other and it would land all over their faces, including their eyes. Perhaps this is what I mean by eye cream. I don’t know.

Or perhaps it is a simple and rather stupid misspelling of “I Cream”, a little used abbreviation of ice cream. Or perhaps my inner voice is trying to tell me something: “I scream”. A cry of hidden torment and discontentment.

Whatever the answer, I don’t really care.