It Never Rains II
Funny old life. You plod through one of those long dry periods where nothing happens and nothing will come and then you get the art equivalent of the runs. Not complaining about the diarrhea, though. I’m enjoying this abundance enormously. So, here they are, the latest paridas.
BoulderFish. A very distant relative of our old chum BoulderGirl, he fulfils a similar role in all & sundry aquatic environments. That is, he shadow-dances dimensional insurrections into being and, on a good day, he’ll be able to call up a watery sipapu . If you’re very, very, very lucky, you might find him lurking temporarily in the depths of your water tank. Offer him a little cake or a few drops of vodka and he’ll see what he can do. A word of caution. Do not overdo it with the vodka. He’s extremely susceptible to high-proof spirits and you don’t want a riotously drunk and possibly disorderly BoulderFish on your karma, trust me. And here’s a wee link for your delectation and instruction in case you didn’t know a Sipapu from an ordinary hole in the ground: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sipapu
Brief EncounterV. Those two unrepentant troublemakers Rhys and Rhodri have caused the mother of all psycho-magnetic storms just for the hell of it -either because they were bored, or because they were tetchy owing to the last bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon being corked; or perhaps they were thinking that Wales is getting too respectable, what with the Brexit vote and all, who knows. Indeed who can know the workings of a Lloigor’s mind. Fact is that all sort of innocent bystanders have been caught in and left to cope with it best they could. The tiny Crinkly SlugThing, a tough enough creature in normal or semi-normal circumstances but pretty defenceless against howling psychic gales, has been reduced to hitching a ride on the tail of Gwen, the Bobbly BearGon*, much to the beastie’s surprise. Well, there’s the Lloigor for you. Totally out of control, often out of order, but who’s gonna dare say “boo” to them? *Exozoology Note. A BearGon is a hybrid myffological being, half bear, half dragon. Originally a species native to East London, they moved to the Brecon Beacons several centuries ago, when Hackney started becoming fashionable and Epping Forest was enclosed and turned into a playground for Tudor brats.
Tadpole Tittle-Tattle. The Tories should autoeuthanase for shame. It’s bad enough that their alfresco bribe to the Paisleyites makes any decent person’s piss boil and that we all feel compelled to blush ourselves radioactive on their behalf at such obscene shenanigans, but when this sort of brazen jiggery-pokery shocks the exquisite sensibilities of small, delicate microorganisms like the Webby Tadpoles to kingdom come, the offence is beyond unforgivable. I feel like quoting stern bits out of Ecclesiastes, or my all-time fiery favourite* and advocating the reinstatement of public hanging, pour encourager les autres, I do. *But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.