Some shortish items…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s centipede is the one learning to play the banjo.

Excuses for being late. No. 249.
I’m sorry I’m late, but I picked up a notebook dropped by a shinigami. (S)

A single overheard remark:
‘She’s doing spook liaison at present…’

‘Some musicians are very good, and at the same time very bad…’
‘Oh, how can that be?’
‘They learned to play very well, but they never bothered learning to listen…’

A sign in a cafe in Selby, Yorkshire:
‘Vegetation dishes available.’

In the cafe yesterday one of the staff, a chap I often chat with, was clearing the tables. He picked something up from amongst the crockery, he held it up and said, ‘Oh, look at this…’
At first I thought that it was a roast chicken leg that some customer had smuggled in (the cafe doesn’t do roast chicken legs) but he showed me the thing which turned out to be a brown pear, he held it upright between finger and thumb by its stalk (and the cafe doesn’t do fruit either).
The odd thing was that all of the inside of the pear had been eaten away without removing the skin – it was an empty shell of a pear. I suggested that that was the sort of thing that birds might do, sparrows perhaps? He didn’t seem impressed with the idea, and added that they generally don’t get many sparrow customers in the cafe.

If I was a teenager, and was I thinking of forming a guitar strumming band, I think I’d name it ‘the Sulx’…

Overheard snatch of girl phone conversation:
‘Alley-yoo-ya… alley-yoo-yu… alley-you, yah!… Whatever it is… I can’t say it… Whatever the fuck it is… Alley-you-ya!…’

He had the look of someone who was always carrying a heavy religion around with him.

I’m having a new exhaust system designed for my car. When I rev the engine the exhaust gases will move through specially engineered rotating vanes inside and produce the word ‘expensive… expensive… expensive’ out of the exhaust pipe. It will be audible for several metres around. It will make the waiting at traffic lights really quite enjoyable.

Damn! I’ve just realised why I don’t fit in in the area of the city where I live. From now on, when I go out I must always remember to carry an open can of beer in my hand.

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
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