But first…
Dulltown, UK: Today’s mouse is the one chewing on the under-floor joists in the middle of the night…
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Hm, yesterday, Wednesday, in a light rain, I was walking through town, with some new pencils in my bag, when my attention was drawn to some shouting going on in the doorway of a closed down charity shop.
Two cops, yellow clad, one M, and one F, were engaged with a noisy scruffy man. The man was repeatedly shouting, ‘But it is parked, on Prospect Street’!
The cops, in unison, were saying, ‘This is Prospect Street! Just point at it, for us, sir.’
I stood and watched this for five minutes or so. Yes, I think that the cops sort of thought that the man was some kind of drug dealer, or something similar. I had by now recognised the shouting person as being Tony Mayonnaise, poet from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League.
I decided to join in.
I shouted out, ‘It’s alright, he hasn’t got a van, at all’!
The three all stopped, with their mouths open, and looked across at me. I added, in what I thought was a calming voice, ‘Have you asked him what is in the Surrealist Van’?
They all still looked at me, and then, one of the cops, the F one, said, ‘Well, Mr Mayonnaise, what is in your, real or imaginary, van’?
Tony shouted across, ‘Hello Dave, you spoilsport’! And he then took a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket, and began reading:
A thick pink mattress floating in an evening sky.
Four oak wardrobes with gunshot holes in them.
Charles Dickens’s iPhone.
Rishi Sunak’s grin captured in a small bottle.
Two pet mice, both called Rosebud.
A gleaming posh car parked inside a lion’s cage.
A Canadian redwood lying on its side.
A speck of black paint from Jackson Pollock’s bicycle.
A gasp of surprise caught in an egg cup.
A hundred clocks, all stopped at 12.17.
Two anteaters arguing about Jean-Paul Sartre.
Ignatius P Reilly’s hunting cap.
A fire bucket filled with fire.
One of Cupid’s arrows, with some blood on it.
A cube of corned beef, a mile high.
An arts administrator trapped under a fallen sculpture.
Dave Whatt 