Today they took everything, and the Kitchen Sink

My cooker didn't stir;
She just upped chopsticks and left me.

My kitchen ceiling didn't fall;
He just blew his cover and got spirited away.

My kitchen units have been counted upon thrice,
And always come to naught.

But the kitchen sink wasn't thinking about it;
She just got carried away.

Still, I've got my curvy kettle,

And water from the garden hose,
And I've found myself a wee bucket for water,
That'll cool the milk, the wine, and my summer toes.

My Little Lintel

Little Lintel arrived mid-morning in Datchet, after travelling overnight from Scotland, where he had worked for many years with the heavy industry giant, Irn Bru. He was travelling light, for a girder. Datchet had everything he needed for this, his last job, his retirement package.


Little Lintel nodded politely to every metal object in sight. With his Glasgow Cowboy stride, he attracted admiring glances. He glided easily up to my front door.



Little Lintel nodded approvingly, as the ranch-hands put in place temporary support for the ceilings.






As the ranch-hands chipped away at the old brickwork, making a space to slot him in, Little Lintel joked, "What's the hold up?!"

"You are!" was the ranch-hands' cheery reply.


With his easy manner and a reputation for patience, Little Lintel was going to be perfect for this job.

The time finally arrived for our new man to do his stuff. With a heave and a ho, Little Lintel was up and slotted...









After settling in, Little Lintel was provided with a plasterboard jacket...


Then he asked if he could get plastered, just once, to help him girder his loins for the many years of honourable Atlasesque service that lie ahead. We'll be sure to arrange that soon - it's the least we can do for the wee man.

And doubtless he'll still be holding up the back of my house long after I'm gone... :)

Whitewash!

Yesterday in Datchet, painters descended on a house in Lawn Close, sporting paint-splattered clothes, and carrying paint-pots and rollers. Neighbours were aghast as the owner of number 57 welcomed the men to the village and invited them into his home.

"We don't need any more colour in Datchet. We've got a Morris Dancers society for that", grumbled a neighbour.


Not all residents agreed. "There's a recession on, and there aren't many high-rollers splashing out around here. I think they could brighten things up", said a lady with lurid fingernails.


Attempting to gloss over the furore, a spokesman for the painters, Matt Black, said, "Our hands are clean". Bristling, he added, "It's not as if it's painting by numbers, is it? You've got to work very hard in order to be creative with white base coat."



At the entrance to number 57, the owner, Mr Aendereew MecEenteeth (sic), declined to comment, except to say, "It's a complete whitewash! There's nothing more to add until the next time, when the cover-up will be exposed."