Something inscrutable happened today: try as I might, I could not scrute it at all. At lunch, I felt a mighty hankering for some succulent beef tomatoes, so flung open the door of my fridge with utmost avidity. Some cove had placed a sign beside those juicy tommies which warned "Danger Horton! Although they appear identical, some of these are not 'love apples' (tomatoes), but rather raw evil. Either apply extreme caution or avoid eating these entirely. I am writing this warning as an aide-memoire because I am liable to forget, and this is of grave importance. Signed, Horton Carew."
Sure enough, it was in my hand-writing, but I had no memory of writing it and the warning was so palpably absurd that I concluded that it would be folly to heed it. Thus I prepared to devour those delicious fruits (for the 'love apple' or 'tomato' is indeed a fruit and not a nut as is commonly believed) with a little basil and olive oil.
As I raised them to my salivating jaws, I discerned a faint voice whisper, "...no, Horton..."
Needless to say, I ignored it.
I again raised the oily, basilled tommies to my lips. Again, the voice could be heard whispering, "...no, Horton..."
Through experimentation with feigning the consumption of the tomatoes, I eventually established that the voice was coming from the vicinity of my mantle.
Which was impossible, because all that is on my mantle is the little scottie dog from Monopoly.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment