SEVERAL VERY SILLY PEOPLE

PERSON ONE: "Hello, what is the tie?"

PERSON TWO: "Er, this is brushed silk with a green paisley pattern."

PERSON ONE: "Oh dear, sorry, no, I actually wanted to ask what hour it is. You see I have difficulties with the letter that appears after Ell and before Enn."

PERSON TWO: "Oh, you mean Em?  Hello? He's Painted!!!"

PERSON THREE: "Don't you mean 'Fainted'? Good God, now he's fainted! That's incrediJul!"

PERSON FOUR: "Don't you mean incredi – you're going to faint if I finish that word, aren't you?"

PERSON THREE: "Er yes actually, thanks so much for not saying it."

PERSON FOUR: "Just as a matter of interest what would you call the insect that pollinates Flowers'?"

Person three: "Oh easy, a Jee."

PERSON FOUR: "How about the Hamlet soliloquy?"

Person three: "To Jee or not to Jee? No ProJlem."

PERSON FOUR: "Here's a hard one: oven cooked haricots in tomato sauce?"

Person three: "Jaked Jeans, of course!"

PERSON FOUR: "This is ridiculous! Buggar off, you Bloody Buffoon!"

Person three: THUD!

ELECTRIC SHOCK!

David, who used to run the grocery in Ein Hod, just popped in. He now lives in Tel Aviv and is working on finishing a script for a TV series.  We once collaborated on a film idea of his. We're good friends.

He just drove up from Tel Aviv to help his mother who lives in the village and asked him to tidy up her garden. Okay, okay, I'm getting there, have patience. So, David popped in to borrow an extension cable for the family leaf blower. I found one but it was missing a plug at one end. So, I rootled out a spare plug and expertly attached it to the other end of the cable. Then, being ever the professional, I went into the other room to test it.

I stuck it in the wall socket and, as I was cleverly holding the other end of the cable, received a giant electric shock and all the lights went out!

How could this have possibly happened, I hear you ask.

Well I'll tell you. You see, the idiot who is writing this had just attached, to one end of the cable, the same type of plug that was already on the other; so, there were now two male plugs, one at each end of the cable and thus one electric shock! QED

 Luckily it was not a severe shock, in fact the shock to my self-esteem was far greater. What a galloping twite!

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Rolanda, my dear wife of some 30 summers, (and I will not mention how many winters) and David had overheard my shriek.

"He's had an electric shock!" she said in an unsurprised tone, as I learned afterwards.

"No, no, he's joking!" Said David.

"Believe me, I know him, " she said firmly "he's had an electric shock!" Right as usual.

Sitting in the aftermath (I just looked up 'aftermath' in the online Dictionary and it means what I thought it did. "Aftermath" - the time after a catastrophic event. I.e. the day after I received my Arithmetic exam results.)

Sitting, as I was saying, in the aftermath of my recent brush with 'a catastrophic event', I contemplated my Twitery (the act of being a Twit) and realized that nothing can be done when you have no rules. Because whatever new page you decide to turn over will be quickly forgotten in the blurry days ahead.

MAXWELL HICE

"Good morning!"

I am talking to myself, as I am the only person here.

"Good morning!" I am answering myself, as I am still the only person here and I don't want to appear rude.

"So, how did you sleep?"

I reply brusquely:

"I've no idea, I was asleep at the time."

"Good point."

The conversation lags a tad.

I imbibe a sip of Maxwell House, feeling quietly proud that the reader is now aware and maybe slightly in awe of the fact that I am able to use the word 'imbibe' which, let's face it, is fairly posh and shows that I am quite well-read and have a half decent vocabulary. The only downer in the whole sentence is that I should be drinking some exotic blend of Turkish coffee and not crappy Maxwell Hice, as the upper classes would pronounce it, if they even knew it existed, which I doubt, as they're a bunch of snobs and wouldn't demean themselves with even the knowledge of it.

The cat jumps onto the kitchen table and regards me with its usual indifference.

It miaows and then, without let or hindrance, suddenly starts up-chucking.

After much dramatic hawking and retching, it throws up a hair ball, glares at it and then at me and then stalks off angrily as though it was my fault.

(Or as though it were my fault - anyway who gives a toss.)

I remove the offending article.

"So, what about breakfast?" I ask.

I think before I answer.

"I suppose so." I say hesitantly.

"Boiled eggs or maybe just toast?" I suggest.

I go over the pros and cons. Toast is easy, just pop a slice or two in the toaster and the thing is done. Boiled eggs? Well that's a different kettle of fish, to use an apt 'metaphor de cuisine'. Heating the water, the tricky problem of timing the eggs, and then the fact that anyway, whatever you bloody do, they always come out either hard as granite or dripping with noxious fluids.

Incidentally, where does the term "A different kettle of fish come from?" I ask.

I answer shortly.

"Sorry, I'm hungry I have no time for self-indulgent cliché hunts."

"There's no need to be rude." I answer.

I breakfast in silence. Toast and marmalade. I stifle the obvious question, where does the word: 'Marmalade' come from? As I know I will be extremely

rude to myself.

After breakfast I shave, averting my gaze from myself in the mirror, as I don't want to make eye contact. Feelings are still prickly.

I get dressed peacefully, though there is nearly friction over the choice of shirt. Luckily, I decide on the green paisley, which looks very good in the mirror.

I wink at myself and then giggle. Suddenly everything is good!

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