We want you...

I have been observing my co-author for the last few months. He has become a creature of turmoil and chaos, with all nature leaving him groping for the a meal made of the fruits of order or the dove of peace like Tantalus in Hades. What has caused this profound sea change in my old compadre, I asked myself one dark night, tossing and turning on my bed. What has left him with thoughts that flit and flot, fleetly flee and fly, leaving him not with a moment of respite. Then it came to me - Has a certain thrush, one of the darker hues, left a mark on him? Could it be that a certain babe, with a penchant for bad repartee, made a remark that has left him brooding? I look out of my window - day dreaming of the calm sea and Red wood groves, of bears searching for honey and wolves hunting little pigs, and find that good ol' Yankee ingenuity (here's to macaroni) saves the day yet again.

And so, dear reader, I ask you on behalf of that proud man, unwilling to bend, that, as you sit on to tea today, eating cupcakes and biscuits, you think kindly of us and the tales that we tell, of raconteurs and racoons, of tricksters and pixies, of caraway seeds and faraway trees and while you do so, you brighten our days as we hope we have done yours.

Brighten our days, I say, by clicking on a little button and writing a word, maybe two, through compliments or abuses, through a little word of wisdom, of the latests gossip, or a little story perhaps, of Snow White and the Big Bad Wolf and how they came to love each other. Show us your mind as we have shown you ours.

Speaking of tales and tea and Marie biscuits, I am reminded of the days when we were young, reading our Enid Blytons and their magnificent tea spreads - cakes of every kind, hot scones, home-made butter, fresh cream, litres and litres of tea and orange marmelade. Every weekend, I would wake around 730 and lie awake on my bed till about 900 reading the many adventures of Fatty and the Five Find outers, George and the Famous Five or Jupiter Jones and Hitchcock's merry trio. I had my fair share of the Hardy Boys too, but never found them as interesting as the Nancy Drews. I always found that Nancy Drew did a lot more thinking and legwork (she had the legs for it, I suppose); however, I never read the Case files - they were too girly for my liking - all mushy stuff with La Femme Drew entrapped more by her latest crush than the villainous fiend in the stories.

Sunday afternoons remain lazy though and the ritual too, has not changed by much, though the books have, the authors have, the Carolyn Keenes have become Rex Stouts, the Enid Blytons have become Mervyn Peakes, but the tales are the same. And with that, come memories of a boy - a boy with a little girl called Wendy, a boy who could fight, who could fly and who could Cock-A-Doodle Doo!! I can see me.

And so, gentle reader, allow me to ask again that you cure my friend of his melancholy - if you love our posts, tell your friends to read us, else, tell your enemies.

So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

-Puck, Robin Goodfellow,
A Midsummer Night's Dream

And H, poison, rock and home.

Oink,
T