Last night I had a nocturnal extravaganza in my pyjamas. The Prince of Pop has never been up my strasse, but for some reason, in my dream, I was getting jiggy with Michael Jackson. We caught each other’s eye in my Grandma’s rhubarb patch and by the time we’d wandered up the garden path towards the outside toilet, we were horizontal. I don’t want to go into particulars but he had a barrel chest and squeaked like a guinea pig. After that, I went on an urban ramble with Liam Gallagher. It started well in a pub with lots of lager and cheery shoutiness but pretty soon, we were in the back of an icecream van watching a policewoman get run through by a bread knife. Liam was very masterful; urging me to drop my Strawberry Mivvi and leg it to a nearby park. Here, it got a bit blurry; I know at one stage I was straddled over a set of railings but that’s it. As far as dreams go, it doesn’t beat my recent night’s shenanigans, stuck in a wardrobe with Boris Becker and Virginia Wade but hey ho!
Posts Tagged ‘rhubarb’
It’s been a very eventful, very messy week on the allotment. I’ve had manure in my hair, snail poo under my nails, plus I ripped my arm open on a sweet pea wigwam. I also had to have a strong word with Ted, the allotmenteer with the Filippino internet bride who doesn’t like root vegetables, who, when engaged in a conversation about rhubarb, casually brushed my bottom with his hoe. I said ‘Ted, just because I’ve eaten one or two of your Jerusalem artichokes, does not mean you can make free with my buttocks.’ He didn’t laugh, although he has a very hairy face and I’m never sure where his mouth is. I have made a mental note to stop weeing in my compost as I fear, this may have led him to believe I was up for allotment petting.