The Bedford Garden Implement Massacre

Ordinarily I don't mind the sound of children playing. Ordinarily.

I don't like it so much when they scream, however. Or when they insist on shouting, even though the person they're actually speaking to is standing only three feet away — children so rarely seem to master the concept of using your indoor voice.

I have discovered today, however, that the sound of children screaming can be greatly enhanced by the sound of a lawnmower.

I've no doubt that there was nothing untoward going on, and that the children were not harmed in any way — and that probably it was even a completely different garden from which this second noise came — but my overactive imagination caused me some entertainment all the same.

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And Another Thing…

Following on from my earlier post about suspect television adverts, it occurs to me exactly how strange the current Febreze advert* actually is.

What sort of stupid questions are those, anyway:

"Have you smelt this chair? And those curtains?"

"Actually, Mother, since I tend to put my arse in that chair rather frequently, I would generally recommend that other people keep their large — and apparently somewhat over-eager — olfactory organs quite far away from it, for fear of choking and eventual death.

"And are you quite sure you're not confusing chairs and curtains with flowers and scented candles again? Surely you of all people would remember how embarassing that was for us all last time. I couldn't look the vicar in the eye for a week."

* Sorry, but I could only find the US version.

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Finishing School Turns Them Out Young These Days

I have seen an advertisement for My Mini Baby Born dolls.

I must confess to finding them disturbing in the extreme. They look like babies, sure enough. So, why are they just so wrong?

For one thing, they're wearing jodhpurs, riding hats, and are carrying riding crops.

A real baby would not demonstrate this poise and control. No. A real baby would accidentally smack itself in the face with the riding crop, drop it and inadvertently kick it out of reach, before removing the hat and falling clumsily onto its arse.

Instead of the pristine depiction of a baby in full riding gear, looking ready for the gymkhana, what you would actually see would be more akin to a vacant-looking child sat on its bum, chewing on the brim of — and otherwise defacing — a posh hat. Whilst shitting itself.

If that's a baby, then I don't think those were vitamin pills that his mum was taking during the pregnancy

Another somewhat creepy aspect about these dolls is their height relative to their accessories. They make horses look the size of cats in comparison. And they are supposed to ride these?

What rubbish. A real baby would be tiny in comparison. It would bum-shuffle untidily across the ground towards the horse, grab one of the animal's rear legs in order to pull itself up into a standing position, belch loudly, then pull sharply on the tail, thinking it's the funniest thing ever.

I've met horses before, but I've never known one that short

Finally, I also find it incredibly worrying that these 'new borns' can apparently drive cars. In fact, not only can they drive, but they can supposedly tow horseboxes as well.

Of course, a real baby would have no hope of this. Even if they somehow managed to get the horsebox and the car coupled-up correctly, there's just no way they'd be going anywhere. Instead, they'd climb up on the seat, attempt to eat the steering wheel, and repeatedly headbutt the windscreen. And fart.

Giant bald infants in undersized cars towing midget horses are one of the primary causes of accidents in the UK

I'm not actually convinced that these dolls are babies at all. I guess the marketing divison decided that My Upper Class Bald Midget didn't have quite the same ring to it.

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Ad Break

It's lucky it's not an ambition of mine, I guess, but I've come to realise that I could never star in an advert for Vanish.

I can act; but, sadly, my eyebrows can't.

I'd have to do all the work myself, and I get the impression that that's just not the look they go for.

Perhaps I should instead go for something a little more realistic. Like an advert in which I have to pretend that I find it endearing when my little brat of a child tries to put his scooter in my dishwasher — and not actually go for his throat for bringing that filthy thing, not only inside the house, but anywhere near my nice, clean crockery.

Or one where I go into my teenage son's bedroom and sniff his chair before spraying it with any well-known odour eliminators.

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Darkest Inkiest Pitch

So is it onyx, is it ebony, or is it midnight?

Exactly how many shades of so-called black can curtain fabric come in?

Surely all these different, poncy names are just a way of the manufacturers saying that none of them are actually black.

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From The Bums Of Angels

What is it with men and leaving great piles of loose change around the house?

I realise that men's wallets don't have a compartment for change — because, if they did, they'd be called purses, and that's more ladylike territory — so I understand that coins generally need to be kept in trouser pockets. But I still don't get the attraction with scattering the little buggers to the four winds when you get home.

Somebody told me once that finding coins around the house is a sign that you have been visited by angels.

I'm not sure I agree. I've seen where those coins come from, and I don't think that anything angelic has any business associating with the arse pockets of men's jeans.

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There Isn't Always Room For Jelly

I made a cake this weekend — quite specifically, an ice cream cake. It was huge.

In fact, I was a little suprised to find that it only just fit into the cake tin I'd bought. And yet, I'd chosen a cake tin that was larger than the recipe said I needed. Mysterious.

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Incidentally, it would appear that the trick to not making over-sized ice cream cakes is to recognise if the recipe actually calls for pints; because ice cream manufacturers apparently favour litres.

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Herders Anonymous

Why is it that, whenever I park my car down the empty end of any car park, I can always guarantee that there will be somebody parked right next to me when I return to my car?

I deliberately park away from everybody else so that I can open my doors wide without having to worry about bumping anybody, yet — EVERY SINGLE TIME — I come back to find that I've got to squeeze myself through a two inch gap, even though there are empty spaces for about two miles in all directions.

Now I realise that the part of the car park in which is park my car automatically becomes the cool part, but surely common sense would dictate that — in a virtually empty car park — everybody has lots of lovely, lovely space around them?

Actually, I'm beginning to suspect some kind of herding instinct.

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Experiments In Dining

If my suspicions are correct, then the cement used to build houses is comprised of Red Leicester cheese and flour.

I believe that this is so that potential burglars can't eat their way into your home.

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One Down, One To Go

Well, another pet has died this week, and so — in keeping with tradition — I find myself here once again. I have no jokes to make about it this time, however; it was Biscuits, and I'm actually quite cut up about it.

It seemed like a good idea at the time to bury him in the garden. Admittedly, it seems like less of a good idea in retrospect. But it's too late to worry about it now. Ho hum.

My poor little fella. I will miss you.

Actually, it's a good job I can usually write without a family pet having to die first. Otherwise there would be a lot of unhappy children in my neighbourhood.

Sorry, did I say "a lot"?

I meant "a lot more".

And by "unhappy", I, of course, meant "whiny".

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