Tag Archives: comedy

April homework

This is a good site for a little light-hearted fun:

http://queens-english-society.org/lighter-side/

The homework is the find the pairs of words in the ‘Oxford Word Challenge’. (Unfortunately we are left to our own devices, as the ‘Answers’ button takes you through to a page which simply says ‘there are no answers yet’!*)

Use them as inspiration to write something of your own. You can use just one pair of words, and perhaps write a story based on an amusing misunderstanding between them. Or perhaps you can weave several together? As always, let it take you where it will: poetry, short story, flash fiction, non fiction article… all welcome.

*We have ANSWERS!

We brainstormed the ‘Oxford Word Challenge’ yesterday and now have full answers:

plain/plane: due/dew: naval/navel: links/lynx: time/thyme: beat/beet: allowed/aloud: tenor/tenner: gorilla/guerilla: sort/sought: barred/bard: Sunday/sundae: chased/chaste: llama/lama: Rambo/Rimbaud.

Ages

Inspired by the ‘Cake’ format of using 6 keywords, I chose 6 of my own by blindly stabbing my finger at a dictionary. This is what I came up with:

Como | eddy | hypocaust | pretext | start | trench knife

…and here’s what I wrote:

Ages

‘Your caffè, signora.’ A deep brown voice matching his deep brown eyes. You can see why these young things fall head over heels in love with their holiday waiters.

Drinking coffee by Lake Como is exquisite, with the sun dripping over the mountains, warm and golden. The air feels like olive oil, heavy with scents of vanilla, cinnamon and coffee. Back in the 60s the heady mix contained a distinctive cigarette smoke, too. A dirty habit indeed, but I rather miss that note in the perfume of Lombardy.

It’s a shame I’m here on my own, though that waiter could alleviate the boredom. I’ve been stranded in this paradise for a couple of weeks. It’s not too bad. I enjoy my own company. I’m alone with my thoughts most days, with Roy being on an archaeological dig, or whatever it is, at Lake Garda. Roman villas and remains leave me cold, but excite Roy to the point of exhaustion, apparently. He’s staying over again tonight, so I’ll be eating my pesche alone. I wonder when that waiter’s shift ends?

Il Lago di Como. It makes my body relax just thinking about it, like slipping into a warm bath. When Roy gets back he’ll set my teeth on edge talking about the wonderful Giulia. I can’t see what a woman of such beauty and intellect – according to Roy – wants to be knocking around with a load of smelly old archaeologists. Forget Indiana Jones and think more Albert Steptoe.

As I drained my coffee a small car, brakes squealing, mounted the pavement and skidded onto the small pontoon that made up the seating area of the lakeside café. The pontoon heaved violently and the air was filled with a cacophony of breaking crockery and yelling customers. The car missed me by inches. I saw the panic stricken driver’s face as he tried to gain control, and failed. The pontoon tipped sickeningly under the weight of the vehicle, and slid the tiny car into the waters of the lake like a fried egg off a fish slice. There was a protesting cloud of steam, and the car vanished from our view.

According to the news later that day, the carabinieri and fire brigade took ages winching the car to the surface. The poor driver was dead.

I adore taking the ferry across to Bellagio. The deep green water eddied round the back of the boat as it chortled its way across. Bellagio is my favourite place in the world. I’ve got to admit I was annoyed when my peaceful enjoyment was fractured by Roy’s text message:

‘Staying over again tonight. Giulia has raised a few issues about the hypocaust.’

‘I bet she has,’ I thought, as my pizza arrived. I didn’t want to think too much about Giulia’s hypocaust, and ordered another large glass of wine.

A little light-headed, I decided to walk off the effects of lunch by heading up one of Bellagio’s steep side streets. Their beauty rewards the physical challenge of climbing so many cobbled steps. The higher I went, the quieter it became, until I found myself alone. Well, almost alone. I felt there was someone behind me, but every time I turned there was no one there. Suddenly I felt a pressure at my throat, and a warm, rather smelly, body behind me. An instinctive convulsion made me thrash my elbow sharply back, and, to my surprise, the assailant fell away. I turned to see him bouncing and rolling down the steps, without uttering a sound. There was so much blood.

I spent ages at the police station. Apparently when I’d thrust my elbow back I’d pushed a knife back into his own chest. The knife he was going to use on me. He’s serious but stable in Como hospital, under police guard. I do hope he doesn’t die. I wouldn’t like to add manslaughter to my list of sins.

The next day I took myself for a nature ramble on the mountain path up behind the town. The metallic buzz of the cicadas reached a crescendo as the traffic sounds of the town fell away below. The air was abruptly split by a sharp cracking sound. Goodness, I hope the hunters weren’t about. Would they know I was here on the footpath? Surely, the footpath is well known as a popular walk for tourists… Another two cracks ruptured the air, followed by a sound like an exhalation, then something heavy rolling through the undergrowth. It took a bit of searching to find him, and by then he was quite dead. A hunter killed by his own ricocheting bullet, the carabinieri told me. I spent ages at the police station.

‘I’m sorry Jean. Desperately sorry. You’ve forgiven me before – can you forgive me again? I swear I’ll make it up to you.’

‘Of course, darling. Darling Roy, you silly old thing…’

‘Giulia’s completely mad. I hadn’t realised I was igniting an inferno. She was determined to get me to herself. She had friends in very low places…’

‘You mean the car mounting the pavement? The ricochet bullet?’

‘I think it was Giulia’s work.’ Roy looked beaten, ashamed, leaning on the poorly maintained handrail, gazing out over the ravine.

Not coincidence? Not accidents?

‘Never mind darling. We can start again,’ I whispered, leaning my head onto his shoulder and putting my hand on his back as a supporting gesture.

I’ll never know what happened. He was here one minute, gone the next. It took ages for the rescue team to get down to his body.

He had good insurance. I go to Como every year, now.

Vicky Squires

Losing my memory

This poem was read out on SAGA radio as ‘Poem of the Month’. It was also published in an anthology of Derbyshire poets.

LOSING MY MEMORY (Or IT for the Elderly)

I’ve just switched on my computer
As I do just about every day
But it told me I’ve just lost some memory
Well, that’s not a nice thing to say!

I’m old, but how does it know that?
I try to keep up with technology.
To be so remiss, when I log on like this
I think deserves an apology.

I’m trying to learn IT language,
Must say it’s a bit of a job
But I manage quite well, I can buy and sell
And I even make a few bob.

But I think I’m too old for this caper
‘Silver Surfer’ is all very well
And I’ll have to re-learn English
Because that’s all changed as well.

It’s just told me I’ve got a virus
Well, that’s funny, I don’t feel ill
But just to be sure, I’ll look in the drawer
And see if I’ve got the right pill.

The virus I’ve got is a “Blaster”
I said, ‘there’s no need to swear!’
But Microsoft told me it’s deadly
So I’d better proceed with care.

Somebody gave me a firewall
Though I’m not expecting a fire
But they seemed to think it was vital
So I’ll light the blue touch and retire.

Angela Mehew

Win some, lose some

“What are you doing up there?” Marian’s voice drew nearer as she pounded upstairs towards the bedroom. “We’re going to miss the flight. You do realize the time, don’t you?” George knew that most wives took ages to get ready to go out, especially if there was packing involved. Marian, however, was always ready on time, and never had to switch off the engine to go back for a forgotten item. He fumbled desperately in the pocket of his overcoat, though he was sure that the elusive airline tickets were not there. There was a piece of paper, but not what he was looking for. He stuffed it back as Marian entered.

“I know I put those tickets in a pocket; I just don’t remember which one.” He sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. Marian was now in efficient mode. “Have you looked in here?”

“Yes, I’ve just….”

Frowning, she pulled the overcoat towards her and peered at it.

“This isn’t your coat,” she announced.

“What? Are you sure?”

“Of course. This one is almost new. Yours was tatty. A similar colour, but tatty. Anyway, we don’t have time to worry about that now. Perhaps you’ve packed the pocket that contains the tickets in your suitcase. Have you thought of that?”

George started towards the stairs, heart sinking even further. He would have to unpack everything. It would take ages, and they really would miss the flight.

“Just a minute! Here they are; in your wallet. Come on! Let’s go, for God’s sake.”

They went, and the holiday turned out to be a great success. The sun shone every day, and Marian turned a beautiful golden brown as she lay on the beach, glistening with sun-oil. They were both pleasantly occupied, pretending to read whilst lazily watching the parade of young flesh passing constantly up and down. As the time for aperitif approached they gathered up their belongings and repaired to the hotel. Dinner was served on the terrace, and afterwards there was time for a stroll arm-in-arm along the starlit beach, where the bustle of the day had given way to the susurration of little waves tipped with phosphorescence.

Back in cold, damp Essex the largest jackpot in the history of the Lottery was won but not claimed. Hardly surprising, as the crumpled ticket reposed in George’s wardrobe, while its puzzled purchaser searched in vain. “I know I put it in a pocket,” he told his irate wife. “I just can’t remember which one.”

Val Brookes

Guardian ‘How to write’ series

Fascinated by the ‘How to write comedy’ booklet that Val passed to me, I wondered if I could get my hands on the rest of the series. Sadly, it doesn’t look as if the in depth booklets are available in their entirety online, but there’s a small selection of articles at:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/series/howtowrite

Worth a read!