I always imagined factories to be a clinical ordered environment, but to
read about staff being disallowed toilet breaks and having produce hurled
at them worries me. Not necessarily worried for the staff, as in my mind
if I desperately needed a wee I would simply go to the loo and face
the consequences. What concerns me is this fruit we all so merrily
purchase from our impersonal but convenient supermarkets.

Since reading of the abuse that is rife in our factories, I am now of the
belief that much of the fruit I eat, if it hasn’t been lobbed at Terry, the
three year reigning forklift driver, then it has been fondled by many
piss drenched hands. And frankly, since I have been old enough to
pluck fruit from its bowl and not been gifted it by a more disciplined
soul, I ain’t washed a single plum, apple or peach and seemingly
have been detoxing myself with others’ widdle.

This all goes some length to explain the greying area that is spreading
across my back. An area  I refer to it as my mushroom patch and in doing
so I am not strictly incorrect as it is of a fungal descent. Although unable to
harvest my patch as the produce could barely feed a rat I have grown
accustomed to its rough texture and like Velcro it serves as a good
sponge holder whilst showering.

In short I am no longer smarting but would like to point the finger and in
pointing my finger search out the true culprit, not just randomly poke any
bugger in the eye. Whether it be Martha’s tiddle or Harry’s poo one
needs to know the source.

In the meantime, when paying for my fruit, I intend to
tip the supermarket in the hope that the extra funds will wing their way to
the factories and permit those dirty hands the freedom to secrete in a more
fitting environment and maybe even indulge in some imperial leather.

Headlines are reactions, thoughts and warblings
on curious newspaper headlines.

Turning his attention back to the curiously accurate pantone 103 C egg,
he carefully plucked the pan from the stove and in one confident movement
flipped the omelette, returned it to the flame and patiently allowed it rest
and cook the other side. Again he looked up and consulted the dull windows
of the neighbouring flats, looking hard into each as though searching
for an answer.

His face fell as no answers were forthcoming and with a sharp movement
he swiped up the pan and tipped the green omelette onto a deep butchers
chopping block. Wetting his fingers under the tap next door to the stove,
he plucked up the hot omelette and swinging open the pantry door with
his foot, draped it on a clothes line along side two other snot green pancakes
and a small gold bell, which gently tinkled as the line was disturbed.

The long man returned to the flickering roar of the stove and turned it off.
As it expired with a gasp he picked up an old red pair of theatre binoculars,
which sat next to the kitchen soap and again scrutinised the neighbouring
windows. Through the haze a window down to the lower third of the building
lit up, enticing the red binoculars to hastily observe. The window framed the
bobbing up and down of a blonde mop of hair, that in return framed the pale
face of a young girl struggling to drink from a tap.

The man’s mouth smouldered at the corners with a smile and slowly he
stretched out his right leg and edging his foot in the direction of the pantry,
he probed the bottom corner of the closed door with his large big toe. His
head remained embedded in the red plastic receptacle and his eyes struggled
to observe the girl through the poor magnification it offered. The pallid girl
finished lapping water from the tap and opened a door to her left.

As she did this the man sucked in air and careful not to breath loudly,
angled his ear in the direction of the pantry door. He could hear nothing
except the occasional drip of water from the sink to his left, which
disturbed his concentration. He shifted his weight across and tightened
the tap to stop the drip, as he did this a gentle tinkle came from the pantry.

His ears pricked, nothing more could be heard, slowly he shifted his
weight back and careful not to make a sound, gently curled his big
toe around the bottom of the pantry door. A moment passed then the bell
from inside aggressively rang. The toe gripped the door and swung it open,
inside only the ringing gold bell gently rocked back and fourth
on the clothes line.

The man, once more engaging the binoculars to his eye sockets,
explored the windows across the boisterous tarmac of the A406.
Immediately locating the girl he could see her gently nibbling a green
omelette, his mouth parted with a crack and air escaped bemused. His
attention was then distracted to high up the building where the haze
thinned and the light grew beautiful. Inside the very top window, which
appeared to span the whole building, a pin striped suit sat eating a two
tiered green omelette.The red binoculars fell from our man’s face, his
lips again met and throat deeply swallowed.

After three snagged tuts from the second hand of the blue clock that
clung to the back wall of the kitchen, the man’s long body once again
struck up the stove, cracked two eggs, added a splash of milk and
carefully plopped in two drops of pantone 103 C colouring, before
dutifully whisking and pouring into the heavy based pan. The pantry
stood momentarily empty, awaiting yet another pale snot green omelette
to generously leak into the world that resided over the A406.

Headlines are reactions, thoughts and warblings
on curious newspaper headlines.

Inspiring, commendable but curious. Why is a person retreading an
act committed fourteen years ago? Why is this person allowing such
an act to twist at their intestine? Has the subject found Jesus at their
dwelling in Leeds? Or are they simply clearing out their childhood
bedroom?

It would be wrong to assert a reason, but one’s head is allowed to wonder,
and in this free world of unmonitored mutterings, post such imaginings.
Perhaps the guilt had played so heavily on this crook’s mind that, when
bench pressing a record high, the very thought had been fuel enough to
push that bar from their chest. Maybe, driving home, before they struck
up their plasma retaining wall, it was this orphaned gnome that
accompanied them causing the radio waves to break with
infuriating static.

Had the very image of this nabbed pot haunted their mind so furiously
that it had impelled them to cast aside this callous crime? Or sadly, was
this pirate merely concerned that the same fate would befall their own
handsome fleet of gnomes unless amends were made? For me I fear the
latter is true, in growing all proud and green fingered, the felon had just
found a new respect for his holy plot of land, his retreat. In return, reflecting
upon it’s disruption and believing that by returning the gnome, his good will
would patrol his pasture and gnomes.

Unfortunately such an empty gesture will not save his static congregation
of rosy cheeked ornaments; barbed wire and a security camera might! I say
might, it won’t! I have already invested in a contingency plan. If I can’t climb
his garden wall, I am going to take my purposely bought remote control
plane and fly the bugger around his plot of land until I hear all manner
of crashing ceramics!

Headlines are reactions, thoughts and warblings
on curious newspaper headlines.

In experiencing the full delights of Mr and Mrs Jo, wisdom must have
seemed scarcely worth attaining. Imagine that childish world where
everybody can play the piano! Our vocabulary naturally stripped back to
mere essentials like ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. When exploring our emotions the
need to exchange monotonous drones would be replaced by the
flourish of keys.

Rather than speculating and divulging into ‘What if’s’, we could
excitedly pound the ivory exclaiming our frustrations and wishes with less
communicable offerings. Like a lost elephant chatting to a monkey we could
exchange noises in a purer animalistic manner, ‘Dddd…dduuHHHH!’
replied by ‘Tttttti Taaa!’ Not hide behind a barrage of crudely slung together
words or continual plagiarism of others’ phrases. Our sounds would be
individual, unique and beautiful! Well, at least in the outlook afforded
by Barenboim’s once childish brain.

Sadly, an adult’s brain would perhaps unravel the ideology of a world where
pianos talk; an adult’s brain would simply suggest that a new language would
be formed based on a dictionary of songs. To express love we would all
perhaps ceremoniously tinkle the notes of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’
and, when scared, thump out the theme tune to ‘Jaws’.

Common sense would propose that life would become like a silent movie,
with a tiresome soundtrack rammed down one’s throat and only when
engaged by an accomplished pianist would life’s score grow less gruelling.
As with language, only a subject of interest would titillate.

For Jo and I, our tedious paraphrasing would just be replaced my equally
tenuous vibrations, ‘tut!’ to an adults brain and ‘DuDuDu Tttti Ta Ti Duh!’

Headlines are reactions, thoughts and warblings
on curious newspaper headlines.

I sympathise; in rearing my kitten behind closed blinds and witnessing
it grow up with contorted limbs, I have found myself, similar to the
practice of shaping bonsai trees, distorting neighbours cats legs with wire.
I have to confess my back yard looks like a feline zombie convention, but if
my cat were to venture outside, deservedly he would feel very much run of
the mill. But why would he go outside? He can achieve an extensive work
out on a mere 51.1cm by 31.6cm board and, due to many a trusty search
engine, has compiled an extensive list of compatible partners to snare with
his barbed member.

As his only incentive to go outside is vitamin D, it’s no surprise to find
him ordering in cod liver oil, greasing himself up and typing away his
worldly delights. Pixelated he is not just a brittle misshapen cat, he is
adventurous, bold and most importantly spell checked.

Headlines are reactions, thoughts and warblings
on curious newspaper headlines.