Wild Land

Away up in the bloody tower, Wild Land paced back and forth in its tiny cell, pausing to shake the bars occasionally in total frustration. Fortunately, this was just a bloody tower and not The Bloody Tower.

Far below the axe man hefted his shiny ucks (he had an accent like Gimli) and turned to me, “When do you want it done?” He’s an ‘Ohh Arrrr’ type. Minus the eyepatch, of course. You need two good eyes to be any good at this head-lopping lark otherwise you don’t achieve your Key Performance Indicators and miss out on the end-of-year bonus and profit-share.

You have to be careful when nattering to these executioner types. To them, head-count is a performance measure not a staff census and they take the whole thing rather seriously. When he claimed to have coached Gimli with his “And my Ucks!” line at the Council of Elrond I gauged that I was within his swingline and decided that an expression of marvel was in order.

Anyway, I digress. Poor old Wild Land was pacing its cell.

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Remote control cars. Remote control boats. And now, remote control helicopters that fly remarkably well.

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The annual three-way battle in the strawberry patch between flora, fauna and man is about to begin.

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(some Sunday whimsy)

“Dinner’s ready, darling!.”
“Good-oh hun. I’ll just scrub-up after working in the garden…”
A short time later…
“Ummm, honey bun. The kids have nice towering plates of vittles, where’s mine?”
“Oh, out in the kennel. Fang is looking after it for you … I think.”

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Thanks to the worried readers of the Wild Land website who rang to enquire if we were deaded after the Wild Land, Tawa Weather and other websites were down for most of Friday. (I’ll be paying the Rent-a-crowd bill promptly this month, to reward you for your concern).

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Stung by the totally scurrilous claim that occupants of the sunny eastern hills of the Vale of Tawa were “from the wrong side of the tracks,” a small but determined bunch decided to take action recently.

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Back in the olden days, long before I threw caution to the wind and became a penniless writer, I was the owner of a small wine cellar. My cellarmaster was a long-legged black beauty who, like many of the women I know, was a stroppy wench (that should trigger a few comments and turn my glasses into contact lenses)…

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in response to the severe case of husband’s ear that I am suffering from, Wild Land will start a new category. It should be called Sunday Whimsy because Sunday is a good day to kick back and read something for fun.

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