There are nine – that’s 9 – creative ideas currently at large in the world, up from 7 a mere twenty years ago. I think the Interwebz have had a little something to with that relatively large increase in the numbers. I’d work out the percentage, but I keep running out of toes.
The trick with the Super Nine, as they’re called, is in how an artist decides to use them in ever more ingenious and You-Tube-Virally ways. Modest though he is, credit is certainly due to Burly Barry McBardly-Bard for his enormous contribution to all things artistic, and recycled for that matter. And his great big orange truck full of, er, stuff. Her name’s Performia Faultymuch, by the way – the truck, that is (of the Somerset & Maugham Faultymuches, whatever that means). Keep an eye out for Performia (if your eyes are that acrobatic) in your street. She gets around, you know.
As a young and impressionable kitten, I was always ready to look up to my older brother, Second Last, who had an affinity with fireworks for some reason. He hadn’t even been dropped on his head as a baby.
What merry japes we enjoyed under the old weatherboard Queenslander (actually it was just a mining house from Mt Morgan, transported down the hill and set up in a flood zone – luckily it was eight feet off the ground). Second would get out all of our toy soldiers and Matchbox cars and build a wooden fort (with removable roof) in which to house them. Yes, he could do wonders with a few rudimentary tools and no opposing thumb and forefinger – a genius at work, though admittedly the tail played a role.
Finally, he’d tell me to hide behind the nearest stump while he lit up a few lines of Tom Thumbs and a Penny Bomb or two before removing the removable roof and pegging them in there with the soldiers and cars. Needless to say, our dear and long-suffering mother, Mrs On Mars, would hear the robust and playful commotion beneath the house and run down to warn us, yet again, that one day one or both of us would lose an eye, or an ear, or paw, or toe, or tail – well, you get the picture. And that was just going to be from dear Mother’s emphatic attentions. Fortunately, we never did (lose any bits – she loved us, really), and everyone lived happily ever after – boom, boom!!!
You knew it was coming – the path to pineapple paradise, and flummery. Who, I ask, doesn’t enjoy a good flummery? No-one, that’s who. Here’s a recipe from Greg’s Kitchen on You Tube that almost perfectly replicates my darling mother’s Pineapple Flummery. Paw-lickin’ good, no, paw- and tail-lickin’ great.
Ohm, or oh, and there might be a smidgin of nirvana along the way.
When I was a very small cat, I remember being placed upon a grand piano one evening in the games room of my Aunt Felicia’s pub. Luckily for me, the lid was down. Everybody was drunk and, with one minor slip of the paw, a kitten could have easily ended up as catgut, or worse, in that very large musical instrument.
I was exhorted to sing by all and sundry (the sundry being a couple of passing pub rats up from the cellar for the night), though I stood there in my flannelette pajamas (Shrank’s brand, for those in the know) and red and white chenille dressing gown, hardly appropriate attire for a debut concert.
I don’t remember if I sang, or not, but I think a lovely evening was had by all (and sundry), and it was arguably the only time in my life that I knew what it felt like to be that tall. That tallish, then.
Or one might even say, especially good old ‘Z,’ toiling away there at the end of the alphabet, never complaining, just zigging and zagging around as though it was the commonest letter ever.
No airs and graces for ‘Z’, no indeedy, particularly as there’s no ‘z’ in either airs or graces. So many silly jokes, so little time, so little patience. Never mind. Go well, friends, and enjoy all the scrumptious letters of our superb language, especially those that create syzygy. Treat yourself to a syzygy viewing sometime soon, just because.