Frederick Algernon Trotteville had a simple method to write poems. He simply let his tongue loose and let it run. Once in a while I too have to do the equivalent of that and what then results is something not entirely in my control. The last time it happened this was the result
The able-bodied seaman was unable to table the labeled sable as a piece of evidence. Evidently he found it difficult among the babble of the cable TV and the audience. The inn at High Gables was largely patronized by the amateur footballers who dabbled in wagers on the professional football matches.
The fabled sable that he wanted to table was critical to his plan to enable his standing amongst those present. Though he had stayed here for over a year now in this elite neighbourhood and often played Scrabble with the regulars, participated in silly outings with the with those he considered as rabble, played the perfect host every Friday, they still considered him an outsider.
The arable lands of Hable-on-tyne for that was the name of the place, was fertile and the sociable local farmers took advantage of the same and had a profitable business growing seasonal vegetables. Chief amongst them was the hot and very hot green chilies. They had adapted the Naga Dorset variety to suit the local conditions. It is rumoured that the unique colour of the chilies was due to the very potable nature of the ground water.
Normally very amiable, they were ready to take any outsider with open arms in their village. However Mr. Dunstable the seaman, was they felt, a shifty eyed person. He did not FIT-in they felt. One day Dunstable made the mistake of meeting his milkman in his pink polka dot pajamas. How can one be friendly with someone who wears positively shocking pink polka dot pajamas?
The friendly farmers forgave many things but in the matter of public presence they were prim and proper and pink polka dot pajamas was like a round plug in a square hole. They had had enough. Fisher the forthright farmer was given the onerous task of putting an end to the pink pajamas. With a gulp of Alan’s ale hr proceeded to where Dunstable was demonstrating his satinesque sable. After he had delivered the message he left Dunstable dumb-founded and probably demented. Who isn’t partial to his pink pajamas?
The die was cast. The fussy farmers watched in fascination as Dunstable, who had returned from his home with the pink pajamas, pour the ale with an aching heart on the pink pajamas and light it with the end of Cuban cigar – the pink turned to brown then to black. There was a loud cheer and Dunstable made his day.