Funny House

I can’t recall the first thought or what images came into my head but when I heard my new travel kettle in full operation it caused me to first snigger then laugh at loud. I then chortled at the snaking cable attached to the hard plug in the wall. The plug inserted in the wall? What an amusing audacity! Then my eyes flowed around the room in the eager expectancy of more previously overlooked amusements. A wicker chair raised a sardonic smile; the boughing over desk lamp had me in such stitches that I rolled on to the carpet and oh what a carpet- patterned with magnolia diamond-shapes ha ha ha. I rolled over to the bin in convulsions of unrestrained laughter. Never had I seen a funny bin bag- all transparent and crackly- hilarious! By the time I had rolled to the wardrobe on the other side of the room I could barely breathe for laughing- the brass door handle, the lone straggling cobweb, a few coins on the floor covered in dust and this skirting board, oh the skirting board! for certain the funniest skirting board in the world. I crawled slowly through the wooden threshold but even that forced a new explosion of gurgling laughter, such that I ended up involuntarily somersaulting out of the house.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to return to my house because it is just too funny.

Big Me-Little Me

On my other planet there are two of me- an enormous one and another quite small one. We get on well and play around in the giant cabbage forests. Big Me gathers up little me, stuffs me down the barrel of a cartridge-less and pen and with an almighty blow propels me through the air like a bullet from a gun. Little Me splatters through the cabbage leaves, making certain to stretch out his limbs so that he is aerodynamically efficient. The landing is the great risk; we’re never quite sure when and where it will be, so on the forest floor Big Me has laid a foam carpet which breaks Little Me’s fall. Often though, Little Me smacks against one of the thick trunks or comes to rest high up in one of the leaves, then Big Me has to search for Little Me. Sometimes Big Me shoots Little Me up in the air and then sprints through the grass to catch Little Me. Other times Little Me runs away and Big Me can’t find him or he crawls down Big Me’s boots and scratches under the arch of Big Me’s foot to tease him.

One day everything got mighty confusing when a third- medium-sized me turned up, then a fourth and a fifth and so it went on until we had a whole line of mes arranged in order of size. Seizing the opportunity, I took a photograph and said my goodbyes. That night in the darkroom, the wonder really began; for as the photo started to develop it revealed only an image of me typing these words.

Rhythm's Gonna Get Ya

From the heavy bough of the copper beech I look down over the town then pull my focus closer across the park to the immediate waving grass. Beneath me is a man in a feathered top hat playing a violin. I notice that each sway of my bough connects to a lilt in his rhythm. I wonder for a while, whilst munching on an apple, if his violin is actually moving my tree. Such is the case when an idea converts into a belief the evidence begins to mount. I look up to the rippling bronze crown and see that’s movements are too intricate and varied to capture. Nevertheless one leaf catches my eye- it is much lighter than the others, a pale gold and it moves less often in the spring breeze but more dramatically. One more gum piercing crunch on the apple reveals something- for the leave shakes violently to the left. Then with a febrile awe I notice that as I chew on my mouthful the leaf moves to the same rhythm and intensity. I stop and it stops. I start again and it starts again. I shake my head in disbelief and as I do so the violinist stumbles on his feet, the violin falls to the floor with a deathly shriek the tree branch I am sitting on comes crashing to the ground.


In an air bubble in the wallpaper I keep a magnifying class which I use to read letters sent to me from a tiny friend. There is an invisible slit in the bubble which allows me access and sometimes I tipex over the slit just to disguise it even more. I usually give the matter little regard but it took on a new meaning when a street juggler broke into my house and found it out. He circled around the room, taunting me with an impromptu song- ”I know where you keep your magnifying class, it’s in the slit, it’s in the bubble, y’all . "Sing it!" he shouted, eliciting my participation in his bizarre anthem, while he blocked my escape route through the door. Several minutes of failed escapes I changed tactics and started to sing along with him and then bull-rushed him. I brought him down with a violent rugby tackle. His body went limp and then saliva started to bubble out of his mouth. Upon careful inspection of the saliva with my magnifying glass I could see that each bubble had a letter and furthermore that the bubbles were arranged so that an entire legible text was on offer. It started with: In an air bubble in the wallpaper……. And finished with: and finished with.


She passed slowly. He lumbered along carrying a fridge and a biro. He told me later that it was the biro that had slowed him down. She glided so lightly it was disturbingly unreal and undisturbingly real at the same time. The tension between both states caused a tiny and immediate headache which I estimated to be no bigger than a pea. Interestingly, he was also carrying a pea in his pocket which somehow she had known about for she kept looking backing staring at his pocket while shouting: "fridge."


I zoom in on the ant because the shine on its jacket reflects a sepia world above of high moving cloud then I swirl my eyes around the trees. A man with a tattooed neck and rainbow-patterend collar is both kind and appallingly false. I wonder where these contradictions develop but somehow the coo of the pigeon breaks my inquiry then I tap out the rythymn of the coo using a toe-nail I found in the street. It is a dark cherry or brownish-painted toenail, a large one and when I finish my tapping I hold it to the young cherry tree three feet away and sure enough, I say aloud to my pet goat, whose beard is frothy with ale by now, its tone blends neatly in, to such a degree that my eyes cannot detect where the toenail is and where the bark is. To make matters more confusing I look down at my barefeet and see that my toenails are actually constructed of sycamore bark. I zoom in back to the ant and see that it is smiling at me while looking at itself in the reflection of my left eye which revealed a blue world beneath of waving grass.