Return of the prodigal me.

Yes. It was based on my life, you know. Cover via AmazonI'm home now. The train, kindly, pulled up right outside my house. I say kindly - I expect the council are going to be pretty pissed I encouraged rail workers to build a railway line down my street. But anyway, I'm home. A worrying fact occurred to me as I collected my luggage and circumnavigated my duckpond - I'd left Max alone in the house. I mean, I locked the doors and opened the window a little before I left.
 Besides, he had the soup. And probably some tramps in there. I really must pay more attention to what's happening in my house before I lock it up...

I steeled myself at the door, as I've done so many times before, and prepared myself for some new and absurd horror.
 The house looked normal. My pictures were straight, the rug free of urine - which was certainly good, I can't afford another Big Lebowski-esq adventure - and my microwave was free of play-dough. Max was in the kitchen, stirring what I assumed to be soup on the hob when I found him. There were no tramps around, and even better, nothing indicating he'd hacked up tramps and made soup out of them. I greeted him, and slumped into a seat by the table. Max, stirring with his right arm, turned to face me,
 It was then I noticed his left arm, previously blocked from view by his body.
 It was made of wood.

Seriously. There was a dazed woodpecker on it and everything.

Trains and owl tits.

I was on the train back home from London, cowering in a dress that would make the 19th century nobility jealous. It was a disguise, before you ask. The train, engine choo-chooing and pistons a-pistoning... Actually, I'll stop there. I don't know much about trains. Suffice to say, the train was working as it should, transporting us along the railway line at an acceptable speed. I was pleasantly drifting in and out of consciousness in my seat, the warm embrace of the sandman caressing my painted face and plump, overstuffed fake cleavage.

See? That Owl doesn't have teats for one thing...Image via WikipediaThe train sped onwards, darting across countryside and through tunnels. I wished it would just stick to the track, but I'm old-fashioned like that. Plus I was worrying it might hit a fox or a badger or something. I've read the Animals of Farthing Wood, that was enough mammal tragedy to last me a lifetime. Well, technically some of those animals weren't mammals. Stupid, nipple-less Farthing Wooders. But you get the point. Whatever it was.

Where was I going with this again?

Bigfoot and Me

Image via Wikipedia That should be "Bigfoot and I". I care not for your conventions...
 The train sped on through the tunnel, darkness hiding the man next to me. Trapped, afraid, I prepared for the spread of light that would signal his departure. Such was always the way of mythical figures on trains.
 But no! Light snaked up the train carriage, and he was still sat next to me. Dressed in a double-breasted pinstriped grey suit and fedora, Bigfoot looked every bit like a particularly hairy 1950s businessman.
 But, behind the dazzling joy of the 50s man was a sadness as deep as the ocean and as wide as a whale. His brown eyes, as deep as a whale and wide as a dolphin, cast down with the hint of a tear, as wet as a dolphin and as edible as tuna.
 His carpeted paws lifted as his whole body shook out a sigh, descending onto each leg. Reaching out, I patted him sympathetically on the left paw. He smiled slightly, sadly, a smile as deep as tuna. Then we parted ways.

We were at the train station

It wasn't a tube station. It wasn't midnight. It wasn't a brothel this time though, so Go Me!
 While I was certainly at an actual train station today, there were still no trains. The kids were milling around pointlessly, buying tomato soup from a vending machine and pouring it on tramps and passing dogs. A conductor in a uniform predating the war stood stiffly nearby. Growing weary of the trainlessness, I approached him to ask when any form of train would arrive.
 "Trains? Goodness Son, I haven't seen one of them since before the war. When I got this uniform" - I knew it - "Don't get many people here these days."
 I looked around. The train station, spreading extensively into the horizon, was packed with people. Moreover, the conductor was about 25, pale-faced and spotty, not a veteran of the Second World War rail service.
 "But don't worry!" He began again, "I have my own train service! I'll carry you to you destination!"
 Spreading his arms out, he encouraged the children to climb onto his back. They rushed forwards, excitedly, hesitantly. I reached out and stopped them, encouraging them to back away.
 Quickly, we reached the steps, where I shouted "RUN!" and we all ran.
 Behind us, trains began to pull into the station. I don't know what that was all about, but I don't think I'll be using public transport again...

Sleeve-pulling and a complete lack of sodomy (luckily)

(there's nothing sinister about the title and the fact this blog features fictitious children. I just wanted to use sibilance)
 "Daddy!" a little sleeve-pulling voice called out. "We're bored."
I took another look at my multi-ethniced children. To be honest, I was seriously beginning to doubt they were mine at all. In fact, I think they might just be a group of orphans who've latched on to me. But I lack purpose, so I suppose I'll keep them 'till they're old enough to leave home, or I turn them into dog food.
 Or whatever you're meant to do with kids...

 Anyway, I'd ran out of ideas of what to do with them after the airport (Max is gone for a while. I'll forward his mail on to him, don't worry Max fans) so I'd continued the transport theme and taken them to the train station. There were no trains. In fact, the more I looked around, the more and more I doubted we were actually in a train station. Scantily-clad women were wandering around, and there seemed to be a lot of red upholstery, curtains and such. Taking a final look around, it struck me that we were actually in a brothel.
 I have no idea how I managed to confuse the two, but this is no place for children. I can't, in all good faith, leave them here. Oh well, maybe there'll be an accident at the jam factory...

A mooving story...

"Two hundred?..."
 "Two hundred head of cattle, that's what we want to buy."
I looked back at the two cowboys stood on my doorstep. This was getting stupid. Yesterday, the council came 'round and tore down the railway line - which apparently lacked planning permission, and also sped trains onto a busy road and killed a lot of people - which left several carriages sitting around in my garden, looking bored. From these carriages, in due course, had opened shyly and released a large amount of cows, who proceeded to moo and wander around my garden. Since no-one else seemed to claim ownership of the creatures - who were now debated the works of Socrates and eating my hats - they were assumed to belong to me. As such, any passing cow fancier was attempting to purchase the animals from me for what they thought a fair price. To bring this paragraph back to where it began, I shall explain that these men were two such would-be cow buyers.
 "Well," I replied. "Two hundred head? Yes. Yes, that sounds fine."
I then sold them two hundred cows, and they left. My sale made a rather pleasing conclusion to the incident, which is more than can be said for this sentence.

A summer's tale...

I looked at Max. He looked back at me sheepishly. He's done something, I thought, I just know it.
 I took a look out the window: Nope, nothing there. Frankly, I'd been expecting another mob of recent: Angry Wookies, maybe. But no, my garden looks quiet. Not that creepy almost-too-quiet they have in films, but a normal quiet, with the occasional noise of no particular interest, and only a few zombies in the distance.
 "What've you done?"
Max continued to look sheepish. Maybe, I hoped, it would something anti-climatic, like that time he spent a week worrying he would die because he picked a peanut out of his teeth after he peed, but before he washed his hands.
 "You've done something, I can tell."
After the recent Smurf debacle, I hadn't really been happy leaving Max alone. But yesterday, he escaped on the train to the highway. After some questioning, I found out he'd stolen an ice-cream truck that had been abandoned in the pileup. Then, filling it with vegetables, he had raised the hopes of local children. And, as they gave him money for a refreshing, icy beverage to cool them down, he'd thrown celery at them and sped off.
 Max, while usually well-meaning, had a very cruel streak...

Trains, trains and duckpondmobiles.

Outside, a metal horse sped past. Smoke billowing from its nostrils, the train sped across my backyard, surmounting a bridge over my duckpond. It was certainly a rather romantic train; an old-fashioned steam affair, with beautiful hand-painted red carriages. However, setting aside the beauty, the train was something of a nuisance.
 It all started two days ago. A moustached, gross man in a tight black suit arrived in my house. "Your ranch kid? How much for it?" He demanded. "Ain't got no ranch." I replied, leaning back on my fencepost, tipping my hat back rakishly, lighting up a smoke. I probably shouldn't have encouraged the man, but it seemed harmless at the time. The day after I refused the man's offer, two heavy-set men with high waistlines and large braces arrived to muscle me. They shoved me around for a while, then besieged me in my house while a team of workmen built the train-line from a hastily-constructed station across the road, to the highway behind my house. Actually, the rail line lead to the side of the motorway, then stopped. Trains kept flying onto the road, sending cars spinning and vans cartwheeling into the sunset.
 As for me, I've settled into this brave new world. Every day, I meet exciting new people from exciting locations. Actually, most of them are Mr. Jenkins from across the road.
 He never gets anywhere, but I think he likes the trip out. It's been lonely for him since his wife was torn down to build the new airport that stretches from their house to my garage.