Sonorous (adj) In the manner of an annoying male child.
should be sent to slough to wait
for the friendly bombs.
Our secret government bunker underneath the Brixton Academy has been on high alert with all this snow. Such activity has not been seen since the Academy spelt Skunk Anansie’s name wrong a few weeks ago on their big sign above the door.
‘Skunk Ananise’ it shouted out at Brixton in three-foot high letters.
I imagine that Skunk herself must have seriously kicked some Academy ass since the sign was changed by the afternoon.
The council’s efforts to grit the pavements were battled fiercely by both the weather and the Council’s Streetcare Street cleaners who followed the gritters round and dutifully brushed the grit into the gutter.
I am a person of particular habits, one of which is singing at my desk. I claim this as a genetic requirement, since, being Welsh, it is a racial necessity. For generations Welsh mothers who find that their children cannot sing have left them out on a mountain to die. It has long been believed that had the French Canadians adopted this practice we might have avoided the musical holocaust that was Celine Dion, but alas, hindsight is, as they say, twenty-twenty.
My boss, however, is tiring of my warbling and accuses me of singing only old material.
‘You’re always singing songs like ‘Seven Brothers for Seven Sisters’!’ she declared yesterday, despite the fact that, if there even was a song called ‘Seven Brothers for Seven Sisters’, it’s unlikely I would be caught singing it.
She has now provided a money-box and I am obliged to pay 20p a day for the privilege of singing at my own desk. This, I reflect morosely, makes the survival of Celine Dion all the more ironic.
The snow has abated somewhat, and back at home I have become fascinated by Ivana Trump’s ears, which surely have to rival Leonard Nimoy’s in their size and convolutedness.