I coped with my weekend existential self discovery, if that isn’t an oxymoron. Since then I have been locked in a most heroic struggle with an extremely tedious task necessary for my next great project. But too rays of sunshine lit up my rainy weekend 1. A friend of mine confessed to finding his own company boring, something I rank lower than my reaction to selftime which is one of gloom. To find yourself boring has got to be to plumb new depths of self scrutiny. I am really impressed – wow! Personally I find myself to be the most fascinating being in the universe, bar none. Second I received a poem from a friend. Sadly it’s not about me but it is about a present I bought her at the car boot sale. I could not resist getting her a ceramic container for a Brillo pad. Just knew she would be delighted and to top that I knew she needed one. Who doesn’t! Anyway here is a picture of the item and below that the splendiferous poem written in its honour. The bard is Barbara Evans of the parish of Worcester. I believe this to be opus 1 but stand to be corrected. More poems on domestic artefacts are most welcome.

Penelope Posonby Penstemonn Prillo, who paid insufficient attention to safety at the sink and was early cut off in Dreadful agonies

A Cautionary Tale by
Hillarious Bollocks

Barbara O’Donnell had never had
A receptacle for her brillo pad
Thankfully she had a mate
Who saved from a dreadful fate
The like of which I’ll now relate

Penelope Ponsonby Penstemonn Prillo
Was scrubbing away at her pans with a brillo
(The butler was off- he was quite a cumudgeon
Housekeeper and servants-resigned in high dudgeon)
She scraped and she scrubbed at the fat from the bacon
Then suddenly cried “Whats that noise the dog’s makin’?”
(A creature called Fluff- with a very loud bark
Who often made out he was sick for a lark)
As she rushed in a panic towards the back door
The brillo pad slid off the sink to the floor
When she’d scolded the dog and returned with the vac
She slipped on the brillo pad, fell on her back
And there she did lie for a number of days
Until the old butler, who’d mended his ways,
returned to her ladyship’s home full of smiles
To find her prostate on the floor on the tiles
“Who am I? Who are you?” she cried. “If it please yer”
The butler replied, ” You be sick with amnesia.
Just sign this new will. You can leave me the lot”
And when it was done, killed her off with one shot

So Barbara be thankful when reading of this
That you have such a friend in the generous Chris
To save you from injury his dearest wish
As he Scoured the car boots for a brillo pad dish.