Les Questions

Darling Harlem Hotbloggers,

I have been somewhat selfish...

My desire to regurgitate fact-paste to my little owlets has led to you, my raisons d'etre, having to endure a somewhat Prix Fixe Menu. Now my wiselings are starting to grow in knowledge and spread their wings I feel it's only fair to open up the floor to a Prime Minister's Question Time styled, all you can ask, Buffet...

I can fully appreciate that when faced with such a Pandora's Box of Knowery (or Knower's Ark, if you will?) the questions will come thicker and faster than Usain Bolt's undergarments but please, before you flap out a finger spasm across your keyboards, Mother Owl would like to lay down a few ground rules:

1. Please, no questions about otters; I fear the otter and actually hold something of a flame for the chap who pummels one with a spade at the end of Ring of Bright Water.

2. All questions about former game-show hosts must be prefaced by words Ham!Ham!Taliban.

3. Soothe me with your word asks.

4. Questions such as: Can ears?, Mine is this are?, Is it a dog?, and Cheese? will be tolerated but subject to availability.

5. Please, no questions of a wholly sexual nature. Semi or bi - sexual are open to the consideration of yours truly.

6. I especially like questions on the effect of tinned meats on the Crusading Europeans of the 6th, 23rd and 14th Centuries.

7. If you feel you can't pluck up the courage to ask me a question quite yet, why not practice on some less formidable character, such as a rabbit, whelk, house-brick or member of the judges panel on television's Strictly Come Dancing?

8. Children say the funniest things. Please don't allow them to write on my blog.

9. Lastly.

Firm but fair, I think you'll agree. So don't hold back, attach the candle of inquisitiveness to the miner's helmet of self improvement and probe the rich vein of fact which runs through the darkest recesses of Cavern Gibbons.

But remember...

Knowledge is not love,

Cash is.

x

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

Cow

Although, I'm sure, perfectly fascinating to rural types and television chefs, cows, unlike most farmyard animals, have never really seized my imagination nor been the spur of much more debate than 'with what shall I accompany my mustard'. A state of affairs which was recently thrown into the blender with half a pound of fruit, a little ice and a touch of honey and switched to full power until smooth. You see, a dear, nautical friend and former lover of mine, Colonel Semillon Pandasberg was, due to his exclusive knowledge of local luncheon, recently recalled into service in the South China Seas. A great fancier of all things bovine, the Colonel was, for many years, denied, by his occupation, his one true ambition: to own his own cow. After his retirement, of course, a cow was duly stolen on his behalf and the two had lived happily in a converted goat-shed near Sparnsbury for almost a week. It tore his mighty heart off to have to leave his beloved Mrs. Pandasberg after so intense a period of courtship but the Colonel has always been a man of ferocious dedication to duty and so a suitable Bovinder (a portmanteau coined by yours truly; sounds almost Indian in its exoticism, doesn't it?) had to be found...

Now, I know what you're thinking: The cow was immediately shipped to Barbara Gibbons, as no other being could possibly be a match for such a task. A hood of truth which duly came to pass but only after three other keen souls had tried and failed to take on this burden of a beast; Lady Funbury Van Pokeshardy, Soupy James and my close ally and part-time nemesis, Dr. David Champignons. It transpired that, although very willing and rarely afraid to get their hands grubby, none of this team could quite cope with the intensity of the milking process (Soupy James even developed an acute phobia of cud).

So, I found myself, ostensibly a lady of urban persuasion, almost literally saddled with a heifer, of a size hitherto unseen in the politer quarters of West Polspott, and very little inkling of how to undertake the upkeep of said agricultural abomination. I turned, naturally, to the internet and, during my 17 hour period of research, unearthed some quite startling facts about our milky friends with which I would like to share with you with which with:

Moo: Cows have uncles but rarely aunts.
Moo: Cows, left to their own devices, will fight over snacks and the news.
Moo: Cows have three special powers each, which must never be milked.
Moo: Contrary to popular belief, cows can't be doing with meadows.
Moo: Cows! Cows! Cows! was one of Spandau Ballet's lesser known hits.
Moo: Cow milk is actually the third most popular milk, worldwide, after squirrel and eagle.
Moo: Cows can talk Jive.
Moo: Everyone knows that cows have four stomachs but few know that they also have three hearts, six spleens, eleven teeth, fourteen knees and an organ simply known as 'the Infant Hitler's Frog'.
Moo: Buttercow! Buttercow! Ra! Ra! Ra!
Moo: Cows have absolutely no concept of caramel or Liza Minelli.

I think it goes without saying that I ate the cow and wrote a forthright letter to the Colonel telling him as much.

But, hotbloggers, do, please remember:

Mother's milk is not love...

cash is.

x

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...

tonight...

I spent the night in love.....

Barbara Gibbons - Plucking the unwanted hair from the Bikini line of life...