’Tis A Remark

A Journey Through The Market — Treacle Puddings And Evening Icicles; Tales To The Warm-hearted In The Fridged Season — Morning Papers XXXI

Clamber through the marketplace, pass the overturned carts and squashed Swedes, and sample the luxury of Human Bustle!

Heading out on a winter’s solstice is always a bright sojourn of an idea —breaking the hourglass, dripping the sand on the mantelpiece, gobbling away the mantra of passing time — oh, hath the sexy zeal, why don’t yer?

Stumble out in the morning from your messy bed and cook out the egg, for the reins of protein know no bounds; bright and excellent they are as it is in the depth of a yellowing bath of yolk on your bread, and wonder what fowl could curdle such simple joys from its bosom!

Wake furthermore and branch out your swinging arm for the kettle and brew the proper dew past the last night’s unreasonable dues, and sup the cups of tea away — unless the deranged notions of adulteration come to mind, which be my guest and help yourself to Satan’s tipple of Coffee!

Hotplate cooled, head out and venture into the town you once condemned as the proprietors’ awful lot, with the glee of boredom plastered unto smiles, and slip and slide on the ice until you reach the proud ground of bustlingly free marketplace and rejoice in the loud sight!

On and on and on, you march up to the confectionary stall, breathing in the wafting scents, chambered under hot breath. Rice pudding and a fondly tasty sorbet, all simmering away there on a low heat in the lowering cold of a winter’s prestige-sucked day.

In the conversations I have, I suppose everyone tells their wise truths to this face; for reasons still unbeknownst to me, it must be the blue frock and red hair — Or they deem it too Scary, Oh Miss Mysterious to do otherwise — especially about their previous customers who are bathed in the cigarette smoke or have that special odor about them, poor sods, I pass no blame.

On and on and on I walk, coming across the most divine and lowly creatures, and then there are the dogs on leashes around! Nosy-parkers and buggers-O-plenty surfing the ice with their seemingly dulled hob-nailed boots; ’Tis a season bright in England-town today! You would be rowdy to miss it.

THE LAST PAPER:

IN THE HEART OF THE MARKET

A missionary bell toyed with its chambering sound overall, round and proud, like a watermelon on jubilee midst winter’s decry. The marketplace remained as brightly still as it ought to, with all the teamsters jogging around the hardy folk in their thin clothes and upside-down frowns.

Now, if only they played the entirety of Heroes as the market’s festive album of choice — we would be cooking with wrought-iron rather than wooded utensils. This ought to bring me to this: I recall seeing a market stall with the proud sign: Drowned sods here, no-need for Council.

So be it, a play of thoughts then came over me in their usual upset manner: All eggs, scrambled, beaten, fried, or Post-benediction, appear about the same for you and me as it did for someone living in the Highlands four centuries ago, even forty in Egypt-land if they had the pension for the cracking of the decent people’s eggs: Chickens!

I feel a bit of a cheat if I didn’t recount all the details one sees on a usual market day. Dirty whams stroking parts of themselves in full gust to the wind or laced up on some special sauce that even the devil would have to bequeath, but that is after a midday’s market bustle for yer. You may hedge the recall for the Rozzers after such things!; Colloquialisms, after all, is the beating heart of my humor.

So there’s I amidst the raffling crowd, selling to and fro, when this fella, this radio Jack of a special pudding comes yelling about the pretension of the human sprawl here, spewing out an egg because some of the yellows around the yolk aren’t cooked enough — sandwich chunks bouncing all over the pavement — truly brash he was, and leaving me wondering how loud you think you need to be! — You must be from Birmingham, O; hush my lips.

Spewing carrots and pudding brains — that’ll be my final memoir before my time comes; ’tis a pity too, I always imbued it to be called after one of my great ventures, companions, or exploits!

If anyone ever accuses Me of making a fool of the Human race, I’ll only huff it off my shoulders — Not entirely true, I am sketching a series akin to Goya’s The Disasters of War in the satirical tone of the humbled day-to-day living. What me, worry? Nay!

Remember Jim-dandies saying No or not complying with something is an under-appreciated Liberty, which I reserve in rejecting the Pudding.

Ta-ta-now.

Ever yours; The Doctor [Adams]

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©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms

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