During the French Revolution in the late 18th century the nation’s queen, Marie Antoinette, was attributed to’ve displayed a glaring lack of humanity, disdainfully informing France’s starving populace to quell hunger pangs by eating cake.
I’d doubt any attempts to facilitate the Great French Bake Off came to pass on the back of the monarchs disparate advocacy. Those events leading to scenes where Paris was filled with Marius Pontmercy types scoffed their way through gateau in a desperate attempt to reload empty stomachs….. Well, once 1790’s Gallic versions of Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry had judged the fodder for texture and taste.
“Why are you rabbiting on about cake, Gary?“, I hear you cry. An utterance you may augment with the words “We all like a freshly baked carrot cake, or a sumptuous slice of Black Forest gateau, However, even for you, this topic seems arbitrary.”
In candour, I guess accusations of frivolity within this piece aren’t without basis. After all, in the absence of pre-structured ideas, I’ll admit today’s sojourn is nothing more than a directionless word riff. I could’ve just as easily commenced these paragraphs by posting a Fish Marketing Board tag line of “Let them eat hake.”, as opposed to a French queen demanding courtiers “Let them (her starving countryfolk) eat cake.”
I’ll openly admit that through the lack of subject matter, this monologue is nothing more than a self-indulgent literary jamming session. This capricious northern Englishman entertaining himself with wordplay which predominantly consists of manipulating whichever notion first hits the front of my conscious mind.
For instance, recently adapting the saying ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’ into ‘Doris wasn’t built in a Day’….. Although, technically you could say the late singer of Que Sera Sera was created in the time it takes to fertilise an egg, which is less than day…. Although, I digress.
Former US broadcaster and war reporter Ed Murrow, once proffered “Anyone who isn’t confused doesn’t really understand the situation.”
A statement which, if possessing any basis in fact, could be good news for those confused with my random wordplay. After all, if Murrow is correct, to claim you aren’t baffled by my neurological output indicates you’ve no understanding of the situation…… Confused is good apparently, which is a relief for yours truly as I’m confused and I pen this blooming inanity!
Anyhow, with my central heating boiler just starting to leak, I’ve at last got some narrative direction. Mercifully, it’s not a gushing flow of water cascading onto the kitchen workbench below. What is trickling out can be managed by placing a bowl below the guilty pipe; consequently, unless it deteriorates, I’ll be able to manage this episode until the engineer arrives tomorrow morning.
That being said, I’m getting a tad fed up with having to deal with issues central heating related. Although ordinarily my hot water system hasn’t been too problematic, however, my mums (which’s required my intervention on a number of occasions) has driven me to distraction for a few months now.
To be fair, though, most of the hot water hooey I’ve had to deal with isn’t related to the heating infrastructure; moreover my mater’s lack of comprehension as to how the system works. This not a problem when I’m staying at her residence (which is the usual housing arrangement), However, with predominantly housesitting my former marital home of late, it’s making timely fixes a tad more troublesome.
Yes, during prevailing life events, the god of heating systems (Ex-Play School presenter and former Help-Link boiler advertiser Johnny Ball) appears to be enjoying immeasurable fun at my expense. Watching through the Play School round window, he’s no doubt sniggering at every boiler, radiator and cistern issue impinging on my valuable time.
Episodes leading to thoughts that having a surname used as slang for a testicle can be a catalyst to some pretty spiteful behaviour from the victim.