You can’t beat a good old Nokia.
I have one of those somewhere.
I think we need a Christmas story on Scribbles.
One Christmas, Gummy Bear was looking for his bottle. It was Sweetie that had decided to hide it at her bar, I said bar not bra!
Along came Pugsy Bear looking all festive in his new stockings.
Look at him said Jem, searching for his Guinness, those are the colours of my horse of many colours.
Spitty suddenly appeared, he was building something for Christmas.
Young Robert accidentally knocked all the bricks down, so…
…Gummy Bear decided ‘bar’ is a ‘bra’ that’s hiding,so he shoved his hand in,to discover what was hiding…JUST as Jem shouted "Would yers all be lookin’ here,now!’’ as he ripped off his Aladdin top to reveal his chest-which caused Spitty to stop dead,just as he was about to put the last brick on Young Robert,who’d fallen asleep on Sweetie Pie’s lap. “AHA!” yelled Pugsy,who’d been busy climbing down from a very low wall,“I see Spitty is bricking it!”
At which point Young Robert said “Who are you calling ‘it’?” and jumped up with lots of assistance,finally finding his feet [he’d left them in that bra we mentioned earlier]. Meanwhile, Jem was sharpening his ukelele,ready to do battle with the George Formby Appreciation Society,but just as he started fingering his fretboard [oooh,matron!] the door was kicked open…
Spitty was Bricking It, but “Pointed” out so was everyone else who denied it. Gummy, Jem, Pug and Sweetie held a Quorum and presented a united front, whilst Spitty put the door back on its hinges.
Sweetie still nursing her bruises, wondered how Spitty had managed to blow the Bloo*y door off!
Still, the door looked iffy, so Gummy got out his BIG glue gun.
Stuck in the corner was Ciderz, trying hard to…
You are all in a world of your own.
Sweety Pies lap. I think not.
My contribution to the story here goes
No one would have believed in the early years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences from young Robert’s home planet Greendoor, greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as leisurely scribblers busied themselves about their latest story they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. It is curious to recall some of the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men fancied there might be other men upon Greendoor, perhaps inferior to themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.
I am all tired out of stringing words together. Sorry HG Wells
Not my lap Young Robert and I didn’t write the other bit.
The nearer Christmas got the more silly SOME on Scribbles, began to be or not to be that was the defining question, that remained echoing through the corridors and windmills of their minds…
I came and slowly, thinking went
Beyond the pale where loneliness is spent,
Where glows a phosphorescent reef
Of minds to heaven sent.
A crowd of tiny wavelets break
Where none will ever give or take
But live their hour or two in fear
Of some obsidian surfaced lake.
None see across the other side,
Nor measure this to see how wide,
Nor swim, nor row across this moat
But simply wait the coming of a tide.
