Aliens

Captain’s Log: Star Date 4.5.12: returned to Planet Earth after many light years spent in the Twilight Zone.


Twenty-first century language is initially difficult to comprehend: global warming apparently means everywhere is cold and wet. Early spring salads are replaced by comforting roast dinners and we purchase life-sustaining vegetables from the Tesco overlords. Two parsnips speed their way along the conveyor belt to be met by Roswell alien recruited on minimum wage.

What are these, she asks?
Parsnips
Really?
Yes. Do you not eat parsnips on your planet?
Yes, but they are placed on my plate in chunks and strips. Next to the potatoes.
How do you think they got like that?
I think the mother alien must have cut them up. I didn’t know they looked like that.

Three courgettes arrive.

What are these? She searches for a corresponding picture on her computer.
Courgettes. Do you not eat courgettes on your planet?
No.

Captain’s Log: Star Date 7.5.12
Travelled to B & Q satellite station to purchase aesthetic plant life for large glass container which has been discovered in field where indigenous people sell rubbish from their vehicles. We seek advice from especially trained super-alien who has been granted ‘garden expert’ status according to his medal of office.

Greetings stranger. Please advise me on appropriate contents for my terrarium.
Pardon?
What plants can I put in my terrarium?
What’s a terrarium?
A large glass container
Oh. You mean a cloche.
No. I don’t mean a cloche
Can you describe it?

We wave our arms and offer a range of descriptions.

Oh. You mean a bottle.
Not really.
And you grow plants in these bottles on your planet?

Captain’s Log: Star Date 11.5.12
Global warming has worsened. The rain has stopped but Earth’s sun is dying and gives no heat. Our garments are too thin and we must purchase outer-wear which will match our uniforms. We travel to the place where the poorest people reside: they call it Asda.

Excuse me younger female of unknown species. Do you have any navy blue cardigans?

Judging by facial expressions, attendant appears horrified. She turns to cloned colleague in alarm.

Do we have any navy blue cardigans?

The aliens exchange strange body language and raise their eyebrows in enviable synchronicity. Alien number two, however, has successfully interpreted one of my words and leads me to a blue garment. It is neither navy, nor a cardigan.

It’s not really navy blue
What is navy blue?
Well, this is what we call royal blue on my planet
This is all we have here.
It’s very small
We are a race of stick insects
It’s not really a cardigan either is it?
We don’t have cardigans at this time of year
Where do you keep the wine please?

Boot sale

Three generations are off to a boot sale in search of bargains. At the gate is a man collecting ‘contributions’. All a bit vague but I drop in 50p.

Where shall we park my good man?
Over there, says the collector of vague contributions, pointing some miles away.
What about that space there, I ask nodding in the direction of a handy spot just in front?
That’s for the disabled
What about my mother?
Oh, I can manage says tyrant mother who has just assumed the guise of the frail and feeble.
Take that spot then, collector of tonight’s beer money says guiltily.

We park and mother nips out of the car, clutches the arm of her grand-daughter and limps off.

Can he see us asks rapidly aging mother?
No.
Well, let go of me then she says, galloping away to the first stall. And by the way, what are we going to put all our purchases in, she asks? I scurry back to the car to retrieve a few dozen bags.
Perusing a stall full of nothing, I spot a number of white umbrellas. They could be handy for the wedding, I suggest to the bride-to-be. This is tricky territory. Rain is, of course, forbidden on the day of the nuptials. Nonetheless, one can’t control everything.

How many umbrellas are there asks my mother? A quick count on behalf of the stall-holder: ten.
How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
A fiver replies increasingly intimidated umbrella purveyor. I might have some more in the van.

A quick search results in the discovery of a further fourteen.

How much for the lot then demands feeble pensioner?
Eight pounds plus the sack says terrified stall-holder.
Done says feeble pensioner. You certainly were my man. Twenty-four brand new umbrellas for eight quid. Bargain. We head back to the car with a large log basket, a smaller plant basket, an assortment of glass bottles, a book and twenty four white umbrellas.
You’d better hand that lot over I say to my mother. That man with the collection bucket is still up there.
Hang on then, she says. I’ll start limping.

Watman's idea of a joke

Birds

It’s a very small hedge; more a collection of leaves really. Nonetheless, it’s home to many feathered friends, all of whom seem to be currently building nests. Talk about overcrowding. I have flock of sparrows - if six comprise a flock – who are engaged on a joint venture. Four or five of them arrive simultaneously with bits and pieces to deposit in their end of the hedge. Two of them planned ahead and have brought some long twine which dangles from the top branches. Bits of this are regularly pecked off and taken into the darkness. They dart in and out, constantly chirping.

Down at the other end, two pigeons, who occasionally take time out from their amorous activities on the shed roof, are also engaged in the construction business. Every year they make a serious attempt to build a nest in the same place and every year it collapses before the job is done because they’re just too heavy. Presumably, pigeons don’t have a long-term memory. There are also two robins, two blackbirds and five starlings vying for space in this des res.
Up the road, in the remains of the old, falling-to-bits pub, the elite have apparently arrived. Quite who they are, is unclear. I heard the news from a taxi driver which, naturally, makes the story a little suspect. The pub has been empty for four years, since when it has fallen into an unattractive state of repair…or is that disrepair? Anyway, after many complaints to the brewery, a fence was erected around said venue towards the back end of last year. Recently, the fence has been painted green. Was this an effort to suggest the rotting building has somehow merged into nature?

Know-it-all taxi driver told me that Hall and Woodhouse can’t demolish this eyesore because it has become home to a rare bird.

Really? What type of bird is that then, I ask?
Red Kite he replies at once.
Really? Are you sure?
Well, something like that. Taxi drivers don’t like having their local knowledge questioned.

I’d heard that Hall and Woodhouse just don’t want to fork out to have the joint dismantled and I can find nothing to substantiate this new reasoning. Could be true though. Better watch out if you own a Pomeranian type of dog.