Nights In Nurseryland.

I recently attended a dinner party at the home of Jack Sprat and his morbidly obese wife. It was a small affair. Just me, the Sprats, Little Jacker Horner from the corner, and that tedious Mother Hubbard woman who always brings her mangy dog along. 

Predictably, there were only two entrees on the Sprat's limited menu: boiled fat or dry-rubbed lean. Neither option looked particularly appetizing, so I closed my eyes and imagined I was savoring a dainty dish of blackbirds baked in a pie instead.

I honestly don't know why I attend these awkward gatherings. There's the usual polite conversation about Mary Mary Quite Contrary's garden, but it's hard to think of anything else to say when every sentence you utter needs to rhyme. Consequently, the meal is mostly eaten in silence, except for the loud slurps of Mrs Spratt devouring fat and the ear-splitting scraping sounds of Jack chasing a sliver of lean around his plate with a fork. 

Meanwhile, Old Mother Hubbard's dog spent all evening circumnavigating the table, from one guest to another, looking for scraps. Alas, there was nothing for the poor animal, since the Sprats famously lick their platters clean. Honestly, I don't understand why she doesn't just leave the beast at home, even if her cupboard is appallingly bare.

I'm off to Little Miss Muffet's tomorrow night. It will be just the curds and whey, as usual, but at least they're edible. In fact, I'd be looking forward to it if her stupid tuffet wasn't infested by spiders with no sense of personal space.

News From The Past

Ah the halcyon days of yore. Waking at sunrise with buxom servant girls scurry around your bedroom. They set a pleasant fire in the grate, pour your daily bath of heated well water, then crack open lead-lined windows to empty your steaming chamber pot into the street below. And, hark, there's the clang-clang of the Town Crier's bell as he bellows breaking news into the brisk morning air. 

And hear ye, hear ye, what was the Town Crier's news in such bygone times? The result of a skirmish between hussars and dragoons in some previously unknown village in a far off country. A new tariff charged on the importation of Chinese silk. Silver buckles on shoes for men are out of fashion this season. Old Mother Whartie is found guilty of witchcraft at the Impville Assizes. Egbert Stringwiddler has composed a new minuet that is all the rage at court. All the news that's fit to cry, hear ye, hear ye, followed by a rapid regurgitation of sponsored classified ads for the local weaver, costermonger, butcher, baker, and candlestick maker.

I sometimes wonder if there was a special 'Sunday morning' edition of the Town Crier back then. More of a Town Murmurer than a Crier, who announced his news in the cobbled streets with two hushed hand claps, more suited to the Sabbath than his traditional resonant bell. Perhaps, after quietly relaying his weekend updates, such a Sunday Town Murmurer would even linger at the corner, telling a few comic stories before moving on to other neighborhoods.

There were certainly Pied Town Crier Pipers, however. Of that I have no doubt. After being used and abused by the town's elders, these Pied Town Crier Pipers took their revenge by leading citizens astray with hypnotic chants of divisive fake news, mindless celebrity gossip, and endless stats from international sporting events. In fact, the Pied Town Crier Pipers are still with us today, although they are now wear the garb of professional journalists instead of a mottled tunics with matching leggings and floppy hats.

Batten Down The Hatches

People's personality weather is as unpredictable as real weather. High pressure in the cerebellum means it's going to be overcast with periods of acid rain spreading across the hippocampus by early morning, although some streaks of pale sunlight could possibly break through on the hypothalamus towards late afternoon if we're lucky. But I'd still pack an umbrella just in case.

Looking further into the week ahead, a dense fog could drift into the frontal lobes without warning on Wednesday. And beware of Thursday's isolated lightning storms that strike the spinal cord at dusk. Worse, there's a risk of forest fires engulfing large sections of scalp thanks to the careless disposal of inflammable thoughts.

Alas, human faces lack built-in barometers indicating what atmospheric conditions will be encountered when confronted with someone else's moods. And, woe is us, weathervanes do not protrude from human skulls forecasting which way the wind blows in an individual's current frame of mind. 

If only there was some sort of radar to track the storms brewing behind the eyes of those with whom we interact on a daily basis. But no such luck. We are thrust out into the world equipped only with whatever foul weather gear we've managed to accumulate from past life experience. And such meagre provisions provide inadequate protection from the changeable conditions that prevail.

Nevertheless, should ever meet me face to face, let in be known that my own personality enjoys a fairly temperate climate. It's mid-seventies in my mind, usually. All day long, all year round. Sure, a few clouds drift by from time to time, but mostly it's bright and clear and comfortable in my brain.

My customer Frank, on the other hand. Well, it's always heavy monsoon season in his head and he just can't cope. And that Sarah woman who Frank hired just last week? Complete arctic freeze as far as I can tell. Personally, I blame the man-made global warming of their workflow operations. Too much hot air passes between them, especially on those incessant Zoom calls Frank organizes. So bring me my sou'wester and galoshes, I'm invited to another on Monday morning.

As an aging member of the workforce, I comply with my own strict Kyoto protocol. In fact, I've 'gone green' ever since I gave up burning the fossil fuels of professional ambition, recycling all those ancient flow charts and productivity graphs from the days before the flood. That's how I keep my head above water when Frank is forecast to make land fall.