Joe’s Blog – Twead Reflections

I am sitting in the lamp with Genie, hiding from The Dear One (TDO) who is searching for me.

“Joe! Are you hiding in the lamp again?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well come out at once! I have some chores for you to do.”

“But —-”

“No buts! Come out at once!”

I am nothing if not the epitome of obedience. I poke my head from the spout and gaze into the green limpid pools that are the eyes of my delightful slave-driving tyrant, Vicky. “What chores, oh light of my life?” I timidly enquire.

“Don’t you light-of-my-life me, you idle no-good bag of lazy-bones! Have you prepared the fire?”

“No, my precious one.”

“Have you prepared tonight’s dinner?”

“No, my little butterfly.”

“Have you washed yesterday’s dishes and put them away?”

“No my little boll weevil.”

“And have you fed the chickens?”

“No, my little custard pie. I can’t say that I have.”

“Get on with them then! And while you’re about it, wipe all the mirrors as well. For some reason they all need cleaning.” She then stares suspiciously at me. “You haven’t been doing anything silly have you? With the mirrors I mean?”

“Moi? Not I!”

In fact, this is one gigantic tarradiddle.

“What’s a ‘tarradiddle’?” enquired TDO, who always did possess an ability to read my mind.

“A tarradiddle, my little sweet potato, is a sesquipedalian word for —-”

“WHAT!? What on earth is ‘sesquipedalian’? You haven’t been reading Trollope again, have you?”

“Moi? Not I!” Yet another tarradiddle!

“What’s a ‘tarradiddle’?” TDO again demanded.

“A tarradiddle, my little pin-cushion, is a sesquipedalian word for pretentious nonsense or a petty lie.”

“And ‘sequipedalian’?”

“Well, my little fluff-ball, sesquipedalian simply means ‘a long word.”

“So, you tarradiddle sesquipedalian,” exploded TDO, “you ADMIT to telling me lies!”

“Yes, dear.”

What else could I say? Ever since her Martian subjects (from Morgan and the Martians, namely our heros, Ibble, Bibble and Blop – see my previous blog) had provided me with a make-over, I cannot pass a mirror without admiring myself. So attractive do I find my reflection that I have an irresistible urge to kiss it. Hence the marks on the mirrors!

“Before you do any other chore, you miserable narcissistic mirón-moron (this, a clever reference to her masterpiece, Two Old Fools – Olé!), I want you to clean all the wall mirrors, and the bathroom mirrors. Then I forbid you to look at yourself in any of them. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, dear.”

What else could I say? I do, however, have a secret back-up mirror. It’s a small hand-held one that I keep secreted about my person and one that I borrowed from my very good friend, The Wicked Witch in Snow White. When TDO had flounced off in a huff, I retrieved Hand-Mirror from its hiding place and gazed lovingly at my gorgeous reflection.

 “Oh mirror, mirror in my hand,
Who’s the most gorgeous man in the land?
Is it me, or is it me,
Or is it me, me, me, meeeeeeeeeee!!?”

To which Hand-Mirror replied:

“Of course it’s you, magnificent Joe! Who else comes even close?”

“I know! I know!” I could not help exclaiming.

And I gave myself, via Hand-Mirror, a lingering, slobbery kiss.

Joe Twead