Burnsall, in Wharfedale, is a nice place – and quite posh. I saw this bloke shovelling horse manure into a trailer. But he was wearing very smart, neatly pressed trousers and a pristine shirt and tie. I stopped to ask him why he was dressed up so smart.
“Well, I’m off to a wedding, so I put ma newer clothes on.”
“But what about the smell?” I asked. “Well, the bride and groom wanted orthodentic stuff – real country smells and all that.”
“Don’t you mean ‘authentic’” I pointed out.
“Naw,” he said. “If I can chew it with ma teeth, then it’ll be allreet for guests. They ‘ave it with wedding cake round these parts.”
PS. This story stinks. I wrote it with one of ma newer pens.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

You get a real buzz walking about in the countryside on a lovely warm, sunny day. And that’s what we heard as we passed this garden and saw a bee-hive and bee-keeper in full protective gear. We stopped to talk to him, and asked how many bees he had. “Seven!” he shouted, “I’m only a beginner!” “Pardon!” I shouted back (because we couldn’t hear him properly). “I’m on-ly a bee-ginn-er!” he shouted again, slowly, before taking off his head protection. “But my bees are gorgeous, aren’t they? Just look at these little beauties,” he said proudly, as he cradled them in his hands.
Whilst I was getting my camera out, one of them buzzed up into his eyes. I captured the scene in a quick snapshot. “So there you are,” I said to my wife. “Beauty is in the eye of the bee-holder.”

Later on, we called in at the pub for a pint. Sitting outside in the sunshine, I was just about to raise the glass to my lips when my wife whispered “Look at me!” So I did. “You look lovely.”
“So there you are,” she said, “beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder.”

Helena Haycartes - new documents unearthed.

For too long now, Helena Haycartes has gone unrecognised for her contributions to filosophy, over- shadowed by her husband Irene Haycartes (see "First Thoughts"). This week, an exclusive report in "Farmchair Filosophy Fortnightly " (published by Alliterative Al and Associates) finally demonstrates how she shaped her husband's thinking and presaged existential nihilism and a TV satirical panel game. The evidence was found amongst a series of intimate letters they wrote to each other during periods of estrangement - Irene of course led a double-life, laying the foundations of what has become known as Haycartesian Dualism.

One can only guess what Irene may have done to provoke this angry response:

Dear Irene,

I have had enough of you thinking you are the big "I am". Have I got news for you! You are nothing!

Ship Design

Another enjoyable evening supping pale ale under a pale moon in the local rhyming slang inn, The Hope and Anchor. My good friend Peter Pun joined us for a couple of rounds, recounting his days as a master ship designer. He was in good form, obtaining a personal best of 508 before losing count. If anyone mentions his short attention span, he gives a detailed account of a major design error in which the rigging of a tall ship had been installed too loosely and the customer cancelled their order. This is known among his friends as the tale of the tension deficit disorder.

We listened to the torrential rain, laying down a furious and intricate rhythm on the metal dustbin lids, the kind of rhythm than you can still hear even when the rain has stopped. The late evening ale-inspired talk turned to treacherous voyages across The Solent and floods of recent and distant times. Peter entertained us with humorous descriptions of his designs for various types of ark. That's Peter Pun for you, forever Jung.

The Filosopher's Daughter - Postscript

Felicity stood on the brow of the hill thinking about her new-found cowculus. A young farmhand, who happened to be born under the sign of the ram, asked her what to do with the field stretched out before them.

"You till it, arian" was her insightful reply.

Cowslips

Today has been a nice sunny day, so I wandered out for a pleasant stroll in the countryside. Crossing this lovely field full of cowslips, I stopped to admire them. But then I noticed a nasty bit of random litter – a dirty cup full of old Twix wrappers.
As I was reaching down to pick it up (and ‘Keep Britain Tidy’), this ugly youth leapt out from nowhere (they often do, these ugly youths). Shouting obscenities, he wanted this horrible Twix-laden cup to stay there. “Leave it!” he shouted, his top lip curling aggressively.
I tried to reason with him, but all I got back from him was a load of lip. The cheeky bugger. I feared he would attack me, so I gathered handfuls of cowslips (well-known for their peace-giving properties) and hurled them at the foul-mouthed yobbo. Most of them fell short and landed near the discarded cup.
So take heed. There’s many a cowslip ‘twixt Twixxed cup and lip.

We went out for another lovely walk today. In bright sunshine we wandered over the Upson Downs. After a while the footpath led us into Ply Wood (which used to be full of tradesmen practising). You could still hear some of their groans amongst the dark undergrowth, so we headed onwards to Balsa Wood, where it was a bit lighter. Then I saw this footpath sign for 'Edward Woodward Wood' and we thought it would be a good idea to have a look. But by the time we'd wandered through Edward Woodward Wood, we'd had enough of woods (well, you would, wouldn't you?). Finally, we reached what used to be an old hospital, set in its own grounds - which were now carefully tended gardens. And as we strolled hand-in-hand amongst the daffodils, I was so happy I asked my wife for a kiss. But she declined. And that's the first time I've been turned down on medical grounds.