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PREFACE 

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GENERAL ITEMS
FOGGYDAVES CANTENNA 
THE EVIL OVERLORD LIST

THE EVIL MINIONS GUIDE

OTHER EVIL/ HERO  GUIDES
A FEW VERSES 

NAMES I CALL MY WIFE & SHAKESPEAREAN INSULTS

COLLECTIVE NOUNS FOR ANIMAL SPECIES

SOME OTHER EBAY SALES WITH STORIES

THE REAL MEANING OF HAYNES MANUAL INSTRUCTIONS

SALAD FINGERS

TOMTOM SATNAV SAG BLUES

 

KITE MAKING PAGES

REVOLUTION KITE MAKING

 

CONTRIBUTIONS FROM READERS

STORIES BY HATTYMENDER  

STORIES BY HELEN WORRALL

 

STORIES  AND EBAY SALES

1     AN OLD LAND ROVER
2     EBAY
3     SELLING AN OLD LAND ROVER  
4     SELLING WHEELS AND TYRES
5     A NEW JOB AT THE FUNERAL PARLOUR
6     SELLING VIDEO CAMERA
7     MY BIRTHDAY TODAY
8     WITCHERY PART ONE
9     SELLING CANVAS HOOD
10   WITCHERY PART TWO
11   SELLING CARAVAN HITCHDRIVE 
12   WITCHERY PART THREE
13   SELLING RATCHET STRAPS  
14   WITCHERY PART FOUR
15   SELLING GOAL POSTS  
16   WITCHERY PART FIVE
17   SELLING A HI VIZ COAT
18   WITCHERY PART SIX

19   SELLING 3 TONNES OF CLAY    
2O  WITCHERY PART SEVEN
21   SELLING A WHEEL CLAMP
22   SHOPPING AND THE HESITANT DOORS
23   SELLING AN OLD PAIR OF BOOTS

24   THE REAL DE VINCI CODE

25   MY GUITAR AND AMP

26   SELLING MOTORBIKE PANNIERS

27   HALLOWEEN

28 SELLING A HIGHWAY CODE

29 ZEN AND THE ART OF  LAND ROVER MAINTENANCE

30  SELLING A CIGARETTE LIGHTER AND A TRIP TO SCOTLAND

31  CHRISTMAS LIGHT RAGE

32  METAMORPHOSIS

33 SELLING AN AMBER BEACON

34 THE UNIVERSE IS A  BIG PLACE

35 SELLING A  BLOW LAMP

36 SELLING BOOTS UPDATE

37 SELLING A  TORCH

38 SELLING A MOTORBIKE JACKET

39 SELLING A POWER JUICER

40 SELLING A HORSE WHIP

41 THE BOAT

42 SELLING LAND ROVER SIDE STEPS

43 SELLING A  TOW / RECOVERY CHAIN

44 SELLING LAND ROVER BULL BARS

45 SELLING THE FOGGYDAVE CARRIER BAG

46 CARAVAN RAGE OR AGINCOURT DEUXIEME PARTIE

 

 

 

STORY 12 WITCHERY PART 3

Lets play vampires  

My wife the odious nightmiester, thwarted in her ambitions of witchdom decided to turn her attentions to the art of vampirism, why? I do not know, maybe the nightshift work appealed, or the uniform. It could have been hanging about upside down in damp smelly places that drew her to it. I certainly don’t think it was the blood as she swoons at the sight of a small cut, a flaw I find so attractive and endearing in so strong a woman. You may find it strange that my wife does not equate Vampirism with blood, the reason is we only have a steam driven black and white TV, this, plus very bad reception because of a TV ariel which keeps getting hit by lightening and is now a charred stump of metal on what is left of the chimney. (I am sure it has something to do with my next door neighbour, a Dr Stienenfranck who's son  by the sound of it spends most of the night walking around in lead boots softly calling “MUMMY”). So the only Vampires my acanthoid one has seen are in very grainy black and white films where the blood just does not show up.

 To enable my dearest to get into the role of vampire I was despatched to the cellar/workshop to clean my tools out and install an Ikea coffin. It should have been an Ikea gazebo, and on the box it did indeed say Gazebo. It seems strange to me but everything I buy flat packed from Ikea always ends up looking like a coffin, be it a coffee table a wardrobe, or in this case a gazebo. I think it may be something deep within my psyche that equates wood construction with death. Maybe in a previous existence I made gallows, or was a hanging tree, maybe I was “that” cross everyone sings about.

She drew the line at soil in the box and so to replicate earth she ate a few dozen chocolate muffins, the crumbs of which soon covered the base of the coffin. That evening upon retiring, my Mistress of evil  went downstairs to the cellar whilst I went up to bed. I could now see the huge benefits this latest craze may bring me, long peaceful nights, no longer shattered by the snoring of my dearest, no longer the ever present nightmare that she may want her nuptials. The clean air Oh such bliss. Because of my wife’s “night noises” I normally sleep wearing a pair of deluxe ear plugs plus some ear defenders. (Looking somewhat like a pair of stereo headphones), and place my pillow inside an acoustic hood. (The sort used as telephone kiosks in noisy factories), but tonight NO, I would for once get the natural sleep so long denied me.

 I was awakened at midnight by the heavy breathing. Some one was leaning over me. I put my arm out and turned on the light. I was met by the sight of my wife, a set of plastic toy fangs in her mouth doing gnawing motions with her jaw an inch from my neck. You would have thought being married to her for so long that I would be used to seeing her

suddenly close up, but no, even now I have to build myself up, normally by standing a long way off and slowly moving forward giving my brain enough time to comprehend what it is seeing. To ask any brain to take it in all at once is a little too much even for me. I screamed and sat bolt upright. She screamed as my knee caught her chin, which made her vampire teeth fly out with such force, that they flew through the window and embedded themselves in the cat’s backside as he made love to the neighbourhood cat equivalent of a loose woman. My wife complaining bitterly that she was only practicing and honing her skills stomped off down the stairs muttering something about why cannot husbands support their wives in their hobbies etc etc. The last I heard was the cellar door closing and the coffin lid slamming with much force. (Good job I used 6 inch nails instead of those silly little screws they always give you plus sturdy gate hinges instead of those weak brass ones.)

 I awoke to the sun shining through the broken window and a strange  silence hanging over the house. Where normally there should have been the bang and clatter of breakfast being made with all the delicious accompanying aromas, there was just an eerie creaking of the house waking, surprised to find despite all the missing bricks that it was still upright, well nearly, just a slight lean to the left. Then I heard a very faint banging coming from somewhere below, and more particularly the cellar. I cautiously made my down the stairs the banging getting progressively louder, it seemed to be coming from the wife’s coffin which was indeed jumping around with each bang. Then I heard the unmistakable muffled voice of my diseased shadow sorceress, shouting obscenities and demanding to be let out. It would seem that she had closed the lid with such force that it was now jammed solid. If one thing could be said about Ikea its that the wood they use is real genuine solid pine (sustainable of course), and at one inch thick even my wife with her prodigious strength could not batter her way out. My mind was racing, running over all the possibilities, I could leave her there for a few hours whilst I had a long shower and quiet breakfast. Or I could leave her all day and go for a ride in my Land Rover, Or I could just leave her there.  Then I heard a muffled “I know your there”, and then those dreaded words’ “Get me out of here or else”. My dearest’s “else’s” normally mean pain of one sort or another inflicted on my good self either physically or mentally. So not wishing to attract this sort of attention I hastened away to get the crowbar, after an hour of prising and levering the lid was still stuck solid. I then decided to get the saw and cut through the box. The box tapered at both ends as coffins do so sawing them off would achieve nothing, the only thing to do was to cut across the middle. I had seen this done by a magician at the Haymarket theatre and it looked simple enough, he just sawed, opened the two halves and there the lady was, head at one end and feet at the other. And so I started sawing. Cutting through one inch thick pine with a small saw takes a long time and much effort. I was halfway through the lid when the blood started to pour, not from my wife, but my finger which happened to get in the way. Undeterred by this injury I battled on for the sake of my loved one, pain forgotten in the haste to free her. Well more a panic, as her threats grew even more nastier. She had eaten all the cake crumbs and was hungry. My wife when hungry is as a lion chasing down its prey, ripping and eating until gorged and can take no more. Then she screamed not in pain but anger, it would seem the only part of her anatomy I had sawn through was her intricately carved wooden leg.
The wooden leg was banned on most islands as it was considered a fertility symbol and with the intricate life like carving on this leg, you were in no doubt as to what part of the male anatomy it alluded to. My wife called it her comforter, why? I do not know but she was angry, and like the hulk bursting through his shirts she burst out of the coffin, her anger giving her strength and my sawing weakening the coffin enough for it to split. It’s amazing how fast one can run when fuelled by adrenalin and panic, also being chased by someone with half a wooden leg is scary, especially when they threaten to do very painful things with the other half. I stayed out all day and came back to see smoke rising from a bonfire in the garden, smoke that smelled of pine and Sweden. I also noted a new wooden leg whittled out of pine looking more lifelike than the original one. It was obvious Vampirism was not for her.

Not saying a word I replaced all my tools and junk back in the cellar. It is a fact of married life that when a husband does something wrong he is reminded of it for weeks after, it is always bought up at family gatherings i.e. “guess what my stupid fella did yesterday”, or in many subtle and devious ways. When a wife does something wrong nothing is ever said, it is as though whatever it was never happened. If it leaves a trace the truth is normally bent so that it could have been your fault. Much in the way Weetabix MAY stop heart disease, it could equally be said it MAY NOT but the positive is believed over the negative. Therefore this episode is never spoken of, and it’s back to witchery, which still leaves the problem of finding a venue for the coven to gather.

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                                                               To be continued

Copyright © David B Forrester 2008