Following Wilson's survey about which label to use for
his Grass Jam, one of the labels has developed a convincing lead... but
it's not too late to change that: just let W or me know which label
you're backing, A, B, C or D.
One or two people have suggested that Grass Jam sounds like the name of a 60s Band – please don't encourage him!
Anyway, while they wait for a definitive winner the boys are putting up the Xmas Lights at the front of the house.
I think they're making a nice job of it, and there've been no disagreements or squabbling so far.
I'll call them both in soon for some Hot Chocolate with Marshmallows, to warm them up.
Wilson has narrowed down the numerous Jam Labels he's
designed to a shortlist of four, and he'd like you to help him choose
the Winner by voting for label A, B, C or D.
As
for the jam itself, he says it tastes just like his Mum, Mrs
Vermilingua, would have made if only she'd thought of it – but he's come
too far to let that stop him...
So: A, B, C or D – You Decide!
Now I remember why Wilson wanted the grass cuttings – it was so he could convert them into Grass Jam, a premium product made from waste!
He's managed to get most* of the smoke stains off the ceiling over the hob, and now he's in the dining room designing a label for his new conserve.
He says that getting the label design 'Just right' is a vital step in the marketing of a new foodstuff, 'Particularly if it's a Luxury Product!'
He considered for a moment, and added, 'Even more so if it doesn't taste all that good – I may need to market this as a "Sophisticated Acquired Taste".'
Once again, to W's great annoyance, everyone in the family considers themselves a Graphic Designer once the iMac is booted up... but at least he doesn't have to contend with the still-absent self-styled 'Design Maven' Uncle Zoltan!
______
* a few
As the 'experiment' proceeded Wilson turned on the wireless and heard an interesting News item:
📻 ❝ Prince Andrew has declared himself to be an 'Ideas Factory' after upgrading the Wi-Fi at Buckingham Palace.❞
'Ideas Factory?' Wilson scoffed, 'I bet he didn't even upgrade the Wi-Fi himself, just paid someone else to do it for him!'
Warming to his theme, he continued, 'Has Prince Andrew invented a premium line of Fashion Socks? Several successful Card Games? An innovative Clothes Hire business? A celebrity Sticking Plaster? I don't think so!'
Tapping the side of his head with one claw, he announced, 'This is what an "Ideas Factory" looks like!'
Before he could continue, however, Byron touched him on the shoulder and said, 'Excuse me interrupting, Bro, but I think the Experiment's nearly ready! Shall I get the fire extinguisher?'
Yesterday – for what I sincerely hope is the last time this year – I mowed the lawn.
Some time ago, Wilson asked me to save some of the cuttings for him to use in an experiment – I've done so, in hopes that it will distract him from his recent problems.
He and Byron are currently busy in the kitchen, performing their experiment, and I'm keeping an eye on them so no paws get burnt, nor noses singed, as Byron isn't as used to cooking as W.
I asked whether they would be sending the results of their scientific investigation to New Scientist magazine – to my surprise, Wilson replied he was more likely to submit it to the trade journal of food retailing, The Grocer...
Wilson was pretty miffed yesterday when he saw the football shirt The Bees have designed for their team, The Uckfield Bees.
He
ran into the kitchen and leapt up onto the worktop, brandishing a
red-and-gold T-shirt, spluttering, 'I can't believe you did that! I've
already designed this shirt, and I'm in the middle of very delicate negotiations over a Sponsorship Deal and Grotesquely-Overpriced Replica Shirts...'
Billi's fur began to bristle a bit, but Polly replied calmly, 'Well never mind – we've got ages
to sort this out. No-one but an idiot would even consider playing
football in the Winter!'
She shuddered, before adding, 'Just think of
the cold, the wet, the mud... the washing! UGH!' while Billi and the Johnson Brothers nodded wisely in agreement.
I asked W about the 'Three Lions' – he replied, 'They're Lion Ants, New Dad! Lion ANTS! Have I taught you nothing?'
Hello, we are The Bees, and this is our Guest Blog!
Welcome to December, the first month of Meteorological Winter – season of Scarves, Log Fires and Mulled Mead!
As you know, we and our little family comprise the Uckfield Bees Football Club, and we have designed some football shirts for next season.
They're white, easy-care 100% cotton with three Gold Beehives on the front, and our names on the back. They shouldn't be too expensive to have printed, because they're quite small, and we think they'll really give our team a competitive edge in the local League.
This is the last time we'll be Blogging before 2018 starts, so we all hope you have a Very Happy Winter Solstice, Xmas etc!
So, we've been The Bees and we'll see you next year.
Until then, BEEEEEEEEE GOOD!
🐝🐝🐞🐞
Wilson says that he will be in 'Deep Mourning' for only a few more days – not the full two years dictated by etiquette – because 'that is what Mr Juicy would have wanted,' apparently. I have to say I'm quite relieved to hear this!
W is now hanging a photograph of Mr J 'in happier times' in the living room.
Obviously the atmosphere in the house is still a bit subdued, but I have a plan which might occupy the boys for a little while and distract them from morbid thoughts...
What with everything that's been going on recently, I really don't know how Wilson's been able to fit this in... but he has!
Here is your FREE Calendar Page for December, with Best Wishes from Wilson, Byron, me and all the rest of the family for a Very Happy Winter Solstice❢
Also Xmas❣
😀🎄🍰🍷🍻🍾❤️🌟✨❄️🌨☃️
No, no, no – it's not Wilson's engagement to Ms Caroline Katz – it's Prince Harry and Meghan Markle!
I had expected today to be spent moping about Mr Juicy and nursing gin-hangovers from yesterday's Wake, but Wilson heard the Royal News this morning and is determined to cash-in by being the first to market with an overpriced Royal Engagement Souvenir Mug.
He and Byron are in the kitchen cutting out pictures of the Happy Couple and Sellotaping them onto all the mugs in the kitchen cupboards.
Should you be misguided enough to consider purchasing one of these mugs, I wouldn't expect it to be Dishwasher Safe.
I wouldn't even expect it to be Coffee Safe...
When Wilson signed up to be an Ordained Priest in the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (which he did only so that he could officiate at same-sex Bee Weddings) I bet he never foresaw this sad day.
He's in the garden – round by the Asteroid Shelter, in the shadow of his Folly – wearing his FSM Hat of Office, officiating the obsequies at Mister Juicy's Funeral.
When the casket is interred he will add the poster for what would have been his and Mr J's first performance together at the Uckfield Empire Theatre – the performance that would have launched their career.
The younger children are indoors with Diesel and Neil on this most melancholy of occasions, as The Bees think the actual burial might be too harrowing for them.
The Funeral Party therefore consists only of Polly and Billi (Chief Mourners), Mole the Mole (Gravedigger), Dave the Pig, the sTone Brothers, Byron and me (pallbearer).
I hope the ensuing Wake might take everyone's mind off the recent sad events...
Mister Juicy's Obituary has been published in the Uckfield Examiner, and Wilson is very pleased with it.
Well, pleased in the sense that there are no embarrassing spelling mistakes, sad in the sense that it is necessary, obviously.
He's also had some Memorial Cards printed, which he says will one day become Collectors' Items.
The interment will take place tomorrow, in a shady spot in the back garden...
Mr Juicy's Mortal Remains have been brought home from the hospital, and Wilson and The Bees have 'Laid Him Out' in preparation for his funeral in a couple of days time.
Until the funeral, Mr J is 'Lying In Repose' in the dining room.
Given the circumstances of Mr J's demise, I personally think a 'Closed Casket' would have been preferable, but Wilson is adamant. (And despite what people who know me may think, I do sometimes know when to keep my opinion to myself.)
Anyway, Wilson has drawn the curtains, covered all the mirrors with black crepe, stopped the clocks (even his famous Mk2 WASTE clock), hung a black wreath on the front door and strewn straw in the road outside the house.
Right now he's on the phone to the Uckfield Examiner organising an Obituary Notice to appear in tomorrow's edition.
Last night Mr Juicy was Pronounced an ex-orange and is now, according to Wilson, living in Pasta Heaven with the Flying Spaghetti Monster, eating all the vegetarian meatballs with pasta he can manage. Possibly Torchiette, or even Radiatori, which W thinks might have been his favourites.
W told me, 'Anyone who says, "cheer up – it was just an orange!" has obviously never had an orange...' and I can see his point of view. Sort of.
He doesn't want to talk at the moment, though – he is content to sit quietly, surrounded by his closest family... and in any case, no-one knows what to say.
I'm very glad that Byron is here, to support Wilson and distract him from his loss.
To Wilson, Mr J wasn't just an orange, he was his friend, and his partner in their Ventriloquism act. A lot of W's hopes for riches and fame were tied up with his 'Talking Orange'
The ICU nurse has told Wilson that Mr Juicy's temperature is 'Ambient'.
W doesn't know whether that's good or bad, and he doesn't like to ask as she's very busy setting up an IV Drip – I'm not certain, but I think it contains orange juice.
Once the nurse had left, a melancholy mood descended as we all sat at the bedside watching Mr J moulder.
Wilson reached out and nudged him gently with his paw; Mr J rolled over and W said, 'Look! He moved!' but now the fading fruit is just lying motionless on his side.
After a few minutes, one of Mr J's Googly Eyes slid down his face and came to rest on the sheet...
We all trooped into the A&E Waiting Area, where we tried to pass the time by reading posters about Not Using Mobile Phones and Quitting Smoking, and leaflets about Malaria and 'Flu Shots, while we waited for Mr Juicy to be seen.
Soon a door opened and a nurse called, rather uncertainly, 'Mister... ummm, Juicy?'.
Wilson immediately raised his paw, said, 'Yes! Yes! That's us!' and wheeled Mr J's wheelchair through the doorway into the Examination Room.
After what seemed like a very long time, Wilson emerged, alone, and announced, 'Mr J has been admitted. He's in the ICU. We can visit him in a little while.'
Byron put an arm round Wilson's shoulder and tried to comfort him, saying quietly, 'He's in the best place – I bet the doctors here know everything about fixing oranges.'
Mr Juicy's taken ill,
We're relying on the doctors' skill
________________________
Mr Juicy's condition has worsened, so at Wilson's insistence I have driven him round to the A&E Department at the Village Hospital.
W, having watched a lot of ER, House and Grey's Anatomy, expected us to be met at the door by medics shouting Medical Things; things like,
'Coming through! Patient is one year old, unresponsive, juice pressure 90 over 60, GCS3, severe mould infection; possible PE, and BM's off the scale; I need an EtCO2 NOW! Prep the OR — STAT!'
Instead, we were asked to complete a form, directed to a waiting room and told that we would be seen 'Soon'.
Wilson grabbed a wheelchair from the Reception area and gently placed Mr J on it, then wheeled him into the Waiting Area, accompanied by Byron and The Bees.
There has been no improvement in Mr Juicy's condition — in fact his fungal infection seems to have worsened, and spread even further — and Wilson is getting very anxious.
The Bees have donned their Hallowe'en Nurses' Outfits (they never need much persuading to do that) and are ministering to the suffering satsuma as best they can.
I've tried to reassure W, but from the little I know about citrus fruit, I have to say that the prognosis is not very encouraging.
I've given him an antibiotic capsule, but Wilson says he needs a second opinion, and Mr J must be taken to the Accidebt & Emergency department immediately.
Rather than put unnecessary strain on the ambulance service, I bundled everyone into the car and we drove quickly to Uckfield's Bird-in-Eye Hospital...
Mister Juicy's feeling poorly,
But "The Show Must Go On" — surely?
____________________________
Mr J's fungal infection now appears to have spread to his mouth, rendering him unable to speak properly.
I asked him to open his mouth and say 'AHHH' (Wilson squeezed his sides and without moving his lips said 'Ahhhh' himself) while I examined Mr J's oral cavity.
I have to say that I'm afraid his infection is getting worse.
Tragically, Wilson has had to cancel his appearance at the Uckfield Empire Theatre, owing to Mr Juicy's worsening health. He phoned the Theatre Manager to apprise him of the situation, and was told the show should be cancelled forthwith, before any more tickets were sold.
This blow is going to strike Wilson very hard...
Following a great deal of thought, deliberation and strong black coffee, Wilson has composed what he hopes is an appropriate response to The Bees' Agony Uncle letter about their missing Uncle Zoltan:
❝Dear Heartbroken Bees
I feel the most important thing to consider here is your Uncle's wishes. If Uncle Zoltan 'disappeared' by running away from home and has not attempted to make contact with you, it's probably because he wants to remain hidden from normal society. Perhaps it would be best just to let him be, and mayhap in the fulness of time, he will return to the bosom of your family.
However, I would be neglecting my duty as an Agony Uncle if I didn't ask you this important question:
Are you CERTAIN you want him back? After all, let's face facts – he was a poisonous and unpleasant little person that you're probably better off without.
If you wish to employ a Consulting Detective to locate Uncle Z, I would be happy to suggest some reputable names; as for engaging a Psychic Medium, I would recommend that only if you are exceptionally gullible.
I hope you find my advice helpful and consoling,
Sincerely yours
Uncle Wilson❞
After he pressed Send, Wilson turned to me and asked, 'Do you think I did right in not saying that he's probably dead?'
