Caravan Park Conundrum

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He’s a retired surgeon with a taste for woodwork.  He lives with his wife in a lovely house with good security and a vegetable patch. There’s a park down past his rear fence, which is pretty and quiet. However, to the right of his house, just a few blocks away, sits a caravan park.

No one knows how this caravan park came to be built in this location. Some say it was a stroke of genius on the developer’s part, while others say that the developer bribed the Council.  There is a reason why the caravan park now sits on that land, but let us not get carried away.

He loves the quiet. It’s wonderful for reading, woodwork, painting, and more. Sometimes he likes to give the stereo a blast to remind him of the 70’s.  It’s never before 9 am and always before 10 pm. He respects his neighbours.  He thinks he’s sweet.

He remembers his first Saturday once the caravan park was up and running. There was never a Saturday like this one before, but will probably be many thereafter.  That Saturday changed him forever.

Now Saturday has arrived again. It is the night. There is a wild party, and the caravan park is alive. What is this hell he must endure? Why is there so much noise? He finds relief with earplugs to grab a few hours sleep.

Then, Sunday descended. Saturday was hard, but Sunday is worse. Sunday consists of many fights from hell. Beer bottles fly about, kitchen utensils and tools go everywhere, shouting and banging lingers, and there’s an awful lot of barbecues.

There is a lull at 3 am, which turns into quiet. The weekend is over for another week. There is so much relief.

Your World of Bling

You live in a world of bling.  Kitsch Swarovski bracelets line your arms, new wave necklaces and earrings from markets and independent sellers line your walls and the Duchess in your bedroom. More beautiful pieces lay locked in your safe, but they are large and gaudy.  

Fashionista, you walk down the halls of fashion magazine offices, take to the seats before runways so modern, and mingle with the fashion elite at shallow parties with dim lights, awful music, and terrible cocktails.  You are living and loving in the scene of chic cool and unencumbered soulless troglodytes.  Never a moment to stop and think about where your life is going or what you will do when those looks fade or your world crumbles.

You invited a new crowd to your home for a party.  They’re a dull bunch, but you think they may be of some use to you.  You’ve become so used to equating commodities with people that you forgot what it means to be human.

He walks in and makes your heart do a saucepan dance.  So loud is your heart, you can barely hear him speak.  This is not who you’re usually like, or is it how you usually act.  He smiles at you and you go a bit limp and loose; melting all over the floor. As you start to talk, it becomes clear he is a particularly sexy chap with elegant attire and a haughty way.  You simply cannot understand yourself.  Why is he doing all of these things to me?

The party goes well, you see most of those boring guebangle-2156210_960_720sts to the door, but he lingers.

He says to you with a sarcastic smile, “Bangle girl, you are so weird…what are they anyway?” 

You’re about to give him the flick but unintentionally say, “They’re kitsch Swarovski. It’s not to everyone’s taste, but I like them…”

Eyeing more than just your bangles, he says, “I don’t mind them.  They suit you…we can’t all be alike…”

You eye each other for a bit, it becomes slightly awkward, and then you both launch into a session of wild pashing, together with a bit of touch and tingle. The floor becomes your bed. You’re both rolling around like 20-year-olds.  Turns out those bracelets, or bangles as he calls them, has multiple uses.

Cullender of Colander

At home she rinses the vegetables in the Colander.  The water washes over the vegetables, then down through the holes, and into the drain to head for the water treatment plant.  Once the water arrives it is treated and cleansed so that humans can consume the resource again.

You stand in the kitchen talking to her about how unsuitable she is to cook you food and how everything about the two of you is disintegrating. She wonders what you are on about, or if you have lost the plot.

Unable to deal with your talking after many attempts to obtain a resolution, she turns the Colander into a Cullender, places your head in it, and washes water over you until you cool down.

Now that you are her vegetable, all the rubbish flows down through the drain to head for the water treatment plant. Perhaps they can clean up your bullshit.

 

Planking

To

      plank is to be free from the constraints of society and do something peculiar –                   something no one really understands, but certain people like to do.

To

      be with you is something different and new.

To

      plank for you sets my heart on fire and my ears buzz.

To

      plank on the chocolate biscuits of your love is so sweet, as we contort and                           crumble all over the floor.

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Your Extreme Ironing Nature

Your passion for extremes has always given me a sense of excitement and this new found energy.  I got caught up in your adventurous nature, that dark curly hair, and those sparkly eyes. 

I never understood: why your ironing basket was always empty, why you had those strange contraptions hooked on to your ironing board, and why you always took so much care of that ironing board.  

I began to question our love, for you would sneak away and then return unkempt and exhausted. What were you doing? Had you found someone else to touch and tingle?

Then, one day out of the blue, you took me into your world and showed me your soul. You showed me: how much you love to go on adventures, how to conduct extreme ironing in exotic locations, why adventures with two is better than adventures with one, and why power points never seem close when you are so far away.

We continue to embrace your ironing board until this day –

                          There are photographs on our walls of that ironing board, you and me.

Vintage Fridge

You live with a fridge from yesteryear. Her door is old and the suction is a bit off.

Partying like you’re in your twenties, you drunk too much last night and feel flat.

You descend the staircase to the kitchen for some relief from the heat and sickness.

Placing one foot in front of the other, you stand in front of your vintage fridge.

You open the fridge only to find that there is a secret garden hidden inside your love.

Putrid smells and semi-decaying pumpkins reveal themselves to you in horror.

You see moss, mould, mushrooms and something else growing in that ecosystem.

Peachy, you feast your eyes on the greenery and decide to close the fridge for good.

You value your tummy, so upon closing the fridge you kiss her and say goodbye.

 

Your Socks

We loved each other so well.

You used to throw your socks at the bookcase when you arrived home, I would scold you, and then you would give me that disarming smile of Satan.

I would always wash your socks, hang them up to dry or put them in the dryer, and then lay them out in pairs only to fold them into smiley faces. 

You decided to stop throwing your socks at the bookcase. Instead, you started taking them off in your computer room surrounded by your books, snacks, and hentai.

I wept for us and decided to let you go.

You’ve gone away, never to throw those smelly socks at the bookcase.

The ones you left behind don’t smile the way they used to.

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