The Bitch walks through the woods.

We have, here in Smalltown, a religious sect (although I am sure that they would hardly thank me for calling them a sect). Now the ladies are quite a pleasant bunch but in contrast the men are a dour bunch of mono-syllabatical (yes I know, he just made that word up) miseries. It is almost like they have an eleventh commandment, “Thou shall not enjoy thy life”. It is all very strange but stranger than this is the fact that the ladies scare me. Yes I actually feel my pulse rate and BP start to surge and I have just realized why.

As I may have already mentioned I was pretty much self raised and for want of better company, used to immerse myself in as many books as I could. I cannot recall where my parents were but as the faithful reader will already know Mummy was not in the kitchen. In order to explain where the old man was I need to tell you a little tale. Decades ago English pubs would have two bars with separate entrances. One would be the public bar, which was pretty much sawdust and spittoons, whilst the other would be the lounge bar (or select or snug or similar), which would be nicely decorated with a carpet and comfortable seats. In order to pay for the near utopian conditions of the lounge bar the landlord would charge an extra few pence for the drinks and this also had the bonus effect of keeping nearly all the cheap bastards out of the “posh” end. I say nearly as it was common practice for my old man to order in the public and when the landlord's back was turned, sneak out of the door, across the parking lot and into the lounge (yes, all to save 2p a pint). The real bonus for the old boy was that in those days the landlord would always place trays of snacks and tasty nibbles on the bar and this was where the old man would obtain his nutritious and free evening meal. You will be the better enabled to judge his meanness when you discover that he had rubber lined pockets so that he could take the contents of the drip tray home with him at night. Well that was a strange tale, wasn’t it? Now back to the point.

I read and I read and I read. As soon as I could I read. Then I found the Brothers Grimm. Was there ever a more appropriate name for an author? Dear God what is all that about? These are nasty, nasty stories, full of child murder, abandonment, incest and necrophilia (Sleeping Princess my ass, the bitch is dead you pervert). The worst of these “children’s tales” has to be Hansel and Gretel. I was about four years old when I read this and I tell you people I didn’t close my eyes for a week afterwards. If you do not know this charmless little tale have a look here, but most of all look at the picture. There it is, the witch’s bonnet, that is what scares the living crap out of me. Every time I see one of these people I imagine being shoved into an oven, albeit a damned huge oven these days, and cooked alive.

Sleeping with my eyes wide open.
TCB