Overheard. Mark Love
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MAN: I have very mild asthma. Nothing serious.
DOCTOR: Right well, let’s have look then. Good ear first…Aha. And now the bad ear.
MAN: Ow!
DOCTOR: Oh yes, it seems quite inflamed. Does this hurt?
MAN: Ow, yes!
DOCTOR: Right. So have you been using a cotton bud in there or anything?
MAN: No, nothing like that.
DOCTOR: Hmm. Matchstick?
MAN: No.
DOCTOR: Pencil? Pen?
MAN: I’m absolutely positive that I haven’t put anything at all in my ear.
DOCTOR: Well, it’s worth asking. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I encounter in this job. Tell you what, I’ll make you out a prescription for some antibiotic ear drops. That should do the job…Knitting needle?
MAN: I’m sorry?
DOCTOR: You didn’t use a knitting needle at all?
MAN: No, nothing at all.
DOCTOR: Okay then. Right, there you go. That’s two drops, three times daily. Just sort of waggle it around gently with your finger to make sure it all gets in and come back if that doesn’t do the trick, okay?
MAN: Thanks very much…I assure you I haven’t put anything in my ear that I shouldn’t have.
DOCTOR: Oh I believe you. It’s just unusual that’s all…You didn’t have a swipe around with a bus ticket, then?
An elderly northern man is talking about his youth.
MAN: Me Dad were a miner, so he spent most of his working life down t’pit. But when he were topside, on a Sunday like, he fancied himself as a bit of an outdoors man. When it were fine he’d take us in t’countryside for some fresh air. Said it helped his cough like. Somehow he’d always make sure there were a stream for us to play in and he’d make a big thing about taking a drink out of it. He’d say, ‘Lord there’s nowt finer than Yorkshire watter.’ He drank gallons of the stuff. Anyway, this one day he fancied walking a bit further, so after we’d built a dam and he’d had his usual drink, we toddled off upstream. Course we ’adn’t gone far when we sees this bloody sheep in t’stream, didn’t we? Swelled up like a bloody beach ball it were. Must have been dead for days. He weren’t so keen ont’watter after that, I can tell thee.
A rather brash young woman is walking through a very select area of west London with her hounded-looking grandmother.
WOMAN: ’ow can yer cheat on yer Nan? It’s not possible, yer mi Nan!
GRANDMOTHER: Shhh.
WOMAN: But how can yer do it? You can’t. It’s not possible to cheat on yer Nan!
GRANDMOTHER: Shhh.
WOMAN: I’m not using you. Yer me Nan! But yer shutting me out. It’s like, cos I’ve decided I’m doing this, yer shutting me out and I’ve got to do it all on me own. Yer shutting me out!
GRANDMOTHER: Don’t you think I’m entitled to shut you out after all what you’ve done?
WOMAN: But yer me Nan! I’d let you stay at my place any time you wanted. I’d let you eat me food, ’ave a bath, anything! Cos you’re my Nan!
GRANDMOTHER: Shhhh.
WOMAN: And I moved out of your house to give you more room. That’s what I did for you! And now yer shutting me out. I’m not cheating you. You can’t cheat yer Nan!
A publisher stands before her assembled staff to deliver a rousing, morale-boosting speech.
PUBLISHER:…so I know we’ve had our problems. I know that the recent redundancies have caused insecurity, as has the speculation about the ownership of the title, but I want you…or rather I want us, to now put all that behind us and concentrate on building a future for ourselves and the magazine. Today is year zero. Nothing that happened before today matters. All disputes are forgiven and forgotten. Clear slates all around and that includes the naysayers too. I want a better attitude, a more positive attitude. No more grumbling in corners. If you’ve got something to say, you can come and say it to me direct, I won’t hold it against you. Remember—year zero, all right? Okay, let’s go to lunch.
SUB-EDITOR: (quietly) Er, wasn’t year zero the process of systematic slaughter of innocent people by an insane dictator?
STAFF WRITER: Yup. Business as usual then.
A woman in a dry-cleaner’s shop pulls a coat out of a bag.
WOMAN: I’d like to have this cleaned, please.
DRY-CLEANER: Right, that’ll be…What’s that?
WOMAN: It’s a coat, a man’s coat.
DRY-CLEANER: What’s that on it?
WOMAN: What?
DRY-CLEANER: (pointing) There.
WOMAN: Oh, I expect it’s a cat hair, I caught the cat sleeping on it.
DRY-CLEANER: Well I can’t accept that, I’m afraid.
WOMAN: I beg your pardon?
DRY-CLEANER: I’m not touching it. I have an allergy.
WOMAN: It’s just a cat hair.
DRY-CLEANER: I’m sorry but I can’t accept it. If you take it away and remove any cat hair I’ll be pleased to clean it.
WOMAN: You mean take it away and clean it? Don’t you think I brought it to you because I wanted it cleaned?
DRY-CLEANER: I can’t take it, sorry.
WOMAN: This is ridiculous! You must have dozens of things brought in every day that have cat hairs on them! You seriously expect me to take this home, clean it, and then bring it back for you to clean it again?
DRY-CLEANER: Sorry. I’ve got an allergy.
WOMAN: (furious) Has it ever occurred to you that you might have gone into the wrong profession?
She exits in a swirl of loose cat hair.
Note: The dry-cleaners went out of business two weeks later.
An announcement at a south London railway station.
ANNOUNCER: Passengers awaiting the next Victoria train…Ladies and gentlemen, you’re going to love this one. Well, you’re not, but anyway…The reason your next Victoria-bound train is running late, ladies and gentlemen, is apparently due to there being a crisp packet on the line at Carshalton Beeches. Imagine that, eh? Gord knows how many tons of brand-new passenger train brought to a standstill by a crisp packet. Just think,