Mini Twister Touches Down in Willowdale Living Room

Environment Canada: December 11, 2010 – Quasi-Official Media Release.

            At 10:35 A.M. a resident of a quiet Willowdale neighbourhood reported finding evidence that a twister had touched down in his living room.

Oh the Ephemera!

            JBM: “Oh, the ephemera! I got up really early today; maybe 10:30. When I got to the front room I found total chaos – much, much worse then the pervasive chaos that was there only yesterday. It looked like the ghost of Madame Benoit had come looking for a recipe and been unable to find it. There were cooking and home decorating books everywhere!”

            The accompanying photo, taken after Tertiary Responders had used heavy equipment to clear a path from the living room door to the couch, gives a glimpse of the havoc wreaked. The homeowner fears it may take many long hours to restore the house to a semblance of its former state:

            JBM: Oh my! Christmas with Martha Stewart – should I shelve that with the cook books or with the home decorating books?”

Helpful Household Hints I

A Little Light Reading Material

When guests come to your house you should always try to make them feel comfortable and at home. The presence of healthy plants and/or small colourful caged songbirds lends a cheerful aspect to the house whilst also subtly reassuring the visitor that the internal environmental conditions are not unduly hazardous.

Magazines, books, and videos of an overtly pornographic nature might be placed out of sight for the duration of the guests’ visit … unless your visitors are a group of nerdy fanboys, in which case the perusal of said media will undoubtedly prove to be the highlight of their visit.

A thoughtful host will remember to place some light reading material in the bathroom. It gives the guests something to while away the time whilst otherwise ensconced in the powder room, and simultaneously serves to distract them from rummaging through your medicine cabinet.

Things Change, Things Stay the Same

Setting: Moravia, December 25,000 B.C.; at the mouth of a Cro-Magnon clan rockshelter; shortly after sunrise; temperature -20°C

The small group of Cro-Magnon hunters stood shivering in the chill morning air. They carried food for a hand of days; the mammoth hunt might take them far across the icy, windswept steppe. They leant upon their spears, waiting for Jahrn; Jahrn was late … again.

The leader, Krug, looked at his assembled kinfolk. They were bundled warmly against the frigid air; bearskin cloaks gathered tightly over their reindeer-skin leggings and tunics; rabbit-skin hats and mitts covering as much exposed skin as possible. Then he looked at his nephew Throg. Throg was wearing reindeer-skin leggings and an open vest.

“Uhm, Throg, are you sure you’re dressed warmly enough?” asked Krug.

“I’m fine,” replied the young man.

“It’s cold now, and it’ll be a lot colder when we get out on the steppe.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“We’re going to be out for a long time, probably days, and …”

“I’m not cold, I’ll be fine,” grumbled the young man.

Krug looked at his nephew. The boy was trying to look like a tough, experienced hunter but Krug thought he could detect a continual slight shiver; and the boy’s teeth were starting to chatter. “Idiot,” Krug thought.

“Maybe you’re not cold now, but you might be later. You should at least wear your hat and mitts, and you could carry your warm cloak,” suggested Krug, trying to keep his tone light.

“Krug’s right,” said Derhn, the boy’s older cousin, “the wind out’n the plain is pure nasty; she’ll steal all your heat if you’re not dressed right.”

“Look, I said I’ll be fine,” bit out the young man.

Krug couldn’t help it; he turned his head and rolled his eyes. “Damned fool idiot,” he thought.

“Hey, are we going hunting today or not?” rumbled Krahg, the leader’s brother, “’cause if we’re not I’m not standing out here all day in the damned wind.”

Krug looked up as his cousin Jahrn finally saw fit to put in an appearance.

“We’re going hunting,” he said, “and” - turning to his nephew - “if you get cold, or your ears turn black and fall off don’t come complaining to me … or to your mother”

Font of Endless Dirty Dishes

Font of Endless Dirty Dishes

Early in my explorations of the ancestral abode I came across what I originally took to be a piece of ultra-modern sculpture but on closer examination I found it was in fact a large pile of dirty dishes. According to my researches, debris piles such as this are often associated with what was known as a “sink”. I have, in my free time, begun careful excavation to see if I can unearth just such a fixture.

Base Camp

Last night, as the temperature began to drop precipitously from 69ºF to what would surely be a low of 62ºF, I made camp in what I have decided to call the Chamber Where Cardboard Goes to Die (I am forced to use Fahrenheit measurements for this record because I have not as yet been able to find the legendary Manufacturer’s Script for Amending Said Thermostat in Accordance with the Gospel of St. Celsius).

From what I have been able to determine some months or even years ago a race of cardboard box creatures dwelt peacefully here, grazing happily on dust and lint. Tragically they were viciously set upon and slain by an unknown predator, and their contents – mostly RPGs, books, comics, and toy soldiers to judge by the evidence – wantonly strewn about the landscape.

Chamber Where Cardboard Goes to Die

I have found it convenient to use the burial mounds of the slain cardboardites to drape my clothes each evening. The remains of the box folk provide a surprisingly dry, if dusty environment and I believe it would be difficult for a predator to come upon me without giving away its presence as it stumbled and crunched its way through the cairns of literary ephemera.

Marooned in Willowdale

Why Not Adopt Me Instead

My first full day alone in the wilds of Willowdale: will I survive? Will I maintain my sanity? Will I be able to recruit enough strength to continue writing this harrowing account of the ordeal? Will searchers stumble across this journal many years in the future? Only time will tell.

My sister, and sole housemate, has gone questing in Central Asia; gone in search of motherhood. She has flown to the ends of the Earth to seek an adoptive child. A truly heroic – and oh, so expensive – quest.

I warned her of the perils, cautioned her about the pitfalls, and ever so tactfully suggested that if she was dead set on adoption mightn’t there be a nineteen-year-old buxom, blonde au pair to be found. Was my sister grateful? No, instead she threatened me with death … again.