Billy Bumpkiss

Billy Bumpkiss is a bland boy who lives in the blue house on the other side of the fence behind the house. He is the only child cheeky enough to dare venture near my garden. I don't know what is wrong with the stupid boy, I've warned him time and time again not to let his cricket ball hop over the other side of the fence or I'd crack it in half and then whack him with my stick a couple of times, but he simply doesn't listen to me. It's almost like he doesn't care that I will chase him around until I can aim blows at his ankles and knees, and throw stinging nettles over the fence in the back hoping that he'll step on one. No. The boy doesn't care. He is as cheeky as cheeky could be. He's an awfully skinny boy, all bones and no brawn and no brains. You can see his elbows poke through the long sleeves on his shirts, and hid knees are so bony they look permanently bent. If I were his mother I would feed him a little more, fatten him up, because the rest of the world doesn't want to look at skin that bony, they'd rather ignore him and look away than have to stare at that ghastly bag of bones and teeth.

I believe he throws the balls over the fence on purpose, just to upset me and make me run around the garden. But I have a plan to stop him. Tomorrow I will wait very close to the fence for a ball to fly overhead. Once one does I will run to it and snatch it up before stupid Billy Bumpkiss can get to the fence, and I will look over and then chuck it at his head.

Problem Solved.

Mr. Twit is Going Soft, the Sod.

I was right! I was thinking to myself the other day that Mr. Twit had gotten a little wet behind the ears, but now I know it's true. I was hiding a toad beneath his pillow, it was fake I could never touch the slimy things although I do like them more than squirrels and rabbits combined, to scare the idiotic old man, and what should I find but a letter he wrote himself. The miserable fool has terrible handwriting, but I was still able to read it while he was in the bathroom trying to pull out the rock that I dropped down the drain.

Mr. Twit, my husband of many years, who I thought was an ugly soul, a sad vile old man, with zero aspirations whatsoever beyond concocting plans to ruin my peace, was writing about flying. Not just about flying, but about building wings. How on Earth could a human man, a fat old bat like Mr. Twit possibly imagine building wings sturdy and strong enough to hold him up? There isn't enough magic in the universe, much less in that old mans fingers.

He's gone soft. I don't know what will happen next.

Mugglewump's Diet

Muggle-Wump is getting fat, there's no two ways about it. Fat fat fat. Perhaps fatherhood and the married life isn't treating him well. He probably considers himself married.

He's a very stupid monkey, he can't count or write or do any impressive acrobatic tricks like the other monkeys from the circus could. He can tumble and fly and stand on his head, but that's pretty much it. It's just for that reason that the circus let me take him when I left. I woud have taken him anyway, he has swallowed my eye the day that they fired me, and I couldn't leave that behind, could I? No.

But, he probably considers himself married because he is a dumb monkey. He lives with a female monkey and their two baby Muggle-Wumps. They've never had a wedding ceremony before in their life. I've known them both since they were born, and never not once has that monkey been married. I don't think monkey's can even get married, especially not stupid one.

He may not be married but he is getting fat. Fat fat fat. Old and fat. He can't do anything any longer. His knees must be getting weaker, and his brain feebler and his eyes weaker. His stomach seems to be working fine though because like I said he's getting fatter by the day. I've put him on a strict diet of lettuce leaves, chunks of potato and water and nothing more. It's become really a hassle to cut up all of those chunks of potato it would probably be easier to just dispose of him all together, but no matter what I say, Mr. Twit, that rickety old root won't let me. He says he's not attached to the thing but I know he is. Mr. Twit seems to have a particular softspot for the Muggle-Wumps. He doesn't beat them hard enough when they don't perform and he feeds them too much. He doesn't make the little ones practice enough, and just last week I saw him slip the female an apple slice.

I'm afraid Mr. Twit is going soft.

Pirates In The Sky

Today, while I was perusing around my garden I was visited again by my pirates from the sky. They come down every once and awhile. When they come they bring gigantic chests of gold and jewels and they let me have a little. The captain of the ship, Captain James K. Swordfeather, was related to my grandfather apparently, that same grandfather that I hated so much. Now that I'm the only surviving relative, Captain Swordfeather bestows heaps of his riches upon me. I keep it hidden in my medicine chest. Mr. Twit doesn't brush his teeth, so he never opens it and he'll never find it.

I never know when Captain Swordfeather will pay me a visit. When he does I hurry inside the house and rush Mr. Twit out of the house. I send him to town with some measly task, like buying rat traps or more glue to paint the tree. The blithering idiot doesn't even know about Captain Feathersword. Once Mr. Twit leaves I invite Mr. Feahersword in the house for some re-strained coffe grounds and old bread, and idle chatter. He is the only human that I even relatively enjoy the company of, and I don't ever want Mr. Twit to ruin it with his ghastly presence.

Captain Feathersword doesn't come very often. But I keep my garden in tip top shape, thorn and gnarly and dangerous as ever, so just in case he decides to drop from the sky and pay me a visit I'm all set and ready.

My Grandfather, the miserable old codger.

     My grandfather was a foolish old codger. By the time I knew him all he could do was rock back and forth in his rickety old rocking chair, smoke his pipe and talk through the drool that dripped down his lips from his toothless gums. When he finally died I got his cane. That cane was the only part of him I actually liked. He always went on about the days that he was at war, or the childhood he spent running barefoot through the fields on his father's estate, but you could barely understand a word he said. It was like his tongue didn’t work right; it just lolled around in his mouth. I wasn’t allowed to shout at him, “ GRANDPA YOU CROTCHETY OLD COOT. NO ONE CARES WHAT YOU SAY. EVERYONE IS JUST BEING NICE TO YOU BECAUSE THEY THINK YOU’RE GOING TO DIE.” But my mother didn’t want me to do that because it would be rude and maybe would have killed him sooner. I should have just done it anyway. It would’ve done everyone a favor.

Something about me.

My name is Mrs. Twit,. I am married to a man named Mr. Twit. There we are, right there, to the left. I'm on the right and he's on the left. We live together in a little house. I really detest this awful man. See that glue? It's what he uses to make the branches of our tree sticky so we can catch birds to cook in bird pies. See that cane in my hand? It's what I use to beat away small pesky children and annoying animals that enter my garden. You can sort of see my garden in that picture there. It's beautiful. I pride myself on my ability to raise glorious stinging nettles and pokey thistles that keep most of the little nuisances that I despise out out out! 

Twit and I used to work for the circus. We trained the moneys. When we left the circus we took the monkeys with us. Now they live in a cage in the backyard and we train them to do things like stand on their heads, and do crazy acrobatic tricks. This is the only real hobby I have, besides playing rib-tickling pranks on Mr. Twit.