cow

So, perhaps not tinsel then.

Balloons, yes. Tinsel, on reflection, no.

Dress rehearsal last night. The Ugly Sisters rapped about how much they liked Cinders. Sharon Osbourne was late. The cow did indeed have six legs and two pink rubber glove udders. Jack had his Heinz. The Giant was tiddly, with big presence and a strong voice. The goose’s egg was still drying on top of my cooker, but the pink balloon stand-in was magnificent. Dames Aloud looked splendid; their jokes properly terrible, if a bit quiet. Puss was in socks. Aladdin had her magical kettle. Snow White brought along the many non-dwarves, forgetting their buckets, which is right for next year.

Noddy Holder was edited and loud, and the tinsel got bloody everywhere. All over the library, along the corridor, across the stairs and around the hall. Tinsel carnage. As though tinsel had been pitted against tinsel, red against green, blue against silver with gold tips. To the death, shredded down to their strings.

Balloons, then. I’m not saying balloons will be problem-free. With around 35 Brownies there will be at least a couple of explosions from the wings, but a damn sight less clearing up afterwards. Say this about Brownies, when there’s clearing up to be done, they Do Their Best To Love Their God And To Be Kind and Helpful. It’s in their contract.

When I’m loaded, stinking and filthy (oh, how the euphemisms show the problems the British have with the wealthy) and in need of staff, I won’t bother with a cleaning lady [sic]; I’ll keep a pack of Brownies and feed them on chocolate fingers and blackcurrant squash. That should work. The monthly prit stick and paper shapes bill might be hefty, though.



I like a little company while I work