Beware the Bhaaaaaghs

The sky is full of clouds and seagulls. It's been ages since I last saw the sun, or a beautiful bird.

The air's become so saturated with moisture that the road is always slick and wet, even when it's not raining. Thriving in the winter damp, grass has sprouted on the roofs of several nearby buildings. I thought it was moss at first, but closer inspection revealed its true character. One day, I'm going to look out the window and see a goat over there, grazing away.

A man in a yellow mac has been coming by lately. He's been doing some maintenance on the motorbike shop across the way. He looks like a ridiculous rubber duck, dressed the way he is. I had a yellow raincoat once, myself, although it was more of a mustard-seed colour. His, I'd describe as a buttercup shade. His wife probably got it for him, or maybe his mother. Coats like that are nearly always gifts. Everybody needs a good slicker, but nobody likes to spend money on one. It's such a mundane thing--and obscure, to boot. Who, aside from the odd fisherman, goes shopping with rainwear on their mind? Nobody, that's who--except mothers and wives.

It was bags in my family, though--you know, that sickeningly practical, sickeningly boring gift that always seemed to show up on birthdays and Christmases. Certainly, the occasional slicker or wellington boot made its appearance, but you could always count on a bag. One Christmas, I found eight bags under the tree. From my mother, there was a black leather one, made from tiny pieces of leather all stitched together. Horrible thing. Looked a bit like Frankenstein's monster might've done, if someone had chopped off his head and limbs. Then, there was a powder-blue bag with red and white flowers embroidered round the edges--that came from Grandma. There was an off-white crochet bag, a brown faux-suède bag, a bright red knitted bag that had already begun to unravel, two more black leather bags, and a bag in the shape of a kitten. I couldn't even regift them: they were that embarrassing.

My mother says "bag" like this: bhaaaaaaagh!

So do I, but only because I think it's funny.

I think it's especially funny when multiple instances of the word occur in a single sentence: "Ey, would you mind sticking this bhaaaaagh in the bhaaaaagh bhaaaaagh? There are too many bhaaaaaghs lying out wild and rampant. It's important to keep all the bhaaaaaghs together. That's why I have the bhaaaaagh bhaaaaagh. It's a bhaaaaagh full of bhaaaaaghs, see...."

Et cetera.

Here's something I hate: I hate it when people bung random question marks in the middles of sentences. It seems to have become something of an Internet fad, just lately. I've brought some examples:

That? Really chaps my ass.

Because brick red and powder blue? Don't quite match!

This? Looks incredibly silly.

I'd like to find the person who started this fad and shove a question mark up his arse. 'Cos that? Would be very satisfying. (Faugh.)

Also:

Dear Sandman,

I must apologise for the tone of my last letter. I was frustrated, sort of thing--threadbare in the head, if you get my meaning. I'd gone all that frazzly way you do, when deprived of something you love. You hadn't visited me in so very, very long, and I missed you. I still miss you. Things just aren't the same, when you're not here. The sun seems less ruddy, and the wind less bracing. Even food turns to dust in my mouth, without the savoury seasoning of your presence. I pined for you, my Sandman, and grew bitter as the juniper berry. Won't you come by and spruce things up?

Sincerely,

--Socar

* * *

Dear Socar,

I'm not sure "sincerely" means what you think it means. Your letter seemed more on the sarcastic side, if you ask me.

--The Sandman

PS - Nice hair. Sincerely.