A BEAR SPEAKS

Hullo. Teddy here. The old girl's still catching up on her beauty sleep (God knows she needs it), so I thought I'd just tell you about what she did to me last night. I think you should be told.

I don't get to watch much television, as I'm usually gathering dust under Daphne's bed or shoved away in a suitcase en route to some godforsaken corner of the world. But exceptionally she let me - well, made me - stay up and watch BBC 'Children in Need' last night.

Well if that's the famous goggle box that you all talk about all the time, I can't see what all the fuss is about. I'd have had more fun rooting around in next door's bins. That tubby Irishman in charge got steadily drunker as the programme went on, with sporadic interruptions from a series of pasty-faced and talentless youngsters, egged on by an obviously drugged audience who grinned and clapped more and louder, the worse it got.



There were a few things I liked, such as that big lady doctor from Holby City who made a fair soul mama. She was bearable. Little Kylie, who reminds us bears of Goldilocks, was quite sweet, although she really needs to eat more honey. A bunch of five middle aged women - only one of them pleasantly plump - did some appalling karaoke, and a scraggy old blonde pranced about like a superannuated polar bear and then couldn't read the telephone number properly. Embarrassing really. Later it got even worse, with some very old men off the radio making fools of themselves playing air guitar. After that I fell asleep.

When we bears get old and doddery, we're taken off active duty and shot, which is a long overdue solution for that Wogan fellow. This was all in aid of charity. To help abused and deprived children. A worthy cause, second only to the renovation of elderly bears' feet (see photo above). But the broadcasting of programmes such as this almost constitutes abuse in itself.

I'm a very old bear. In fact I'm Daphne's age, having been with her since she was a wee tot. But frankly, I'm too young to watch drivel like that. Next year I'm going out clubbing with Barbie.

AND THE WINNER IS ...

A little detective work will win you first prize. Could these two chaps be related?

The winner of my deviously intriguing puzzle is the damn clever dicky Doctor Maroon !! who wins a box of lovely chocs. Belgian chocolates have to be eaten within three weeks of purchase, so hurry up and send me your address Doc, or I shall be forced to dispose of them in the time-honoured fashion. And for anyone who thinks Belgian chocolates are "sickly", you have never tasted these ones I have ready to send to the good doctor.

Followed by

2. Brian Roberts
3. Ché l'Ecossais
4. Dip-Dop-Crabtree
5. ExAfrica
6. MKWM
7. Mr Farty

I can't run to consolation prizes, but heartfelt congratulations to all the runners-up, and I salute your indefatigability. I will let the rest of you rack your brains a bit longer before I put you out of your misery. Unless you send me a large amount of money, and I'll tell you straight away.

I go to enormous efforts to keep my readers entertained. You will notice the addition of a musical box on the left where I have gone to great lengths to find songs appropriate to the subject of the current post to share with you. I don't know if some of you have even noticed it is there.

Pearls before swine. (Sigh)

THE WAR TO END ALL WARS ... (to be continued)

A LAST HURRAH

Five days ago

This morning

After a frankly rubbish summer, the autumn has been spectacular. The cherry trees on my street have shown off their triumphant autumn collection, the leaves turning gold and red in a final blaze of glory before departing for the winter. When I started writing this a few days ago, the wind was blowing gently and the leaves were fluttering to the ground in a gentle but constant rain of gold, leaving evenly-spaced pools of colour on the pavement. Today they are stripped bare, and winter has really begun. We wait, huddled around our chimneys and radiators, for the spring, when the street will turn into a wonderful catwalk of pink fluffiness.


Talking of pink fluffiness, Christmas is six weeks away, and Mattel seems to have bought all the Belgian TV channels. Pink fluffiness is back in fashion, it seems. Germaine Greer, it was all for nothing.




I have always loved to see a tree outside my window. In Africa I would watch the lazy swaying of the palm fronds as I lay down for my afternoon nap. Godwin the servant said shaking that palm tree was the cause of his sciatica, but it gave me lovely peaceful dreams. In Poland we had an apricot tree which dropped 200 kilos of fruit the very first summer we were there. I have never been able to stand apricots since.

Back in Guildford we had a huge lilac tree that was as tall as the house. It was lovely to sit in its shade during the summer, but it was getting much too leggy and needed cutting back. One day Harold came into the back garden and said there was a chap outside with a chainsaw and a flatbed truck offering to prune trees. The chap, who spoke in a dialect that was reminiscent of Brad Pitt's character in "Snatch" (although sadly didn't bear any physical resemblance) and was visibly a member of the ancient and venerable travelling community, said he'd chop down the dead cherry tree in the front and prune my lilac for £40, which seemed reasonable. I was loath to tell the gentleman how to do his job, and assumed he would take off the very high branches carefully starting from the top. I disappeared into the kitchen to let him get on with it.

After a brief bout of chainsaw noise I heard a sickening cracking sound followed by an earth-shaking thump. I rushed outside to find my beloved lilac had been split in two vertically - one half still standing, the other half lying in agony on the lawn. He had simply sliced the biggest branch at the base, and the upper branches which were entangled at the ends with another tall branch, had brought half the tree down with it. I burst into tears. That will teach me to trust a bloomin' pikey.

In an unguarded moment I revealed in the last comments box that there is a portal in this blog leading to the Supreme Knowledge, which has sparked off a flurry of interest. It has been there for months and none of you has had the gumption to find it! I will only tell you that it is not a piece of clever techno programming, not an Easter egg, waving your mouse about hopefully will not help you. Even the Tech Guru has not managed to find it yet. It is a straight piece of detective work, and devilishly simple. If you find it, I will know. First one to find it wins a box of Belgian chocolates.

Off you go.

JUDGE NOT, LEST YE BE JUDGED

La nostalgie de la boue?

I was making my bed yesterday, planning what I was going to do with my long weekend, having narrowly escaped from a potential nasty flu, when SNAP! My back went. I am now hobbling around my bijou apartment in great pain. Someone suggested I lie down on the floor, but I daren't in case I can't get up again. I had been scornfully criticizing the Brussels conference flavour of the month, MSDs, or musculo-skeletal disorders, bad back to you Vera (she's not good on medical terminology), and now here I am struck down. I assure you it is causing me no small amount of discomfort to sit here and address my subjects. Are there any osteopaths out there?

Visitors to this blog have been a bit thin on the ground lately. This could be because I cast nasturtiums upon blogging in a recent blog post. It's IRONY, stoopid!! It might also be because I appeared to have deleted my blogroll. The reason was that I decided to update it, and inadvertantly posted it back in white font on a white background. Thanks to a slightly scathing remark by Peter of Naked Blog I noticed the error and have now rectified this problem, got rid of some dead wood and have added a few new names, but my favourites remain (yes that includes you, Peter). If you feel you have been unjustly (or accidentally) deleted and would like to feature on the blogroll of the world-renowned Daphne (visits currently running at 33 per day), please make a formal application via the appropriate channels.

Or perhaps it is my subject matter. I appreciate that my jet-setting lifestyle may elicit a fair amount of envy. Travelling all over Europe as third triangle with the Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band (K.N.O.B.) or strolling along the leafy boulevards of Brussels eating chips go hand in hand with a life of a privileged globetrotter. But I must remind my readers seething with jealousy that it was not ever thus.

I am a gel who worked her way up to where she is now. I studied hard at school, had a Saturday job, and married well. Many people think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth because I first saw the light of day in the Lanesborough Hotel on Hyde Park Corner. Now that Harold has passed on and I no longer have to keep up the pretence of being a high-born lady, I can reveal to you that my mother was a modest waitress. I was born in the pantry while she was serving dinner to Lord McMilky and his party. I arrived between the main course and dessert, which is why my middle name is Pavlova. It could have been worse. The Duchess of Bridport's favourite dessert was Spotted Dick.

As a child I helped in the kitchens of the hotel as a lowly kitchenmaid, bossed around mercilessly by two ugly sisters. But I had a talent for entertaining. I danced like Marlene Dietrich, and I sang like Zizi Jeanmaire. One day, while polishing a silver gravy boat, there was a puff of smoke and a lovely fairy godmother appeared, brandishing a Eurostar ticket. "Go to Paris, Daphne, and seek your fortune!" she told me in a voice that tinkled like stardust and a strangely false French accent.

I duly arrived in Paris shod in my ruby slippers, and headed on pointes down the Rue de la Brique Jaune towards the Opera to start my career as a petit rat. Sadly, there was a strike that day and I had to take a job as cloakroom attendant at the Chat Qui Pue, a revue bar on the left bank. Thanks to my beauty and youth I was adopted by a friend of Sacha Distel, and before I knew it I was keeping my Rolling Stones records on the Boulevard Saint Michel. Yes I did.


But when I was alone in my bed, I was plagued by the words of a god-awful song by some moustachioed Englishman strumming a guitar badly. I started to have my clothes made by Balmain, and put diamonds and pearls in my hair. I went to Juan-les-Pins for my summer vacation and got an even suntan. The Aga Khan sent me a racehorse for Christmas and I kept it just for fun, for a laugh. Damn thing ate me out of house and home, and never won a race.


The glamorous lifestyle couldn't last. Before long I was ruined and living in a council flat in Clichy, forced to find work as a chambermaid in the Ibis hotel at Porte de St Ouen. That maudlin song was still going around in my head: "Where do you go to, my lovely ..." I prayed for another song, any song, to knock it off the no.1 slot in my mind. And then, one day, I heard a guest at the hotel whistling a catchy tune. It was jaunty, upbeat, and I found myself humming it as I hoovered the threadbare carpets. When I sang it to Boutons, the bell-boy, he identified it as the theme from "Match of the Day".

Reader, I married him. The whistler, that is, not Boutons. Harold, my dear late husband, lifted me out of the gutter and drove me away in a pumpkin-coloured Ford Fiesta. He introduced me to a glittering world of Ferrero Rochers and diplomatic skullduggery. When he passed on two years ago I once more had to fall back on my own resourcefulness and paddle my own canoe. Within two years I have worked my way back up to the lifestyle to which I had become accustomed. Well I have a new set of Rolling Stones records, that's a start.

My story is an salutory tale. What goes up can come down. The wheel turns. When I see a homeless person in the metro, I think "There but for the grace of God ..." and I give them a signed photograph of myself in my dancing days. They can barely express their gratitude.