my life as a artist
it furthers one to cross the great water
Saturday 7th July 2007 5:20 PM
So, the black Mazda is being swallowed by four and a half million fluid ounces of floodwater and I'm lustily singing the theme tune to Stingray, but it's not doing any good. Like the Mazda's screaming engine my mind is racing. What would Troy Tempest do? If only Marina was here! I remember her so well. She was like Brigitte Bardot with gills.
Then suddenly, in a flash, all of a sudden, out of the blue, with no warning, something happened really quickly. Gradually, slowly, bit by bit, imperceptibly at the beginning but quite a lot towards the end, it began to dawn on me that I was evoking the wrong craft! I thought Stingray could go underwater, on land and in the air, but I was wrong. Stingray was only a submarine. Admittedly, it was a fantastic submarine, but it was only a submarine. By evoking it I had unwittingly been encouraging the Mazda towards total submersion, in its understandable search for elemental self-expression.
Supercar! Of course! That's what was needed! Supercar could travel underwater, on land and in the air! I sang. 'Der, der, der, der, der, der, der, der, dum, di, di, der!' It was as though my mind was a ten-inch flat-pressed disc of vinyl with the theme tune from Supercar engraved on it, it's inward spiral only awaiting the stylus of active memory. I knew then that I was Mike Mercury, and if I was going to survive, I had to let my inner-Doctor Beaker take over.
The effects of my heartfelt singing were almost instantaneous. The tyres of the Supercar Mazda started to grip on solid earth, and as she regained a sense of direction and purpose, the thin band of light at the top of the windscreen started to broaden. Although I was missing the dreamy sensual elegance of Marina, it felt more appropriate to be in the practical hands of my inner-Doctor Beaker.
Soon the Mazda's breathless bumper was breaking into light, and while it's grinning radiator grill was greedily and gratefully gulping the cooling air of the late Mid-Wales afternoon, its side-panels were shining like the flanks of a new-born foal. Giddy with the gift of new life, we climbed the steep valley side, zig-zag wanderers moving towards a new future and Betys-y-crwn, (Betsy Croon), both of us yearning for a cup of tea and a gentle rub-down with a genuine chamois leather. As we reached the brow of the hill I could see Pat's cottage, squatting defiantly against the rain, just over the next rise. The lights were on and her car was there!
Later that evening, in front of a roaring log fire, I told Pat all about our traumatic journey, and as the third cup of Lapsang souchong gurgled into the Mazda's radiator, and my aching body thrilled to the touch of genuine chamois leather, we both agreed that I shouldn't have taken the sign to Beguildy.
Comments
Pigs and Fish. There is advantage in being firm and correct.
Posted by Steve , on Wednesday 11th July 2007, 9:22 PM
Told you you were wrong about Stingray, mer mer m mer mer!
Posted by Les Miserable , on Tuesday 10th July 2007, 6:46 PM
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