Those Daft Soap Suds (Issue 4)

“Will she be able to dance, again, doc?”
“No, but as far as I can remember, she never could. It was said she danced like a whale on a sixpence.”
“She’s moving her fingers, look, she’s trying to tell me something.”
“Get a pen and something to write on. Oh, bugger, she’ll have to use this musical keyboard.”
Olive Palm began a painstaking quest to tell Sunlight something important Sunlight had put down the other Emin brother – he’d emerged unscathed from the crash- to rush to her mother’s bedside.

It degenerated into a ‘name that dirge’ – like a version of Patch Adams without the humour. Slowly, very, very slowly, a narrative was pitched together and it was not until the whole ghastly medley had been clumped through by the possibly critically ailing Olive Lamp, that a truth emerged.

A cloud had overcome Sunlight. “What, so you aren’t my mother after all! It can’t be him, he’s a bloke. What do you mean, a sexchange just after I was born. Where is he now?”
Sunlight’s despairing confusion oozed like a festering wound and she  welcomed the doc’s intervention with a humungous wedge of gauze.

Duzzit Cleaner and Glade Bright were getting hitched for the third time – to each other.
“What are those numbers on the board behind the vicar, hymn numbers?”  Verruca Cream hissed.
“No, they are odds; the vicar’s running a book on how long the marriage’ll last.”
“Are those numbers in years?”
“Nope. Minutes. In fact, one of them is in feet and inches.”
“Terrible. Put a Monkey on number 75 for me will ya?”

All throughout the service the vicar and some of the congregation with annual passes, tittered and suppressed a wave of what would have been raucous laughter when the vicar came to: ”If anyone here has just cause why this marriage should not take place…”

There was a small queue of folks outside waiting for their cue.

“It’s you. Weren’t we married last year?”
“Yes, but I left you, remember?” grunted Avalark Lemon.
“Aw, yeah, you tried to kill me with a hover-mower.”
Penny Pinefresh cleared her head.
“Yeah, but only cos I luv ya.”
“I’m not a lawn that needs cutting down every week.”
“I’m sorry, ave a rose.”
“That’s OK then, give us a kiss.”
They entwine once more and exchange less than ideas; the seed already sown. Under another mess of coats and empty crisp packets, love’s poisoned arrow stuck up as it must first thing in the morning.
“It’s you. I thought I told you to shove off.”
“You did, only I fawt ye ment yeah.”
“Well, I’ll say this once more only; listening?”
“You’re the wrong fragrance and you make me eyes water…”
“But I luv ya.”
“No you don’t, and what’s more I don’t even like you.”
“Is it me mood swings.”
“That is one of the reasons why I loathe you. Your psychopathic tendencies when you tried to suffocate me with flowers and chocolates. I’ve done with that. I’m shacking up with a Methodist. Much more stable. NOW SHOVE OFF.”

MEANWHILE a new family moved into the Oval. The WIPES, with a matriarchal Aunty Bacterial.
“Gutterwipes.” Said one of the more friendly residents.

A red outfit with white fur trim was being recovered from the local canal.

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