Straight from the horse’s mouth
“YOU know the place, surely my dear? There are those two public houses, the Red Lion and the White Horse, then you come to the zebra crossing and the village hall is just beyond on the left.
“Anyway the sale was in full swing when I arrived and they were packed like sardines around the white elephant stall, but I galloped across, and guess what? I came out with a ducky little cheval mirror!
“Ferreting out bargains at jumble sales can be fun, even if on occasion they turn out to be a wild goose chase.”
And what an amazing debt we owe to the animals when it comes to our daily use of language. Speech would be far less picturesque without all those camels endeavouring to get through the eyes of assorted needles – they must become dog-tired in the process. And while the ostriches are burying their heads in the sand and the jackasses laugh, the Cheshire Cats give their usual broad grin and the sphinx smiles inscrutably. A bit of a mixture, the sphinx; he’s really neither fish, flesh, fowl nor good red herring.
In literature the world of light romance has abounded with kittenish women, perhaps whiling away an afternoon at the dansant of fond memory, and about to fall into the clutches of men wearing thin moustaches and brown and white co-respondent shoes – the lounge lizards.
Drama
Ancient inns, such a part of historical drama, could never function properly without slatternly, bovine-featured kitchen staff of sinister intent; and no American detective yarn came to a satisfactory conclusion without some stool pigeon squawking.
‘That dirty rat Max ain’t gonna make to catspaw outta me!’
Today’s spy thrillers seem to be preoccupied with individuals who are set on causing the collapse of organizations from within by revealing information to the opposition. It saves about twenty words per page to call these people moles. The hit men are either gorillas or, if inept, big baboons; much of their monkeying about seems to go on in rat-infested warehouses or fly-blown cafes. When the leonine hero (carrying a Mauser with a kick like a mule) finally catches up with them, they are stuck in gaol to do their bird but they’ll be back in the next volume, because leopards don’t change their spots, do they?
Children at school walk in crocodiles and may still learn things parrot-fashion, beavering away under an eagle-eyed teacher. Thinking of school stories, do you remember those midnight feasts in the dormitory? At Greyfriars, for example, the sudden appearance of Mr Quelch would put the cat among the pigeons, the same cat having been let out of the bag previously by an overheard comment from some eager prospective participant – probably William Bunter. Giving Bunter cream buns was like feeding a donkey strawberries; no wonder they called him the Fat Owl of the Remove.
Wrong tree
Always making asinine comments, was Bunter – just like politicians, really. Capricious (from the Latin for goat) pussy-footing, much given to puffing like a grampus (cetacean of the dolphin variety) when not toadying to their leaders, they are making parliamentary speeches about pretty kettles of fish, but mostly it seems they are barking up the wrong tree. The electorate are not sheep, though. You just wait until the next election, not even a worm will turn.
Golfers score birdies and eagles, footballers are often as sick as parrots, boxers float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, swimmers swallow-dive and athletes run like gazelles.
Then there is the world of fashion ...
“Allo Shirl, ow’s yer airdressin’ gooin’ then?”
“Ooh, great Trace. Besides the practical we have to goo to college as well, now. We’ve been doin’ different styles and things. You know, from the days of the Victorian whatsits with their swan necks and wasp waists, right up to the beehive.”
“Hey, have you seen Marlene’s new boyfriend?”
“Him with the mousey hair what was making sheep’s eyes at er at the disco? Yeah, he looks a proper fish out o’ water. Still at least it’s better than wastin’ er time with that old goat from work!”
“Anyway, ow am yer doin’ with Perce?”
“That’s all over now. Dead as the dodo. All e’d do was come round on Sunday and make a pig of himself with Mom’s boiled ham sandwiches. I’m best away from him, as
Mom says. You’ll never mek a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“Didn’t you say he called your ma a silly moo?”
“Yeah, that was the last straw that broke the camel’s back. Well, see ya later, alligator!”
“In a while, crocodile!”