The Stentorian Laugh of the Stronger Sex

In which I read a book by someone who despises me, see some old cards, and draw a big man. What a week.

The Worst Medicine

I’m reading an extraordinary book at the moment which I keep thinking must be a parody, but which I’m now almost certain was meant seriously. It’s a Victorian treatise on smiling and laughter, the passionately-held central tenet of which is that smiling is fairly harmless (if done in moderation and for the right reason), but laughter:

“is a state of painful excitement and agitation […] morally annoying to any one possessing the least dignity of character or thoughtful reflection.”

…and so could everyone PLEASE just stop doing it?

It follows that the author reserves particular scorn for:

“individuals who have acquired the happy knack of writing, or mouthing and spouting, these facetious words, or of performing those grotesque actions which have the magical power of contracting our cheeks into wrinkles, and distending our jugular veins.”

I wish I had a business card, so I could put that on it. But my favourite bit is the series of engravings classifying various types of laugh, and why they are so awful. Here’s a sample - see if you can spot yours!

Sweet dreams

Conversation I imagine must have taken place at some point in the card shop I was in this week:

-Boss, I was thinking, shall I refresh some of the stock that’s, er, sort of passed its moment?

-Oh, have we still got Valentine’s cards up?

-No, but-

-Not Christmas?!

-No, these are birthday cards, but-

-Birthday cards? God, you’ve got a lot to learn. Listen, genius, birthday cards can’t ‘pass their moment’, ok? Because it’s always somebody’s birthday! Got it?

-…Got it.

-Good. Just, you know, think for two seconds before you open your mouth next time, ok?

-Will do, boss.

Ad break

Last week, we did the first try out of new material for this year’s Souvenir Programme, and it was absolutely lovely. Thank you so much for coming, if you did; and for being so receptive to Allwyn (or, if you prefer, Allwyn). There are three more still to come, and the next is this coming Wednesday, 12th March. Buy your tickets here. (Camden Town, 7.30 till 9ish, children welcome. Caution - I may attempt to contract your cheeks to wrinkles and distort your jugular vein. )

Also, The Researcher’s First Murder, my ridiculous murder mystery / set of puzzles / box of postcards / uncategorisable artefact was this very day finalised, signed-off-upon, and sent to be hand-illustrated by Tibetan monks, I assume. You could pre-order it to celebrate, if you liked.

Sketch Book

Guy on the tube. Everything about him was big. Huge guy, in a huge coat, with huge shoes, and a huge bag (even for him). And… the delicate mouth of a sleeping child.

Comments commented by commentators.

1. Re the Lyle’s syrup tin. Rachael Birchall (and others) bring the glad tidings that the dead lion lives, so to speak. The new logo’s just for the squeezy bottle, not the tin. Also Molly Blue Dawn points out that the really odd thing about the design is that the whole ‘from the strong came forth sweetness’ Bible story is about bees. And bees don’t make syrup. “They are advertising honey on their own syrup tin!” says Molly, and she’s not wrong. (Molly also told me about tenrecs, which might be a whole other post…)

2. Re Tiny Kitten / Tidy Kitchen, Tealin says:

   “Once my dad and I came home from somewhere to find a sticky note on the door saying 'gone to poot of fire'. Of course five minutes' thought would probably have got us to 'post office' but we were so tickled by 'poot of fire' that that became the family term for a while.”

   I was once on holiday in very rural France with someone who, last to bed and a bit drunk, but wanting to remind the group to get bread from the visiting baker’s van in the morning, scrawled us the note: “Remember the PAIN!”

3. But most of the comments- surprisingly, and rather touchingly- were from people distraught to hear that I was considering ceasing to remind them that the airport loves them. Well, fine. I hate to interfere in any love affair, even one between five thousand people and a fictional transport hub. So:

Love,

The Airport.