Monsieur Petit



Monsieur Petit, an eccentric French newscaster, who had taken up residence in my head after my miniscule stroke, pored over the news bulletin I had just handed him. His thin moustache quivered as he said:
“I am not sure I can read zis.”
“Why not?” I asked innocently.
“A genteel man such as myself…we do not speak of zese things,” he said, sighing dramatically.
“Read it or…,” I threatened, making the age old slice across the neck with the forefinger. Petit carried a family history of dark dreams like heavy luggage. I know it was a mean thing to do to the mousy man, but I wouldn’t really expunge him; I had grown to love the old fellow and his quirkiness.
He cleared his throat and off he went, blushing furiously: “We apologize for interrupting ze normal Muse broadcast. We urge everyone on planet earth to be on ze lookout for ze new mountain range. Scientists presume that it must have appeared within ze last twenty four hours. Ze muse has lost her grey, satin bra and is in ze state; no one can placate her. Ze bra could have landed anywhere as she tends to fling ze items around. Keep zose eyes peeled for two metal grey twin peaks. Do not attempt to climb zem; there is not enough oxygen at ze peaks and we cannot send out anymore search teams. Ze search teams are currently busy looking for ze same lady’s sea blue bikini panties. Somewhere there will be ze new lake, this I can promise. Ze naked, crazy woman needs help if any of us are to survive. If ze bra is found, we urge you to call ze hotline 0800- BRA-LESS; if you happen upon ze panties, ze number is 0800-PANTS-LESS. Merci.”
Please watch this space for ze one-lovely-blog award, coming up next.


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