Today I am giving this space over to Bella Wildeve, who asked if she can write the occasional blog on my site. Fine with me. Gives me a break.
Hello, I’m Isabella Wildeve, Bella to friends. I decided that I would like for you to get to know all about life here in Halfmoon, Cornwall. I recorded my interview with fellow villager Liza Weebs, and I’ve had it transcribed, word for word. I would like to post the transcription, if I may.
Just a little background information on Liza. If I may be not quite PC about it, Liza Weebs is old. Really old. She’s so old she makes Yoda look fresh. And speaking candidly, she’s fairly chuffed about it. She knows it’s a badge of honor to pass the century mark and still be able to make your own tea. The last time I saw her in front of the Moonstone pub, she showed me the scar she’d gotten when she was in her twenties. Her brother had accidentally slammed her foot in the door of his Bentley Blower.
This is a Bentley Blower:
That should give you an idea of her age.
Truthfully, her feet would give you that. Her toenails look like hooves.
However, moving on . . . Liza and I aren’t bosom buddies. She’s my best frenemy, and as far as she’s concerned, I am merely a conduit to Jude. Jude is my twenty-seven-year-old brother. She once told me she likes blonds, and if she were twenty years younger, she would keep him. The term ‘cougar’ just isn’t enough when you do the math.
Liza lives in a little rose-covered cottage beside her favorite pub. I guess that isn’t too far to walk barefoot. She does that. Walks barefoot nearly everywhere, even into the pub where a person is required to wear shoes. Her feet look like mauve leather anyway, so they probably aren’t aware of her dress code violation.
Ready for the interview now? Got a good mental image going? Hold on to that. . .
B: Thank you for agreeing to let me interview you.
L: You call this a bottle of gin? I said the big one, idiot.
B: Well, I can see we’re off to a rip-roaring start.
L: Want a scone?
B: No, thank you.
L: Go on. Take the big one. That black chunk is probably just a currant. Lick it and see.
B: I’d rather fork my own eyeball.
L: That can be arranged.
B: First question, Ms. Weebs . . . Have you ever been married?
L: That’s no business of yours.
B: Would you marry Jude if he asked you?
L: Is he?
L: Then shut up.
B: Tell me what your normal day is like.
L: Me days aren’t normal.
B: What’s the first thing you do when you rise every morning?
L: Release me bladder.
L: In the bog, you idiot girl.
B: Thank goodness for that . . .
B: Nothing. Let’s move on to more interesting questions. What was your first job?
L: You call that interesting? I can tell you me favorite job. I were a model.
L: I were painted by William Morris.
B: Really? That’s wonderful!
L: It were. With not a stitch on.
At this point, let me interrupt this transcription to say that I could feel my mind’s eye go blind.
L: Not a stitch. Me and William both.
B: William Morris? William Morris did not paint in the nude.
L: How would you know? Just ask his grandson.
L: His grandson, Alfred. They be living over the garage outside of the village.
B: We’re not talking about the same William Morris.
L: There be only one Billy Morris born in Halfmoon.
B: Ms, Weebs, have you ever been to London?
L: What’s this Mizz rubbish? Call me Madam. No, cover me with dirt. I tell a lie. Queen. Call me Queen Weebs.
Pardon me for interrupting the transcription again, but much to my relief, I was saved from replying by her grandson Len (who chose that moment to blunder through her cottage door). He’s entering the conversation at this point, so before I continue, let me give you a little background on him.
He’s Halfmoon’s Punk Rocker. He seems to have peaked a few years before I was born and has stayed fixed in that orbit ever since. He wears black, is looped about with chains, pierced by rusty studs, shod in Doc Martens, and chews whatever gum he finds stuck under benches. He used to have a Mohawk, then a cobra . . . I can’t say ‘tattooed’ on his shaved head. I’ve seen it run in the rain. First a Mohawk, then a cobra, but now it’s a swastika. Unfortunately, those little feet thingies sticking out from the spokes are drawn on backwards. Make your own conclusions.
Len: Gran, I told them what’s at the Moonstone . . .
He did a double take, noticing me perched on the edge of Liza’s ancient rocking chair. Perched rather precariously, I might add. I was afraid to lean back. When I’d first lowered myself onto the tweed, smells of sauerkraut filled the room. It was either that, or hundred-year-old flatus (pardon my Latin). I was afraid of freeing the rest of it, breaking the crust, as it were, so I froze. I’ve been hovering ever since. My left Rectus femoris was beginning to feel like a screaming sausage.
L: Stop your gawking, berk. She’s not here for you. Just keep your clanging cake hole shut so we can finish my interview. Now, ask me your last question. I’m going with my Len to the pub.
To be honest, I couldn’t remember my last question. I was unnerved by Len. Ever since his gran’s command, he stayed put. He hadn’t even closed his mouth. I could see his lack of molars from where I sat. And a gum boil that looked like Mount Etna. It took Herculean effort to break my own stare. It was like coming upon a train wreck — you don’t want to see it, but you have a hard time looking away. I had to blink several times and wrestle my mind into another zone before I could gain control. Thinking of kittens, I took a deep breath and fished a question out of thin air.
B: If you could be an animal for a day, what animal would you choose to be?
L: A rhinoceros.
And there ends my interview with Liza Weebs. She never did tell me why she wanted to be a Rhino for a day. And just for the record, I wouldn’t want to be a kitten.
I would be a dolphin.
Thea: Over to me.
Remember, to leave a comment click on the ‘Comments’ tag at the end of this blog, and don’t forget to check out the latest Photoblog on the right. Just put your cursor over the picture to read the caption, or click on one if you want to leave your comment.