'Tis A Sign From On High.

Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which helped pacify and reconcile Jedward when they fell out about the origin of the old saying, Lor love a duck. The thin twins were engaged in close,hand to hand fighting. Little childlike fists were flying and blond, Tintin quiffs flattened like corn in a hurricane. Ireland's not very bright answer to the Everly brothers were knocking seven bells out of each other when they heard Sean Coyle say,
"Explain to me, in minute, graphic detail, just how you take the top off your boiled egg?"
The twins reached for their combs and said, "There's always someone worse of than us." and made up with a big, kissy,kissy hug.
"Ugliness personified," said Tommy my cat,"would you describe Herr Coyle as a raconteur?"
"Old ricket limbs?" I yelled. "Mr Coyle is NOT a raconteur. But every year, come Wimbledon, Mr Coyle convinces himself he could have been a top class tennis player. Raconteur?" I snorted "More like a racketeer if you ask me. I've seen him," I said, "selling shop-soiled copies of the Messenger outside the chapel gate on Sundays."
"You can not be serious-man!" said Tommy. He gave a mock tennis serve and yelled,
"NEW BALLS!"
Oh how we laughed.
Tommy and I stared in amazement as a fire broke out in the middle of our Autumn plum, Harry Corry sofa. While I ran from the kitchen tap to the sofa with cupped hands of water Tommy said,
"Who would have thought that sunlight refracted through your late mammy's glass eye could do that?"
"Dearest mummy gave me her glass eye on her way to her death bed," I sobbed. "I remember her standing in Rodent Street, pissed as a newt.
"Gingivitis," she said. That was mummy's little pet name for me."Dear, darling, dumboesque Gingivitis, I will not always be with you. Even as we speak the grim reaper is honing his scythe. Here, take my blood-red,glass eye and know that I will aways be watching over you." Then pre-dead mummy took a big slug of Mundies wine, slithered down the wall and lay in a drunken heap.
"And she died that night?" whispered Tommy.
"No," I said,"she lived for another 24 and a half years, BUT on that night in Rodent Street mummy knew her time on this earth was short."
"And now the drunken,old bag goes and sets fire to our good Autumn plum, Harry Corry sofa!"yelled Tommy.
"'Tis a sign!" I cried. "'Tis a sign from on high!"
"Sign my ass with a felt-tip pen!" roared Tommy. "Your mother, old Ma Mundies set fire to our sofa with her bequeathed glass eye. What is that a sign of?"
"EUROPA!" I cried. "Run for the marshmallows and two forks. Mummy wants us to have a good tightener of toasted marshmallows before the sofa goes out!"
Later that night as I lay in bed Tommy giggled and said, "Goodnight John Boy, goodnight, Jim Bob, goodnight--Gingivitis."
Oh the satisfactory sound of a po bouncing off a fly, feline's head!
"Good night Edgar Allen," I giggled into my hessian pillow.