No announcement yet.

The Lamp Lady.

  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts

  • The Lamp Lady.

    I was sitting at my desk the other day and I was sort of day dreaming & like staring at a shelf to my right where I have sundry stuff I have collected over time.

    So there’s this 1960s lamp sitting there and right beside it a clockwork tinplate baby bear wearing a diaper that sort of crawls about on paws & feet when you wind it up. Mostly they just hang around there doing nothing cos once you’ve seen the baby bear strut its stuff there’s very little else of interest about it. As for the lamp, its rather kitsch so I never switch it on.

    So while I was looking their way, the following description/dialogue came to me. I thought I’d share it with you so that you could maybe check out how the mind of a writer works.

    The lady has on an ankle length lead glazed skirt with a yellow key sticking out the back of her neck. He head is tilted to one side, her right arm held across her boobs and the left hand touching her belly just above her navel. A thin, black electrical wire leads from beneath her red, orange, black and mother of pearl skirt. There is a three prong plug attached to the end of it. She wears her heart on the front of her dress as well as a scarlet jacket and a thin black bow is tied around her neck. She has a prissy look about her.

    “She’s only a lamp you know.” Miss Lombard whispered in my ear. “A pretty, leaded light, decorative lamp. See the electric cord and plug?”

    “And not to mention the yellow key in the back of her neck.” I whispered back.

    Miss Lombard had obviously educated herself in matters technical.

    “A clockwork back up in case of a power failure.” She went on. “Or for use when she seeks to free herself from the restriction of the electric lead. Then she simply winds herself up.”

    “I wonder if the cord is retractable.” Veronica asked in her sultry, kittenish, sex object voice.

    “I think it would have to be,” Jane put in before either Miss Lombard or I could say anything, “otherwise it would be rather inconvenient dragging it behind when she was in clockwork mode.”

    “My guess would be that both the electric cord and the plug would disappear beneath her dress.” Miss Lombard said with probably more conviction than she felt.

    “At the moment she’s standing there motionless and quite silent.” I pointed out. “The lead is unplugged and lying behind her and she doesn’t appear to be in clockwork mode either.”

    “Perhaps she isn’t turned on.” Jane said.

    “Well Monty, Peck and Bacchus are close by,” Miss Lombard said, “and they’ve all done the same for me. On the other hand, perhaps they don’t want to turn her on. She’s not nearly as utterly fascinating as I am.”

    “I wish I looked like her.” Veronica said sighing.

    “Oh glamour isn’t everything.” I said to nobody in particular. “Especially after the first twenty years.”

    A short distance from where Monty and his gang were, a golfer waited, enthralled by the beautiful, blue eyed Greta who sat on a rock playing the Pan pipes. The sweet sound seemed to kiss the grass. Greta stopped playing then shivered and tugged at her short dress, trying vainly to cover her knees.

    “My back hurts.” I complained.

    Miss Lombard elbowed Veronica and Jane. “Move along.” She snapped, “We’ve a bad lower back here.”

    The End.

    "The embers of our past lives lie smouldering within us awaiting the winds of remembrance to fan them in flames of reality." Dax.