I was only going to do a one off, but a good lady friend of mine asked, or rather hinted, that she would like to see follow-ups. So! I dedicate the second, and this the third and final, commentary to Websailor and I thank her most kindly.

Here I am again up to my neck in muck and pullets, with the latest information from the kitchen war.

It's been quiet for the last few nights, only the odd skirmish, as the salmon was smoked out of hiding.

I had heard the night before, from under the sink, that a tin of shoe polish had blacked up for a night raid, but that had to be called off. It couldn't see a damn thing and had no night vision goggles.

But, as day again broke, from out of the chest freezer a 4.1 kg bag of Southern Fried Chicken Confederate Army Conscripts came out to attack on the flank, only to be met by the Union—who objected because they were not CORGI registered. They tried contacting the Kennel Club but it made no difference; the Southern Fried Chicken chipped in anyway, as they weren't going to begin Marching Home Again (hoorah), without a fight.

A pint of milk let out a blood-curdling cry as the Southern Fried Chicken attacked. In the ensuing charge, some peanuts were as'salted whilst the monkey nuts just gibbered away in total panic and Arte choked as he came through from the living room—he soon left the scene yeast he got hurt.

Looking over in the direction of the towel rail, I watched as the crab pasted a battery of... err... battery-laid eggs. They got what they deserved, and freedom for hens I say. At one point I had to laugh to myself (I was on my own at the time): the broad beans came out with a tirade of foul language, but as usual, they were more wind than power and no one took any notice. The pudding did get a little steamed up, not that it was under any pressure, and I did take note though, that throughout this war, the egg timer managed to get a minutes overtime, past its normal four minute per egg work contract—jammy thing.

Going unnoticed down by the ironing board, some peas were split and were trying to get back to their lines, you could hear the lead pea sago to the others as the were sneaking past a pear of kippers on guard. At one point, you could smell the fear in the air, or it could have been the stilton, it was a ripe old veteran, stayed in the back of the fridge most of the time. As in any war conflict, there were a few who couldn't take it and chutney'ed all over.

On the cooker, holed up in the chip pan, some onions had bean battered, but still had enough strength to ring in an air strike, to which a dozen duck eggs were scrambled and were eggshell'ent in scattering the hundreds and thousands in a wide dispersal pattern (NATO condemns this sort of action). Some cowardly custard had put a herring aid behind the bread bin to try and glean any information on the enemy's movements, but the cod liver oil took care of that.

Over in the cutlery drawer, they tried to recruit the Swiss Army Knife, but to no avail—it was staying neutral. From the shadows behind the biscuit tin, a platoon of sultanas was raisin hell and the cherries blushed at the salad dressing into combat gear.

Some tarts had a flantastic time. They just treat the whole thing as a yoke.

Over the other side of the kitchen on one of the worktops, the Household Horseradish Cavalry led a charge against the bran flakes, which were fortified on a butter mountain (well, butter dish actually, but it sounds better), whilst the sesame seeds parachuted in from behind to attack from the rear.

The MASH surgical spirit unit was only just coping with the wounded and had to call in a bottle of red cochineal to help with the transfusions. Sat watching the onset from the kitchen window sill were four or five washing pegs; they were just hanging around when the war broke out and thought they'd stay put for now. Stood, well entrenched, was the pepper-mill, which ground away at the spaghetti that just fell apart as it was all dried up. Early at the outset of the war, there were some exceedingly good cakes, but they didn't last two minutes, not a crumb left!

It has been a trifling hot these last few days on the front line and I needed sponging down quite often, you could say! I was cream crackered, cheeses it was hard work! But, a reporter's job is to bring headline news, therefore had to be done. Between menu—oops—me and you, it was worth it. I would have toasted the cameramen, but I didn’t have any.

Finally! A truce was called; both sides had given it all, to say the least, it was a recipe for disaster from the start. Various types of cheese were holding a war crimes tribunal and all you could hear from the puddings was 'Suet, suet!' Now I'm not sure which IT wanted suing. Also during the proceedings, the tinned truncheon meat was acting as military police as they had... erm... a truncheon!

Anyway, once again, that's shallot.

Did I say finally? – Who truly knows the future?

Poetry and Fiction Archive of Professor Animal Chaos

Prof Animal Chaos

09.10.08 Front Page

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