Hobbit Hole Witterings – Conversation with a Coffee Machine

Like most writers I live on coffee, strong coffee, strong black coffee, strong black coffee with a bit of brown sugar for Madame Musiepoos without whom I would be blank of ideas. Whilst I am not intending to give up smoking any time soon, I have moved my ashtray to the conservatory and away from desk. I can’t type with a fag in my hand.

For my free for the hell of it writes, and these witterings of a ropey old hobbit are definitely that, I let Madame have free reign and she says I need to work on point of view writing. She’s right, I have to say that or she’ll bugger off somewhere. It’s NaPoMo I need her here.

So I looked at a few of the prompt sites I use for POV and found one that is a conversation with the last kitchen gadget I used – go figure my coffee is fresh and hot so it’s my coffee machine. So here we go…

“What again?”

“Yeahp, make me my usual French blend, please!”

“I only made you one half an hour ago, you’ll be buzzing around like a bee lost in a rose garden.”

“And? Just make me a coffee”

“And what if I don’t?”

“I’ll do it myself in the coffee jug if you’re going to be sassy, or make myself a pot of tea so you feel completely useless.”

“Oooh, bitch, is that a threat?”

“No, shithead, it’s a promise, now make me a bloody coffee.”

“I suppose I have to”

“Thank you.”

Yes, my coffee machine can be a complete asshole

Meme of the Week

It’s the ultimate moggy guilt trip from your adorable tom cat – oooops!

Shadow the Ninja cat is a queen and as a rescue, she lost her breeding bits before we got her but like the good feline diva that she is she can make hoomans feel guilt with a glance or a meow

And over to Old Billy…

Old Billy Presents…

Good den to you gentlefolk.

Today I bring you my sonnet number 2, with thanks to the gentlemanly knight of the realm Sir Patrick for reading it

Sonnet II

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held.
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies—
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days—
To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use
If thou couldst answer “This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse”,
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

Thank you for reading

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