Heavenly Beverley : A Monty Python Moment

Today is our first day of winter. However, there is very little wintry weather yet. We are looking forward to a gloriously warm day. Cue miserable farmers. Sunny days are not what they wish at the moment. I am sure that the rain and the cold will arrive in due course.

One of the weird ramblings I store in my head relates to European winters and the festivals held to chase winter away. I think Switzerland is one of those places that they undertake a scary mask festival designed to scare the knickers off winter and send her fleeing. This interpolation has led me to ponder the exceedingly bizarre humour developed by our European cousins, Perhaps it's all about the weather.

Take a band of university trained young men, plonk them all together in Pommyland and create Monty Python. Back in the time of the dinosaurs, when I was a small child and the youngest in our family, I was practically weaned on Monty Python's Flying Circus. Along with My Word and the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (on the radio), these were the comedy staples of my earliest memories.

And so, the insanity of the Fish Slapping Dance, the Dead Parrot Sketch, the Lumberjack Song, the Ministry of Silly Walks, the Spanish Inquisition and every one of Terry Gilliam's animated feet has been seared into my brain. A personal favourite, which was frightful, brusque and side-splitting all at the same time was Bambi versus Godzilla. I'm probably going straight to hell for laughing uproariously at that sketch.

Having developed a fairly warped sense of humour has helped me make sense of nonsense. And living with Michael has certainly added a good dollop of nocturnal originality. Which in turn delights and expands my repertoire of stories. Except when I am actually trying to sleep.

During the day, he is the easiest of men, tolerant, amiable, gentle and logical. Perhaps the reason his mind is so active at night is that the poor bugger never gets a word in during daylight hours. Once Michael succumbs to slumber, albeit none too deep, the comedy show begins. Of which he is totally unaware.

During his dreams, Michael has considered me to be a bottle (attempting to open the top), a roof at an abandoned station ( he was fixing the roof) and himself to be a television controller (pointing at the ceiling and making beeping noises), not to mention waking me out of a sound sleep to capture kangaroos in our bedroom. Apparently, Madame Cat had morphed into a somewhat different species.

I can never forget the cat pinching Michael's toast and secreting the two pieces in her suitcase. Or the talking carrot, who was the spokesman for the rest of the salad. However, the piece de resistance has to be one of Michael's latest dreams. Once again, I was woken out of a deep sleep to discuss the morals of rubbish.

Thank God for Monty Python. Instead of calling Michael a lunatic and summoning the men in white coats, I have immersed myself into this scenario, which is right up there with the Meaning of Life.

Does rubbish know the difference between right and wrong? Are the unwanted remnants of our lives moral, immoral or amoral?

I started thinking of all those discarded tissues. Are they relieved to have been jettisoned into the bin after enduring the blasting of our nasal contents? Or are they planning revenge for being used in a less than ideal purpose? When was the last time we thanked our tissues after a decent nose blowing effort?

Or teabags. We use them, immerse them in boiling water and then toss them aside, either into a saucer to be dunked into steaming water later or straight into the waiting jaws of the compost bucket or the kitchen bin. Perhaps they are forming a union in the bin and will demand better working conditions. When teabags are lying around, do they consider themselves naked? Maybe they want a little coat for privacy or a holiday as compensation? Who knows what they are plotting?

All our domestic detritus we use (abuse?) and toss away without any thought for their feelings. Are the potato peelings planning world domination? Is all the discarded plastic wrapping working on a cunning plan to morph itself into a hideous blob and attack us in our beds? (Cue the classic 1958 "The Blob", a horror movie starring a very young Steve McQueen - with a car chase!) Are the remains of Michael's coffee plunger happy or displeased as we toss them into a garden pot to be consumed by the murderous soil as compost?

All food for thought and humour And fortunately or unfortunately, depending on my point of view (and lack of sleep), there is no end in sight to Michael's nightly anarchic adventures. Regardless of the season or the weather, he continues his unpredictable activities willy nilly with the phases of the moon. And I will continue to record them for posterity.

Have a great day, people and don't forget to appreciate your tissues!