Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Bob's Gloves

For some time now, I’ve wanted to write a post entitled Bob’s Gloves.

Because you get them, sometimes, don’t you? Evocative phrases that spring scenes, characters and moods from the trap like whippets chasing the stuffed hare of fiction.

That said, I’ve got no further with Bob’s Gloves than Bob’s Gloves — a disappointment for many of you logging on, no doubt.

Who is this Bob, and what’s so crazy crazy special about his gloves???

No idea.

Why he took up opera over refuse collection, why his gloves fire jets of acid, nor even why his wife left him for a plastic surgeon.


About Bob.

Or his gloves.

For all I know, he’s actually called Alan. And the gloves are mittens. Which don’t actually belong to him.


Bobfail...oh the shame...the shame...


Bernita said...

"Bob's Gloves?"
Just put it down as a Reader's Digest moment, Whirl.

fairyhedgehog said...

There, there, Whirl. No need to cry. Bobfail happens to all of us at one time or another.

blogless troll said...

Strange... I've had the same problem with Samantha's G-String.

Perhaps they're star crossed lovers separated by metaphysical whatchamacallits.

Whirlochre said...

Even those kind of readers might have choked.

Huh! So you've had that at the hairdressers' too?

Whatever — I'd hate to see their washing line after a dirty weekend.

sylvia said...

"The Glove and the G-String" has a certain ring to it, I have to admit.

Whirlochre said...

Could be the next animated Disney Pixar spectacular...