ENID CAVITY

Enid Cavity’s life’s a travesty,
She never gets what she wants.
Her days are mundane and vacuous,
She feels unfulfilled and empty.
Ms Cavity, as she likes to be addressed,
Is a spinster and often gets depressed,
Wondering how different her life might have been,
Each night as she gets undressed.
She’s always worked for a living,
Her jobs being a means to an end,
And although she’s always worn a smile,
She’s never made a friend.
Her existence is bare survival,
Her loneliness is hell,
She’d say she constantly feels worthless,
If she had anyone she could tell.

SIGMUND FREUD AND THE WOMAN WHO LIVED IN HER FRIDGE

When Sigmund Freud was deployed to psychoanalyse a woman living in her fridge, he was unsurprised by her frosty reception.

Or her clumsy attempts at being elusive with orchestrated deception.

The woman was called Anna, which is a common name.

Adding Anna to his list, the great analyst smiled in anticipation of the predictability of her game.

‘You’re not the first woman I have met who lives in their fridge, you know.’ Said Sigmund. ‘Oh no, indeed, a woman called Brigid who, as it turned out, was frigid, did exactly the same.’

‘Was she cured?’ Anna asked after a brief sulk.

‘Ach, no,’ Freud shook his head. ‘She was completely unprocessed. There was some cured ham sharing the fridge with her but I didn’t want to do anything to reinforce her idea that her choice of living quarters was appropriate.’

‘I overheat,’ Anna abruptly explained. ‘The fridge cools me down, lowers my temperature and helps me feel comfortable.’

‘Indeed?’ Freud nodded smugly, delighted with how rapidly she’d thawed.

Nevertheless, her thinking, as indicated by her behaviour, was flawed.

‘You know, Doctor,’ she said coldly. ‘When things are frozen they don’t mind being ignored!’

‘You mean like corpses, perhaps?’ Freud fumbled. Asking the question with his eyebrows more than his mouth as his words were barely mumbled.

‘No, Herr Doctor, I don’t mean the dead. I say that ice is indifferent. You can like it or lump it.’

‘Ice?’ Hissed Freud. ‘You refer to a mass of frozen water. It is no more and no less! Your meaning is unclear to me, Anna, I must confess.’

Anna’s expression showed that she couldn’t care less.

She was a cold-hearted woman, the doctor knew.

Why, even her skin was distinctly blue.

‘Well.’ Sighed Sigmund. ‘You may as well continue to inhabit your fridge. If that’s what you want to do.’

WELL, WELL, WELL

It is better to put things well than put things in a well, where they’d get wet.
You can know full well something’s going on while remaining ignorant of how full a well is.
A successful gambler can win well in Welwyn Garden City without feeling shitty, providing he means well.
Inkwells are old-fashioned and seldom seen nowadays, although there are a few in Staines and Blackpool.
People who ask, ‘Are you keeping well?’ Should, strictly speaking, rephrase the question.
Although I accept they are, generally, well-wishers.
Wishing wells are full of coins but you’d get more money out of oil wells.
One who oils well is unlikely to hear their hinges creak, while painting well in oils falls short of the old masters at their peak.
If you’re ‘welling up’ it means you are close to tears,
Unlike a so-called town crier, who is dry-eyed when he appears.
Well-meaning people don’t mean wells,
Any more than Wells Cathedral is a place of worship for wells.
H. G. Wells wasn’t wells but a writer—still, his words were well chosen.
Ice at the bottom of a well is obviously well frozen.
A bucket dropped to the bottom of an unknown well ‘pails’ into insignificance.
All’s well that ends well is not true for wells.
Oh, well!
There’s no such thing as a well-lit street—wells do not produce a light source.
Equally absurd are the notions of well-built men and well-adjusted children,
Patently, wells are not responsible for a male’s physique or in any way involved with the emotional development of a child.
No doubt many of us are well acquainted with these misleading terms,
People are well advised—not literally—not to take them literally.
The well heeled must find it difficult to walk, however well read they are or well spoken.
As for those who look well preserved, they owe wells no gratitude.
Wells get huge amounts of undeserved credit; something, which I think makes them pretty low.
Ill people don’t literally want to get well soon—it’d be a nuisance and spoil their afternoon.
Anyway, enough’s enough, I’ll finish off now—the subject’s been well covered.