Writing exercise: Make something boring interesting in 350 words.
I was engrossed in my Raymond Chandler novel when I heard Uncle Albert say,
“French nymphs are the best, no question.”
I wondered why French nymphs were better than English nymphs. I compared Brigitte Bardot and Julie Christie in my head. Julie won hands down, though it wasn’t her hands that interested me. I’d fallen in love with her in Darling, and Dr Zhivago had added to my fantasies.
I realised they were not talking about actresses or women in general when cousin Ken suggested,
“You’re wrong on that one, dad, a Mickey Finn is much more likely to do the trick.”
I couldn’t have been concentrating properly. I knew that a Mickey Finn was a cocktail but I’d never heard of a French Nymph drink. What could be the possible ingredients? Cointreau? Crème de menthe? Benedictine? I liked the idea of sharing a cocktail with a nymph.
“What about a Flying Ant? I’ve heard you can have a lot of success with them,” my uncle suggested.
Now I was totally confused. We’d had a nest of flying ants in our garden and they were a menace. I couldn’t believe you would name a cocktail after a Flying Ant.
“That’s dry though isn’t it, dad?” Ken asked. “Surely you need something wet like a coachman.”
I glanced at the others to see if they were as bewildered as me but both Richard and James seemed intent on listening to the debate.
“I reckon it depends where you are and what you’re after,” James suddenly interjected. “I reckon you’d be best with a streamer.”
That only complicated things even further, especially when Richard backed his brother up.
“You’re right, I reckon. I’ve always liked a woolly bugger. That does the trick for me.”
My novel could wait. I had to find out. “What on earth are you talking about?” I asked.
“We’re off fishing later, Tom, and we want to make sure we’re using the best salmon flies.”
I was engrossed in my Raymond Chandler novel when I heard Uncle Albert say,
“French nymphs are the best, no question.”
I wondered why French nymphs were better than English nymphs. I compared Brigitte Bardot and Julie Christie in my head. Julie won hands down, though it wasn’t her hands that interested me. I’d fallen in love with her in Darling, and Dr Zhivago had added to my fantasies.
I realised they were not talking about actresses or women in general when cousin Ken suggested,
“You’re wrong on that one, dad, a Mickey Finn is much more likely to do the trick.”
I couldn’t have been concentrating properly. I knew that a Mickey Finn was a cocktail but I’d never heard of a French Nymph drink. What could be the possible ingredients? Cointreau? Crème de menthe? Benedictine? I liked the idea of sharing a cocktail with a nymph.
“What about a Flying Ant? I’ve heard you can have a lot of success with them,” my uncle suggested.
Now I was totally confused. We’d had a nest of flying ants in our garden and they were a menace. I couldn’t believe you would name a cocktail after a Flying Ant.
“That’s dry though isn’t it, dad?” Ken asked. “Surely you need something wet like a coachman.”
I glanced at the others to see if they were as bewildered as me but both Richard and James seemed intent on listening to the debate.
“I reckon it depends where you are and what you’re after,” James suddenly interjected. “I reckon you’d be best with a streamer.”
That only complicated things even further, especially when Richard backed his brother up.
“You’re right, I reckon. I’ve always liked a woolly bugger. That does the trick for me.”
My novel could wait. I had to find out. “What on earth are you talking about?” I asked.
“We’re off fishing later, Tom, and we want to make sure we’re using the best salmon flies.”