Tinman’s weekly camera-less attempt at the WordPress Photo Challenge….
The fireman is a person in my neighbourhood. He comes from cave to cave each evening and lights a fire in the entrance. He does this by rubbing two sticks together. I have no idea how he does it, if it’s that simple then surely bushes would catch fire on windy days.
The wheelwright is a person in my neighbourhood. You see him most mornings chasing the wheel he invented through the village, because he has not yet managed to invent the brake.
The artist is a person in my neighbourhood. His name is Vangogg and he will come to your cave and draw on the walls, like a two-year old. He draws pictures of cavemen chasing wild woolly beasts. In reality this usually happens the other way round, which is why we live mostly on fish, berries and wild lichens.
The tailor is a person in my neighbourhood. It seems that it is no longer acceptable to just throw the pelt of a woolly animal (generally a sheep, we don’t catch anything else) around you, it has to be fitted. He even asks on which side do you dress. This is a stupid question, the answer is obviously on the outside.
He also designs and fits the two-piece outfits that the women wear. It seems that women do not care how cold they are as long as they look sexy, and I have to say that it works. He advertised for an apprentice last year and every teenage boy in the village applied, along with Maggda, who is single and dresses like a bear.
The interior designer is a person in our neighbourhood. His name is Clod (pronounced Claude) and he comes to your cave and hangs pelts on the walls. I have no idea why, it’s not like walls can feel the cold. I pointed this out to my wife Agga and she looked at me as if I needed my head examined.
I do not know who would do this. The head-examiner is not a person in my neighbourhood.
The Tourism Committee are some people in my neighbourhood. They have erected a “Welcome to Rockford, Pop 62” sign at the entrance to our village. This is odd, since we don’t like strangers, and they usually get to see the sign that says “you are now leaving Rockford, have a shit day” pretty soon after they arrive.
The party organiser is a person in my neighbourhood. His name is Kragg (pronounced Craig) and he arranges events at which people gather and eat twiglets (no, literally) and drink something that tastes like mammoth’s piss. There is a reason why it tastes like this.
The wedding planner is a person in my neighbourhood. No longer can you just hit a woman over the head with a club and drag her back to your cave. Now you have to invite guests along to watch you do it, and have a gift-list and an ice-sculpture of a sabre-tooth tiger.
The hunter is a person in my neighbourhood. His name is Argg, pronounced Aarghh. He gets up before dawn, takes his spear, and heads both manfully and fearfully into the hills. He falls into streams, gets mud up his nose and slips on dung-patches so large that he hopes never to meet the creature that dumped them. He sometimes comes across an actual mammoth, waves his spear at it for a second, then cops himself on and runs like hell (whatever that is), shouting “Aarghh!”. He finally gives up and picks berries, using his spear to get at particularly high ones. He then trudges back home, where his haul is mocked by the entire village. He is me, and in every possible meaning of the phrase we are a dying breed.
The service industry is taking over.