NUMBSKULLS

Those of a “certain age” will remember the numbskulls from the Beezer. Little men who lived in a blokes head and basically “operated” him and supplied him with thoughts and ideas.

Not sure if I’ve got numbskulls as such, but I do have an annoying inner monologue inside my head who keeps slipping out into the open at awkward and inappropriate times.

This inner monologue has more voices than Mike Yarwood, by the way. Quite often, when I’m reading, the little numbskulls are busy shifting the eyes across the words but the inner monologue will read them out to me. And he will adopt voices that suit the books. Many a book by Nigel Tranter the little chap has read out to me, but adopting the voice of the late, great Fyfe Roberston, while  the works of Reginald Hill are delivered in the voice of Warren Clarke (obviously).

He sings as well you know. Just the other day as I marvelled at the golden trees along by the majestic Clyde my little chum started belting out “Autumn Leaves” in the velvety voice of Mel Torme as I ran along – (sadly somewhere along the line the numskulls converted this to the actual sound of a goose farting in the fog).

Anyway. I’m hoping that my MRI scan tomorrow will identify either my little inner monologue or the numbskulls so that they can be told to shut up and stop talking to each other, because sometimes you can get into bother when there’s confusion between the two and you say things out loud.

 

 

 To the young lady who got off the train at Croy this morning: Just because you happened to hear “Oh. That is beautiful” as you passed, the inner monologue was merely conveying, to me, his appreciation of a rather nice Charles Lloyd solo on Rabo De Nube that I was listening to at the time.

Thanks for the wave though.