Margherita Piazza

 

The other day I went to visit Margherita Piazza. Not to be confused with Margherita Pizza who is an altogether different dish.

By the way, please do not interrupt me as I relate this story since it is already complicated enough for me to remember all the details.

Anyway, I visited Margherita Pizza ... sorry ... Piazza ... who, with her friend Antonia Broccoli, live in a Seniors Care Home run by Mrs Deana Careless; which is an unfortunate name for someone running a Care Home. To be fair, this is her married name. She is married to Woodee Careless. Her maiden name was Deana Fishface; which was also unfortunate when she worked at the butchers. They were called Ivor Bull & Chuck Beef. Their shop was next to the dentist, I Pullem; some fifty yards from the Undertakers and Funeral Directors Doug M Deep. 

I remember some time ago visiting the doctor's not far from the butchers in town to discuss a personal problem. Her name was Penny Celin. Whilst discussing my case one evening a depressed moth flew in through the window. "Help me help me," it said, "I'm so unhappy!"

"Sorry I can't help you," said the medic, "I am a doctor. Not a psychiatrist, or psychologist, or hypnotist or any similar medic that can help you with depression".

"Yes, I know," said the depressed moth.

"Why did you come in and see me then?" asked the medic.

"Because the light was on ..." replied the moth.

By the way, did you hear about the chiropodist who cures sore feet by placing them into pumpkins? I asked him, why pumpkins? He said he couldn't find melons big enough. He eventually married a dentist and now together they cure foot and mouth disease.

Anyway, let's go back to Margherita Piazza. Metaphorically speaking that is. Because right now I am at my office typing this article.

She asked me to visit her friend Yvette Le-Pet to return a book she had borrowed from her. She lives in a cottage not far from us. Yvette Le-Pet that is. Not Margherita Piazza who lives in a Care Home run by Deana Careless. Are you paying attention? 

I did not find Ivette at home. I rang the doorbell several times and eventually heard a noise from the back garden. "Help ... Help ..." it said. But with a French accent. It sounded more like "Elp ... Elp ..."

I went to the back garden and there up an oak tree, some twenty feet up, was Yvette holding a parrot in her lap. She was sitting on a branch. Holding on to the tree with one hand and the parrot with another. The ladder she had used was lying flat on the ground.

When I brought her down she said that she often takes the parrot up the tree to make him feel more at home. Better than being on his perch all day, apparently.

I told her it was dangerous for an eighty year old to go up a tree like that. She said the parrot was not that old!

I felt sorry for her; so together with some friends we raised funds and we have built her an elevator. It is a metal structure containing a glass box with a seat inside. By pressing a button the box rises up slowly up the oak tree to about thirty feet and she can sit there with her parrot admiring the view. By pressing another button the elevator comes down slowly and safely.

She is the only person in the world with a tree with an elevator.

I'll raise a glass to that.