Clamophones and Baconeg

You know, Nigel, reading your profile took me back to my childhood.

I actually was once in a town called Baconeg. I never had breakfast there, but I did drive through rather fast trying to get away from some creditors. That was back before the family had money. The town did not smell like somewhere I would like to eat - the aroma reminded me more of large sponges were being cleaned with bleach after being used to scrub the undersides of pligma mushrooms - really ripe purple pligmas, after the algae starts to grow on them.

And clamophones! I know you like them, but they have a different association for me. I showed none of the family's usual talent for music, though my mother had me try lessons on one instrument after another. At first she had her heart set on falsetto balinga, but I could not manage the fingerings at all. Then she tried me on the triple keyboards of the filongering wasoon, but the instructor insisted I'd never make it sound any better than a self inflating rubber kreenax bag being run over by a squad of gnash tanks on maneuvers. Treeboon, gillyhorn, queezoo, pilleran fortzo, and even one handed klanga were all tried and abandonded in despair. The instrument where my mother finally gave up was the clamophone. The teacher had a nervous breakdown and the neighbors signed a petition to have us evicted.

I love music, but clamophones make me think of angry shouting and people dropping stacks of plates in nearby houses...

Virgil