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Sibton's Story

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mrs_overall | 08:05 Sun 16th Sep 2012 | ChatterBank
28 Answers
Sibton was born in a quiet corner of Ireland to parents of mixed race. Her mother was an itinerant peat cutter and her father was a Leprachaun. At the time of her birth her father was away from home on business (interfering with fairies rings) and her mother decided to send him a telegram. After much deliberation she composed the line - She Is Born- Things Orl Normal and then nearly fainted when she learned it cost a shilling a word to send. She promptly abbrieviated the telegram to the initials S.I.B.T.O.N. Her father assumed that was the name chosen for the baby and it stuck.
Sibton had human features (apart from her father's pointy ears and lack of height). She had bright ginger hair, pale skin and hated the sun. She occasionally showed flashes of her paternal inheritance and her first words were Diddle de Dee, Diddle de Dee.
She left school with qualifications in Advanced Peat Cutting, Toadstool Management, Potato Blight Identification, Pillion Riding and Shillelagh Carving. Unwilling to join the family peat cutting business she subscribed to several English newspapers and scoured the job columns. Having been made to attend Irish dancing classes as a child her eye was drawn to an advert for Lap Dancers. She figured that she was a reasonable dancer and the cold climate of Lapland would suit her just fine.
She travelled across the water to England and duly arrived at the interview venue. It must be pointed out for the benefit of readers that Sibton was gullible and never queried why an interview for a job at the North pole would be held in a pub in the quiet English village of Answerbank Under the Wold. The recruiter, who was really a pimp, took one look at Sibton, and being gingerist he dismissed her out of hand.
Sibton decided to stay in the area and tried living on her wits, which meant she quickly came close to starvation. She was taken under the wing of several kind villagers who gave her odd jobs and the local supermodel, philanthropist and all round good egg provided her with a roof over her head. Her saving grace came when a local witch opened a holistic centre (and owl sanctuary) and Sibton discovered that she had a real talent for administering the colonic irrigations. This was partly due to her lack of height which meant she was at eye level with the necessary parts. She finally felt settled and the only thing missing from her life was male company. After talking to a happy (if somewhat strange) couple in the pub who had met through the Desperado Dating Agency, she took the plunge and submitted and application form. She quickly received a reply and was surprised to learn she had a date.
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hee hee - she will love it, so will gness, dave and tony......ode perhaps later...
LOL, she'll love this mrs overhang, anyway who's the date ?.
Hey DT, get your quill out.
Question Author
Morning all.
Tony, the date is to stay secret.
I'm leaving the story endings open should I feel inclined to do a Part 2
Interfering with fairies rings!!!!!! Only you! Gx
Excellent as per usual. :-)
Well mrs o, I hear dave is always on the look out for an experienced pillion rider !
ABers lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and gness-toothed stone.

Sibton’s body was braille
for the creeping influences:
dawn Irish suns groped over her head
and cooled her feet,

through her tweed fabrics and oilskins
the seeps of winter
digested her,
the illiterate roots of the peat

pondered and died
in the cavings
of stomach and socket.
She lay waiting, We laid waiting, watching

on the gravel bottom,
Sibton’s brain darkening,
a brain covered in ginger locks
fermenting underground

dreams of Scandinavian lap-dancing.
Bruised berries under her nails,
the vital hoard reducing
in the crock of her gyrating pelvis.

Her diadem grew curious,
gemstones dropped
in the peat floe
like the bearings of history.

Her luggage was the colour of a black glacier
wrinkling, dyed weaves
and Erin stitch-work
retted on her breasts

She left the soft moraines.
Her Northern Irish winter cold
like the nuzzle of Loughs
at her thighs.

The soaked fledge, the heavy
swaddle of sheep hides.
Her skull hibernated
in the wet nest of her hair.

To yon Answerbank she came.
She was barbered
and mentally stripped
by a pimp’s dirty spade

The villagers veiled Sibton again
and packed coomb softly
between the stone jambs
at her head and her feet of bedroom walls.

Till the local egg’s wife bribed her.
the plait of her hair,
a slimy, earthy birth-cord
of a North Yorks Moor bog, had been cut

Soon as the turf was freshly cut
Sibton returned to the pub
glasses and Jamesons,
The Rowan offering her sanctuary

Colonic irrigation
became her talented thing,
not as wet as turf-cutting,
the smiling gleams on the bench.

A man but beckoned forth,
Desperado Dating,
her local source.
That man watching her from our bank.

We ABer men, we lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and gness-toothed stone.

Sibton’s working Mrs Overall’s peat
for her craving influences.
Memories of Irish dawn groped over her head
and cooled her feet.
Excellent DT, she'll love that.
bejabers !!! another cracker Mrs O.....as long as it is not MY Tone...
Wow, mrs_o, thank Gawd you've treated me so kindly and now I feel I can wreak nearly as much havoc as Gness and murray having kept my peat cutting spade
Right who's up first for colonic irrigation, DT how about it?
I think my excretia comes out of my pen, Sibs.......
Lord! Wait til she climbs on Dave's bike with the peat cutting spade!!!!
I've heard of using pinking scissors in certain "operations" but never a peat cutting spade....it confirms the madness of the folk from the Emerald Isle, I suppose.
DT, after those lovely words I'd be so gentle with you and you could wax lyrical again :-)
I'll take the waxing over the peat cutting spade - leave that to dave.
Rockin' the backstories mrs o! Toadstool management indeed sibs

However did hippy chick sloopy end up scamming a pedallo hire and monster watching business? And who was the face at the window? And what kind of shop is Towie and Dee really running??
'gingerist' ... nearly as bad as 'mackerelist'
Just read this - almost missed it. You are a genius Mrs. O.
Question Author
Starbuckone, keep an eye open at the weekend - your turn is nigh

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