Meeting of the Rubble Club 27th June 2008

Hello, Rubble Clubbers, this is your friend, Madge Dumpling calling once again from the Stone Quarry of the Rocky Headlands of Undergrowby. For the interest of newcomers, you and your delightful pet rocks are welcome to join me any time. On all matters concerning them, I am a walking encyclopaedia of useful facts, figures and management tips. I am here to advise on general care, grooming, diet, peculiar ailments and seasonal matters. You can tell me all your happy (or sad) pet rock experiences. I will help you climb your every mountain and shoulder all your burdens as long as you are housing one of my precious little pet rocks. It is my intention to make sensitive pet rock whisperers out of each and every one of you. You only have to latch on to the correct state of mind in order to achieve it. Tune in to me once a week and my expert, skillful state of mind will gradually rub off on you. Before you know it, you will be thinking like a Dumpling and the world of pet rocks will open up to you like a magical mountain of rubble.
I am the quarrymistress, pet rock charmer and life-chairman of the world-famous Rubble Club which is held weekly in my lovely rock-strewn parlour. There is always a delicious buffet of home made rock cakes and speciality teas, and always something new to learn about your pet rock and its funny little ways. Every dutiful owner will be here to hang upon my every word, in case some gem of wisdom should fall out of my mouth which will change you and your pet rock's life forever.
This week is gossip week, because it has been raining all week and the pet rocks are in a cynical, bad mood. It's only natural, because in the wild, dampness chills and rots their lower extremities, finding all their weak, soft spots, crumbling them from the ground up, so to speak. A spot of rain now and again is welcome and refreshing, but relentless wetness, day after day, with no time to dry out is a poisonous climatic influence for a rock, along with frost and storm-force gales, for other reasons. A rock's favourite weather is sunshine. When they are damp, all they can think about and wish for is warmth and sunshine. The bad moods associated with dampness are sarcasm and cynicism. The expression on the face is that of a spoilt brat, for which,(I know), I have only myself to blame for spoiling them. I fall for it every time. I can see they are listening to the rain outside, and working themselves up into a grumpy mood. Their eyelids droop a bit and I know they are thinking the worst of me, eyeing me up and down, challenging me to come up with some entertainment for themto take their minds off the rain. I have trudged around the beach in the rain looking for driftwood for the fire till my feet have turned an unattractive shade of blue, the wet hem of my petticoats slopping unpleasantly against my ankles, making them swell up unattractively. It's a good job nobody has called in to see me in a way, because I am not looking my best. Anyway, to spite everyone, I am going to talk about them behind their backs. Unlike the pet rocks, who depend on me to entertain them to lift their mood, I have a voice and can unburden my dampness through spiteful gossip. So, here goes,
Spiteful gossip No. 1
That Granny Gray, my shopkeeper at the Magic Wand Factory Shop in Dickson Road, Blackpool has forgotten to hand out my specially-baked rock cakes to my devoted friend and prefect, Linedancer, who dutifully called in to the shop this week to collect her shiny new prefect's badge. I don't know what your pet rocks are having for elevenses, Linedancer, but whatever it is, it can not be better than the gritty little dainties I had prepared for them, if only the doddery old fool had not forgotten to follow my instructions correctly and given them to you. They were rightfully yours, so please demand that she gives them to you along with a sincere apology. Anyone else interested in a rock cake now knows they have to ask specially for one, because who knows how long it will be before she puts them on display where they belong. The incompetent old fool!
Spiteful gossip No. 2.
I swear that husband of mine, Malcolm Dumpling is turning into a giant pet rock. When it's raining he mopes around, refusing to work, pretending he has lost his tools and doesn't feel too well, etc.. His eyelids start to droop and his mouth turns down at the corners and he stands looking out of the window, watching the rain, his hands stuck like limpets next to the pet rock display on the windowsill. He waits for me to go out in the rain to fetch the wood, light the fire, bake the cakes and brew the tea then he sits down in his enormous rocking chair, eats and drinks while I tell him and the pet rocks amusing stories about the olden days and before I've even finished my first story, he goes to sleep (until I pinch him).
Spiteful gossip No 3.
Clockit Quick, the Time and Tide Inspector who lives across on the hill in the Watery Wetlands, predicted that the rain would carry on for another week, but he was wrong again. It's fine today, for now at least. Perhaps he should stick to inspecting and stop predicting. He thinks he knows everything, but unlike me, he doesn't.
Ah, I feel better now. I think I have turned the corner and am back to my old positive self again. It's funny how other people's (and creatures') moods can affect you, isn't it? However, remember, Rubble Clubbers, it's your duty as pet rock owners to take responsibility for you own good temper, like I do, and when it's raining, turn the lights on, light the fire, bake some rock cakes, crack some jokes or if you can't fake a smile, have a good old spiteful gossip till you can gossip no more, as and when necessary. That's my remedy for damp spirits. It never fails.
I have to leave you now, whoever you are. Please write to me to let me know you are there, if only to say "Hello Madge, the pet rock is fine". It would mean the world to me, especially in the rain, when we can all use some outside warmth and support.
Till next week, I remain your faithful chairman and friend, Madge Dumpling.