It's puncake day! I'm Atilla the pun! Are you ready for some punishment? Wordplay isn't small it's puny! Tim Vine smells doesn't he - he's a pungent! Long live pundamentalism! Punderful! Punk. And sew on... (should you be a seamstress (the stress should be on seam, there). Et cetera (Yes, I ate it and it tasted awful).
Oh cod* help me, I'm in a pun loop (*A fish pun - the worst kind! Halibut that!)
I (and now you) have recently realised I have a problem. My addiction to punning is ruining my life. They've started to permeate into my everyday conversation. Workmates stare baffled when I share "Writing about Taipei is difficult, I'm dreading starting type B" or "Do you know what city is best for just wandering about in? Rome" then laugh uncontrollably all through the remainder of the meeting (you may have guessed I write travel guides). My boss gets really annoyed too, because when it's my turn to take minutes, I take hours.
Only yesterday - day of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race (I didn't watch, but not because of prejudice - some of my best friends are Oxford and Cambridge boats) my housemate, ill in bed with shingles, responded to my query of her wellbeing with "I'm fine. I suppose you've been spending the day making oar puns?"
Well no, actually, housemate! Not with all those cox jokes available. "I'm eating a coxless pear".
Again, I recently met up with my ex boyfriend to do the final exchange of belongings. After what I thought was a lovely lunch, he used a term that popped up frequently in our relationship - 'pun-wear'. This is not where one adorns some wordplay (like I just did, and didn't it fit handsomely (like a glove)), but when one (specifically my ex-boyfriend) gets weary of me constantly workshopping wordplay at any mentioned combination of two subjects, cultural reference or even, word. I can't recall when the punning began, but I believe it was when we first made love, in the magazine offices. He had me at Hello.
Over Christmas, my sister remarked "You must get so tyred". I pointed out that it didn't work as a pun, as there was no car or bicycle subject matter mentioned and so was irrelevant. She clarified that when she said "tyred", she had in fact said "tired" and then punched me in the face. Then my brother twatted me on the arm. It's always the way. You wait for abuse, then two come along at once.
So at this time of year, Easter time, I hide away. I can't bear to hear the weak 'egg-/ex-' jokes that laymen trot out. "What an eggcellent cake Marjorie!" "Thank you, I made it for the eggstravaganza!" "Sophie, your eggs-boyfriend is sick of you and your puns"... eggsetera, eggs set terror.
Instead I stay at home, alone in my flat and wonder why nobody wants to spend time with me. There's nothing I have against Easter, it's just the lack of ambition in the puns.
It's currently 4am on Easter Sunday. I've been too excited to sleep on this Easter Eve, so have just snuck to the oven early to have a look. Yes! Jesus has risen, you guys!
Love you all (not you) x
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