The Ballad of Bob's Bottomless Basket of Broken Promises

Bob, a dreamer with a heart full of honeyed words and an imagination that could rival a kaleidoscope, had sworn eternal devotion to Beatrice. “My dear Beatrice,” he’d intoned, eyes gleaming like polished pennies, “I shall make you my wife, my queen, my guiding North Star!” Beatrice, bless her soul, believed him. That was ten years ago.

Since then, their engagement had become a permanent fixture, like the statue in the town square. The wedding, however, was always just around the corner – a corner that eternally receded as Bob’s ingenuity flourished. He was a veritable Houdini of nuptial escapes.

“My sweet Beatrice,” he'd say, his voice dripping with sincerity that could sweeten a lemon, “we must postpone. The stars aren't aligned! Jupiter is in retrograde. It's a cosmic decree against matrimony!” Beatrice, armed with a half-hearted astrology book, would grudgingly concede.

Then came the Great Aunt Mildred Emergency. “She's in dire need of a new hip, my love,” Bob declared, “and I, as her only nephew, am duty-bound to lead the fundraising! A wedding now would be… insensitive.” Beatrice, who had yet to meet this mythical aunt, nodded with a sigh that could rust iron.

The excuses grew more elaborate. A sudden, urgent need to climb Mount Kilimanjaro “for spiritual enlightenment,” a deep-sea diving expedition to find a lost treasure that would “secure their financial future,” even a stint as a mime in Paris to “discover his true artistic self.” Beatrice, meanwhile, discovered a remarkable talent for knitting scarves – a skill honed during the endless evenings she spent waiting.

Years spiraled by like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind. Her once vibrant hope had faded to a dull ember, yet Beatrice, with a resilience that would make a willow tree envious, remained. She knew Bob. He was more comfortable courting her than being her partner. But she also knew that she loved Bob.

One sunny afternoon, Bob burst into her parlour, eyes shining brighter than ever. “Beatrice, my love!” he exclaimed, “I have found it! The perfect reason to finally set a date! We must wait for the blooming of the legendary Midnight Orchid of Borneo. It only flowers once a century, and it is a symbol of eternal love!”

Beatrice fixed him with a gaze that could melt glaciers. “Oh, Bob,” she said softly, “You're going all the way to Borneo this time, aren't you? Well, it is good you go. While you are away, I will marry your brother, Ronald. He doesn't have such a vivid imagination!”

And so, Bob, the eternal fiancé, found himself the best man at a wedding he should have been the groom at, and the Midnight Orchid of Borneo bloomed only to be forgotten.

When Cupid Has Hay Fever

Benjamin, bless his cotton socks and hopelessly romantic heart, had fallen for Rose like a skyscraper tumbling in a slow-motion movie. Rose, the girl next door, was a vision – a symphony of sunshine and smiles, housed in a floral sundress. Benjamin, on the other hand, was more of a muted trombone solo, usually clad in a slightly-too-tight waistcoat and a perpetual state of nervous perspiration.

His love, however, was as loud as a brass band at a picnic. And, being a man of action, or rather, a man of well-intentioned, slightly misguided action, he decided to woo her the old-fashioned way: with roses. Every blessed morning, as dawn painted the sky in hues of apricot and rose (irony, you magnificent beast!), Benjamin would tiptoe from his flat, a freshly cut rose clutched in his trembling hand. He'd then deposit it, with the stealth of a squirrel burying a particularly prized acorn, upon Rose's balcony.

It was a labour of love, a ritual as predictable as the sunrise. He imagined Rose, awakening to the fragrant bloom, a smile gracing her lips, thinking of her secret admirer. He envisioned their grand meeting, a scene orchestrated by fate and fragrant petals. The reality, however, was as different as a banjo is from a Stradivarius.

Unbeknownst to our lovesick Benjamin, Rose was allergic to roses. Terribly, spectacularly, violently allergic. Each morning, after Benjamin's stealthy floral delivery, Rose would wake up, not to a sweet-smelling serenade, but to a sneezing fit that could rival a small earthquake. Her eyes would puff up like over-inflated balloons, and her nose would run like a leaky faucet. She suspected a well-meaning but clueless Cupid was at work, but had no idea who was behind the floral attacks.

One crisp autumn morning, Benjamin, peering through his binoculars (disguised as “birdwatching equipment”), saw Rose emerge onto her balcony. This was it, the moment! She picked up the rose, her face scrunched up in a way that Benjamin interpreted as pure, unadulterated delight.

“Curse this infernal pollen!” she shouted, before launching into a sneezing volley, loud enough to wake the dead.

Benjamin, finally understanding the fragrant folly of his ways, went back to his waistcoat, a little bit wiser, and a lot more itchy. After all, as fate often reminds us, even the most beautiful blossoms can carry hidden thorns. And sometimes, the grandest gestures are best kept to oneself, unless one wishes to induce a sneezing symphony of epic proportions.

The Gold Box of Lord Featherbottom

Charles, a man whose morals were as elastic as an old rubber band – stretched thin and easily snapped – fancied himself a bit of a Robin Hood, minus the archery skills and the noble intentions. One night, under a moon that looked suspiciously like a peeled orange, he liberated a gold box from the mansion of Lord Featherbottom, a man whose wealth was as vast and unsettling as the Gobi Desert. “Reparations,” Charles muttered, feeling quite heroic despite the clammy sweat on his palms.

The box, smaller than a loaf of day-old bread but heavier than a guilty conscience, gleamed under the dim light of Charles's squalid apartment. Curiosity, that relentless cat, finally clawed at him. He pried it open, and a wisp of shimmering gas, smelling vaguely of lemons and forgotten dreams, escaped. Before Charles could slam it shut, he inhaled.

He laughed. Not a polite chuckle, mind you, but a full-bodied, gut-busting, tear-inducing guffaw. He laughed until his ribs ached, until his landlady, Mrs. Finth, pounded on the door, threatening eviction and mentioning something about summoning the spirits of dead cats. The laughter subsided only with the dawn, leaving Charles feeling drained and vaguely ridiculous.

He tried to ditch the box, of course. He tossed it in the river, but it bobbed back like a persistent suitor. He buried it in the park, but it reappeared on his bedside table, as shiny and mocking as ever. Every morning, he’d wake to find that infernal box, and the cycle of giggles would begin anew.

Desperate, Charles consulted Old Man Fitzwilliam, the neighbourhood oracle, who smelled perpetually of mothballs and old regrets. Fitzwilliam, after peering at Charles with eyes that saw clear through him, cackled, a sound like rusty hinges opening. “Ah, the Laughing Box! Legend says Lord Featherbottom cursed it. No one can keep it, but no one is punished for stealing it. The curse is that the box has to be stolen, if it is not, the laughing gas will kill the owner.”

Charles saw the logic in it. The thing needed to be stolen. It was a societal laughingstock, a perpetual prank played on the world. He left the box on a park bench, under a sign that read “Free to a good home.” He watched from behind a tree as a gaggle of teenagers snatched it up, their laughter echoing through the park. The next morning, Charles woke up feeling lighter than air, the lingering scent of lemons a pleasant memory. He’d done his civic duty, redistributed the mirth, and, for the first time in weeks, he could face the day with a straight face and maybe, just maybe, a little stolen joy of his own.

The Stage is Set, and So Is the Table

Amanda, in her youth, was a wisp of a thing, a veritable sylph, if sylphs harboured ambitions of silver screen stardom. Her dreams were Technicolour epics, filled with sweeping romances, heartbreaking tragedies, and roles so characterful, they practically vibrated with life. She envisioned herself as the next Olivier, but with more mascara. There was, however, a fly in the ointment, a chink in her theatrical armour, and it came in the form of a cream puff.

Amanda adored pastries. More specifically, she worshipped them. A delicate eclair was to her as a sonnet to Shakespeare. Each bite was a tiny curtain call, each sugary crumb a standing ovation. Time, that ruthless stage manager, began to play his part. Amanda's waistline expanded, a slow, relentless expansion, mirroring the rising action of a particularly long play. Her once sharp features softened, blurring around the edges like a watercolour left in the rain. The leading roles, those glittering prizes, began to slip through her fingers like sand.

Yet, Amanda persevered. She saw herself still upon the stage, perhaps not as Juliet, but as Nurse, a role that, she argued, required a certain… amplitude. The silver screen beckoned less frequently, but character roles, the eccentric aunt, the gossiping neighbour, these were still within reach. Amanda, ever the pragmatist, adjusted her sights.

Years marched on, each one leaving its mark like a heavy-handed makeup artist. Amanda, no longer a wisp, had become a substantial presence, a veritable galleon in a sea of supermodels. Her hair, once the colour of spun gold, was now a wispy grey cloud framing a face etched with the stories of a thousand unbaked cakes. She was a fixture of the local theatre, a grumbling, generous, talented old soul. Her backstage pronouncements were legendary, her on-stage presence undeniable. She may not have been a star, but she was, without a doubt, a force of nature.

And why wouldn't she be? After all, she owned the theatre, having inherited it from her father, a renowned pastry chef who, in a stroke of genius, had invested all his profits into the building. The stage was not her passion, rather, it was her inheritance, but the pastries she sold at the intermission allowed her to fund her true love: the creation of even more delectable treats!