The Kitchen Singer

She was a kitchen singer. Her mother, who had the knack of never appearing young (though she was never that old), did not approve of the vocal arts. She would shush, and hush, and tsk-tsk whenever songs made the kitchen jingle-jangle, the tunes distracting her as she applied layer upon layer of cosmetic goo to her bitter features. Her father, he who drank more than most, who also listened to Spike Milligan shows on a reel-to-reel tape recorder had no taste for music in general. He was a gentleman but not the best yet was kind to cats at the very least. Notwithstanding and nevertheless she sang merrily to the pots and pans, and perhaps due to the unusual acoustics of that particular kitchen, or maybe because her voice (so tinkly and elegant), seemed carved out of the translucent ivory of fairy thighs, she did sing on for all her live long days and prayed, when she remembered to, to the Dancing Masters of Woo, who knew her as the Mistress who made pie in the sky dreams come true. And so it came to pass that merry kitchens everywhere were given throats of their own; they trill now in both sweet and dramatic tones. God bless them all, and God bless her, she the kitchen singer and cheers to all her jolly sing-along kitchen songs.