"Are you DEAD?", demands one reader in querulous tones. Dave wonders if I am happy.
MonkeyMother writes from France, one ankle strapped, suggesting that I write a 'post' asking what to do with the matching 3ft high urns in our new 'apartment'. I check with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police: preserving midgets in formaldehyde is not legal in Canada! That puts paid to MonkeyMother's dastardly scheme (for the time being, at least).
Meanwhile, the snow continues to fall; someone dies, and I do not find out until a week and half later; my best friend grows great with child; I cannot get back to England for my god-daughter's birthday; I cannot go to the Royal Bank of Scotland on Fleet Street and set them on fire. (Instead, I must write endless emails that are ignored, or leave messages that are lost, never to be returned.)
Every week I mount an aeroplane flown by the best of all the airlines. I leave Montreal on a Porter aeroplane (do not get excited; they only fly between aeroports in Canada, using less fuel as they fly than an SUV over the same distance, with the added benefit of jaunty caps and ham sandwiches), and fly to Toronto. There, I stay a "boo-teek hotel" for two or sometimes three nights, interrupting my consumption of the minibar only to bellow in fury at the words "... sample our delicious fare", written upon the room service menu.
During the day I attend meetings that I do not understand and agree to things I do not want to do. The other people seem to enjoy it and think it is a good way to spend the day. I am not so sure, but as they give me money every two weeks I think it is probably best if I keep my opinions to myself.
At the weekends I fret about work I have not done or work I should be doing. The pathologist looks at me from underneath his curled forelock and makes scrambled eggs; I pluck hairs from my face in the light of the magnifying mirror; my brother comes to visit, whereupon we slide; my friend Charly comes, whereupon we listen to gypsy music and drink pints of ale. They go and I am sad, but there is not much to be done about it: it was them or the pathologist, and he had curlier hair.
But yes, I am happy, since you ask. I would rather not be working, but what can you do. One must keep oneself in absinthe and pipes, and it will all work out in the end; and at the first whiff of melancholy, I simply press "play" on the following film and all is right in the world:
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13 comments:
Glad to hear that it's mostly the happy.
Well, I'm a little disappointed not to be getting messages (and videos! With ostriches!) from beyond the grave but I suppose on careful reflection it's just as well you aren't, as they say, parsed on. After all, I'm not entirely sure they provide absinthe in the Great Mini Bar in the Hereafter and I hear the cover charge is murder...
I'm being taunted at every turn. I came to my dear monkey's place for solice - the Atkins lifestyle is difficult - and what do I find?Effin' CAKE - with a song - and photos of the lovliest cakes in gorgeous designs. Cake. Hmmmph.
em em em cake
asta says
Ah so that's what the badger's been doing.
Snow's melting. We may have Spring by May.
I LIKE CAKE.
Aswell.
Like.
Mmmm.... cake.
Cake, cake, cake, cake, CAKE!!!
On a diet? Me? What would make you think that?
Also, you must give up the job. You are not posting frequently enough.
:)
You're STILL happy aren't you?
I had to come back and see this again. It is AMAZING. As you know, I dote on cake, and indeed still miss your definitive series of photographs of coffees and biscuits of the Netherlands. I never was able to decide on a clear favourite...
I hope you got the kitties I sent you... nearly as good as this one, though in a different way of course!
OMG and now I have a meeting to get dressed and go to, myself.
I'm loving the Cake song.
I loved the R2D2 cake at the end the best. I really hope someone (not obviously my mum, because she only makes cakes with swear words on), makes one just like it for me some day.
I used to work in a hippy-dipsey pub and I saw the best pieces of graffiti I've ever seen there. "the new landlady ate the deathstar!" She had a massive mouth.
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