The word was THERAPY. From this emerged:
Copyright (FROM 10/21/09). SUZANNE SOMERS revised….
“I really think you ought to see a therapist, Gerald.”
Surveying her husband of twenty-two years, Flora sat back, sipping her Dubonnet and gin, which she claimed was the favorite tipple of HM.
“You can see what Dr. Van Krakauer did for me, darling. I was totally unaware that I had lesbian tendencies until Klaus (we are on familiar terms) winkled them out of me in a deep hypnosis session. He did wonders, making me see that my admiration for female movie stars was all right. Once I gave myself permission I went ahead with the club. In fact, although of course she does not know it, my motivation for starting the Suzanne Somers fan club and you know how successful that has been, was that I was drawn to Suzanne because I am lesbian. I don’t mean she is of course, I don’t mean that. It’s just that I am drawn to her and so I started the club.”
Gerald looked at her over his glasses. “You know I love you Flora but sometimes you are a very credulous person. The fact is we are a happy, heterosexual couple. You know that the success of our marriage has stemmed from the fact that neither of us has objected to spreading our wings if need be, if I may put it like that. However that does not mean that I have to go to Dr. Van Krakauer or anyone else. We’ve have a good marriage don't we? But since we’re on the subject, I too rather like Suzannne Somers. You don’t have to be Sherlock to guess why. Yes, right. They are large, aren’t they? She’s a lucky gal and I’m a lucky man.” He laughed provocatively at his full bosomed wife.
Flora however was not to be diverted though of course she automatically drew herself up in her new clinging angora sweater. Wow, thought Gerald, Pavlov’s dog.
Primly she said,
“Gerald, you are a prime candidate for therapy. However and I state this categorically, I cannot have you muscling in on my terrain. Suzanne Somers is off–limits. Do we understand each other?”
“ No problem, Flora dear! However I am just pointing I am a red-blooded man still in his prime at fifty and I think Suzanne would approve.” He puffed out his chest. “All right, all right, that’s the last time I mention her to you.” He smirked. “Anyway what about a refill? I bet HM occasionally has the other half.”
“Now remember,” said Gerald. “Don’t say anything about Mr. Hudson’s job. We don't want to cast a pall," he chuckled. Flora looked pained. “I shall not say anything at all. I shall be mute.”
“Well, that may be a first.”
“Oh shut up. By the way, what is Mr. Hudson’s job?”
“He’s an undertaker.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me.”
Arriving at the party they found the house a blaze of light. At the door the host Radcliffe Henderson who was in corporate law and made a packet, was there greeting the guests with his new trophy wife Euphemia from Istanbul who had been, it was said, a belly dancer in a nightclub when Radcliffe was there as consultant to a high priced antiquities Turkish firm. Gerald noted the rather penetrating look Flora gave Euphemia as she priced out her couture gown. He also noted that Euphemia pressed his hand for a fraction more than was usual. Probably a foreign thing he thought.
They moved into the party, which was spread over several rooms. Waiters proffered glasses of champagne. Smiling at the euphoria it induced Flora quickly downed one. Gerald whispered, “Don’t overdo it, Flora!” She pulled away from him. “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s a party, Gerald.” She went into the conservatory.
Gerald shrugged and turned into the dining room where he saw Hudson chatting to Radcliffe who’d obviously given up his greeting duties. Hudson, who was expounding on the funeral business, was tall, with a pale ascetic face. Goes with the job Gerald thought. Not easy to be suitably sad all the time..
”Oh yes, it’s big business,’ he was saying to Radcliffe who had turned to Gerald as he approached. “How’s the newspaper business, Gerald? Busy as usual I suppose?”
Sipping his scotch and soda, Gerald looked around at the spacious room which opened up on to the hallway. Suddenly he caught sight of Flora going up the stairs with Euphemia. Radcliffe noted it too, and laughed. “Oh gone upstairs for some girl talk I expect. You should see Euphemia’s boudoir.”
Gerald smiled a little nervously. He wishes Flora was not quite so open about her new tendencies. He liked things to be normal. He asked rather irrelevantly,
“How are the children, Radcliffe?
“Doing well. They live with Madge, my ex but we’re all friendly. They love Euphemia. She has a way with her doesn’t she?” He gave a rather knowing chuckle. Gerald and Hudson smiled politely. Boy, thought Gerald, what would Flora’s shrink make of all this. They had some food and mingled in the dining room Gerald wondered where on earth Flora was and moreover where was their hostess, the sultry Euphemia. He had not forgotten the lingering handshake or the musky perfume. Suddenly Hudson said,
“I’d better find Dolores. We’re on tomorrow. Five cremations. It’s the thing nowadays. Much tidier don’t you think? Dolores does all the details. A real partner in the death business! My first wife was a dead loss.” Radcliffe laughed. Gerald thought there was a similarity between lawyers and undertakers. Both knew where the bodies were buried. Radcliffe sent a maid upstairs to find Euphemia to tell her that some of her guests were leaving. In the hall, Hudson and Dolores were putting on their coats. Suddenly there was a cry from the top of the stairs. All eyes swept upwards to a radiant Euphemia who was descending in more perfume and talking simultaneously
“Darlings” she cried to Hudson and Dolores, “I am so happy you were able to come.” Gerald heard Euphemia whisper to Dolores, “We must have a get together, just us, for some girl talk.” And then turned her full attention to Hudson, “I want to hear all about your profession. We never know when we might need you.” She smiled enigmatically. “Well, I know how it is. We love parties, don’t we, Radcliffe?” Radcliffe beamed. She’s made sure of him Gerald thought but then caught his breath for behind Euphemia he saw Flora, her hair slightly mussed, her color high, and her smile exuding a shining as if she had received an annunciation. He had not seen her like this for years.
Her coat lightly slung over her shoulders she took his arm saying, “Let’s go home, I’ve something to say.” She smiled coquettishly.
Reaching home she said, “Get me a night cap will you, Gerald darling.”
He poured her a double. He thought it might be a good night.
“I’ve made a decision.”
He looked at her. “Yes?”
She beamed at him. "Because I love you I am giving you Suzanne Somers.”
For the first time in his life, Gerald felt out of his depth. Maybe a visit or two to Dr. Krakauer might not go amiss.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
GIRALDUS of Wales
Giraldus
New York City, United States
Named after Giraldus Cambrensis (c1146-c1223), Gerald de Barri, Gerald of Wales, author of 16 books and one of the first travel writers
New York City, United States
Named after Giraldus Cambrensis (c1146-c1223), Gerald de Barri, Gerald of Wales, author of 16 books and one of the first travel writers
ENTER RUMOR FULL OF TONGUES
COPYRIGHT (FROM THIS AND THAT BLOG)
ENTER RUMOR.....
“She’s been in clover ever since Valentino’s birthday bash in Rome. That’s where she met Massimo and it turns out he’s a prince. Of course princes are a dime a dozen in Italy but nonetheless she was impressed. She told me, ‘we are in luv’. Well, the way she said it! I thought one word: disaster. He is handsome, I admit. Well-,” she paused “-formed”. Her look told all.
“ He has that sort of hair that Italians have: dark, wavy, framing his even face, always groomed. Why we English can’t manage that I don’t know. Our Anglo Saxon genes probably make our hair grow in tufts and clumps, all coiffed by Mrs. Squeers. Anyway as I said, Daphne is in clover about it and has been for months.” Miriam paused. I looked at her. ‘Well,” I said. What happened?”
She looked smug, “You may well ask. My dear, and this is between thee and me. He has been married three times and two of the wives disappeared in suspicious circumstances.”
“You’re making this up.” I said.
“Yes” she grinned, “I am but it could be true, couldn’t it?”
She smirked at me. We don’t need words, Miriam and I.
I rushed to post a blog: ‘Heard on the grapevine’. Oh, I do like meddling. No one ever knows it’s me. My blog name “Enter Rumor full of Tongues” is very popular. Such a hoot when someone tells me confidentially something I wrote.
Well, what else have I to do? It passes the time. Anyway I hate Daphne.
THE END
ENTER RUMOR.....
“She’s been in clover ever since Valentino’s birthday bash in Rome. That’s where she met Massimo and it turns out he’s a prince. Of course princes are a dime a dozen in Italy but nonetheless she was impressed. She told me, ‘we are in luv’. Well, the way she said it! I thought one word: disaster. He is handsome, I admit. Well-,” she paused “-formed”. Her look told all.
“ He has that sort of hair that Italians have: dark, wavy, framing his even face, always groomed. Why we English can’t manage that I don’t know. Our Anglo Saxon genes probably make our hair grow in tufts and clumps, all coiffed by Mrs. Squeers. Anyway as I said, Daphne is in clover about it and has been for months.” Miriam paused. I looked at her. ‘Well,” I said. What happened?”
She looked smug, “You may well ask. My dear, and this is between thee and me. He has been married three times and two of the wives disappeared in suspicious circumstances.”
“You’re making this up.” I said.
“Yes” she grinned, “I am but it could be true, couldn’t it?”
She smirked at me. We don’t need words, Miriam and I.
I rushed to post a blog: ‘Heard on the grapevine’. Oh, I do like meddling. No one ever knows it’s me. My blog name “Enter Rumor full of Tongues” is very popular. Such a hoot when someone tells me confidentially something I wrote.
Well, what else have I to do? It passes the time. Anyway I hate Daphne.
THE END
Monday, January 25, 2010
TELLING STORIES
Copyright.Writing experiment 1/20/10: Words suggested one after the other were AUTISM; JOBS; SHOWER; LOVE
“Do you know what Bill said about me, that guy with just a little learning which in his case is a dangerous thing? He said I was a prime candidate to be classified as autistic. He’s been reading about it! Or Asperger’s syndrome he added. He cited as examples my constant moving, my fanaticism about having details right, my going from subject to subject, my hopping and flitting he said. I just sat back knowing he was a windbag who eventually like bagpipes would run out of steam. He then said I had St.Vitus’ dance, a malady involving twitching. He didn’t think I knew about St.Vitus, a poor Christian child martyr killed under Diocletian in the late third or early fourth century. The technical name for the illness is chorea. It was thought that by praying to the child saint the illness would be cured. I suppose he must have twitched a lot during his martyrdom. Do you know what I said? I said Bollocks.”
Gordon was looking wonderingly at Jonathan who today seemed more than usually over-excited in their twelve years together. In mid-flight in his excitement, Jonathan continued. Gordon laughed. “ Was he cute?”
Jonathan paused frowningly. “Who?
“St. Vitus.”
Jonathan looked severe. “Don’t be frivolous about the saints. You never know when you might need them.”
“Sorry.” Gordon looked contrite but inside he was laughing. That’s why he loved Jonathan. He made him laugh. There should be more people like that. Life was not dull with Jonathan. He was a source of endless stories. Scherazade would have envied his capacity.
Jonathan continued; he had not been put off his stride.
“I told Bill as grandly as I could and you know how grand I can be, that I was aware of my condition, that I was quite happy about it and hoped that he would stop being my unpaid therapist as I did not need it.
However since then I have been thinking about what he said and I realize that I could have really spooked him after some recent experiences. I have come to the conclusion and listen carefully: I am a magnet for death.”
Gordon who as Mrs. Lovett said of Sweeney Todd liked a good story, sat mouth agape” “Death, “ he uttered, “What can you mean?”
“I’ll explain. I swept away from Bill and you know I can sweep and descended to the gym weight room, relieved to be away from his nosy eyes, if eyes can be nosy.
Apart from the occasional masculine grunt from budding Arnolds, who should be seeking jobs, the weight room is usually quiet. I was trying out unsuccessfully the new chest machine that has two semi-circular handles lying behind one. I got hold of one but the other eluded me until I felt it pushed into my flailing fist.
The person responsible for this assistance was a guy I had seen before at the gym and truth to tell, and this is to go no further, we had a little play around in the steam room some months ago. Like St. Augustine I do want to be chaste but not yet. Nothing much. Just an amusing dillydally, my dear. It never goes beyond that.”
Gordon tutted but smiled.
“Oh well you know, a young man’s fancy…..
Now this guy is different from the other either silent or too loud macho dummies. He has a direct, confident quality about him. Moreover his appearance is unusual because his angular lean face, long nose, black eyebrows and hair with a pair of gleaming eyes give him a Mephistophelean look. Striking. Good camera material. Probably SAG.
"Anyway after my workout I saw him again in the shower room. I smiled and he returned it. In the unusually full steam room I thought full house but found a seat on the far tiled bench and as I sat down, Mephistopheles plonked himself next to me. Silence reigned among the self-conscious young buffs in the pea soup steam, everyone a shadowy figure. Suddenly I feel fingers beating a light tattoo on the back of my left shoulder. It was Mephistopheles with his arm stretched out behind me. Well, I let it go on for a bit but then stood up and went outside to dry off. Mephistopheles, eyes agleam, soon emerged, as I knew he would.
I laughed and said, “I’m Jonathan.”
‘Oh hi, I’m Richard.””
“I’ve seen you before here. Do you live nearby?”
“ No, uptown but I have not been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve been lazy. You see mother died last Tuesday.”
This abrupt change in the light conversation was quite disturbing. After all he’d been drumming a tattoo on my naked shoulder a minute ago and now here we are talking of his mother, passed over at the age of 85.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “A difficult time for you.”
As I sympathized, another man overhearing our chat said, “Please accept my condolences. I sympathize. You see, my brother died two weeks ago.”
We digested this as he went off to get some water. I whispered to Richard: “His brother could not have been very old.”
When the other guy returned, I said, “How very sad for you and your family. Had he been ill for a long time?”
“He was forty-five. He suffered from years of depression. He committed suicide.”
This rather took our breath away. My mind raced. Was I in an Absurdist play? What does one say? Nothing lighthearted as that could be construed as flippant. After a small pause, I plunged in, rashly as it turned out. In the stroke of a sentence we had gone from vague erotic feelings to death. Entering the lists of this melancholy news competition, I said.
”This seems to be a bad time.” I said. “My friend Harold died last week, but he was 96.”
This did not have the desired effect. I saw right away I’d overplayed my hand in the pecking order of grief. Plus my English accent appeared suspicious. The British have the reputation for not taking serious things seriously enough. .
I left them to dress, reflecting that in the space of a couple of hours I was involved with a child martyr, two unfortunate deaths and a suicide.
Am I a magnet for these stories? Do I have the look of one who listens to gloom, attracting death? It was clinched when I ran into Gloria, gloomy at the best of times, who cornered me to say lugubriously she’d lost her grandmother to dementia. There was no riposte to that. Gloria doesn’t like competition when it comes to bad news.
I could put a major spoke in Bill’s wheel next time, but I fear he would feel I am a candidate for a revised Kraft-Ebbing edition: a real bag of nerves. What Bill doesn’t know is that actually I have nerves of steel. After all, I survived the blitz; as a student working in a hospital morgue I handed bodies over to the morticians and once had to burn an amputated leg. Oh. I forgot. I said to Mephistopheles emerging into the changing room to get a drink of water we should have a coffee. Sometime. “Yes, “ he said.
“I’ll give you my card”
“Do,” he said over his shoulder as he sallied back into the steam room. My remark was not too clever as he was wearing nothing. Where would he put the card? Conceal it in some orifice? I didn’t say that. But I could see that Richard was more intent on the momentary pleasures of the flesh, preferring Mr. Right now as opposed to Mr. Right, his dead mum quite out of the picture.”
Later on I continued my cogitations. Amidst all these things, sex in the shower, death in the steam room (sounds like a detective novel), St Vitus, St. Augustine, I thought there’s not one ounce of love in all this. Sad really. Nothing. Just the moment. The poor suicide, my old friend who finally kicked the bucket, Richard’s mum, did they have any love? Will Mephistophelean Richard, plunging back into the steamy soup for a quick grope, his five-day dead mum forgotten, will he find a gram of love?
No of course not. And why? Well, love doesn’t exist. I’ve not seen it. Infatuation, yes. Experienced that myself usually with people not entranced by me. Maybe better an ounce of pleasure than an age of regret and nothing. You can’t buy love as Vicki Carr once said but you can sure rent it for while. Gather ye rosebuds as Ronsard told us. Don’t forget, Gordon, I am a magnet for death. But, my dear friend, not yours or mine. Oh Gordon, how wonderful you are to listen to my nonsense. I have a secret to tell you. I love you, despite this public persona. Let’s have a toast to life and give death a run for his money.”
Gordon laughed loudly.
“Did you like that story?”
“Oh yes," said Gordon.
"Even if it isn’t true?”
"It’s true if you tell it.”
Jonathan smiled complacently. "I'll write it up for ROOM TO WRITE. Wait till tomorrow though. I’ve got another one about a naughty vicar.” He laughed.
THE END
“Do you know what Bill said about me, that guy with just a little learning which in his case is a dangerous thing? He said I was a prime candidate to be classified as autistic. He’s been reading about it! Or Asperger’s syndrome he added. He cited as examples my constant moving, my fanaticism about having details right, my going from subject to subject, my hopping and flitting he said. I just sat back knowing he was a windbag who eventually like bagpipes would run out of steam. He then said I had St.Vitus’ dance, a malady involving twitching. He didn’t think I knew about St.Vitus, a poor Christian child martyr killed under Diocletian in the late third or early fourth century. The technical name for the illness is chorea. It was thought that by praying to the child saint the illness would be cured. I suppose he must have twitched a lot during his martyrdom. Do you know what I said? I said Bollocks.”
Gordon was looking wonderingly at Jonathan who today seemed more than usually over-excited in their twelve years together. In mid-flight in his excitement, Jonathan continued. Gordon laughed. “ Was he cute?”
Jonathan paused frowningly. “Who?
“St. Vitus.”
Jonathan looked severe. “Don’t be frivolous about the saints. You never know when you might need them.”
“Sorry.” Gordon looked contrite but inside he was laughing. That’s why he loved Jonathan. He made him laugh. There should be more people like that. Life was not dull with Jonathan. He was a source of endless stories. Scherazade would have envied his capacity.
Jonathan continued; he had not been put off his stride.
“I told Bill as grandly as I could and you know how grand I can be, that I was aware of my condition, that I was quite happy about it and hoped that he would stop being my unpaid therapist as I did not need it.
However since then I have been thinking about what he said and I realize that I could have really spooked him after some recent experiences. I have come to the conclusion and listen carefully: I am a magnet for death.”
Gordon who as Mrs. Lovett said of Sweeney Todd liked a good story, sat mouth agape” “Death, “ he uttered, “What can you mean?”
“I’ll explain. I swept away from Bill and you know I can sweep and descended to the gym weight room, relieved to be away from his nosy eyes, if eyes can be nosy.
Apart from the occasional masculine grunt from budding Arnolds, who should be seeking jobs, the weight room is usually quiet. I was trying out unsuccessfully the new chest machine that has two semi-circular handles lying behind one. I got hold of one but the other eluded me until I felt it pushed into my flailing fist.
The person responsible for this assistance was a guy I had seen before at the gym and truth to tell, and this is to go no further, we had a little play around in the steam room some months ago. Like St. Augustine I do want to be chaste but not yet. Nothing much. Just an amusing dillydally, my dear. It never goes beyond that.”
Gordon tutted but smiled.
“Oh well you know, a young man’s fancy…..
Now this guy is different from the other either silent or too loud macho dummies. He has a direct, confident quality about him. Moreover his appearance is unusual because his angular lean face, long nose, black eyebrows and hair with a pair of gleaming eyes give him a Mephistophelean look. Striking. Good camera material. Probably SAG.
"Anyway after my workout I saw him again in the shower room. I smiled and he returned it. In the unusually full steam room I thought full house but found a seat on the far tiled bench and as I sat down, Mephistopheles plonked himself next to me. Silence reigned among the self-conscious young buffs in the pea soup steam, everyone a shadowy figure. Suddenly I feel fingers beating a light tattoo on the back of my left shoulder. It was Mephistopheles with his arm stretched out behind me. Well, I let it go on for a bit but then stood up and went outside to dry off. Mephistopheles, eyes agleam, soon emerged, as I knew he would.
I laughed and said, “I’m Jonathan.”
‘Oh hi, I’m Richard.””
“I’ve seen you before here. Do you live nearby?”
“ No, uptown but I have not been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve been lazy. You see mother died last Tuesday.”
This abrupt change in the light conversation was quite disturbing. After all he’d been drumming a tattoo on my naked shoulder a minute ago and now here we are talking of his mother, passed over at the age of 85.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “A difficult time for you.”
As I sympathized, another man overhearing our chat said, “Please accept my condolences. I sympathize. You see, my brother died two weeks ago.”
We digested this as he went off to get some water. I whispered to Richard: “His brother could not have been very old.”
When the other guy returned, I said, “How very sad for you and your family. Had he been ill for a long time?”
“He was forty-five. He suffered from years of depression. He committed suicide.”
This rather took our breath away. My mind raced. Was I in an Absurdist play? What does one say? Nothing lighthearted as that could be construed as flippant. After a small pause, I plunged in, rashly as it turned out. In the stroke of a sentence we had gone from vague erotic feelings to death. Entering the lists of this melancholy news competition, I said.
”This seems to be a bad time.” I said. “My friend Harold died last week, but he was 96.”
This did not have the desired effect. I saw right away I’d overplayed my hand in the pecking order of grief. Plus my English accent appeared suspicious. The British have the reputation for not taking serious things seriously enough. .
I left them to dress, reflecting that in the space of a couple of hours I was involved with a child martyr, two unfortunate deaths and a suicide.
Am I a magnet for these stories? Do I have the look of one who listens to gloom, attracting death? It was clinched when I ran into Gloria, gloomy at the best of times, who cornered me to say lugubriously she’d lost her grandmother to dementia. There was no riposte to that. Gloria doesn’t like competition when it comes to bad news.
I could put a major spoke in Bill’s wheel next time, but I fear he would feel I am a candidate for a revised Kraft-Ebbing edition: a real bag of nerves. What Bill doesn’t know is that actually I have nerves of steel. After all, I survived the blitz; as a student working in a hospital morgue I handed bodies over to the morticians and once had to burn an amputated leg. Oh. I forgot. I said to Mephistopheles emerging into the changing room to get a drink of water we should have a coffee. Sometime. “Yes, “ he said.
“I’ll give you my card”
“Do,” he said over his shoulder as he sallied back into the steam room. My remark was not too clever as he was wearing nothing. Where would he put the card? Conceal it in some orifice? I didn’t say that. But I could see that Richard was more intent on the momentary pleasures of the flesh, preferring Mr. Right now as opposed to Mr. Right, his dead mum quite out of the picture.”
Later on I continued my cogitations. Amidst all these things, sex in the shower, death in the steam room (sounds like a detective novel), St Vitus, St. Augustine, I thought there’s not one ounce of love in all this. Sad really. Nothing. Just the moment. The poor suicide, my old friend who finally kicked the bucket, Richard’s mum, did they have any love? Will Mephistophelean Richard, plunging back into the steamy soup for a quick grope, his five-day dead mum forgotten, will he find a gram of love?
No of course not. And why? Well, love doesn’t exist. I’ve not seen it. Infatuation, yes. Experienced that myself usually with people not entranced by me. Maybe better an ounce of pleasure than an age of regret and nothing. You can’t buy love as Vicki Carr once said but you can sure rent it for while. Gather ye rosebuds as Ronsard told us. Don’t forget, Gordon, I am a magnet for death. But, my dear friend, not yours or mine. Oh Gordon, how wonderful you are to listen to my nonsense. I have a secret to tell you. I love you, despite this public persona. Let’s have a toast to life and give death a run for his money.”
Gordon laughed loudly.
“Did you like that story?”
“Oh yes," said Gordon.
"Even if it isn’t true?”
"It’s true if you tell it.”
Jonathan smiled complacently. "I'll write it up for ROOM TO WRITE. Wait till tomorrow though. I’ve got another one about a naughty vicar.” He laughed.
THE END
Friday, January 8, 2010
WAY TO GO
Copyright 1/6/10. WAY TO GO
Hello there, lovely to see you. Phyllis and Ben have arrived, Don.
Come in. It’s cold isn’t it? How did you get here?
Well, Ben said take the number 2 train and get off at Lake View, go down the stairs by that new coffee shop on MacIntyre and walk two blocks to you. But I said, no, don’t lets do that. Let’s take the number 3 train that stops at Water Place by the Starbucks and then walk back just one block to your place. It’s much easier.
Which did you do?
We didn’t do either. Ben was quite tetchy about it, weren’t you Ben? But he’s got over it, haven’t you darling? We compromised, well not really a compromise in that we decided to eschew the train and take the bus. As Daphne says, you know Daphne from the home help office, one meets a better class of person on the bus and one can get a good seat especially on these new hybrid buses using batteries in place of gas. We have to do our bit, I told Ben, didn’t I darling? So what did we do? We took 47B bus which gave us a transfer to the Piggly-Wiggly supermarket liquor store and that appealed to Ben, didn’t it Ben? Well, he’d forgotten to get you some wine and so we were able to pop in there and here it is, a lovely Shiraz, fruity and full as the bottle says. And the advantage of coming that way is that one gets a transfer lasting two hours. So convenient, don’t you think?
I would not have thought of coming to our house like that. I mean, when we visit you, we take the coach at Masterson Road, it costs a bit more but it is express, the seats are comfortable, the heating bearable and they play soft music to keep one in a good frame of mind. In fact we were all given a free bottle of water as we boarded last time, weren’t we Mara?
Well, frankly I look at it this way. I spend a lot of time traveling as you all know so want comfort when I go from place to place locally, like your place, Phyllis and Ben. I use a minicab. You really can’t beat it. It’s cheaper than the regular taxi service that is usually irregular anyway and quite unreliable.
That reminds me. When Phyllis and her new girl friend Arleen came by the other day, they came in a limo. I was very impressed. It turns out that Arleen’s brother is a limo driver and happened to be going that way so of course they took advantage of it.
Being by the river, did you know there is a new ferry service to your place? One boards at the Landing up stream for two stops, then you take the free ferry shuttle to Wandsworth Place and come through those gardens to you. It’s quite an adventure. And if you like bus people, you’ll love boat people, always well togged out in their waterproofs and wellies. When we used the service recently. Oh yes, we tried it. In fact the journey though not long was eventful as we all had to participate in a drill in case the boat sank. It was quite thrilling and Ben looked rather fetching in a sou’wester in neon yellow, didn’t you Ben? I’m going to get another one and we can go out together like the Bobsy twin, can’t we Ben?
Well. I never. You know I have suddenly thought of another way. You know how I’m all for using Shanks’s pony what with keeping fit and firming after fifty and all that. Well, one could go through the golf course, along the edge of the links and take that rustic path to the end of your avenue where the little park adjoins the course. It’s much healthier though of course hard to do it in high heels like Mara’s wearing now. Those sling backs are not made for walking. Thank you Nancy Sinatra! Shall we open the Shiraz?
I don’t see why not. Oh my goodness, look at the time. It’s flown by. Work tomorrow. We’ll have to go.
Oh dear. Well if you must you must. How are you going to get home?
Hello there, lovely to see you. Phyllis and Ben have arrived, Don.
Come in. It’s cold isn’t it? How did you get here?
Well, Ben said take the number 2 train and get off at Lake View, go down the stairs by that new coffee shop on MacIntyre and walk two blocks to you. But I said, no, don’t lets do that. Let’s take the number 3 train that stops at Water Place by the Starbucks and then walk back just one block to your place. It’s much easier.
Which did you do?
We didn’t do either. Ben was quite tetchy about it, weren’t you Ben? But he’s got over it, haven’t you darling? We compromised, well not really a compromise in that we decided to eschew the train and take the bus. As Daphne says, you know Daphne from the home help office, one meets a better class of person on the bus and one can get a good seat especially on these new hybrid buses using batteries in place of gas. We have to do our bit, I told Ben, didn’t I darling? So what did we do? We took 47B bus which gave us a transfer to the Piggly-Wiggly supermarket liquor store and that appealed to Ben, didn’t it Ben? Well, he’d forgotten to get you some wine and so we were able to pop in there and here it is, a lovely Shiraz, fruity and full as the bottle says. And the advantage of coming that way is that one gets a transfer lasting two hours. So convenient, don’t you think?
I would not have thought of coming to our house like that. I mean, when we visit you, we take the coach at Masterson Road, it costs a bit more but it is express, the seats are comfortable, the heating bearable and they play soft music to keep one in a good frame of mind. In fact we were all given a free bottle of water as we boarded last time, weren’t we Mara?
Well, frankly I look at it this way. I spend a lot of time traveling as you all know so want comfort when I go from place to place locally, like your place, Phyllis and Ben. I use a minicab. You really can’t beat it. It’s cheaper than the regular taxi service that is usually irregular anyway and quite unreliable.
That reminds me. When Phyllis and her new girl friend Arleen came by the other day, they came in a limo. I was very impressed. It turns out that Arleen’s brother is a limo driver and happened to be going that way so of course they took advantage of it.
Being by the river, did you know there is a new ferry service to your place? One boards at the Landing up stream for two stops, then you take the free ferry shuttle to Wandsworth Place and come through those gardens to you. It’s quite an adventure. And if you like bus people, you’ll love boat people, always well togged out in their waterproofs and wellies. When we used the service recently. Oh yes, we tried it. In fact the journey though not long was eventful as we all had to participate in a drill in case the boat sank. It was quite thrilling and Ben looked rather fetching in a sou’wester in neon yellow, didn’t you Ben? I’m going to get another one and we can go out together like the Bobsy twin, can’t we Ben?
Well. I never. You know I have suddenly thought of another way. You know how I’m all for using Shanks’s pony what with keeping fit and firming after fifty and all that. Well, one could go through the golf course, along the edge of the links and take that rustic path to the end of your avenue where the little park adjoins the course. It’s much healthier though of course hard to do it in high heels like Mara’s wearing now. Those sling backs are not made for walking. Thank you Nancy Sinatra! Shall we open the Shiraz?
I don’t see why not. Oh my goodness, look at the time. It’s flown by. Work tomorrow. We’ll have to go.
Oh dear. Well if you must you must. How are you going to get home?
Friday, January 1, 2010
PLACEBO (copyright 1.1.10)
"It's quite a puzzle to me, all these medical tests," said Agatha, " I mean, suppose you were sick with some obscure disease and they were trying for a drug to cure it. Well, the drug has to be tested doesn't it? So they test it on patients but use a placebo on others. They don't tell the patients what they are getting. Well, I wouldn't want to be one of the others, would you? Of course there may be horrible side effects with the new drug, losing one's sight, paralysis, deafness or depression. Then of course one would be happy to be one of the others, to have had the placebos. It's a puzzle, Geoffrey, isn't it?"
"What did you say, Agatha?"
"Oh Geoffrey,you haven't been listening to a word I've said. I'm talking about placebos."
"Placebos," he said, "I know about them, that tribe in Africa that was on Fox; they all have bottoms like shelves and bosoms like trays. You could carry a tea service on a bosom like that. I was quite struck by it."
Agatha looked pained. "I worry about you, Geoffrey. You did take those pills today didn't you? You know what Doctor Gibson said."
"Yes, of course I remember what he said. I know too that you said they might be a placebo."
Agatha sighed deeply. Sometimes she thought, Geoffrey was going to push her over the edge.
"What did you say, Agatha?"
"Oh Geoffrey,you haven't been listening to a word I've said. I'm talking about placebos."
"Placebos," he said, "I know about them, that tribe in Africa that was on Fox; they all have bottoms like shelves and bosoms like trays. You could carry a tea service on a bosom like that. I was quite struck by it."
Agatha looked pained. "I worry about you, Geoffrey. You did take those pills today didn't you? You know what Doctor Gibson said."
"Yes, of course I remember what he said. I know too that you said they might be a placebo."
Agatha sighed deeply. Sometimes she thought, Geoffrey was going to push her over the edge.
NEW BEGINNINGS.. Copyright 1.1.2010
Flora was already three sheets to the wind, chatting up Ralph the drummer in their son's band. Her husband eyed her warily as he chatted to their guests at their new year's party. They had decided to make a go of their marriage and had told the counselor of their lengthy discussions and momentous decisions about making a new beginning. Eric thought ruefully that Flora was already quite distant from any new beginning as she was only too obviously enjoying her old way of life and going at it full tilt.
She had been fine upstairs, full of the recent vows. He had gazed lovingly at her as she sat at her dressing table. With hope in his heart, he clasped a river of sapphires about her neck. She smiled radiantly at him in the mirror. "Oh darling" she said, "it's a new year, we can do it, we can begin again." He had succumbed to her extravagant beauty. She was totally woman, a magnificent example and the public who saw only their outer show, loved them both for their shining example of success.
"Will you come down with me to greet our guests?" he had asked.
"Oh, darling, you go down first. Check all is well with the hired staff. Make sure they have enough chilled champagne. I need a few minutes just to get myself together. Put on the finishing touches as it were," she laughed.
Eric thought now that it must have been in those few minutes that she took something, probably a snort or two of coke. She was brilliant now, shining, her eyes startling and diamond-like. She attracted people and was maybe a little piqued that Ralph was not responding as all the others always did. In fact, Eric could see that Ralph was looking decidedly flustered. After all he was just eighteen and the woman could easily be his mother. In fact, she was the mother of his mate. He was dying of embarrassment.
Eric knew then it was going to be a long evening. He knew too that there would be no new beginnings next day, next week, ever. He thought to himself: would that I were rid of her.
She had been fine upstairs, full of the recent vows. He had gazed lovingly at her as she sat at her dressing table. With hope in his heart, he clasped a river of sapphires about her neck. She smiled radiantly at him in the mirror. "Oh darling" she said, "it's a new year, we can do it, we can begin again." He had succumbed to her extravagant beauty. She was totally woman, a magnificent example and the public who saw only their outer show, loved them both for their shining example of success.
"Will you come down with me to greet our guests?" he had asked.
"Oh, darling, you go down first. Check all is well with the hired staff. Make sure they have enough chilled champagne. I need a few minutes just to get myself together. Put on the finishing touches as it were," she laughed.
Eric thought now that it must have been in those few minutes that she took something, probably a snort or two of coke. She was brilliant now, shining, her eyes startling and diamond-like. She attracted people and was maybe a little piqued that Ralph was not responding as all the others always did. In fact, Eric could see that Ralph was looking decidedly flustered. After all he was just eighteen and the woman could easily be his mother. In fact, she was the mother of his mate. He was dying of embarrassment.
Eric knew then it was going to be a long evening. He knew too that there would be no new beginnings next day, next week, ever. He thought to himself: would that I were rid of her.
VISION
He alighted from the train with all the other student pilgrims from Paris. Most of them were Roman Catholics but he was Protestant. At least he was reared as one. Mostly he saw himself as incarnating the real meaning of the word, someone who protests. Indeed he quite admired Martin Luther who seemed to him to have a lot of courage especially when he nailed his 95 theses to the Wittenberg church door. It was the action of a radical student,and radicalism appealed to Gerard. He hated Thomas More whom he saw as a sanctimonious prick. Gerard was not taken in by A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS even though the theatre crowd was gaga about the play. A good play about an awful man. I guess Marx was right that religion is the opium of the people. Not that Gerard thought highly of the people, le peuple, the vulgar plebs, the hoi polloi, a Greek remark, a Latin word and one that's French as W. S. Gilbert quipped; Gerard was not one to throw up his sweaty nightcap to praise Pompey and then switch to Caesar. No, he was a person of reason. It was drummed into him at London University. Think first and then speak, sparingly.
All these thoughts flooded his mind as the trainload of Parisian students formed themselves into a mighty column of walkers, blocks of boys and girls on their way upwards to the shrine of St. Francis, the body of St. Clare and of course the priceless Giottos. The sound of the hymn to Mary echoed back and fore as one group sang the verse and the other the refrain.
Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace,
le Seigneur est avec vous,
vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes,
et Jésus le fruit de vos entrailles est béni.
Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort.
I salute you Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. You are blesed among women and Jesus the fruit of thy womb is also blessed. Holy Mary, Mother of God. pray for us poor sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Gerard, despite his reason, was overcome suddenly, hypnotized by the incantation, the religiosity, the fervor of his fellows. He raised his eyes in the deepening gloom to the great gate and the wall of the hill town of Assisi and there it was. He looked and looked and quite clearly saw the head of the saint, with a magnificent golden halo, the profile defined, St. Francis, the eyes lifted upward, mouth slightly open as in prayer and praise, the nose hopeful and seeking. He wondered if anyone else could see what he saw. Was he the only one. Was it a sign? Was he at nineteen at last finding the way to his destiny?
As they approached nearer he saw what he thought was his vision was the jagged edge of the walled gateway which they approached at an angle, the halo the result of a street lamp just inside the wall.
He felt let down. He had not seen a vision. It had been an illusion. The crowd pressed forward and poured into a residence. A monk looked at them sternly and asked in Italian who they were. As the French students looked somewhat confused, Gerard spoke up in his first year Italian, his English accent ringing out: Siamo pelegrini da Parigi. Ah, benvenuti, welcome, and the monk smiled at him. Even though he had not had a vision he was suddenly very popular with his fellow students. Maybe, he thought, that was a sign and he relaxed.
All these thoughts flooded his mind as the trainload of Parisian students formed themselves into a mighty column of walkers, blocks of boys and girls on their way upwards to the shrine of St. Francis, the body of St. Clare and of course the priceless Giottos. The sound of the hymn to Mary echoed back and fore as one group sang the verse and the other the refrain.
Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace,
le Seigneur est avec vous,
vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes,
et Jésus le fruit de vos entrailles est béni.
Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs, maintenant et à l’heure de notre mort.
I salute you Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. You are blesed among women and Jesus the fruit of thy womb is also blessed. Holy Mary, Mother of God. pray for us poor sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Gerard, despite his reason, was overcome suddenly, hypnotized by the incantation, the religiosity, the fervor of his fellows. He raised his eyes in the deepening gloom to the great gate and the wall of the hill town of Assisi and there it was. He looked and looked and quite clearly saw the head of the saint, with a magnificent golden halo, the profile defined, St. Francis, the eyes lifted upward, mouth slightly open as in prayer and praise, the nose hopeful and seeking. He wondered if anyone else could see what he saw. Was he the only one. Was it a sign? Was he at nineteen at last finding the way to his destiny?
As they approached nearer he saw what he thought was his vision was the jagged edge of the walled gateway which they approached at an angle, the halo the result of a street lamp just inside the wall.
He felt let down. He had not seen a vision. It had been an illusion. The crowd pressed forward and poured into a residence. A monk looked at them sternly and asked in Italian who they were. As the French students looked somewhat confused, Gerard spoke up in his first year Italian, his English accent ringing out: Siamo pelegrini da Parigi. Ah, benvenuti, welcome, and the monk smiled at him. Even though he had not had a vision he was suddenly very popular with his fellow students. Maybe, he thought, that was a sign and he relaxed.
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