After a weekend of ennui, tooth-chattering cold and bad portents in the Tarot, I received an interesting invitation this morning. The hand-pressed creamy paper of the envelope gave away the source of the correspondence immediately. And upon opening (I trusted Una with the letter-opener, perhaps foolishly given the glint in her eye), letters pressed in gold leaf on luxuriously thick card invited me to the Christmas party of the Societas Rosicruciana in Welwyn (S.R.I.W.).
This secret society had been based in the Angel, Islington, but the infirmity of most of its members, rising rents and their failing ability to turn base metals into gold had prompted its relocation to the leafy and less poetic environs of Welwyn Garden City. In darkest Hertfordshire an elderly master of theurgy could safely decode the Hermetic Qabalah whilst speeding around on a mobility cart.
Normally I try to avoid the barely living dark priests of S.R.I.W., if only because their dogma seems to defeat the point of magic (their infirm condition, admittedly, also merely reminds me of my even more decrepit state). But this year I have had to contend with the death of most of my show business chums and that unfortunate business with Dirk Bogarde’s pinkie ring.
When one’s diary is empty, even Welwyn Garden City can become tolerable…
Monday, 8 December 2008
Friday, 5 December 2008
The Bear-Trap
Upon awakening this morning on the cracked leather chair in my gloomy study, with only flickering red embers in the fireplace to warm my old bones, I was alarmed by a mighty crash and a stream of Creole curses.
For a brief moment, I feared that my home’s carefully contrived supernatural defences had been breached. Was Muskanvaar dropping by as promised? However, upon hearing wounded muttering from the hall, I realised that it was Mange Tout and, naturally, I immediately suspected that he was the victim of one of Una’s pranks.
I called him through and he staggered in, his immense frame silhouetted against the grey morning light half-heartedly leaking from the hall windows.
“That woman, she vex me,” he grumbled as he shook a rusty bear-trap from his left leg, “it sting.”
I couldn’t help but be amused by Una’s cheek, although I couldn’t for the life of me work out where she’d unearthed the source of Mange-Tout’s discomfort. No doubt she was snuggled under a duvet in her attic room (she was a late riser, the lazy girl), sniggering at her revenge for the light flogging she had received earlier in the week.
The irony was that my poor chauffeur was merely doing my bidding, so I could slake my perverse desires vicariously. Ever my strong right arm, he is now locked in a proxy war with the cunning and svelte Una.
It is a war I fear he can never win. Especially as my housekeeper is now a firm ally of the au pair. Possibly the most terrifying woman I have met, the housekeeper is not to be trifled with.
Of course I let them get with it, stirring up a little conflict when particularly bored. It’s difficult to cope with having all of a man’s natural desires and none of a man’s actual body. The only way I stay sane is through these silly games…
For a brief moment, I feared that my home’s carefully contrived supernatural defences had been breached. Was Muskanvaar dropping by as promised? However, upon hearing wounded muttering from the hall, I realised that it was Mange Tout and, naturally, I immediately suspected that he was the victim of one of Una’s pranks.
I called him through and he staggered in, his immense frame silhouetted against the grey morning light half-heartedly leaking from the hall windows.
“That woman, she vex me,” he grumbled as he shook a rusty bear-trap from his left leg, “it sting.”
I couldn’t help but be amused by Una’s cheek, although I couldn’t for the life of me work out where she’d unearthed the source of Mange-Tout’s discomfort. No doubt she was snuggled under a duvet in her attic room (she was a late riser, the lazy girl), sniggering at her revenge for the light flogging she had received earlier in the week.
The irony was that my poor chauffeur was merely doing my bidding, so I could slake my perverse desires vicariously. Ever my strong right arm, he is now locked in a proxy war with the cunning and svelte Una.
It is a war I fear he can never win. Especially as my housekeeper is now a firm ally of the au pair. Possibly the most terrifying woman I have met, the housekeeper is not to be trifled with.
Of course I let them get with it, stirring up a little conflict when particularly bored. It’s difficult to cope with having all of a man’s natural desires and none of a man’s actual body. The only way I stay sane is through these silly games…
Monday, 1 December 2008
Victorian pornography and Woolworth
Having met an immortal cold warrior on Saturday, I now find myself dealing with the dreary realities that crowd my undead life. The Jaguar Mk2 failed its MOT today and I have to cough up a ludicrous amount of money to get it back on the road. Until then Mange Tout will pace restlessly over creaking floorboards, deprived of his raison-d’être. The prospect of asking him to take me aboard a bendy bus will keep me confined to the environs of Holland Park until the car is returned.
I also found that Una has scrawled huge cocks all over the prints in my Aubrey Beardsley pornographic portfolio. This vandalism (for which, I can assure you, she has been soundly punished) was somewhat superfluous, as the illustrations themselves were populated with any number of huge cocks anyway.
Even worse than this wanton cultural desecration was the depressing sight of my housekeeper returning from Woolworth with a thoroughly indecent haul of discounted pick-and-mix. I notice the coconut and mallow mushrooms are favoured…
Ever one with an eye for a bargain, she has robbed the grave of the venerable high street retailer and even now she’s overdosing on e-numbers and sugars, showing Una exactly how she won Gold in the Munich Olympics. This is not a sight with which I feel I should scar the minds of my readers. However, I will go as far as to tell you that the occasional table and sofa will never quite the same…
I also found that Una has scrawled huge cocks all over the prints in my Aubrey Beardsley pornographic portfolio. This vandalism (for which, I can assure you, she has been soundly punished) was somewhat superfluous, as the illustrations themselves were populated with any number of huge cocks anyway.
Even worse than this wanton cultural desecration was the depressing sight of my housekeeper returning from Woolworth with a thoroughly indecent haul of discounted pick-and-mix. I notice the coconut and mallow mushrooms are favoured…
Ever one with an eye for a bargain, she has robbed the grave of the venerable high street retailer and even now she’s overdosing on e-numbers and sugars, showing Una exactly how she won Gold in the Munich Olympics. This is not a sight with which I feel I should scar the minds of my readers. However, I will go as far as to tell you that the occasional table and sofa will never quite the same…
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
