Saturday, 14 March

Rhomboid:

A master stroke indeed! Count me in for fifty million.* I can see myself now, waited on hand and foot in a deck chair hanging some twenty thousand feet above Scotland... oops, I’ve dropped my pipe... I follow it down a few thousand feet until it disappears from view. Will some lucky Glaswegian be clonked on the head by it, curse and then see the silver inlays and gold trimmed bowl, causing him to do one of those jigs they do in celebration... but I have let my mind stray far afield. Where will your works be? What color will the ships be? Who do you propose to bring on as chief engineer? I would recommend Sarbus but he is still in hospital recovering from burns.

As for me I’ve had no such brilliant ideas of late. I seem to be obsessing on colors for some reason. I’ve had the Piano Room at Old Lovestand repainted eight different times in the last fortnight. I am told now by my maintenance personnel that the walls will simply not hold the weight of another coat. Yet to my eye it still doesn’t look right. What to do? (The piano is a different story. I’ve had the thing wallpapered and it looks fabulous! It is, alas, still out of tune.)

Reverend Snardovar was around the other day asking me once again, if I still believed in God. I said to him this: “Reverend Snardovar, you come to me a stoop-shouldered hunchback with jagged teeth and yellow eyes. Your skin is blotched and your hair patchy, except on the backs of your hands where it is thick and regular. Your one leg is longer than the other by a good seven inches and thicker around by half. You’re missing a finger and you give off the odor of processed fish. Your voice is high-pitched and your speech is impeded by an extra-thick tongue. What is the point of your asking me this question?”

He paused and said, “Well, if you did, I was wondering if you could ask Him why he fucked me up so bad?”

I go now,

A. Home

* lire

Letter the Current