What I’m I in this world but a penniless individual trying to touch the greats but when the grief comes I am no longer able even to live in the normal everyday manners.
“If you want to read just go home and stay there you bitch.” She seems to be saying to her mobile as her crass voice becomes louder and louder. How dare you pretend to be disabled and hard up and not even able to work when you do work all day I can see the results bitch.”
“I know who you are bitch and that is that. I am able to stop your allowance and make you do the right thing by working everyday for a job like a bath room attendant and all that is what you are good for.”
“It is intolerable.” I seem to be saying with my eyes on her stupid idiotic face and she not looking at me but at the mobile. I wish she would bloody eat her bloody mobile.
“I want to read the ending of my book.” But I snap the book shut and look at her pimp I glare at him with myself exhausted. He is sat at the back row of the train then he flares back. You know these people think I am stupid.
I notice some young people with flowers and decadence with each into themselves as they get off the train and walk quickly by. I am shocked by the power of selfish thoughts to read a book seems to be what is making all this happen. They are objecting to my reading a book so that I won’t pass my exams I find this behaviour most strange and I will be getting angry with them soon. You know these peoples’ mums must have dropped them as babies that are why they want to sit beside me telling me sweet nothings. It stands to reason they can’t have any other use for me? I am 52.
I wretch I wretched. I named as such in my own tongue Turkish, Aba means wretched and I am wretched. I see that now that not only am I a cloak to others but that there are no cloaks to me. I wretch and reaching out towards tomorrows when nothing changes where I lose each day something and gain nothing in return.
Everything happens and one soldiers on, no points gained nothing given just this soldiering on. I wretched to see myself so in this disguise as a fiend in sheep’s clothing wants to humiliate and hunt me down as any animal in the fox hunt. I wretch to see such inhumanity cannot do justice to self or others as I am getting tired of this game with the fangs out with odium as my lot. Beastly bargain of bane as my contempt for life gains precedence over my desires. I have a phobia about myself as I am now. Rosemary West like face I have even her bulk. I malicious without intent to harm self have harmed the child in me. I have become a nasty piece of goods horrid to see myself humbling myself for anyone and now see myself and my wrath detesting myself repugnance and some kind of nausea myself alienated from myself as if broken into two. This enmity to self is the antipathy of my wishes. I have an aversion to myself I detest myself. Pleased to goad myself into a humbled position invidious self this selfish self. I snarl at the self that was that knew peace now self and self are at odds and the pack of bastards have come into me self tormenting me as if the world was not speaking to me as if I a dirty ditty told in the tune of time.
Give me a certificate then to while away the blues? You know whores have certificates don’t they? Too much reality TV my dear there is no such thing as a whore when one has only had one boy friend. Is that what my mum is saying about me that I need or deserve a certificate because she needs some bitch to fetch and carry her?
Oh to wish that Mum was like Queen Anne Stuart with 18 pregnancies and none surviving her. She surviving nothing her end in the coils of the birth cry. She would cause union with Scotland and Ma can’t cause a union with union Jack. To cause a death to an era that is what mum might do. She might cause the wickedness of the daughters to marry for the family and to kill that daughter if she does not marry, that man or this man. To keep her from doing anything she wants, to beget more children that she does not and cannot look after. To make her sleep with a man, her husband, and she to sleep walk forever with such a man to succumb to passions that this man inspires and the spirit to leave her in the endless toil that the family have chosen for her to have willed her to have. To cause that to end would be good wouldn’t it? It must end this mindless bigotry about the female must end. There is no such thing as a brainless female why treat us the female as mindless oafs within the confines of the bed when we are just as reliable if not more so than the men? No way I’m I to be sat upon unless it is a sex act. No more shall we females have our labour thrown out with the babies.
Oh this justified murder of mine to see myself murdered and to tell no tales. To see myself preyed upon and not to be able to scream. To see myself in the toils of the ashes of my unreason and telling myself not to worry that it will pass. To see myself in the thrills of passion and not be able to do anything but submit.
Submit to what? What am I but an ugly bitch on heat? I see myself thrown into the fires and be unable to save myself to suffer from the heat and to see nothing but selfish desires of everybody. I am unwanted and a burden on this earth. To burn in disgrace and to tell no one but myself that it would pass. To light myself into the light and be unable to warn myself that I am exposed that I suffer from exposure will die in the light as if the flame is beckoning me towards something that is too big for me to undo. Inexorably I go and will continue to go for cannot undo this fascination of mine this is me into the flames and out the other end what will change? I will change there won’t be the me I know there won’t be anything but Rosemary West.
Would I murder too? Would there be no light for me would there be nothing of me? Would I be unwilling to light the spark of today? Will I change to such an extent that I will be annexed into some sort of a parade? Where would I go if nowhere is open for me? What can I see of this self that I have thrown into the flames? I can’t see to light my fires I can’t see to be myself there is no one. Here are the selfish wants of today here is me the woman now the mid life has come with the knowledge of womanhood. Where did I go? Where in the world did I end and I begin?
I see nothing but this mayhem they are following me willing me to suffocate. They are following me to suffocate this thing which I am made of. I am made of candy and floss I floss my teeth almost daily. I have chipped my teeth with the electric brush. I have haunted the chemist and bought hair dye I have began to lose weight do I still look like Rosemary West? I change my underpants daily I change my socks daily I soak in the tub at night and have a shower in the morning. I cook myself lunch and I eat sparingly. Is this all that civilisation demands of me? What is there but to see that everything is taken care of? The planet we have forgot the planet to have all that we need to take as much care if not more of the planet.
“We’ve all forgot to clean the plates that we have eaten out of. Look the rivers are being cleaned!”
“Throw yourself into the river you damn fool. Throw all the linen too into the waste basket there’s nought for you here it is over you are a trouble. Humans be extinct be extinct your extinction is neigh. Here I write it on that wall that we haven’t made out on. We will become no more because there is no one to care.”
“Planet what planet?”
“The earth planet we have forgot to take care of it.”
“When did the planet become a victim?”
“No the planet is the victim.”
“No nonsense the queen is in the parlour eating bread and honey.”
“What happened to the servants of the planet the foot soldiers?”
“They’ve expired into the night.”
“Was there no day?”
“No there is nothing on this planet but greed.”
“Which dog ate who?”
“The dogs don’t eat each other. Only humans do.”
“Like how do call girls become call girls?”
“They are born to it.” The prince says.
“No I don’t believe that. We aren’t born to it we are made.”
“You a whore too?”
“Yes because I have the body of a whore, and a mind like Keats.”
“I watch you every night in that bath and I watch the Sun page 3 girls there are not sluts except the kind you are.”
“Page 3 girls are not whores they do it for a lark.”
“No I bed them. I bed them I bed them.”
“Because they are young and not too defiled and have prospects and life. I want to suck their lives dry like you sucked mine.”
“I don’t understand you pick these page 3 girls and have they and then dumped them after showing them the high life?”
“Are you mad?”
“I’m inhuman don’t listen to these meanderings they are meaningless tosh.”
“But these girls haven’t harmed you?”
“They are women aren’t they? Female or something like not a male.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I wanted one body I want one body that is no more you are in the time of has been your body is no longer of interest to me. I want them at 20 at 22 not at 30.”
“You got to be joking?”
“I never joke about sex.”
“Especially not money and position and power.”
“Is that what it is?”
“What is it?”
“Power is the ultimate sex.”
“But this orgy of destroying young lives don’t you see these girls are young and not into the game as yet and you push them?”
“I punish you through them.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“No you should be canonised you didn’t sleep with me you made me impotent.”
“I don’t see the jest do you?”
“I’m not joking. I can’t function without that I wished to have.”
“You want your dummy?”
“What dummy are you talking about?”
“I mean you can use a doll if you are so into sex without feelings.”
“Feelings come after sex?”
“Not with me I want to respect to be on a date to see your habitat then I will consider it.”
“I don’t inhabit any habitat as you call it. I am in hell most deeply. I have fallen out of love with the woman I am condemned to see every day and to watch her sleep in her sweet dreams as if she is on a island and she doesn’t want sex with me.”
“I can’t I dislike the very thought of it is like I will be in a trap without the trap door. It will drive me mad.”
“You are mad.”
“Then a man?”
“I wish I were I would beat the hell out of you if I were.”
“You could always have a sex change?”
“Don’t want it.”
“What will you do for the rest of your life?”
“I’ll probably do nothing.”
“You mean you are content to just fuck about doing nothing but fucking about doing fuck all.”
“I’ve been had.”
“Someone walked off without paying their bill.”
“You shall be able to do the job by now. Silly creature now you have to work for nothing.”
“Oh God what a mistake to make and they seemed such quiet and hard working son and man.”
“Don’t worry it is not the end of the world.”
“But now father will say I am incompetent and will throw a tantrum that I haven’t been attending and have an attention deficit. I wish I were dead and buried so that I can think myself into some sort of life. This is not living this is destroying me.”
“Now we’ve upset the cook.”
“They haven’t paid they haven’t paid.”
“What is it love?”
“Someone hasn’t paid.”
Laughter in the cafe as all the men look aroused as if their bile is satisfied. They all look as if to say we have won I told you so as if the joke was on the house. It was an ending it was thought Emine. It was a sort of death it was being incompetent it was incompetence itself it was as if no one liked her as if she was some sort of slave.
“Shall we go and get them?”
“Then we rest our case love we’ve ordered a bacon sandwich where is it?”
“When did you make it?”
“When you asked me ten minutes ago.”
“Look love are you selling yesterdays’ food?”
“You can’t do that to a sandwich it will be inedible if you do.”
“It is nice to know that.”
There is such human bestiality in the human kind they see nothing but the things they want and to destroy whatever else there is? Yes they will do anything to get laid without obligation, without anything but their lusts. These people are the creatures which beget children and wives are left to beget whatever males they fancy. Or so they tell the waitress but it is not true. These customers who are men are out hunting the weak uneducated, virginal, waitress. She is struggling with the staff shortages and tiresome tiredness to deal with the bankruptcy she fears. The male customers are after some sort of satisfaction, gratification as if she is the main meal. They see no other life for her but to be the meal. They see nothing but her struggles and this turns on their mean streak as if they are out to see what they can get out of her.
Every day someone outwits her. If it is not the man come to fix the fire blanket and the fire extinguisher it is the man come to sell the wrong kind of eggs, or beans which have been stolen or the washing detergent which is dowdily nicked from some big restaurant and if it is not that then the taps go and there is nothing but water. Then there is the constant fear that the lights would be turned off if they can’t pay the bills. If it is not that then there is the constant bickering between the parents. If it is not that then there is the constant workload to do the jobs before she can go out and write something.
Then there is the customers who seemed to like coming when she is going out and staying trying to eat something when it is closing time. One man nearly broke his head the others just do not come back. There seems to be endless obstruction to her having a soul a life something of her own. There is this endless laughter as if her father is the one too who is always trying to outwit her not staying to see to it that the men eat their meals he is not helping her. Her father thinks she belongs to the family that her place is not with herself but with them the family.
Emine wishes she understood more she wishes she could just die and leave nothing behind. She wishes her parents would die or that the shop might close for good that something might happen. What vindictiveness is this she thinks as she travels to her college and forgets her troubles as if she is in the way of people who understand her. She wishes every day could be like this. That she belongs here that there is peace away from all the shit back home.
Why is everyone eating her dry? She forgets to look at all the middle class people and looks at Canterbury tales painting that hangs in the refectory. It is about sex life is about sex it is indecent what the bottom is up against when even your own flesh and blood want to screw you for themselves. Something must give she thinks as she stirs her coffee she likes it here it is peaceful and the workers in the canteen are treated with respect. She glares into her coffee as she stirs it. There is some more tea to be had she thinks before she goes to her class to study the writing which will one day perhaps save her from slavery.
Then the rest of the group come and they look at their newspapers so difficult to see as they are old. They end up discussing politics of all things and they go to it with hammer and togs as if Emine is alive someone asks if she is reading politics? What I am only interested says Emine can she read politics at University level? She dare not hope that her brain might be functioning again that she is not sleep walking as she had when she had done her first degree course? What if it were possible to read politics at degree level? But she did not know if she could write academically there had to be something she was good at. Some subject that she could do at that level without dropping out of the course half way.
She looked again at the Canterbury tales painting all the jokers telling a story and going to their pilgrimages as if their bath tales and their little asides meant something. They all looked dead thought Emine. They look as dead as I DO. Suddenly Emine gets up and leaves the group. She goes to the library and has a book or two looking at all the how to write books. They don’t tell you what to do. She thinks it is like a cookery book if you don’t have the right ingredients you can’t do it. Maybe she did not have a brain to knock herself with? Maybe her father was right that she was a noddy-noddy. She a brainless noddy. She slept through the class usually but no she was determined not to. She gave a huge struggle not to and she listened intently as everyone with their degrees spoke and listened to each other and spoke. Someone fancied her but he was old. She thought she been told not to go out with older man. He was going to retire or something to some part of the country and wanted a partner as his wife had died or something. He probably wanted a housekeeper with sex thrown in thought Emine. He had a degree too but she did not want him she did not fancy him. He fancied her but she was exhausted she did not want him and he did not edit her work like he said he would. He was as aggressive as she in his pursuit she did not like that or maybe she did. She did not want all the fuss that the prince was capable of she did not want trouble. He would not allow her to go to college if there was even the speck of someone else. She flirted though and Michael did not like to seem put out. He did not understand. Nor did her. She was doomed in this merry go round she was doomed.
Did she fancy him ? No she did not he wanted something she could not give it was not on to be told time and again that one was stupid she did not feel right in the head that day. But when did she ever do? He spat at her words which she found oddly disturbing. He was dangerous but what of that she did not could not do it. He was going to destroy her stay in the class if she did not give him what he wanted. Her tutor said as a smelly woman came and sat next to her.
“That might be the stop she had to go? Did she have to go?”
“Michael seemed to be having a thought.” Said the tutor.
“You’re always in bandages.”
“I am indeed.” Said Emine and realised that it was true.
“A taxi driver goes to your cafe.”
“More fool him.” Said Emine.
“We’ll tell him that.”
“Whatever you like.”
“We did not think your story is good enough you have to write more.”
“I am going to write more?”
“Will I be able to?”
“We might let you.”
Everyone thinks themselves God thought Emine. She hated to be so powerless. She had to go and study a subject she could sustain. She was looking for some subject any subject what will I study? What can a meat do? She thought as she went into the library to see them the books. She had not breed any books she was a failure she could not concentrate what of that? She was an utter failure she looked at the Picasso images as if they were the grail what of that she loved to see the images. What of that she could not see them without crying her life a total failure. She was wiped out. She limped back to the upstairs part of the library as she did she hurt her leg. She went ouch but it did not hurt as much as she thought she was going to do something she made up her mind. She was going to throw her lot on her art.
She was going to specialise. She was not going to be some old man’s crumpet. She did not fancy being the crumpet of some dickhead. She felt her leg it was time she got out of the bandages. She was still young enough to forge ahead she had to forage for money to study she would study she had to study otherwise those terrible old men with their games would get her.
I went to the cinema to see a film or two. There was nothing but Woman in Black by Susan Hill. I was nervous for some reason so tense as if drinking my tea on the seat would cause me a heart attack. I tensed up even in the short film which said you have six years to live. Even with this I thought it is terror it is mayhem that is what is going to happen. I tensed as the guys came and walked round me as if their spilling my tea would be the last straw that I would be too terrified to listen, see, to get everything right in my head.
Then the film started it was a 12 a felt foolish felt as if I was a child on standby as if the tenseness left but with it came relief as if the relief washed over me as if the wash was over. There was a moment that set my pulses racing as three children jumped all at once out of the window. There were other deaths of kids and then the hero had the idea to reunite the child with the mother and that might avoid the revenge attacks on the town kids. The hero was always inept afraid of losing his job unable to cope from grief about his wife. She had died in childbirth and despite the child being four he did not see that the nursemaid was in love with him. He must be in love with the dead wife still. The telegraph office was burnt and the telegram did not get to London it was impossible to get it through all the villages were distant. Then the scream of the mad woman as she said she did not forgive she would not forgive the things that had happened to her. The hero died and the child died and are united with the mother.
But I did not behave appropriately I was to blame for not reacting sensitively to this story. But it was a happy ending they were reunited. The ex did not believe that I was an insensitive brute to be saying that it ended happily. A four year old child can’t fend for itself can it? If the father died and he was left totally alone or if the child died and the father was alone what would have happened to a penniless, jobless man?
I can’t see the crime in that so went and had sweet and sour and was well chaffed when all the waiters joined me. I fell about reading and trying to be alone when it was obvious the waiters were trying to eat their last supper. I saw some woman waiting in the corner and some prams had been fixed by a man and a woman was trying to fix a car. I don’t know where the stereotypes are do you? I must be imagining things as our lives of my family is once again disrupted by fiends from hell. I come across as insensitive to all that but what of that? There is more hellish clowns in life then a woman in a mask murdering kids there are more things that are ghoulish than death. This body of mine that does not die but wants to live a normal, contented life, what of that? I have been in terror all my life what if I don’t see the sentimental side of death? Death is a release or would be if I died today or tomorrow who would mourn my demise but a few and then they would forget to live in hell is to see no joy and life is about giving and receiving joy.
To have nothing but contempt for me this me that’s the price one pays for honesty. To see that the beauty of togetherness is the end of the story is for the prince to be bizarre for he does not understand the mathematics of life. He thinks a four year old can fend for him. Perhaps a four year old prince surrounded by nannies and governesses and the state parole. But when you see a film about this wretched man who is on the point of losing his job his last chance with a four year old battling with the odds is it any wonder that there is nothing between this and death?
So I release myself from the yoke and come to Woolwich with head bowed in deep shame. I am a shameless hussy a word in my ear a seriously shameless hussy with the world at my feet I had torn it with my wilful behaviour is it any wonder that the clowns are after me?
“You are damned!” I hear them saying as if they’re tearing the walls of my perceptions. I saw too much to be forgiving of all that rubbish about the sentiment and the Christ like sufferings of a man gone mad. Have I gone insane to be imagining that there might be a row brewing between the nice gentleman and the princely clown? I see beneath the veneer the surfaces do not interest me. Why am I such a good person one second and a wanton the next? My dears let down your veils lend me a tearful smile and I will tell you.
“I can’t stand idiots coming and telling me what to do.”
“What can’t be done has to be done differently to show the world that the world is wrong is the job of the artist not the princely drunk at the palace.”
If princes saw what there was to see there would not be revolutions at all at the palaces and there would be justly ruled world. What is it with this world is it unjust? It has fagged me to death to tell you what has been happening so I promise I will not utter another uttering but to tell a plain tale to show you all that I am not a fool is to know my place as a genuine artist able to hold her own anywhere. I don’t simper I have fainted a few times I have been butchered and abused but all in all I am a great author and a painter. So tell that to every great writer try to tell the genius how to see the woods and the trees by that drunken at the palace as he screws another whore and they compare notes as to what they have observed in the windmills of their minds.
This is not a druggist world this world is for people to tell the truths as they see it. So the great man sees that in the palace a four year old would be quite ok? So what about the four year old in the gutter would he too be ok? Of course if he does not get eaten by rats and cats for Woman in Black is in the centuries when there was no such thing as a decent orphanage as if there were in the sixties. Well this is the sad tale told by the idiot at the zoo and seeming to be visited by all the decent folk at the harem. They bonk and screw and tell lies and they still come back with the trite and the dishonest. How come a man with a brain says all that he says is beyond me? I think if a man has a decent brain then he can concentrate on things he knows otherwise he will be unsettled and an orgy of contempt at what he has no idea of.
I misread Oscar Wilde’s story, what a strumpet I am misreading a fairytale about the Happy Prince. I am to be consumed by the ashes of my former love. I would not go to his patch if I were me. But I am no longer available to listen to reason I am going to the lecture. He was here again in drag as he walked I was in my dressing gown. He found me boring now won’t leave me alone. What is it with emotions as I empty the bin it is killing me trying not to be a slag. I am a slag in fact I go to bed with anyone.
Even an out of work policeman he is here with me telling me that it is not a sin not to understand the Happy Prince in one go. But I am ashamed I am ashen I am pale he must not get the upper hand. He will destroy me. I can’t concentrate on my studies. I am subsumed in this war that is nearly death of me.
I don’t want him the prince seducing me or driving me away from myself. He can do it he has the power to do so. He can come at me from another direction and I would be that twenty year old with my pants showing. I am the Sue Ellen in this saga what of me what of my wants? He don’t care he doesn’t want to know me.
He is not going to destroy me I will not let him. He is going to fucking destroy my reason because he won a round as I could not understand the Happy Prince in one go. I am a writer I don’t do commercials. I fear I fear but there is nothing to fear it is those past years returning me in the shadows that I fear. I can’t be bothered anymore to fight this has fagged me to death.
I do the laundry and then come upstairs I an upstart to be telling the world what to do. He a prince with years of breeding and talent won’t listen to some stupid nerd like me. I am a nerd not to be able to understand a simple story like the Happy Prince. It is not his story but he loves Oscar Wilde. What I’m I going to do? What can I give in return for not understanding the story? I won’t give my own stories I can write better stories than Wilde. But Wilde wrote better plays than I. My man must read all of fucking Oscar Wilde will that do?
What is the reason of that? There is no reason in no reason. I am going to go to the place where it all happens I am going to go mad if I don’t do that. Will I fail again that is what I must not do I must not fail I will not be a failure. I am no longer in the thralls of passion I am miserable. It is as if all have gone off me as if I stand alone. Tom has gone off me. I will be miserable forever for that and this. I will not repine I will not mourn anyone anymore I will go to my destiny and search the question except what is the question? I am nothing yes I am nothing I have done nothing and will probably die a nothing. Because I don’t understand a simple tale I can’t understand the misery that Wilde describes I can’t see that to give a piece of oneself is important that when one is in the crowd one can’t see. That height is the truth that when one is like a binocular one can see many things. I totally disagree when one is on the high horse one can’t see anything. To be a part of mankind living with populace and going to everyday life that is when one knows and feels and weeps. But the Prince does not see that he does not bother to listen he goes in his disguise to fuck the woman he is with.
But how can one see at the top of the world? Can one see the details of existence the misery of suffering as one is looking with a telescope how can one listen if one does not have ears? Can one feel the silent movie as well as the talkies? I don’t understand why the reason of superiority of all this the lies of living in the mansion and pretending to be living in the filth the gutter. How can one know what it is to feel when there is nothing to fear?
Life is full of concessions what does one concede or cease to be, like any other human I have my foibles and weaknesses like anyone else I can be wicked and deceitful. But I lie to myself not to anyone else. To lie to one is to not face that bleak thing the truth. What is lovelier than the truth? It is like a human baby or a little thing newly fledged so beautiful and yet truth is defenceless, like a seed gone rampant with desires such splendours in the day time such a grass seedling such a seed of non vindictiveness. I place myself in the front and stare down at my enemies. There is such a thing as a clean fight and a nasty vacuous thing in the day time I am alive only when I do nothing but do. In the night he has let me go and I am adrift I can’t seem to be nothing anymore I want to be something. You see I won’t be able to do what I do without him. It is such an awful time is not it? Or is it only my fancy? Have I been staring at the shadows again? Is there somebody there? Anybody there? Why is reason such a tenacious thing? Why don’t I escape to the cafes and carouse all day and night? Look it is not on I am a creature of habit.
I get up and go to bed and sleep the just sleep. I take a nap and a shower and I write and paint is it any wonder that I won’t carouse? Whilst in my cups I have a nasty surprise he has found a way to harm me. It is unjust that the person I have trusted to such an extent that allowed him to outwit me should do to me what everyone has been trying to years. Maybe it is fancy but has he accepted the millions this other jerk has been offering? I am unwell it is just fancies you know it is just fantasy what of that? I am troubled as if all the fiends are picking on me. I am undutiful not to feel for my mother. I dearly would like her in the streets. Why because I made pancakes and she was in hospital and got jealous and ruined my life. I made the pancakes to my sisters and father and I alas had two. It is a crime of the gravest oh to suffer such a fool as mum is to see evil in its entirety.
For me to make Pancakes is a crime of the gravest it is like indecently exposing your breasts to the public. PANCAKES ARE DANGEROUS beware of the pancakes. No it is worse than exposure it is the gravest of the grave and the pencil is broken with the black cap on with legs amputee and the drivels written in the tabloids with all the call girls vindicated and all the world shall wallow in the gravest sin the pancakes. Do not touch the pancakes it is a grave sin to make a drop of pancakes is to see lusts of the gravest.
“Dear lord it is pancakes day”
“Where is the lemon and have you thought we haven’t anything to wear?”
“Haven’t you I thought you were wearing me out?”
“I’ll live you out you know. Even if it is pancakes day.”
“No it is not we must pretend pancakes don’t exist we must all wear black today and hide behind the kitchen sink where all the monsters of depravity lodge.”
“Dear God’s it is pancakes day.”
“No it is not don’t think about it. This is where the salads are and the food stuffs this is where the demons of monstrosities will hide. Hide the milk and the eggs, the flour has gone a jobbing. It is the height of impropriety to be thinking such vile thoughts. “
“My God the cradle is made of pancakes.”
“Dear stew in your pancake I am thinking elevating thoughts.”
“Look it is pancakes day?”
“We don’t have such nonsense it is against the law to be deceived by a mere pancake. It is incest of the height of its beastliness. This is hatred of the weirdest look pancakes don’t exist.”
“But I thought they did?”
“No you imagined that pancakes existed they don’t it is a childish fancy told by your parents like sex and things, all for another time.”
“But sex does exist I am the proof of it?”
“Don’t mention that word it is the ugliest word in the language of pornography.”
“What does pornography mean?”
“Look it up on the internet.”
“I don’t know how to use the internet!”
“Then learn it is the way of the world that if one doesn’t have the internet one is far behind the times. Like any other third world heathen we must all bare our bosoms”.
“Why are you not telling this?”
“We must preserve the innocent from the harmful nature of the nature of pancakes which are beastly things without condoms.”
“St Pancras the ass the cradle and the grave I wash my pancakes off with the tea my God I thirsty like hell. “
“Have you had the dear morsel and how did it taste?”
“It tasted less rubbery than the usual it tasted fine actually it tasted quite ok.”
“You know it is not on, you being such a fool.”
“You going to starve yourself it is actually lent as well.”
“What don’t they have at lent?”
“They don’t have pancakes it is gravest sin it is graver than adultery it is graver than murder it is graver than any crime.”
“Surely you could have been over reacting!”
“Well it is as grave as not dressing?”
“Well that can be it. But certainly not murder?”
“You mean if you eat pancakes it is not as vile as murdering your mum?”
“My God hadn’t thought of that we are saved.”
“Where is that?”
“Well as at the races.”
“What horse racing?”
“No betting shop with all the punters and the punk rock.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well try to keep it up you are becoming worse than Woodhouse.”
“He doesn’t respect women.”
“Never say that.”
“No they don’t but it is never mentioned.”
“Why isn’t it mentioned?”
“Because it is never said. There is a conspiracy of silence and we all go to our graves with our hats not on.”
“Don’t set your cap at me you know because I am wearing it.”
“My God this is a intellectual discussion about discourse and method and such a lark.”
“Pardon me but have you been listening to a word I have been saying?”
“If you don’t know what you have been saying I can’t be bothered to listen to it too. I mean all the tosh you have just been saying about poor Woodhouse and his despicable Bounty is beyond anything not to my cup of tea. Besides Woodhouse wrote too many novels. A novelist should know that after thirty books the public tires of him or her.”
“Then write a long decent book.”
“This book is certainly decent.”
“What no sex?”
“None whatsoever I didn’t mention it once.”
“I know you mentioned it several times.”