Fish Riding Bicycles
News of my death have been grossly exaggerated it would seem. Stories of languid Belgian walking holidays involving poached egg poisoning and even hospitalisation due to an alcoholic dependency big enough to bring down a camel are abound. All stuff and nonsense, nihilistic hogwash of seemingly cotard delusion, brandished around like cheap supermarket butter on other social media sites of stale bread. Monochromatic reports that I have recently been sighted rowing merrily in an organic cardboard coracle somewhere east of Kilimanjaro amused me muchly, especially as even the haters are aware just how much salt water plays terrible havoc with my sinus. Perhaps the most bizarre story of all was the supposed botched assassination attempt on my life by the Chechen farmyard animals in cheap business suits that tend to frequent the less salubrious parts of the city of Glasgow. Honestly, who would have thought that polyester and gun oil would ever make such a huge comeback amongst the great unwashed? Most of it is simply not true. In reality, I have been kept busy engaged in the frenetic toil of filling endless sandbags for the increasingly beautiful Patricia against the ever rising river that borders her stately home down there in Swanage. Outside toilet facilities, wandering hands and lukewarm tea in ceramic mugs have hindered my progress somewhat.
At times, as Pat and I gazed across the immense social divide towards the poorer part of town, it felt as though the ghost of our dear friend Scarlet had again arisen to haunt me for my impure thoughts in her direction. Obviously in her pre-ginger years and before she moved to her new static caravan home in Parkdeane Sands in the council quarter of Cornwall of course. That much goes without saying. The ebb and flow of her flat-spotted Dunlop's as the water lapped so rhythmically against the septic tank kept both Patricia and myself amused long into the evening as we sipped a decent port up there in the safety of the front balcony overlooking the drenched hyacinths and humble climbing roses. Who can ever forget the hangdog look about her deliciously saline eyes as she thumbed through page after page of home truths and poured her heart out to me about her previous acting career. All water gushing harmlessly over the beleaguered bridge as far as so many incredulous scandals are concerned. Oh how she once lived. The rumours of Errol Flynn did not once disappoint.
However, reality forces me to speak the truth, so in all honesty the above, well some of it, is a fish riding a bicycle lie. I have merely returned for a brief period of utter tranquillity to the more sunnier climes of our distinctly quiet hacienda in the sun. Apart from the odd furry caterpillar, sun drenched lizard and mysteriously convex frying pans that awaited me, time had stood still, as have I. Pure bliss. I shall return as soon as I tire of being at peace with the world. Do help yourself to a wee nibble, I may be some time.
Created & prepared by Chef Files