Day 9

05.15 The Ninth Horrible Day in Hell
Subject: Foul Rumours

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


I arose in the middle of the night filled with remorse over the brittle and strident troufignard that has moved into my body and sucked out my brain. Wanting to return to blissful nocturnal stupor, I relented to pestilentially inconvenient scruples and promised to be gentler (if not exactly more worthwhile) in every respect. Ever since then, not to put too fine a point on it, I have felt fucking shitty (I know how intolerant your email provider is when it comes to desperate language, but all I can say is grow up). Not only did I feel ‘you know what’, but in spite of my unfortunate choice of words at the beginning of this letter, I most definitely did not ‘arise’. I haven’t arisen for days and days and days. Oh, to arise like the man I once was. Oh, faire sauter la cervelle à Charles-le-Chauve! But what do you care, you who are wedded permanently to Whatisname and spew forth gnomes every Christmas, what do you know about such things? What do you know about not having room to swing a cat o’ nine tails, much less swing your sausage? Is there any wonder that I have become an eruptive pustule of bile and bellicosity? On top of which, my feet (yes, feet, not merely the left of the species whose toes are jutting out into the room and black from frostbite and moisissure) and knees hurt dreadfully. I swear I would gladly sacrifice your total happiness for the opportunity of straightening my legs.

But back to last night’s awful predicament. I did finally manage to fall asleep again, but tossed and turned for the remainder of the night and suffered cauchemars of the most degrading and extreme variety, and now my poor croquignoles have swollen to twice their normal size and are throbbing unbearably. I’m terrified they shall burst at any second and drown my in jus de corps. There’s not even room for me to reach down and help myself. It is hopeless. All is hopeless. All is lost. Nothing can be done. Please please please, my dearest Forsythia, understand my predicament and forgive me if and when I utter an emphatic Oh Fuck!®

As much as I am totally in compos mentis at this moment in time, completely unable to locate – much less engage - my naturally fluid genius, I will force myself to remind us we are fanatically devoted to our life’s work. To work to work to work! Shouldn’t that be a slogan stapled to the brow of every one of our employees? Get to work!®. Perhaps so, perhaps not. In any case, I have just registered it. So Beware Humanoids of The Earth: no unauthorised person may so much as think about work – not even whilst in the shower – without having to pay a substantial licensing fee. But where was I? Ah…

I remember! I heard a most frightful rumour to the effect that you were planning on changing your email address without telling me. Please, I beg of you, resist this foul temptation! Otherwise, I should be completely alone and bereft, unable even to commit suicide or fart, and that would kill me. May I offer you a substantial amount of money to be merciful?

Fucking drat! I have just received a summons from my terrifying great aunt Euphemia. Horrid woman. She tracked me down through connections in the ministry, and by that I’m not implying that she actually knows anybody of importance. It’s simply that when she commands someone to do something, their bowels liquefy and they are left completely helpless. She has a habit at roaring at you while at the same time refusing you permission to do anything except stand up straight and do her bidding. Great Aunt Euphemia will insist on standing inside your personal space and looking down at you (at least in my present circumstance, she cannot use this latter tactic on me).

Do you know what she did? She threatened to come over to the house and straighten me out. Had I found anything useful to do? Had I found a suitable wife, by which she means some ogre of impeccable breeding who will make my life a living hell? I got out of it by claiming I was an Antarctic explorer and that she’d misdialled. “Me llamo Filiberto and I am studying the mating habits of the greater Bleaglebird and why are you addressing me as this Laurent person?” After which I broke into a cold sweat and severed the connection. Now I daren’t answer the phone. What am I to do? Why can’t I go mad? At least when I’m mad I can talk to myself and make myself perfectly happy and won’t mind being so absurdly isolated. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I shall go mad this very instant.

I know great aunt Euphemia recognised my voice. What if she comes around? If I take out a hit on her, she’ll only intimidate the assassin. Further more, she will refuse to accept insanity as an excuse – God only knows how often her late husband, the count, feigned madness, and it never once did him any good. No one can help me now. Once again, I am doomed. I cannot possible think about work just now. I need to grieve for my lost innocence. I want to be alone.
***

10.03 After Eating a Dead Mouse
Subject: Horrible Visions

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


During the night I had a vision of Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™. Her face, luminous and radiant, rose over Le Sacre Coeur, and ye, ye, ye, it was the size of Le Sacre Coeur, and ye, ye, ye, it was filled with pronouncements. The glowing face warned me of the Evil Raqlette the Vile and Horrible, born once as little Dorcas Crumpl of La Rochelle, and a few years later as the dreaded, deceased Bessie, half-sister and jealous twin of the modest and gentle and pure Ruchl of the Stelt™. Raclette the Pustule, in her quest for world and bagel domination, had taken in marriage one Cyril Pod, joining forces with him to quash the Most Holy Cause of our beloved SOG and introduce as our national dish, rissoles with Bisto gravy. With added cockroaches for the wow factor and extra crunchy crunch crunch!

I believe in the veracity of my dreams, and am duly warned and prepared.

It has occurred to me that, what with all the delightful excitement, greed and intrigue swirling about the city, we must refrain from neglecting the “lower end”, as it were. By that, I do not refer to our knicker franchise, The End is Rear, plc®, but to our ever-popular Buttlins®, where it all started, whence our fortune sprung, and to Naked Dips®, our nudie ice cream parlours for the over-the-hill bingo set. Have we given due consideration recently to updating and rethinking games and social activities? I urge you not to be complacent and to let our attractions get too stale. Also, don’t forget, the cosy-happy-families and traditional operations are all very well and good, but we must be careful to distance them and their target demographics from The People Who Matter™. I am perfectly willing to become filthy rich off people I wouldn’t be caught dead with, but I will not be seen doing it. Do you know what I mean? And while I’m on the subject, do ensure that microchips are implanted in the skulls of all of our billions of package-holiday guests. This system is so cost effective, and it will be such a comfort to know that, for all those who wear them, quality destinations other than ours will be invisible. Sometimes, technology does us proud. Congratulations to the slaves in R & D. May I suggest they are all given timeshares in unbuilt Dubai apartments for Christmas (well away from the Burj, course. We cannot have them getting above themselves)?

Is our director of marketing aware of our complete separation of divisions? Perhaps she should receive a microchip as well. A special one. It’s better if her left hand doesn’t know what her right hand is doing, otherwise there’s no telling what she’ll get up to.

How is the Crete development coming along? I am somewhat nervous about you rewarding the construction and engineering contracts to your cousin Pischl, especially after he demanded to be paid an hourly wage. Are you sure he’s up to the task? I’m telling you, I’ve yet to be convinced that clearing the island with a single rotovator and a string bag is all that efficient in the long run. Will it really be all that bottom-line friendly? Will we be ready to open before the first of June? And has Pischl ever held down a job before, other than his lamented stint as a greeter in Asda in Little Buggle-under-Sludge?

I hope this reaches you, wherever you may be.
***

11.33 Disgorging a Toad
Subject: Other matters

Dearest Darling Forsythia,

For the record, Miraculous Ruchl™ had no fewer that fourteen and one-half half-sisters and twins, all of whom belonged to the baser elements. That she should have remained spotless and forever untouched is a blessed inspiration. Keep in mind that there was very little, if any, water in the stetl when she was (as they say) a beautiful child and full of promise, and this might account for her special aura – especially as her life, from age three, was singly devoted to the extraction and cataloguing of foutre de coq.

It is quite natural that you will have many questions concerning our beloved SOG, and I will endeavour to answer each and every one of them on a need to know basis. Transparency is, quite understandably, of the utmost urgency, and we must set our minds, as well as the minds of the other chosen people – all twelve of them – on our inflexibly glorious goals We cannot, after all, expect the pension funds of the world’s multinationals and trade unions to unload their worldly goods into our coffers without first demonstrating the most stringent ethical purity on our part. I repeat, stringent ethical purity. Remember that phrase. Commit it to your memory. Glue it to your heart.

As to the state of your immortal soul, that remains to be determined. Doubtless it is difficult being the daughter of a saint, but nonetheless, I suggest you keep a low profile. It might help, as well, if you ceased referring to her as Mumsy. Miraculous Ruchl™ is sorely troubled by the memories connected with that label, and is afraid others of a less understanding nature might doubt her motives. Further, she is not entirely convinced of its accuracy. You claim to have spent a certain number of months in her womb? Can you prove it? How did you get there? Are you daring to claim immaculacy as well? Are you after her money?

Walk softly, my little one. Beware of dark eyed toads and unclean desires. – Laurent (should I shed my name in favour of one more appropriate? I was thinking of He who is the Guardian and Advocate of Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata ™ Ultimata™ and of Her relics®. Would that catch on? Does it reek of power and glory, but at the same time humility and great physical beauty?). Please let you know how very much this offends you. – HWISGAAOMRIU®
***

13.15 Digesting The Dead Mouse
Subject: Your Epistle

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


I am devastated to hear that your udders are all horrible and chapped and droopy and disgusting. To think that one with such noble connections is willing to sacrifice her perfection for the sake of suckling such a burdensome and smelly onion as Marjorie Mortadella. Have you tried Bag Balm? Alas, I fear it is an American product, but – or so I’m lead to believe – Vermonters, who are happily much less American than most, swear by it for a bovine discomfort similar to your own. It also works wonders for chapped hands during those interminable winters you’re forever suffering through in the Costa Smerelda. But I digress. Providing you follow the directions carefully, I feel certain you’ll feel right as rain and will be springy bouncy in no time at all.

I have so few heroes these days. Feckless, Guileless, Pointless, and Aimless from Cold Comfort Farm. Asterix. Issay Miyaki. Christian LaCroix. Hedi Slimane. But, of course, I can’t really count men’s couturiers can I, not without including architects and conceptual artists and the Maktoum brothers. Therefore, I’m stuck in the world alone, save for four fictional cows and a fictional fat man wit horns. So you see, my dearest darling Forsythia, that’s why our insignificant little project is so desperately important to me. Without doubt, I shall be completely insane by this time tomorrow.

As usual, I spent a miserable night trying to decipher your letter. I never cease to wonder how you are ale to render even the shortest email illegible. As ever, I forgive you, if even reluctantly, and continue to love you. And, it goes without saying, all who cleave to you. Do you feel much the same about me, or am I to be, once again, doomed for all eternity?
You asked how my research is going? As ever, I continue to research the darkest corners of the solar system for intelligence regarding the corrupt pretenders within our beloved SOG’s not-so-immaculate family. Oh, what hath her gentle mother wrought? Is it true that her name was really “Old Mother AntiMumsy”, or was that merely a nickname picked up at school? And, by the way, I’m not sure at this point how much I can get out of the slovenly Raqlette, but you’d better believe I shall persist until at least one of us is worn down to a nubblet. I always felt there was something grating about her personality, but it has only now dawned on me what it is. Raclette! The foul cheese is exactly like Raclette! I shudder, and ask myself which was named after the other, and when?

Do not decrease your ice cream intake, whatever it is you may have been told. - HWISGAAOMRIU® (Laurent).
***

16.03 Re-eating the Toad
Subject: Are You Absolutely Positive?

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


I do hope you are much better. I simply cannot allow the object of my affectations to suffer. Besides, Mastodonitis must be horribly painful. Does it involve sprouting tusks? Do our designers at Bras Is We, Plc® keep up with such trend-setting and au current medical advances? Specifically, are they creating a line for Mastodonitis? If not, perhaps you should calendar a meeting, encourage them and demand to know why they are sooo last year? In the mean time, I do hope you are taking steps to have the wretched infirmity renamed in honour of you! It is hardly worth all the suffering if someone or something else (particularly an extinct herbivore) gets all the glory.

I keep hearing rumours over the Internet concerning Raqlette the Merciless’ commercial activities. Also, something called “Jiggle Bagels” just opened in the eleventh arrondissement, and I am concerned lest it has slipped through our legal department’s net. Kindly sue the chieur cradingue for everything he’s worth, and then some. And while we are about it (seeing that no one else has) I have registered the name, Jiggle Bagels®, so you might as well sue them a second time for stealing our intellectual property as well. And for anti-competitive practices. It’s been a slow week, and we can use all the money we can get.

Back to her, by which I mean Raqlette the Vile Spillage. Did you know, my beloved Forsythia, that she has sold her autobiography, Goitres of Darkness, Buns of Light, to several of the Sunday tabloids, in instalment form? In my way of thinking, this proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that she will do anything to vilify our beloved SOG, the breathtakingly ethereal Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™, and to heap scandal upon her cause. I feel we must brace ourselves for an upcoming bloodbath, but in the mean time, please ask our director of marketing and spokemanship to call a press conference and deny that we are planning any counter-revolutionary tactics whatsoever. It must be made clear that Poor enfeebled Raqlette is subject to the Devil’s adenoids and doesn’t know what she is doing half the time.

You must feel better immediately and do whatever is necessary to regain your youthful effluvian. I love you passionately and unctuously. - HWISGAAOMRIU® (Laurent, in case you’ve forgotten).
***

20.20 Chewing the Toad’s Entrails
Subject: Misery

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


Please pardon the silence, but I have been going through changes, all of which are unpleasant, and all of which have been brought about by my horrible loneliness. This is somewhat unexpected, given that I have spent a lifetime despising the company of others, and especially people. Why is it that suddenly I am coming to the conclusion that the human voice, for all its grating and unredeemable qualities (plus the fact that it gives voice to the terminally stupid and politicians), is essential to my well-being.

Would you be good enough to purchase a teeny tiny radio for me, small enough to fit into my Hellhole of Eternal Subjugation? If it will be some small compensation to you, such an act would place me in your debt forever. I would, however, be happier if you didn’t try to think creatively. Living inside a computer, I am quite capable of downloading as much music as I’m willing to digest. An iPod, therefore, would be useless to me and the appearance of one poked in beside me would fill me with wrath.

It would be most helpful if you would stop by from time to time and chat. Or, if you’ve better things to do, as you so plainly have, send someone else. Hire a street person. As long as he’s not a mime. I don’t think I could bear that. – Laurent (I can’t remember what that odd bunch of letter stands for).
***

22.18 During an Intestinal Upheaval
Subject: Urgent Matters

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


First of all, in spite of all I have said, how perfectly perceptive you are! How ever can I thank you enough? In an otherwise hellishly storm-filled week, the excursion to Île de Ré added a touch of brilliant, sweet sunshine to my miserable existence. The picnic was superb, at least the portion of it that could be squeezed, without undue damage, into my cauldron of agony. I drooled over the prospects of langue en gelée but, hélas, the propensity of aspic to go wherever it wills proved insurmountable. How grateful I am that commonsense prevailed and I made do with the tiniest smidgen. The Chateau Lynch Bages was, it goes without saying, incomparable, although somewhat diminished when inhaled through a straw. A lesser wine would have been utterly defeated. Perhaps with practice our dining techniques with improve.

I appreciate your not pushing the matter when I declined a boat ride. While it might have been fun under ordinary circumstances, the very thought of so much water in such close proximity to my electrical wiring is still giving me les cauchemars. However, the horseback riding was thrilling, as was the spin in my new Bugati (so thoughtful of you to bring it along, and for your generosity of spirit in driving it every weekend for the sake of the battery). I hope you get an opportunity one day of riding in a sports car whilst trussed up in a hard drive. There’s nothing like it, if I say so myself! I trust not too much damage was done to it when you veered into the cow. Wasn’t it unbelievably rude of the farmer to use all those filthy words? I almost wish I could be a fly on the wall when he receives the repair bill from the garage!

Being my very occasional caretaker must exact a heavy toll on you. I hope my getting sick the way I did wasn’t too too awful! Spewing my lunch all over the place. Hardly what one would expect of someone with my breeding. You are a champion, but did you really have to use that mop handle with a towel wrapped round it as a cleaning implement?

This week has been, in many ways, an exercise in futility. There has been a great deal of nonsense concerning Raqlette the Fucking Obnoxious, with the consequence that far too little has been accomplished where it counts. I shall say what I have to on the subject right now, in this letter, and will from then on have no more to do with her and her idiotic, sub-moronic family. My heart goes out to you and your beloved Mumsy (at times like this, how she must curse fate for anointing her Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™) for the crosses you bear. How great must be your pain! You will understand, however, that I will continue to withhold my compassion. Compassion has never been my strongest suit, and it also makes me a boring person – so forget it.

Regards you query, I’m not certain whether we are thinking of pre-immalulacy or pre-immaculudidity. As you know, they convey radically different meanings, and in the long run it might be a question for historians to unravel. Whichever may be the case, under no circumstances would I recommend a bath at this early date, so soon after giving birth to Marjorie Burnoose. It is only May, and it might encourage others to think you are undoing your zealotry. Basking in your mother’s glow, as it were. At the very earliest you should hold off until January of the following year, and even then use only the coldest of ditch waters. And, whatever you do, no clean towels!

By all means, now that the dust has settled and she is out on bail, we should consult Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ concerning the state of your conception. Might I recommend you make use of the ‘donut’ test? It is highly likely that, since she was immaculate even before she was conscious, she might not remember you, much less the act which brought you about. We must take care not to jostle her delicate sensibilities.

Whatever…

Ah… what other news do I have for you? Oh, yes… I did make a valiant attempt at cutting my toenails, a task which took me most of yesterday and caused me no end of grief. I don’t think I can go through that again, so will have to explore alternatives. Perhaps if I can manage to stick my toes close enough to the slot thingy, someone on the outside could manoeuvre with secateurs or a blowtorch. How much easily my life would be if only I’d kept my nose to itself, but I didn’t, did I? You wouldn’t believe how, with each breath, I edge myself in deeper and deeper into this monster, which begs the question, shall I eventually be devoured in my entirety? Every single time I squirm about, trying to relieve my tremendous discomfort, daylight recedes a little further. I suppose it’s of no use being morbid. Things could, after all, be worse. I could be a politician. Or a lawyer. Which is, I suppose, the same as saying I could be you.

My little ‘talk’ with you has done me no end of good. I must have gone without thinking of evil whatsername for a good five minutes. Many that bode well for the future. May I be smitten with vile bunions if her name crosses my mind again! - HWISGAAOMRIU® (this time I remembered my new moniker, which is a tribute to positive thinking, if not intelligence).