Day 22

La Madonna della Incontinenta of the Ungulatas & Others of that Ilk


06.05 After a sleepless night
Subject: Vile and Treacherous Villains, O! Computers


Dearest Darling Forsythia,


A horrible tragedy, proving once again, and perhaps once and for all, the ignominy of all things computorial. An unseen presence over the weekend, during the hours when I was asleep and this vile PC wasn’t even on, caused my inbox to vanish without trace. Even your darling muesli bits are gone. I despair. I am shattered. I am despondent. I am annoyed and peeved. I have spent the past twelve hours yelling, “These muesli bits are my inspiration and my life!” I thundered, “You have stuck a dagger into my heart and into my soul and into my loins.” And then, not wanting to sound too petulant, merely deeply spiritual, artistic and eloquent, I added, “You have slaughtered my profundity and taken away my very essence. Do you know whose muesli bits you have so piteously sacrificed? Why, they were none but those of mine own sweet Forsythia Bolimya, daughter to that most blessed of saints (second class), the Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™, Beloved of Laundries and Sewers™, Most Sacred to the Desperata™ and Illiterata™. You have verily silenced her sweet voice and ripped her tongue out by the jagged edges. Oh, what have you done to my sweet Bolymia?” And this is the truth, as only I know it.

And now, my sweet Forsythia, you must unburden yourself to me, lest my inbox be forever naked and unadorned, and I be rendered for all time desolate. – Your Loving Laurent.

PS. In the eventuality that I may someday be released from this prison of despair, I am practicing the fine art of pancake cookery. Such pancakes we shall have when once more we are united! Never have you tasted such pancakes as I shall puddle forth on to the well-tempered skillet! Buttermilk pancakes and also raspberry. Chocolate, as well as rhubarb. Fennel, but not thyme, chopped liver but not trout snout. Pheasant bowel and cod lips. Oh, prepare thy mouth and saliva! Thy stomach and nether regions! In anticipation, wilt thou commission new crockery? – L.
***

12.02 Fearing that my brain is liquefying
Subject: Fresh Innovations

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


I am being accused of unreconstructively innovative conservatism, of being a commercial sludge-hocker. This, in spite of the many product launches of unprecedented scale and luminosity coming from our factories and design gurus (please make note of the modest usage of lower case). I supposed I ought to shrug off the slurs with a dismissive such is life, but is it so disappointing. When you are at the very top, all the critics (and who are they but petulant, jealous little failures with brutish sexual habits?) who once took such pleasure in your potential are now falling over themselves to bury you in a pit of vitriol. How sad life is, and how I would kill myself before inhabiting the cerebellum of such a person! It does so put me in mind of the outrageous scandal involving your dear cousin Elspeth della Incontinenta, the formerly lost and forgotten shadow-relative of the demi-immaculate mother of our beloved little Ruchl of the Stetl™, as she was known prior to her promotion to Mumsy™ and subsequent transformation by divine and inviolate authority of the supreme sphincter into our Miraculous Pipette™, Patroness of the Immortals™. You do, of course, remember the scandal, or need I re-enlighten you? Your life is such a busy one, so filled with activities and good works. Perhaps one of these days you might invest in one of those tiny, chip-driven computer thingies that reclines in the palm of your hand and refuses to acknowledge your existence at opportune moments. The importance of these ‘engines’ lies not in what they can do for you, which is relatively little and certainly much less than well-trained servant, who at the very least, can be beaten to within a inch of his or her life if he or she misbehaves in a computerish fashion. No, the importance of small electronic wizardly devices is that they encourage one to indulge in a life of pure and driven efficiency, for which you, its owner, will required an ever-increasing number of impossibly sophisticated accessories . Are you following me? In a blissful, gentle pre-Raphaelite world, the sort of world in which romantics such as I would prefer to live, an investment in a basic laptop would invariably lead to scruples and a rash. The only cure would be to grow beautifully luxuriant and well-curled hair and purchase a small, beautifully-bound notebook and fountain pen. This in turn would lead to a disposition for recording each and every thought and inspiration in said notebook in a flowing, refined and learned hand. Hélas, in the ‘real world’, the world of avarice and unction and vile politics, this scenario is but a footnote in history. Morocco-bound notebooks and gold-nibbed pens and hand-ground ink are now food for the garbage grinder; electronic hard wear is like sugar: the first taste and you’re hooked. The first laptop breeds a craving for the second, this one twice as expensive and laden with delicious toys. This in turn opens the door to your bank accounts. More More More, and soon every waking moment will be spent entering data into your cyber wonder worker; every sleeping second will see your fingers whizzing through the endless cycle of increasingly hypnotic games, games of which you never reach the end, games intent on destroying what remains of your mind. You take to sneering at your lovely luxuriant locks and calling them a mullet. Your hair falls off in despair and ennui. And finally? The inevitable thud as your data and all that lies within is lost forever in the great swamp at the bottom-most cavern of the cyber Styx. For the player there are no more miracles. One the other hand, for the stout of heart and resolute of spirit who rejected the sweet siren song of ‘the real world’, there is a just reward: the gentle balm of disposition, erudition and the contentment of a thrillingly tubular romanticism. The only exception to this rule of life are engineers, but since they have no souls and so may count for naught, they needn’t be counted among the living.

But where was I? Why am I forever misplacing my thoughts? Ah, yes, with the heinous scandal surrounding Elspeth della Incontinenta. From Seville she was, or was it Château de Dieppe or La Défense? Somewhere like that.

You may recall that Elspeth was somewhat large, weighing in at a stout and tumbrelsome 147 stone (Elspeth did not come in metric sizes). She worked, when she was in the mood, in a small knitting shop that stocked only odd remnants and obscure colours. Withstanding all, however, Elspeth was In Love. In love and lust with one Didier Frangin from Rue de le Pompe. And the love was, surprisingly, reciprocated. I say surprisingly because Didier Frangin was, indeed, the fairest in the land. He was tall, he was mighty, he was heroic, he was the ideal romantic lover for every lonely addict of Gothic Romances.

Didier Frangin also had a dastardly secret. He was, in fact, Didier Frangin, mighty of physique and all things masculine, only by day. By night, he was Dorcas Popotin of Beachy Head, youngest and frailest and most petulant of the unfortunate Five Diving Darlings, fan-dancers of renown, whose claim to fame were the two consecutive years they were thrown out of the Ile de Ré Bountiful Bottom Competition and Regatta for incontinent behaviour.

Life went swimmingly for Elspeth and Didier. Their love blossomed and waxed incomparably. They became inseparable. They considered renting a cottage together and pooling their meagre yet honest resources, and even went so far as to explore the Baie de Somme for likely prospects. They exchanged rings and vowed eternal love.

Ah, Eternal Love! No sooner had the sentiments been spoken than the sun left their lives and they were claimed by sturm und drang. Darkness, darkness, all was darkness, as well as gnashing of teeth. Tom awoke the following morning, which, coincidentally, happened to be the first day of spring, to find that Elspeth was not who she’d claimed to be. It mattered not that he was hardly anyone at all. He was the man (or at least part of the time) and men are helpless when it comes to promises. The point was, as she gazed at him from under her fluffy, pink blankets, it was most obvious that his gentle liebling was not the precious, 147 stone love bundle. Her masque had slipped, her gown had become deranged, and through a veil of shock and anguish, Didier saw none other that his brother Elmer. Who couldn’t even knit.

The tabloids wasted no time in exposing the pair, and hounded them to the very brink of extinction. The authorities were aghast. A cover-up was ordered, which led to insurmountable problems with the daughter of a local police inspector. Questions were asked in the national assembly, and several elections were lost. Members of the dominant political party were dragged through the mud; the ruling coalition failed utterly and a general election was called. The prime minister, who came from an unfashionable arrondisement, was forced to resign, and thereafter unsuccessfully sought employment in a filthy winkle stall at the bottom end of a lesser and discredited fish market.

Didier and Elspeth opened a joint bank account with Elmer and Dorcas. They rented a bed-sit in a remote suburb of Le Bourget, but it was too late. One night, as the neighbourhood dogs sang their nightmare chansons at the end of runway number forty-seven, the lovers expired from exhaustion. They were never buried. No one could be bothered. The neighbour simply boarded up the lonely bed-sit and went about their business. The lovers were forgotten. Soon no one could remember what they’d looked like. Life went on and no one learned anything.

But, you may ask, was there a connection between the lovers and Miraculous Ruchl of the Stetl™? Will we ever know the truth? How will it affect her chances for major sainthood when the time comes? We must be discreet, my dear Forsythia; I ask you to refrain from dropping hints either in the boardroom or bedroom. Lives and sanctity are at stake.

This brings me to the very question of product innovation, but first I must fade into the inner murk of life. Spying eyes are everywhere. Loose lips are flapping, flapping, flapping, ever flapping. I must depart. - Your Beloved.

***

15.07 Somewhere somewhere people are lunching
Subject: Social Injustice

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


Perhaps you have heard of the strange and terrible curse of The Avingdale Chutney, but lest you have been deprived of that knowledge, let me both instruct and enlighten you forthwith.

It all started with the marriage, in 1876, of Major Roderick Avingdale-ffiesh, MBE, to Esmerelda Lavinia Hamilton-Hopp, fourth daughter of the Fourth Baron Blackguard of Crewe. Roddy was a noble soul, true and stalwart, tall and budding, the purist fruit of the Empire, and Esmeralda Lavinia, “Lavvie” to her friends, was his muse, his very life.

They had four children in somewhat rapid succession: Victor, after the great Queen-Empress, herself; Clementia; Alberta, in celebration of the late, lamented Prince-Consort; and, finally, little Louis Bertoldt. Clementia and little Louis Bertoldt were by far the favourites of their doting papa, and hence the natural targets for dire fate and tragedy.

Roddy had spent the greater portion of his adult life as an officer of the 11th Cummerbund and Fishfried Rifles, of ancient and noble lineage, and had lately been appointed private undersecretary of affairs empiratical, to the Viceroy. Roddy had been a good officer, kind, sound of judgment, and popular in the mess. He had cut an elegant swath through Calcutta’s season, notably as captain of the regimental polo team and winner on three successive years of the coveted Maharajah of Dharphoo Golden Chalice, with his prize fillies.

Socially, he was nothing if not a lion extraordinaire. His salon sparkled; he kept a mistress of noble birth and reduced means at his villa in Ballygunge; and he had single-handedly massacred most of the tiger population during the fabled 1874 spring hunt, at which occasion his bearer was heard to exclaim, “surely none with the courage of Major-Sahib has ever before lived!”

Upon his marriage to Esmeralda, Roddy closed his villa, expelled his mistress, the Honourable Caroline, and curtailed his salons.

It should be stated categorically that, from the very beginning, Esmerelda and his fond infants were to be denied the rigours of Empire. They dwelt in the green and verdant serenity of Wiltshire, for Roddy was determined to spare them everything that might be considered untowards. None of them ever set foot in Calcutta, much less The Midlands.

Let us now proceed to that fateful summer of 1886. A certain Miss Kipper, fearsome of visage and tender of hidden mercies, had been engaged by Esmerelda as governess to Alberta, Clementia, and little Louis Bertoldt. Victor, as was proper and expected of a scion, as befitting his estate, was away at school, being daily flogged and in all ways preparing to excel in all fields of endeavour. Unaccountably and unfortunately, he was never seen again.

Unbeknownst to his family and retainers, Roddy had fallen in love with the condiments prepared by the Viceroy’s cook, Absalom Raj, and prior to his annual leave, he had placed an order for two barrels of this culinary savant’s coveted antimacassar chutney.

From that moment on, night most foul and foetid descended upon the person and family of Major Roderick Avingdale-ffiesh, MBE. The Smell began, and it could neither be shaken nor stirred.

Crossing the Bay of Bengal, the crew deserted, but The Smell remained. The barque continued, unmanned and unbidden by the monsoons, and yet it managed to arrive safely at Portsmouth. In its wake was a sad trail of vile pillage, desertion and death.

The inhabitants of Portsmouth were later found in a rotting and putrid state, but did not die. A general alarum was sounded and went unheeded in the highest corridors of power.

Roddy arrived in Wiltshire by night and in the worst blizzard of the century. His horses were dead and so was his coachman. He was ahead of schedule by three days, twenty-seven minutes.

His batman, the faithful Sgt. Hepple, died of incontinence and strife; yet he refused to resign his duties.

Fair Clementia and little Louis Bertoldt ran from the nursery at the sound of their papá’s footsteps and perished piteously at the bottom of the stairs. Roddy’s luggage was never found.

Esmerelda went into seclusion, entering the Convent of the Blessed Unction as a cloistered postulant. But ere she could utter solemn vows before the relics of St. Epiphania la déarrangère, she expired and was entombed in a place of honour beneath the memorial terrarium.

And poor gentle Alberta? Her fate remains to this very day a mystery, for she lingered in the nursery in order to eat little Louis Bertoldt’s abandoned and unwanted chocolate sponge.

Miss Kipper’s madness took the form of canonical delusions, and she forever roamed the moors calling to the lost beloved to whom she had never been properly introduced.

Clarence the Gamekeeper fared no better. And no worse.

The Honourable Caroline, who had recently come into means, arrived on a later vessel and rented rooms in Jermyn Street. She sent her card, perfumed with a gentle fragrance, to Roddy, who had lately taken up residence in the spillage beneath the city walls.

But it was too late. – Laurent.

PS. In answer to your enquiry, my dearest Forsythia, it is not good advice I desire, but opinions.