Sinister: NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition

[Liz Daplyn]

Our chief weapons are

SURPRISE

  Me, I’m back in town.  Well, actually I was immediately back in town under 
this address (and in the nursery again) at Christmas when my temporary work 
email died the death of the just, but I’m only taking advantage now.  And 
taking advantage it most certainly is.  You beauties, you’re so rarely 
privileged to garner my outpourings of inconsequence.

  So, last Sunday afternoon brought sequentially into close conjunction a 
bookshop, a lovely friend whom unfortunately I fancy to bits, and some nice 
coffee.  These are all wonderful things and auspicious in this kind of 
relation, but none of them helps me sleep any easier.

  For those who haven't experienced the joy, ‘heartache’ is far from being a 
figurative term, and there is once again a knotty fist-sized lump of 
cancerous hormones sitting under my ribs and preventing me from breathing 
properly.  Fucking hell.  And my hair (recently chopped off substantially on 
a whim and thus more than usually random) had gone all wriggly in the 
Oxonian drizzle, and not in a charmingly picturesque way, worse luck.  This 
shallowly preyed on my mind as I discovered that time and space evidently 
don’t do that much to relieve unrequited pangs.

FEAR

  The glorious terror of rejection that we all probably partake of in this 
parish has nigh on the status of a full-blown phobia for yours truly, which 
makes it kind of difficult for me to broach the subject with this lovely 
friend of mine.  And how do you bring that kind of thing up in conversation, 
anyway?  I’m dubious as to whether suddenly pouncing on pals is quite good 
manners, not to mention experience having proven that not even vast 
quantities of alcohol are sufficient to make me actually do anything along 
these lines, particularly not with someone I’m really interested in.  What a 
thrilling catch-22 situation to be in.

  Anyway, following the advice of Mr Paul Simon (somewhat inelegantly but 
concisely he put it long ago: “I have my books and my poetry to protect me/I 
am shielded in my armour”), there was nothing else to do once I’d returned 
home but to listen to “Bryter Later” and to read some Robert Graves:

  “Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
  Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter;
  So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
  Singing about her head, as she rode by.”

  Which I used for a while some time ago as an email signature, until it 
began to cut a bit too close.  Ho hum.  If the Poetry Parrot is extant, that 
can be a gorgeously depressing contribution for it to carry about in its 
satchel like the wily pigeon in “Dastardly and Muttley”.  Personally I 
always felt sorry for Mr Dastardly and his faithful but grumpy sidekick 
Muttley.  After all, small aviation businesses can’t go on losing planes at 
that rate without running into serious economic difficulties.  One would 
have thought.  And that bastard pigeon was so insufferably smug.

NICE RED UNIFORMS

  A tip for lads: when a girl discusses her hair with you, she either likes 
the way you use your walk or thinks you’re gay, or frequently both in my 
case, which is yet one more reason it’s difficult to find boyfriends.  
Girls, of course, can discuss hair amongst ourselves without betraying any 
romantic feelings that may be involved.  Perhaps it would be rather easier 
if I were a gay man, given the high feyness quotient of people I’m generally 
attracted to.  Although, short of habitual transvestitism, I don’t think I’d 
be happy about the decreased range of socially acceptable footwear 
available.
  Do boys ever feel the need to buy/wear impractical yet pretty footwear?  
Straw poll.

-----

  Having composed this offline before catching up with digests, I’m now 
moderately gobsmacked to notice that the biorythms of the list are all in 
sync or something.  Everyone has so much interesting and brave (particularly 
gender-related) stuff to share.  Now that just sounds icky and substandard 
Oprah-ish.  Eh, somebody shoot me.

I, however, with extremely cold hands and a persistent headache from paint 
fumes, offer nuggets neither interesting nor brave, but instead trivial as 
the day is long.  I found a 17mm diameter ballbearing yesterday, in a 
flowerpot in the office where I was spending the day as temporary 
receptionist (don’t laugh please, I have my transferable skills).  The 
flowerpot was next to the watercooler, and the lovely rusty ballbearing 
lurking just beneath a fallen geranium leaf, which as you may know smell 
lovely, so when I picked this up to rub between my fingers and so alleviate 
some portion of my ennui, I discovered the aforementioned piece of tooled 
metal (dodgy-sounding but technically accurate, I think), which is now in my 
twee corduroy pocket.  Small found objects like this are instantly easy to 
bestow affection upon, through their perfection of form and gracefully 
apparent aging.  If only human beings were more commonly so.

AN ALMOST FANATICAL DEVOTION TO THE POPE

  Some of my weekend was passed with devout Christians, unexpectedly and 
unusually.  They were perfectly pleasant company, as indeed anyone with 
beliefs other than one’s own can be upon casual acquaintance, and I was on 
my best behaviour and didn’t even have to bite my tongue once, but just sat 
in my corner making origami penguins.  Of course, having been singing nice 
anthems by Wm Byrd earlier had had an effect, as music always helps to sooth 
the savage Liz.  Take note.

I’ll end on a big shout out to the Delightful Incredible Super-sexy (such a) 
Cutie (Oh!) Laura Llew for her Present Exchange toils and for simply being 
great, since this is the first opportunity I’ve had to express my admiration 
for her milkmaidish community spirit.  Hurrah!

People of the South Coast of Great Britain: please feel free to avoid me in 
Brighton on the 9th if my mad starin’ eyes come your way.  I simply must 
leave Wales at every opportunity, you see, lovely as the valleys and sheep 
are.  It’s a large enough space in which to experience cabin fever, but 
nevertheless.

  Liz :x

P.S. Currently imagining Robin Stout in a diamond power suit.  Cor.

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