The interns are busying themselves repainting the Theophilus Marzials Wing of the Pitshanger Archive, causing a build-up of fumes in the poorly-ventilated warren. I must admit that I am feeling intermittently light-headed, often rounding a corner to be hit with a blast of the vapours. I have scuttled away to my office and jammed Hissing Sid the draught-excluder against the undersill, but I have my doubts on his abilities since these days he looks less like a python with a stiff back and more like an emaciated sausage dog that has lost its limbs in a terrible workplace accident. It is for this reason that I cannot entirely guarantee the veracity of what I am about to write.
Aubrey is off saving the world once again, taking his Man and his bonhomie with him. Parsonage has popped round for an evening of board gaming with the interns, but he does so view all leisure pursuits through the prism of game theory, calculating the best odds for each move on a giant spreadsheet that he has shrunk down onto the back of his hand (he was always blessed with tiny handwriting), with the aid of an classic Casio calculator watch on one wrist, and a hidden slide rule in his cufflink on his other. There is nothing intuitive or spontaneous about his, alas, and one gets the impression in every conversation that he is constantly weighing odds and assessing chances instead of paying attention to what that Mrs Flittersnoop has been getting upto with the Major. It doesn’t help that he often brings in games of his own devising, where nobody else can understand the rules, and indeed one suspects are not bound by such Newtonian conventions within his Einsteinian mind.
Weedsworth has also dropped by, bringing me another houseplant to brighten my overspilling desk that she insists will absolutely not mind the lack of natural sunlight. She also removed her previous candidate, now dead, with a slight tut and weary sigh. So far we’ve tried spider plant, snake plant, staghorn and Swiss cheese, next she is threatening to bring me in some mushrooms. Meanwhile, she has nothing but praise for Aubrey and his light-and-airy palatial apartments. I get the impression he is a very low-maintenance client, content to have anything green and potted as long as it draws attention away from the bizarre collection of furniture he has inherited and is too afraid to dispose of. He has been musing about taking it to the Antiques Roadshow when they visit Pitzhanger Manor next month, but I sense he is rather nervous of being told they are worth a fortune, which would thoroughly kibosh any plans to leave them out for the binmen.
By the way, have you heard what Mrs Flittersnoop has been getting upto with the Major ? Honestly, she should know better than to hang out her washing on a Wednesday. And he’s as bad, flexing his double-barrel and polishing his hyphen like he’s got cream for tea and jam for afters. Of course, she’s always been a one, that one, like she’s number one one-minute at one with the oneness the next – well, it’s enough to make one wonder. But she doesn’t fool me, I know she’s one of them. You know…lizard people. She says it’s because she comes from Cornwall, but if that’s true then why doesn’t she have a limp and an Uncle Jacob…? Oh my, I do feel a little off-colour…perhaps I should risk the perpetual April showers to take in a little fresh air…
Ah, that’s better. While I try and shelter from the drizzle under this London plane, I suppose I should tell you about this week’s Workshop. John Hurley kept a clear head as he surveyed the all-innocent sea following a stormy night, and Sue Flemons displayed perfect recall as she recounted her imagined youth as an allegorical squatter. Roger Beckett was then poetically befuddled as he told of a slow realisation and ongoing denial of metaphorical moles, and a thoughtfully-polemical Anna Matyjiw gave a sharp-eyed takedown of the Government’s foggy-minded decisions. Finally, we weren’t sure quite what Martin Choules was on as he meandered through shifting populations leaving their telltale administrations behind.
Well, I’m getting wet and cold, so I think I’ll go back inside. The painting should be done by now, so it’s only a matter of time before the air clears. And I don’t want to hear any jokes about BO or farts – I’ve heard (and smelled) them all before. As a matter of fact, we do have fans and vents, though they have been kept on their lowest setting since lockdown and only now been cranked back up. I suspect they may not be quite their old selves, and probably may need a good dusting-out. I must ask Aubrey’s Man to take a look when he next pops round. Ooh, I wonder if we have those large metal ducts you can crawl through, like in a spy movie ? Maybe he’ll have to climb in to take investigate, and I could join him, and I expect it’s very snug in there, but with a warm breeze blowing our hair, and safe from prying ears he could tell me the intimate secrets of what goes on in those big, palatial apartments, and what Aubrey really does with all that moustache wax, and does Mrs Flittersnoop ever serve-up an M&S ready meal as her own creation…which reminds me, have you heard what Mrs Flittersnoop has been getting upto with the Major…?
The Pitshanger Poets 