As a particularly thin and wispy piece of foil for Thou, I could, indeed, rasp lyrical about lacking discipline, overseeing unencounters which I, as him, presumably lean longingly for, or coal-hearted feelings, all things which inescapably drip from his fingers at the first op., but instead I shall take the podium myself for an uncharacteristic outpouring of deep sincerity.

It has come to my attention that my daily veil is infuriatingly opaque, even impenetrable, and though this revelation, if it can be called thus (one always knows, usually), was revealed under a fog of deep intoxication, where such things usually spawn, I know, from tip to toe, its worth is nonethelesser. It's true, in fact. I belong to the world of womb-wisdom.

Reasons I'll save for the appropriate In Person, but I may as well throw up a few Ern Malleyisms while I'm here, dutifully wasting your time: the guard is fiercely loyal, gladly fat and goose-like; the conscious still hold firm, as warily anticipating censors. As for the man in me, well, he needs a woman like you, obviously. La-la-la-la-la-la-la.

Friday: that hypocritic oaf and his sterilised stethoscope peered down at me through blatantly rimless spectacles, a foil, no doubt, for the absence of framed doctrines, and skirted, with a hint of skill, the latest diagnosis. His treatment, you see, was dealt with some confidence, almost smugly, and this latest development was a ghastly stain—must always smell of roses. When it became clear (when I finished wading through his slyly confounded consternation), I feigned a collapsing world (feign fire with fire), crumbling on the tip of the news, and sunk to my devious knees. My tears came easy, despite their artificial motivation, and I searched his sober face for a flicker of remorse.

It being post-February, I had a pleasing canvas of opportunity to brush passed, and the easiest of weather. Early on, I flirted gamely with the idea of spiteful, ugly, expansive notes, a final sprinkle of salt in the freshly opened wounds, but evil was not always my thing. Easy pleasure, after all, is next to worthless. Too, the month was still young. Beckoning buildings, peering piers and soulless sympathy bags awaited my call. Maybe I was wanted after all.

Hugh and the Times