by Penny Blake

Elevenses: Passion and The Blues

Good morning ladies and gentlemen, I hope we are all feeling extremely eleven o clockish because the time is, of course, eleven o clock so pull up a chintz armchair or even a lemonade crate and Help yourself to a delightful slice of this blueberry and passion fruit cake from hummingbird high while I recount the dreadful disappointments we have suffered in the realm of subletting cushions.

blue passion cake.jpg

In truth we stand before you chagrined at our own naïveté, there is only one person we know who considers manacles a daily necessity, he is an anchorite, his name is Freddy Payne and (if you are as smart as you look) you will not be surprised to hear that he is also a harlequin (Max calls him a clown but then Max enjoys vexing violent people for some reason).

Usually Freddy spends his days, and nights, chained to the wall of Montmorecys ‘office’ in the basement of our delightful tenement building but, as he explained between fits of maniacal laughter (at least we hoped it was laughter) the rat problem below stairs has become insufferable ; there are, after all, only so many rats a man can stomach and a diet of of raw rodent is, apparently, disrupting Freddy’s Muse… does everyone above the waves fancy themselves an artist of some description?

We spent an interesting evening listening to Freddy wax about his life choices and the virtues of becoming a Holy Man devoted to The Divine Comedy (I say interesting rather than informative for the fellow insists on speaking in cryptic sentences, cunningly composed to evade accurate interpretation and dished up always three helpings at a time. ) But sadly, in the end, he concluded that our rotting woodwork was not going to be an adequate replacement for the stone walled cellar and so everyone’s time had been wasted. At least we were able to send him on his way with a couple of cats and vague promises of visiting him down there occasionally … but to be honest I would rather return to Hull than venture down into that Scarecrow’s lair.

So now here we are, still tenantless and broke but eternally optimistic that an opportunity for raising cash or Cain will present itself sooner or later. In the meantime let us tune in our spirit radio and find something ironic to tap our tentacles to…

 

Oh dear, and that has set Max moping about Christina again… ah well. We wish you an afternoon filled with laughter and none of it at your own expense and until we see you again, please be always,

Utterly yourself.

 

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