The Sex Appeal of Victorian Furniture


This afternoon I dropped off to sleep on the living room floor while absorbed in writing an enlightening entry in my diary. I'm damned if I can remember what it was. I believe it may have constituted throwing photographs of my wife on the fire. An activity, I confess, which makes me smile with great pleasure and satisfaction. My wife (unknown to me) was pacing to and fro, closely watching, her soul in torment, flinging her arms in the air, madly chanting, 'People with lively minds! Little tin gods, each and every one!'

I woke up in the presence of something that wasn't there when I fell asleep. I couldn't touch my left leg below the knee. In fact, I couldn't see it. I'm heavily encased in a partition wall constructed while I slept. Suddenly my life has become absurdly difficult. I need to use the bathroom and the culprit of this inextricable deed (my soon to be ex-wife) has vanished from the house like a comet on some passionate adventure with a femme fatale. The only things my wife and I had in common were sharing the same mistress and a predilection for sitting in farmhouse kitchens sniffing the feral scent of stray cats.

In the semidarkness of the living room I hear imagined sounds and see imagined sights. Try as I may to hold my water, I can not any longer. The only consolation is that my 'little' indiscretion is not exposed to public gaze. Anyway, I've been shocked into taking stock of my life and making a fresh start. First, I require to get out from under this wall, find a change of clothing and get a cab to the heady life of town. I've no desire to become immortal, nor empty of desire or sin. Not yet, anyway.

*
My cousin, Charles Wanda Medull, has a natural distrust of the past, houses and possessions. He always seems to have something concealed: usually his wallet. All his life he has longed for risk, destitution and to understand the sex appeal of Victorian furniture. 

Charles is entangled in a tormenting love affair with a chicken leg. I advised Charles that he can never love a chicken leg absolutely. Nor can he leave his world for the chicken leg's world, especially in the midst of the current "horse meat scandal" in Europe. His disastrous inability to heed my warning played right into the hands of the authorities. 

Last month, Charles (who lives inside a pantomime horse) was arrested for impersonating a chicken. His honeyed protestations made him appear a sadder, sillier and smaller figure. An image not dissimilar to that of a hen.

C.W. writes to me from his prison cell but makes no mention of his love affair with the chicken leg. His letters, however, are layered with wit, elegance, intelligence, just a little bitterness, and a smidgen of horseradish cream sauce.

*
Reflections: It is well we cannot foresee the future. This distance and alienation keeps our hearts and minds an impotent distance from formidable defeat and despair. As we take delight in beautiful experiences, and passionate adventures, life with its motive force can deal blows of all shapes and sizes.

My seven-year-old granddaughter, Aimee, has been hospitalised with a viral infection. It is heartbreaking to see Aimee in such distress. She is slowly regaining her spirit and cult for funny, 'brilliant' things. Her humour remains infectious. For that I am thankful.

Aimee will change in value as time passes like all interesting people do.