Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Not To Know The Wot Of

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The effluvia of our despondency oscillates through this universe like the quivering and trembling of a pensioner about to enter a Senior Citizens Orgy in the village hall for the first time that season. But we grow to live with despair as we grow to live with those annoying sort of neighbours who are a bit too perfect to be quite natural, and are – we often suspect – some sort of alien species masquerading as human, or some deep-cover covert agents of some antagonistic foreign power. No-one – we insist – should have such a perfectly-manicured lawn in that exact shade found only ever on the illustrating photographs on garden product packaging. Perfection is always suspicious… and deeply, deeply galling.
But beyond the lightly-marmaladed traffic wardens of all our deepest fantasies there lies a dark hollow place that we prefer not to know the wot of, or even if the dark undefined undulating shades that cower there are really the well-lubricated small furry mammals, or even the fleecy–coated domesticated ruminant mammals of our even deeper fantasies.
On the other hand, is it just something we ate a bit too late before retiring for the night with a nice hot cake shop manageress?
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