Listen, You
Now listen, you. I know you are eagerly awaiting the next exciting episode of "No Pun At All"! But think of the suspense! When in 1893 Arthur Conan Doyle left Sherlock Holmes's body wet and mangled somewhere in or around the Reichenbach Falls, people had to wait three years for his return:
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here's British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War–a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
Anyway...like Doyle I will very soon bow to public pressure and you will be able to read lots more, just like the old days, the rosy days of 2005 when precious jewel-like chapters of my thoughts awaited you on almost every visit to this page.
But the main thing is that I do not wish to bow to the pressure of sitting at this interim-desk any longer than I absolutely have to. Much more of this typing and I will end up a crab-pacing humpback like Richard III or poor deaf Quasimodo.
[There's a really funny scene in "Notre Dame de Paris" (Victor Hugo) where Quasimodo is taken before the Magistrate. They are both deaf!]
The purpose-built desk is near, so very near. It could be arriving any day now, along with other vital domestic furnishings. Until then you will have to be kept in suspense a little longer. Just one more dark unknowing moment of time as I keep you dangling on the sticky (one might almost say tacky) spider's thread of my masterly, thrilling, writing...
But lo, what is this? We have created a whole new chapter even in spite of all the obstacles we face!
Oh joy! Oh the thousand raptures of heaven!
You see, you were never forgotten, you always get your bit of typing from here.
Bye!
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir. Here's British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War–a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
Anyway...like Doyle I will very soon bow to public pressure and you will be able to read lots more, just like the old days, the rosy days of 2005 when precious jewel-like chapters of my thoughts awaited you on almost every visit to this page.
But the main thing is that I do not wish to bow to the pressure of sitting at this interim-desk any longer than I absolutely have to. Much more of this typing and I will end up a crab-pacing humpback like Richard III or poor deaf Quasimodo.
[There's a really funny scene in "Notre Dame de Paris" (Victor Hugo) where Quasimodo is taken before the Magistrate. They are both deaf!]
The purpose-built desk is near, so very near. It could be arriving any day now, along with other vital domestic furnishings. Until then you will have to be kept in suspense a little longer. Just one more dark unknowing moment of time as I keep you dangling on the sticky (one might almost say tacky) spider's thread of my masterly, thrilling, writing...
But lo, what is this? We have created a whole new chapter even in spite of all the obstacles we face!
Oh joy! Oh the thousand raptures of heaven!
You see, you were never forgotten, you always get your bit of typing from here.
Bye!
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