Contrasting Fortunes.

A strange week, this. On the downside have been the aching legs, the tight chest, the usual depressions, and meeting the replacement dentist (who’s actually the practice owner) now that my dear Ms Medeea has sailed away to far off shores. On the upside were the dog fixes, the cow fixes (Mr Robinson’s new, all black bullocks), and the lady fixes courtesy of the coffee shop.

There’s a new one, you see – lady that is. Ellie by name. Yesterday she was on with the established Sarah who appeared to be in charge for once, even though I always feel she should be revising for her A-levels rather than skipping around doing the barista thing more expertly than any others of my acquaintance. Ellie is even younger.

So, in order to break the ice and not appear gloomy in the face of such shining young stars, I offered to recite one of my ditties. Sarah gave Ellie a look which I’m still trying to interpret thirty hours later. I think it was meant to convey: ‘I’ll bet this is going to be a right load of old crap, but he is a customer so I suppose we’d better humour him.’ I warned them that it would be one of my darker efforts (I had just been to the dentist after all.)

And then I began:

As Tom lay sleeping in his bed

A lady came and crushed his head

With talons sharp and molars red

Then sucked his brains ’till he was dead

‘Ooh,’ said Ellie, ‘that is dark. Thank you.’ I told her I would recite a more wholesome one next time, and so I will. Meanwhile, Sarah had walked off to clear and clean some tables. (As much as I do so enjoy the vibrant energy of young women, I suspect I might have lost the ability to impress them. I suppose that’s as it should be.)

And tonight I read the Wiki article on Sylvia Plath. It appears there’s some dispute as to whether she definitely intended to commit suicide that day, and I was reminded again that the gas which now comes through domestic pipes is no longer fatal. Modern times, eh.