The Lady B Mystery.

I went to the bottom of the garden this evening to watch the bats flying, and as I stepped onto the lane I was suddenly – and surprisingly powerfully – swamped by the ghost of the Lady B. Being entirely unexpected, it was a shock and an oddly enervating one. This needs explaining because my chequered but relatively narrow history has not afforded me this experience before, and so I’m unprepared for it.

In life our relationship – if such a minor liaison can be graced with such a grandiose term – had little of identifiable substance because there were many impediments which precluded anything other than brief and irregular episodes of verbal intercourse. I could claim in truth that she was the fairest maiden who ever blessed my path in the current vale of tears, or I could be more prosaic and say simply that she was the most beautiful woman I ever met. But it isn’t enough; it’s nothing like enough, even for someone with a nature like mine. Such a minor matter should be easily consigned to history and left to lie quietly in the drawer of pleasant memories along with all the others.

My problem is that it won’t stay there and I really don’t know why. My limited brain appears incapable of working it out and there’s nobody to ask, so I suppose I’ll just have to ride it until the haunting stops of its own accord.

And I know I shouldn’t be posting this. It’s just that mysteries, and a pint of Abbot Ale, have a habit of making you impervious to the danger of appearing foolish.