Apropos. ^ .
The obfuscatory, residential cranial swirling mists (the efficacy of which is much enhance by six weeks absorption of nine differing types and strengths of antibiotics), does inhibit somewhat, the composition/structuring of sentences efficiently interrogative enough to render unto one, sufficient salient facts and data, upon which to base a reasonably coherent thesis, as, for example:
After looking up images of an Underwood Model S, and posting the previous post, I was left with an irritating conviction that we did, or had at one time in the near past, possessed one of those beasts. For confirmation, I turned to my constant source of inspiration and enlightenment … my beloved.
“Am I going silly, or…?” here I paused, attempting to scythe a path through the cranial miasma in search of pertinent wordage … silly, I know.
“Why d’ y’ ask such questions, when you already know the soddin’ answers?! Of course y’re goin’ silly! At your age, wot d’y’ expect? That, and the reading of all those weird books y’ve got stacked up all over and around that shit-tip of a front room, that you keep referring to as the Palace of Culture.”
“Light of my life, dearest beloved, I’m seeking guidance. I …”
“Aaaat last! After all these years, the penny’s finally dropped. In that case, go ask Kath next door, her nephew is up for a wedding. He’s a behavioural psychologist, and he works at Broadmoor mental hospital for the criminally insane. I’m sure he’ll be able t’ point y’ in the right direction.”
“Oh jewel of the firmament, I jest not.”
“Neither do I.” She gave me a stare designed to dispel any doubts of the lingering variety I could’ve been harbouring.
“My Aphrodite, please tell me, have we at any time twixt now and a few years past, been in possession of a big cast iron typewriter, the size of, if not bigger than the wooden bread bin on the kitchen worktop … possibly housed in the loft somewhere?”
“That thing? It’s our Myra’s”
So you see my friends, Robert the Bruce was right, persistence can yield a result.
independent.co.uk/news/uk/th … 67261.html
After a minute or two of deep breathing exercises, and a couple of squirts/sucks of my Ventolin Inhaler, I ventured forth, up to the loft.
Not given to exaggeration, or being prone to self-promotion, I can say in all modesty, that I entered the loft, sheathed in a sense of achievement.
My quarry, according to my wife, occupied a corner of the loft. Having learn’t from earlier, bitter experiences, I thought it best not to enquire too vociferously as to exactly which corner she was referring to, I mean, after all, there are only four of them.
The loft resembled a Local Council Refuse dump. In each corner, the most cursory of inspections, revealed what appeared to resembled those rock falls that you see pictures of, that partially block mountain roads. Broad at the base, tapering to virtually nought at the top.
Donning my metaphorical HAW hat, I decided to tackle the nearest conglomeration of boxes, bags, and various items both largish and small. The correct choice of rubble pile. Before too long I’d unearthed what turned out to be, not a Underwood Model S, but one of these a Royal of similar vintage to Joshua’s Model S.
It’s rather apposite that the Royal resides in the loft, since some four years ago, for a short time, so too did the 14 yr. old Josh.
Unfortunately, unlike Joshua’s Underwood, to restore the Royal to a reasonable working condition, would require soaking in a tub of WD40, and the expenditure of a considerable number of shekels … methinks.
Anyway Josh, Happy typing.