lundi 28 février 2011

Histoires Tragiques

What a day of mixed happiness and woe!

This morning I was delighted to receive a lovely letter from my dear lost love Le Comte, Claude, who still writes with dedication and devotion, as and when they'll permit him sharp objects.

In shaky but firm hand, he had lovingly copied out a gorgeous poem which I shall now share with you here:

        Le Pont Mirabeau ~ by Guillaume Apollinaire

          Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
          Et nos amours
          Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne
          La joie venait toujours après la peine.

          Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
          Les jours s’en vont je demeure

          Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
          Tandis que sous
          Le pont de nos bras passe
          Des éternels regards l’onde si lasse

          Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
          Les jours s’en vont je demeure

          L’amour s’en va comme cette eau courante
          L’amour s’en va
          Comme la vie est lente
          Et comme l’Espérance est violente

          Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
          Les jours s’en vont je demeure

Isn't that just exquisite?

On a slightly less fortunate note, my dearest friend Daphne du Nord has once more been committed to The Priory. Strong and solid though she may be of body, dears, her mind grows ever fragile and it is for her own safety, as well as that of the public at large, that she be restrained and medicated. Please keep Dapphers in your prayers, darlings. I shall post updates on her progress as and when I can.

samedi 26 février 2011

Breakfast in Paris

Quails' eggs for breakfast is dreadfully passé, dears. The current big thing in Paris when breakfasting with friends is oeufs d'autruche, shared like fondue. It certainly makes one choose carefully with whom one spends the preceding night.

And on that note, all change on l'étape d'amour! Such a restless night, darlings, pondering dear James and Sebastian - their weaknesses, their little flaws - whilst poor Georges tossed beside me. One must be realistic about these things. A man who collects stamps at fifty nine, and who assumes one is remotely interested in this sticky foible, is surely a man who, at sixty five, will bore the pantaloons orf one with mumblings of woe over the elusive gaps in his collection. The stamps that might have been. Quite. James must go, dears. 

Sebastian is, for now, reprieved - although if the tiresome man mentions the 4000 radio stations he can pick up on his digital receiver just one more time, it'll be the orf button for him too! One gets ruthless at my age, dears - one's tolerance levels begin to diminish around fifty and by eighty five if there's a trace left it is but as a wistful memory and quite quite intangible when one tries to grasp it.  

vendredi 25 février 2011

Sweet love, sweet thorn

One never seems to have time or, indeed, inclination for the incessant public flaunting of oneself expected in this modern epoch. Yet it is clear the advice of one such as I (134 long and rich years on this earth!) must be invaluable to the masses. And so one is compelled to sacrifice Time, that most precious of things, to share with you all a little of this Wisdom Gained. 

Spring has sprung here in Paris. A classically glorious time for lovers - man and beast - for optimism, for renewed purpose, darlings. Frankly, I cast orf the winter gloom almost before it had begun on the realisation - on my 134th birthday last October - that time was Of The Essence.

As many of you know I've been married to my seventh husband, Georges, for forty years and things have been, shall we say, a little more desert than oasis for the past two decades. A woman does come to understand how burning passion within cannot be left to ebb peacefully into death like an old sleeping dog, how one should grasp the mettle whilst one still has control of one's digits and, indeed, the mental cohesion to know what to do with said mettle once grasped. 

And so I have, dears! I have harnessed the Internet Beast, have branched out, socially speaking, to find myself not one Lover, but two! Hallelujah, God bless Cyberspace and all who sail her murky waters. So much easier than having to suffer another of dear Hugo's match-making balls.

I shall tell you more about the Fortunate Two in due course, but for now it should suffice to offer a word of warning: yes, darlings, the internet is a wonderful invention for those weary of tromping the high street, but when shopping for Lovers one must remember here in Cyberspace ebay and Fortnum & Mason sit cheek by jowl in a fashion which would never be tolerated in Real Life. Be warned, my dears.

Personally I struck lucky in finding James and Sebastian. Both utterly charming men and absolutely besotted with yours truly. The decision to take two Lovers, I should point out, is not borne of greed but SENSIBILITY. One Lover is dangerous. This I know only too well as my heart was stolen by Le Comte some eight decades ago and I have been but a shell of myself since. But the heart is a strong organ and I have to say it does repair in part - one with The Will To Live does not rest upon her chaise longue indefinitely. One pulls up one's stockings and one GETS ON. Yes, a solitary Lover is dangerous. Two is far more sensible, dears. It is impossible to fall in love with multiple men simultaneously - a universal Truth.  

Alas, I must end this here for now. Georges, for some strange reason, appears to have been struck himself by spring's springing and verily doth the sap rise which, given the addition of not one but two Lovers, does now present me with a rather tiresome problem. 

Mais, as we say here in France, à l’impossible nul n’est tenu..!