mercredi 14 septembre 2011

Sing me another love song...

... but this time with a little dedication.

This is it, my dears. The human heart. Ugly little beast, is it not?

Puts things into perspective, I find, to view it this way.

Where have you been, Claudette? one might ask, were one remotely interested. Well, dears, I have - as always - been remarkably busy for a woman of my age. I shall be 135 in just a few weeks! Can you believe it? No, neither can I, dears, neither can I.

I spent this morning in the care of my dear consultant Monsieur Mors. Doesn't fill one with confidence, a moniker like that, but he's an awfully pleasant chap. He said Claudette, dear, you have the constitution of one a quarter your age! Though he did tick me orf somewhat for the wine consumption. Goodness these modern doctors have such repressive rules!

He proclaimed me quite sane. Quite sane. Something of a relief as one does tend to question oneself at times and it's reassuring to gain professional absolution, as it were. Acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt, as they used to say in Rome. And, of course, consultants are a modern god, are they not?

He informs me I am merely a tad weary, unsurprising for one my age, and has prescribed a shot of gin and a Latino lover. Incredible what one receives when one elects to go private.

Life has been hectic, of course. One's friends have a tendency to evaporate as one ages, so one must maximise Life whilst it's willing. Recently I did meet up again with my dear and oldest chum, Prince Rehman, and we had a wonderful evening - drinking tea! Yes, I hear your laughter all the way here in France, darlings, but when the company is good, tea is surely all one needs. Prince Rehman is always a positive force, I find, and I do love him so for that quality.

Paris was the usual heated frenzy over the summer. Ghastly tourists - Texans mainly - crawling over the place as though it were a specimen to be examined and not an oasis some of us dearly call home. Autumn now beckons and, with it, comes a slowing of pace.

Though frankly if Georges slows any more he'll stop. Really the man is insufferable, but what can one do? Having exhausted himself with the plumbing works, as previously mentioned, he has discovered the internet and mainly now spends his time engaged in war battles with imagined enemies. I fear this modern vice merely brings those destined to Lost Cause to their point of arrival so much sooner. Alas, it is both travesty and tragedy.

I haven't heard from dear Dapphers. One suspects the medication is keeping her subdued. Visitors are, apparently, no longer permitted at the clinic and thus we must wait - if not with bated breath, at least with decorum - for further news as and when it's available.

And Claude... what can I possibly say, dears. That was a rhetorical question, by the way.

We return to the heart. Its ugly, brutal and quite pathetic form. We'd eat it, were it not for social constraint.

And so I remain
Yours in eternal optimism for Life,

Claudette xxx

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