En Route to Canada

So busy packing. AHHH! Here's a post I wrote for IP Novels. The translation is my own and a tad free. I hate to think what the poet would have thought, but there's no point worrying as that can't be known: he's dead.

We Dwell Too Much on Luv

Even a married lady like me gets annoyed by Valentine's Day spam. This spam advertised a combination fitness centre and dating service. Personally, I cannot imagine combining a gym workout with dating. I'm the lady what got the male attendant banned from the University of Toronto Athletic Centre weight room during Women-Only Hour. (The whole point of Women-Only Hour was to prevent men from staring at women while we worked out, but the worst offender was actually that attendant.) Incidentally, I had a big old argument with a prof about Women's Only Hour. He thought it was unfair to men, but meanwhile my Dad was horrified a Jesuit was working out in a public gym in the first place. It made him (Dad) feel nostalgic for the 1950s. Meanwhile, my shock when the tremendously handsome, muscular man at the chest press put on his glasses and was thereby revealed to be my prof---!

Let's just say that I am still a big fan of Women Only Hours at gyms.

Anyway, the annoying ad reminded me that it is time I reasserted my solidarity with Singles readers by agreeing that Valentine's Day is annoying when you're Single and very often when you are not Single but male. And hordes of girlfriends and wives are disappointed on Valentine's Day because they think of it as a Big Deal and think their boyfriends and husbands should too.

Well, I love my husband, but I usually go home to Canada in mid-February, so no V-Day for us. We must have had some V-Days together, though, as I recall that his traditional V-Day present is a handful of snowdrops from the woods. In my opinion, this is the cheapest and yet most romantic V-Day gift in the world.

The idea of fitness + dating epitomizes for me the reduction of love to Luv, love being a real, time-built relationship between a man or woman and his or her family, his or her country or people, his or her best friends, his or her patron saints, his or her God. Luv is the heady rush of infatuation that either calms down into marriage or burns out, leaving ashes. I am grateful for the stage of marital love called Luv, for it transformed my life and set B.A. and me in the right direction. However, I hate how it utterly drowns out the rest of romantic love and the other loves. The airwaves and television are obsessed with sex and treat family life as a carnival sideshow or opportunity for adverts.

One of the wonderful things about marriage is that it transforms the person you are crazy about into a member of your family--as far as you are concerned, the most important member of your family. This makes him or her just as loveable and nearly as annoying as other members of your family. I am sure that when B.A. saw me sitting demurely on a sofa in the New Town, politely dabbing at my nose with a tissue, he did not foresee me this morning, running around yelling "Where the H*** are my KEYS?" Any member of my current family could have warned him, but fortunately they were not there.

I had an email today--I haven't answered it yet--and it is from someone who is dreading going on a first date. She doesn't like going on dates, and I am not surprised. Dates are like going to the dentist. You don't enjoy going, but you have a vague sense that something might be wrong if you don't. The difference is that you really should go to the dentist. Your teeth won't fall out if you refuse to go on dates.

My advice will be to think of dates not as a way of meeting future boyfriends but a way of meeting future male friends. I'm not much of a networker on my own behalf (too shy), but I enjoy introducing friends and acquaintances to other friends and acquaintances I think they should know. It's good to have new people over for supper, and to bring this or that person--especially younger ones--into the old gang.

I think friendship is a place where Luv is just that more likely to mature into Love--either marital love or the love of friends. The relationship does not begin with the artificiality of a cafe, or the frank carnality of a bar or (ye saints above!) exercise studio.

O tempores, o mores! How I wish we could return to the days of variety in love--with popular songs about Mother and Home and Land of Hope and Glory and the Old School and the Regiment. Sure, some of it was sentimental and false, but it gave a truer and more generous picture of human emotion than the sludge on the radio of today. I'd like to add to the list Grandma, Grandpa, Teacher, Mentor, Dear Old Auntie and Kind Mr Contini at the Ice Cream Shop.

It was my birthday recently, and look away now if you don't want to read sappy married people stuff. Sappy married people stuff ahead. Okay, so B.A. and I have two standard squabbles. They are A) the state of the kitchen and B) the hours I spend studying Polish. The kitchen alone is worth hours of traditional marital discord. The Polish adds an exciting international note, plus drama when I weep because compared to my parents and brothers and sisters I am really bad at languages. So it was particularly kindly of B.A. to wash all the dishes from my birthday lunch, even though he cooked the birthday lunch, and really very generous when I opened my new it-bag and found a volume of Polish poetry.

Wah. If I should perish early, don't kill each other in your battle to win B.A. for yourselves.

***

OPERATION VALENTINUS: Okay, you know the drill. If you are Single, pick three to five Single friends to whom to send valentines and chocolate. This way, even if you get nothing, you will have given three to five deserving people a lift. I will soon put out a sign-up feature. Meanwhile, on the theme of love (as opposed to luv), please mention below the most thoughtful gift you have ever received. It can be from a parent, teacher, priest, friend, sibling, cousin, uncle, aunt, grandparent, fiancé, spouse. Anyone you love and who loves you in a REAL, lasting way.

Not Going to the USA

Oh dear. No trip to the U.S. for me this year. Sigh.

Best British "Ceremony" Review So Far

Lots of [paid] work to do today, but I'll try to return this evening. Meanwhile, this is the best British review "Ceremony" has got so far--out of, er, two. I'm grateful to the reviewer, whoever he or she is!

I'll see if I can post a photo of the Inner Child's new bag before I fly to Canada. Me and technology...

Inner Child Got Her It-Bag...

...bought from its own maker in a little shop in Lauriston Street.

it has a horse shoo stiched on! it-bag! it-bag! it-bag from indepedent forrin rezident in edinburra lether worker insted of wikked konsumerist multinashunal!!!

so pleeeezed! yay! yay!

Very Minor Health Scare Resolved

Of course, to be balanced on the issue of "It's GREAT to be over thirty!" I should mention the whole potential for physically falling apart after forty. At thirty I was, and you might be or could be, a wiry little powerhouse of health and strength, "with the heart of a fourteen year old" said an examining nurse. Had she known she might have added, "With the maturity to match." However, it cannot be stressed enough that, in general, female fertility takes a nosedive when we are about thirty-five. So that goes first. Next come the random aches and pains and whatnot, which often you can prevent through exercise, rest and good nutrition, apparently.

Anyway the dark side of the forty occurred to me yesterday when I decided I had better mention the nagging pain over my left breast to someone. And I wouldn't mention it now except that finally I get to say something nice about the National Health Service, other than that they fill out prescriptions like little angels. In short, after five years I was asked to take my top off and a doctor actually poked around.

Back in Canada I always had to take my clothes off, and every check-up meant the doctor examining me for any possible bump, lesion, or rebellious mole. Ever since I got them, my breasts were prodded for lumps. Prod, prod, prod. This wasn't particularly nice, but it was normal. Also normal was having my heart and lungs listened to on every visit, plus blood pressure checked, and all that. So imagine my shock that in Scotland doctors did not want to see me with my clothes off or to listen to my insides. The cheek.

However, I must say that at the magic words "pain in my breast", Doctor "Female Locum" (as she was named on my reminder card) swung into action. Blood pressure. Stethoscope. Deep breathing. Top off. Prod, prod. And the upshot is that your dear Auntie has to do no more than take ipruprofen three times a day. We think the pain is muscular, and it may indeed be caused by too much typing on a lovely formica-topped table that really is, alas, too high for comfortable typing. It's the sweetest robin's egg blue vintage '60s table, but it's too high. Boo.

By the way, I have been thinking about cancer, diabetes and heart disease a lot lately, for I am on the famous 5:2 diet, not that I asked a doctor's opinion on that, and thus have been reading about nutrition, particularly glucose. (The 5:2 diet is totally compatible with trad Catholicism, which is why I figured I could do it. And I shall be writing all about this in the CR, stay tuned.) And Hilary White convinced me during our Christmas holidays that sugar is very bad, so I have drastically slashed how much sugar I consume.

The weirdest thing happened on Sunday when, after being off sucrose for a few days, I espied a piece of the most delicious-looking Turkish Delight (the real thing) and gobbled it. It was so good, I might have been tempted to sell my brothers and sisters to the White Witch for some more. Fortunately, this was not required, so I immediately stuffed a second piece in my mouth just as ---WHOOEEEE!--I had the weirdest sensation--as if my blood had gone dizzy. So I won't be doing THAT again.

Incidentally, the other danger of turning forty is that you might start talking too much about your health. So now I will shut up.

Story soon.

Update: Every once in a blue moon, there's an MTV video I don't hate. I saw this one at the gym yesterday. What I like about it is that it underscores that a woman is not a sexy cartoon, if she's "lucky", but a woman who normally wears real clothing, and has muscles, bones, and organs under her skin. Oh, and something else, which pops up in the dance near the end.

It's Great to Turn Thirty

Well, I know that many women quite illogically dread turning thirty, but until today I never read about a woman who avoided it by committing suicide. Yes, I read about it in the Daily Mail, which is a British tabloid, but still. The woman must have been seriously mentally ill, poor girl.

I have not only turned thirty, I have turned forty. But well I remember my thirtieth birthday! I was divorced-and-annulled with no boyfriend, working in a temp agency, living in a bachelor flat (lovely bay window, mind you), paying the lowest possible fees to my therapist, and I had an absolutely rocking birthday. Naturally I planned it myself.

A bunch of old friends from Toronto came to the smaller city in which I lived, 100 Km/60 miles away. A bunch of local new friends came, too. And my brother Nulli was there. We all went to the best Chinese restaurant in town and had a massive feast. Then we squeezed into my tiny flat for cake and champagne. I still remember that Josie gave me a pink leopard-print plush frame--in which I put a magazine photo of Keanu Reeves--and a "Grow Your Own Boyfriend in a Glass" doll which I still have somewhere, never having put him into a glass.

Heavens, I was poor. But it was an amazing birthday, and my brother, due to turn thirty himself in a year, was rather inspired by it. For one thing, I said that the great thing about being thirty was that I would not make the same mistakes I made in my twenties. Nulli said that made a big impression on him.

My thirties were much better than my twenties, I must say. They rather sagged during the BC years, but they improved later because of the friends I made through blogging and writing for the Catholic Register. They definitely ended on a high, because I had married dear old B.A. and my first book had been published in two countries and would soon be published in Poland.

Well I remember my fortieth birthday! I was married to marvellous B.A., writing for pay and for art, living in an attic flat created in 1820 in a house built in 1686, paying for the cheapest possible flights on holidays, and I had an absolutely rocking birthday. B.A. took me to our favourite French restaurant in Edinburgh, where we treated four of our friends to a great meal. They brought nice gifts, including a red sequined evening bag I can't take anywhere except the givers' house because it makes me look like a...hmm...

Anyway, it was a great birthday. After lunch B.A. took me either to a film or a snazzy hotel bar or both--I recall being a bit tipsy, really, which is why I probably don't remember that bit clearly.

Heavens, we are poor. Sort of. I admit we have a very good time on what money we have, and when I am seized with sudden agony that I am an utter failure, not having four children and a house in the ever-spreading suburbs outside Toronto or even a proper job in an office, B.A. reminds me that I have had two books published, and answered countless emails from readers. He might also point out that I chose to live my life like a scholarly hippy, since I picked totally impractical subjects to study, like Catholic theology. And that it is even more impractical to compare myself to high school classmates and my own brothers and sisters.

(Still, I think I convinced him that it sucks not to be fluent in a second language when one brother is fluent in French, and one sister is fluent in Spanish, and one sister is fluent in French AND Spanish, and my sister-in-law is fluent in French and Romanian, and my nephew and niece are fluent in French and Romanian and know American Sign Language because my brother is an early language acquisition nut. I sat there with Julek i Julka, tears running down my mortified monolingual cheeks. It's not like I didn't try learning French, Italian, German, Irish, Anglo-Saxon, Latin and Greek--it's that I never became FLUENT. How come THEY'RE all fluent when I'm not fluent in ANYTHING? Sob, sob, sniff.)

One thing I do not feel bad about is being over forty. Being over forty means only that I haven't died yet and implies that I enjoyed good health in my youth, which I certainly did. I was most definitely tired of the lifestyle of a twenty-something when I was thirty-five and stumbling around Boston looking for a night club to celebrate my birthday in. Thank you Jonathan and Ted, but what nonsense. I made my Single-at-Forty birthday plans then; they involved a quiet family dinner with any children then in my family. Naturally, as I married at thirty-eight, this plan was replaced by the above.

No matter how much I write, or articles or books I publish, or readers I help, I will probably always occasionally feel like a failure for some reason or another. So think about that if you are twenty-nine or thirty-nine and dreading the next birthday. And if you can read this, you probably look and feel a lot younger than any woman your age in Afghanistan. Here's Sharbat Gula, a Pashtun, at 12 and at thirty:

We Westerners should count our blessings and give thanks for them every day!

Please Read Translations

What I wrote today. John Herreid did the graphic. He designed the cover for Ceremony of Innocence, too. I really like his work.

Attention British Catholic Bloggers

FATHER MARK PATERSON, O.Carm. INNOCENT of sexual assault.

We all know that the media has a field day when a Roman Catholic priest or brother is accused, usually by Roman Catholics, of having either had an affair with or sexually abusing someone--usually another Roman Catholic.

Our hurt that a priest has (or may have) hurt one or more of us (again, Roman Catholic) laypeople or priests, behaving shamefully and sacrilegiously, is compounded by the media's salacious interest in the case, sometimes reviewing it again and again, giving the impression that there are more accusations than there actually are, and as many convictions as there are accusations. This leads to public contempt towards ALL church-going Roman Catholics, and public approbation for merely tribal Catholics who loudly declare themselves separate from "all that rubbish." And this is particularly painful in the United Kingdom, especially Scotland, where, since the Reformation, Roman Catholics have been a marginalized and very often reviled minority.

And for all these reasons, it is a matter of great joy that the Edinburgh High Court has quashed the unjust conviction of Father Mark Paterson, O.Carm. Father Mark Paterson, former Catholic chaplain at Aberdeen University, did not sexually assault his accuser. Father Mark Paterson did not behave shamefully and sacrilegiously. And a short paragraph or paragraphs in a few British newspapers and blogs have briefly mentioned that the conviction was quashed.

That is not enough. Father Paterson has been maligned in the press. The nasty testimony of his (adult, female, non-student) accuser was described in salacious detail in the tabloids. However, the testimony of his defenders has not been read by the public until now. The news was not, for example, in this week's Catholic Herald, as we might have expected (but this may be because the paper went to press before the editors heard the news).

Not good enough. Bells should be ringing from Papa Stronsay in the
Orkney Islands to the Abbey of Saint Cecilia in Ryde. However, that's not going to happen overnight. Just as it was left to a layman to work for seven years to get Father Paterson's conviction appealed, it has been left to British Catholic bloggers and social media to get the word out.

So let's get the word out. Please repost this post, or post "The conviction of Father Mark Paterson, O.Carm. for sexual assault has been quashed" and then link either to my article at Catholic World Report or to this post at Laodicea.

It's not PC to say so, but it is a fact: some accusers of priests are just making up malicious stories for gain. And, given this case, one even begins to wonder if a Roman Catholic priest can get a fair trial in Scotland, even today.

Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream (Amos 5:24).

Our Sunday Visitor Interview

Look at this week of short posts and no Inner Child. Alas! But I was very busy indeed, watching and praying for justice for an innocent priest, writing up the story, and trying to get newspapers interested. Priest found guilty back in 2006--big news. Priest proved to be innocent in 2014--crickets.

I'll post my report when it is published.

Meanwhile, Anamaria interviewed me about Ceremony of Innocence for Our Sunday Visitor, and here is the result. We talked for an hour over Skype, with Polish Pretend Son down the hall answering the phone (very confusing to the neighbours) and warning B.A. not to go into my office.

In other news, the trip to Washington D.C. has become unlikely. I'm very sorry indeed, and apologize especially to Washington girls running around trying to find venues, but I just can't afford it. Blogging pays badly and Paypal eventually proved unreliable, so I removed the Paypal button a few months ago. (There's no point you sending me money that Paypal won't cough up without a death struggle.) However, there is still a chance I might be appearing at Franciscan University of Steubenville. Meanwhile, of course I will be in Toronto on February 14 to have coffee with readers without Valentine's Day dates.

Yulia's Body Identified

A very sad end to this Edinburgh story.

Requiem Aeternam dona ea, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ea: requiescat in pace.

Why I've Been Busy

I'm happy to report that a priest has had his unjust conviction for indecent assault overturned. I've been at the court house, off and on, for three days this week. The BBC has its report here. Stay tuned for mine.

Latest Links

Horribly busy. However, here are the two more recent things I wrote. First, an article on Lord of the World for Catholic World Report, and a second column on An Episode of Sparrows for Ignatius Press Novels.

buzy aelianus heer

hello it is me the inner child and i am fokussing on notburga heer to sa it is not my falt aelianus is heer and distrakting evrybodie. no ryting for anybodie or anything toda.

Holding Breath

The disappearance of Edinburgh Uni student Yulia Solodyankina has touched the hearts of many people in Edinburgh, even those who do not know her. For me it's because she is a young foreign student like other young foreign students I know, especially one who knows Yulia well enough to speak to. It's also because her friends in Edinburgh are determined not to allow her to be forgotten as just another missing girl. Their Facebook page alone is enough to keep Yulia's name and lovely face in the Scottish press; I'm not sure all the page members appreciate how helpful that could be as they rail against the press mining the page for stories. It's not what the press says about them that matters: it's getting Yulia's name and photo in the papers yet again that's key.

It is particularly upsetting for Yulia's friends when a dead female body is discovered, and both public and social media speculate as to whether it is Yulia's. Lately some of the more sensationalist of the newspapers have claimed this of a body found in Argyll. However, there has not yet been a formal identification. I pray that it is not Yulia's body, and that Yulia is merely working "under the table" at some remote Scottish farm or hotel while she sorts herself out.

Meanwhile, I think Edinburghers are sorry that something like this could happen to a young female visitor to their city. Edinburghers themselves make jokes about Edinburgh hospitality, but as a matter of fact Scots are kindly people with a soft spot for quiet young female foreigners. I certainly have one myself, and I think it would be would be great if all readers sent up a prayer for the safe recovery of Yulia Solodyankina. I too am determined that this girl, at least, will not be forgotten until her family and friends discover her whereabouts.

P.S. I have an important article to write today--and a sick husband--but hopefully I'll be able to pass the computer along to You Know Who for another installment of You Kno Wat.

sharlot deesishun

hello it is me the inner child and i am lyk a sole in torment becoz my owter adult is now on the 5-2 dyet. yesterday she just kut owt all added shugar--i told her dryed figs and klementyns doant have shugar rofl--but now today she is kalorie cownting. as hewvert wud say wat fresh hel is this? 500 kalories how am i supposed to ryte? i doant cayr if well eet 1500 tomorrow wat abowt now? and there is no use telling me friday shud be a day of fasting anyway becuz la la la la la la im not listning. freeking polish lessons and now fad dyets i did not kom bak for this but for fun stuff and choklit.

forchoonatly my wilting speerits (peotry) hav seen restored by FAN ART. this fan art koms from my no. 1 fan notburga and illustrayts that tender moment wen hewbert sat down to coldbluddedly ask proodens to marrie him in a marrij of konveenyens and reelized he loved her and was not guid enuff for her even tho hitherto he thot all weemen beneeth him becuz of EEVE.

'i regret -- my apologies -- i reely must go' said hewbert. but to proodens grate surprise he first fell to one nee took her hand kissed it got up and strode away towards the stabel blokk without as much as looking at her.

yuo kno sumtyms i forget wat a jeenyus i reelie am. thank hevens notburga is ther to reemynd me. okay so now let us turn to poor old sharlot wat is she up to eh?

the bodis riper!!!
part the third because we hav no number to deenote 1+2
chapter six


sharlot had had a verie x-syting but frustrayting day. being summoned from the attik being n-gaged temporayrilie as the laydys mayd of her masters sister the famuosly beeooteeful dowayjer duchess of paisley being taken by her to the very doors pewsey huose were all moments of joyful astonishment. but she had also bene shokked by the rood dekor in the duchess bedroom disappoynted to hav been left in the karrij and intimidayted to find herself always under the eye of the jigantik mrs harvey wen abuv all things she wanted to fynd her master. altho the kind duchess had ashoored her that the hon the rev mr robinson was beter sumthing insyd her mynd wud not be satisfyed until she saw for herself. altho she was a good girl and loyal and knew her plais and didnt kick up any presbie fuss abowt working for pixies sharlott was after all a skot so not so super-fewdal that she refewsed to think for herself.

as sune as she had returned to the huose with her noo mistress--not that sharlot thot of her that way as she had vayglie begun to think of proodens in this roll--sharlot was handed over to mrs harvey whoo looked her up and down sniffing and putting her hand on her shulder proppelled her back to her grays' rood bedchaymber.

the fat amorus and paygan gods and goddesses all seemed to stayr at her as if she wer the 1 so roodlie dressed as mrs harvey led her to a set of door wich wen opened reveeled a grate chaymber lined with glorius dresses caypes coats tippits furs skarvs and amazing hats topped with feethers from all sorts of newly diskovered x-otik birds shortlie to becom x-tinkt. at the far end of this room was a wooden stool under a sunny windo.

'i suppose you can sow a strait seem' sed mrs harvy 'or are you good for 0 but dusting?'

'ook ay indeed ah can sow mrs harvey' sed sharlot teering her awed eies away from the glorius fabriks. 'all kinds of stitches and buttonholes too'

'well then you can set to work repairing my shifts and stokkings' sed mrs harvey suddenly slapping a mowntain of yelloed cotton into sharlots arms.'im so run off my feet i havnt had the tym to do them myself. and mynd yuo dont budj until they are all done. if yuo do there will be hell to pay.' she luiked kraftily at the haf-burried girl. 'sumtimes wen i am in her grays' bedroom i hav the unkomfortabul feeling im being wached. don't you?'

'ook' sed sharlot and the har stood up on the bakk of her nek. mrs harvey luiked at the girls rownd eies and hid a smyl. she didnt bother lokking the bedroom dor or her way out.

sharlott took the pyl to the windo and began to soo as if her lyf depended on it. she tryed not to think aboot the rood and skary payntings on her grayces seeling. her first master mr robisons brother henry had payntings lyk that in his hoam and sharlott hadnt lyked them either. still they seemed mor respektable in the drawing room of a marreed cuppel than in the bedroom of a yung wido. she herself wud not want micheal mcintyr to see her in a room lyk that.

at the very thot of micheal mcintry in sutch a room sharlott blushed and her hart flutered almost as quiklie as her needel. for the first tym in howrs she thot agane of the prisoners in the attik and wondered wy they had bene lokked up. she knoo that in some grate huoses the servants wer lokked up after dark and in others like those of the robinsons any door between the mens and wimmens sydes were lokked permanentlie. howevr nevr had she herd of servants being lokked up arownd the clokk to do 0 but eat and fret. cud it be that her laydyship did not kno of the stayt of the attik?

another thot that trubbled sharlot was wy she had been sumoned from teh attik to begin with. if it was becuz it was too rood for her to be lokked in an attik with all thos men--not that they werent all as kind to her as brothers--then wy did the duchess konsent to sleep under a seeling of such rood gods and goddesses?

'one thing i ken for sertan' sed sharlot alowed 'my deer master wud never alow such rood fowk in his bedroom.'

ther sudenly kaym a thump and a hevy tred of footsteps in the bedroom and the terrified sharlott suddenly thinking she had majikally offended the paytings mufled a shreek. but it was only mrs harvey of corse kross and puffing lyk a bellos.

'mayk hayst and help me' sed mrs harvey. 'her grays is going for a dryv. we nede her dryving habit.'

sharlot obedientlie skurried to her syde and tuched a green bodis with rather marshall golden braid.

'this 1?' she asked.

'beter not' sed mrs harvey as if to herself 'not if shes drying with that pewsey chit. lady proodens will probably were red or bloo and we doant want them to klash. fynd me her grays's chokit brown blakkie.

dryving with laydy proodens! sharlots hart gayv a mitey bownd and she tryed to keep her voys stedy as she sed.

'will her grays with me to attend upon them?'

'wat? a joonior ladies mayd to attend her grays iin the park? to do wat? ryd postilion? goodness grayshus wat a stoopid girl. the deer knos wat a mess yuov been mayking of my shifts!'

she waddeled over to chekk and as sharlot reverentlie serched among the delikate finery for a choklit brown dryving habit she held her breth.

'not bad' sed mrs harvey grudjingly. 'kredit were kredit is doo. hmm. i mite trust yuo with her grays's own things at this rayt. and wil yoor at it better look up her graces new ruby supper ensemble. lady proodens will probably ware gold or bloo.'

'lady proodens-- heer!' squeeked sharlot.

she was rewarded with a ringing slap!

'yuo mind yore own bizness' sed harvey furius at herself for letting that slip. 'i kollekt yuo hav gotten lady proodens in all sorts of trubble. taken all sorts of libertees! well that woant hapen heer beleev yuo me.'

and taken the choklit skirt and bodis from sharlot she waddeled to the door.

'mynd yuo dont leev this room until given leev!' she added.

sharlot returned to her chare face burning. she had not been slapped sins she left the kitchens of the her masters brother the erl of bo. and in the unwritten coad of servis she ot not to hav bene slapped by mrs harvey not if she were a laydies made. and even as the parlermayd of her beloved master... the thot mayd teers come to her eies. if only she cud see the master. watevr her grays sed shurly her master wud not want his staff lokked up in an attik or she sharlott to be trapped in this attik by skary rood payntings! nyther wud lady proodens approv if she knoo.

eventchuly she wyped her eies. the sun was rather low in the sky and soon she wud not be abel to see well enuff to sow. she kaym to the konklushon that watevr she did she wud not do until after dark had mayd her sowing skills yoosless. she was little and fast with a soft tred. she cud heer mrs harvey coming but mrs harvey wud not heer her.

'and even so' sed sharlot dryving the spectre of the rood painted peeple fro her mynd, 'i will fynd my beloved master'.

to be kontinewed.

Most Literate Hip Hop Song Ever

Unless you speak Polish, you'll just have to trust me on this. But be assured that this is 100% safe for Babcia.

 

bodis riper kontinewing

helo it is me the inner child happy noo yeer. i just mayd my outer adult eat 2 gobs of turkish delite even tho she is now afrayd of shugar and today was to be a shugar-free day. lol rofl!

to be frank i did not want to ryt today but seraphic sed if i didnt she wud tayk bak the super-cute owl tin i mayd her buy. one sec wile i get her to post a pickchur.



also notburga promissed ART and i want to see it and maybe she wont send it unless i ryt. so i ryt. were was i?

bodis riper!!!
part third
chapter 5 kontinewing

hewberts overworked hart gave a grate jump and then seemed to melt like isecream when he looked into proodens soft eyes.

'abowt me?' he murmured.

'yes' sed laydie proodens pewsie. 'oh hewbert, deer hewbert, if you were an animal wat sort of animal do you think you wud be?'

'but i am an animal,' sed hewbert rather nonplussed, 'that is man is a rashunal animal. aristotel sed so in fysiks'

'yes but i meen inside. o deer i kno i am not supposed to say this hewbert mama was qwite feers but she sed that all men hav an animal naychur. sum are lyk stal--gentelmen horses and sum are like fish and sum are lyk irish setters. mama sed i shud be yoked to a man lyk an irish setter but i am not shur.'

hewbert mowth was as dry as a 2 day old pees of toast but he got the wirds out.

'and wat sort of man wud yuo like to be yoked to?'

'well natchoorally i wud be lyk to be yoked to an elefant' sed proodens.

and despyte his payn and his hart and his long kaptivity hewbert laffed. he laffed until teers ran down his thin fase. prooden wached him solemly.

'you see hewbert' she sed shyly. 'i think yuo are lyk an elefant.'

'my deer proodens' sed hewbert taking both her hands in his. 'i luv yuo with all my hart. i am old enuf to be yuor father and a ginger with a ginger temper to mach and altogether unworthy of yuo but i luv yuo as i luv my sole. howver i do not see how i am lyk an elefant.

'yuo weep' sed proodens twining her fingers in his. 'you remember. and most of all deer deer hewbert yuo have an enormus hart. and i luv you so much yuo must be an elefant'

'pon rep how verie prettie' kaym a voys from the doorway. clementyna dowajer duchess of paisey stood ther all dekked in blud red--blud red silk fell from her shulders blud red silk encased her slender bodie blud red rubees shone from her perfekt eers blud red red rubees gentlie klasped her swan-lyk nekk. her dark eyes glittered. 'pon rep how verrie tutching.'

but proodens did not tayk her eyes from hewbert nor did hewbert tayk his from her.

'kongratulayt us yore grays' sed hewbert in a voys as strong as it had bene in helth, 'congratulate us sister for we are to be married.'

'o yes' sed proodens. 'o yes pleese herbert. yay!'

and throwing her arms abowt him she snugled on his boosom a silken sky bloo bundel of joy.

'ah ah ah such presipitusness' snarled clementyn with such furie that amayzed proodens sat up and stayred in shokk. The trembling duchess shut her eies and took kommand of herself. they opened again and tho they still glitered she smiled. she smiled kruelly.

'my deer brother' she sed. 'it is no sekret that yuo hav had long pereeods of derangement. yuo had one after you fell in yore edinburra kirk and the one yuo had in london led yuo to attempt to murder yore deerest freind of oksford days the putativ father of this innosent girl.'

'that last was becuz of yuo, sister' cryed hewbert feercely sitting up and pulling proodens into his arms. 'it was solely bekos of yuo. and what the devil do you meen by putativ?'

'as yuo hav bene to oksford i am shur yuo kno the meening of such komplikated wirds' sneered clementyn. 'haf london knos the reel reeson wy yuo and charles kwarreled and she sertanely wasnt i.'

'it was yuo and yuo kno it--none beter! and by this marriag i will sho the wirld that my innosent proodens had 0 to do with it.'

'this marriaj!' clemenytina throo bakk her awburn hed and laffed. Her laff was so piersing so eevil that up in the attik hewberts imprisoned staff herd it and theyr blud froz. it tuik on a note of sutch histeria that after heering it mrs jersey rushed to hewberts chaymber to see wat ailed her grays. proodens earlier dislyk for the dutchess kame roring bak and she held onto herbert as if to protekt him.

'this marriaj' said clemenyn wiping away teers that left blak streeks. 'this marriaj wud be the gratest skandal ever to mayk the robinson name stynk in the nostrils of the wirld.'

'how dare yuo?' sed hewbert and gently pushing proodens away he throo his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.

'o darling hewbert do be karyful!' squeeked proodens. 'yuo hav been so awfly ill!'

'and yuo hav cured me my deerest luv' sed the hon the rev mr hewbert robinson. 'skandal forsooth. to sayv proodens reputayshun i am indede willing to x-pose yuo clemyntyn most base of sisters. altho all the wirld will pitty laydy proodens for allying herself to such a familie no stayn will rest on her---yuo sink of filthie lusts yuo murderess!'

'not proodens' sed clementyn koolie.'her mother.'

hewbert and proodens both stayred.

'hermione?' sed hewbert.

'mama?' wondered proodens. she stood and took hewberts hand.

'hermione forsooth! what devilry is this?" demanded herbert. 'surely noone wud beleev such tomfaddel that charles and i were fyting over hermione!

'noone?! the town rings of it! the ton talks of 0 els! from the klubs of st jayms to the drawingrooms of grosvenor street the cry is going up---how in one of his fits of madness the reverend--if he can be called by that honorfik herafter--hewbert robinson did sedews the buxom wyf of our beloved charles grunstayn and--indede--beget a child upon her!'

'wat fresh horror is this?' rored hewbert hands klasped to his eers. besyd him proodens had gon qwite wite. 'how can the almighty allow such lies to exist without immediately blasting thier authors with lighting to the fiery pit! i and hermione---!?! never! never! hermione--more of a sister than yuo hav ever bene to me--hermione my only true sister a sister of the soul rather than of flesh--and soon pleez God to be my mother-in-law. noone cud beleev it. charles will never beleev it.'

'wat charles beleevs woant matter' purred the duchess. 'its wat the ton thinks that cownts and beleev me hewbert the ton will never permit this marriaj of yores.'

'and why not?' cried proodens. Her bloo eyes blazed. 'whyever not?'

'becuz my dere' sed clementyn silkily. 'the ton thinks hewbert is yore father.'

to be kontinewed.

Sick and busy back soon!

Oh poppets! I have returned from the cottage with a terrible cold and a mountain of things to write. My Inner Child does nothing but eat chocolate and anything else she can find, even though I said we should cut back on sugar. I am going now to boil a kettle of water for Lemsip.

Meanwhile, a very happy new year to you all, and keep your eyes peeled when you are reading Our Sunday Visitor this month.

Oh, and here I list the best books I read in 20-thirteen. (The three is still sticking.) Great reviews of "Ceremony" here and there.

And yes I used the expression "pinko commie". I giggle every time I think about it. When was the last time you saw that in print, eh?

Meanwhile, I will shortly get up from my bed of nose-and-throat pain to write on IP Novels about Rumer Godden. So if you miss me, go here. I still have to get to your emails--sorry about that. I overdid it in the "I Can Live Up To My Mother's Example at Christmas" department. Next year B.A. will be tempted to have me sectioned (declared insane) from Dec 24 until Jan 6.