Hazard of Parsnips Chapter 7

and so the greatest love story/epistolary novel/writing experiment continues.  Catch up with previous HoP Chapters here:

http://sherby57.co.uk/2008/10/09/a-hazard-of-parsnips-chapters-1-2/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/08/27/a-hazard-of-parsnips-chapter-3/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/hazard-of-parnsips-chapter-4/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/hazard-of-parsnips-chapter-5-get-it-here/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/10/15/oh-no-not-another-hazard-of-parsnips-chapter-6-by-sherby-57/

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/01/letters-to-dr-angel/ Chapter 6a

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/12/02/dr-angel-replies/ Chapter 6b

Dearest Clarence

I am writing this in the past. It’s obviously the present as I’m writing this, but as you’re reading this it’s from the past. Keep up.

Today the sun roused me, like an egyptian pharmacist or maybe a psychiatrist prescribing ritalin off-licence. With that sun and that pharmacist came a sense of heightened awareness, the likes that I have not been aware of for many a year. For it is today, o beauteous day, that I am TRULY conscious for the first time in my whole miserable life.  Today, I love you.

I know it is only 24 hours since we met. O, sweet knave, so much can happen in 24 hours. Thou couldest watch Hollyoaks and Hollyoaks ‘in the city’ as well as a full ‘Come Dine with me’ when it was 5 episodes, each of one hours duration.  It was yesterday that I alighted the ‘cumfybus’ and took the sweet, sweet trip into Wigan to the Emporium of Cash Converting where I was to selleth my Sega Drive of  Megas.  O, handsome knave, it had been a lean month.  Lord Karl of Kennedy had been out of the country on tour with Sir Ricky of Martin and had not sent his usual brace of rabbits to my father.  As you may know, my father is Lord Kennedy’s gigolo. Lord Kennedy prefers the term ‘Man-thang’. My father said that the job descrption said ‘gigolo’ and he didn’t spend 3 years doing a doctorate in Gigology to be called a ‘Man-thang’. My father is a proud, proud gentleman, Clarence. I said your name incase you drifted off. Did it work?

It was in the Emporium of Converting Cash that our chance encounter occured. You were looking in the glass cases at an amp for your flying V guitar, but I watched you settle on a gold ganja leaf chain. O, how fine you looked as you tried it on.I knew it was poor manners, but I couldn’t tear my hot eyes away. O happy ganja leaf! O happy chain! O, what I would not have given to be lying around your neck, nestling into your chest.

It was then you became aware of my forbidden glances. You manoevered your bulk into position so you could take a full look upon my person and my countenance. O, unhappy moment.  My yearning fell upon your cold soul. My longing fell like seeds onto a pavement. You held my gaze and gruffly ejaculated “why are you looking at me weird?”.

I stare into your very soul. a long intense gaze. Desperately my eyes search yours. I try and move your frozen heart with my thoughts. Every fibre of my being wills your affections towards my unworthy brow. Your eyes slowly close, in abject ecstasy, I reckon, your breath quickens and you softly sigh “what’s that on your top lip?”.

I put my hand up to my face and realise there was an unwelcome invader to our beautiful tryste.  My sausage roll from Greggs the Bakers had left soft pastry interlopers upon my lip and had become affixed to my Collection 2000 lipgloss.

Your face changed. Not literally. You didn’t get someone elses face.You know this, so I’m not sure why I’m telling you. what I mean is that your countenance did change to form a picture of abject disgust.  Your jaw jutted and your eyebrows did plow great furrows into your forehead. Your chin did wrinkle and pucker and you looked like Sir Gordon Ramsay.

“This wench has herpes” you bellowed. To no one in particular. I fled from the shop, hand to my lip, desperately wiping every last crumb of sausage roll. I ran and ran. In my anger and shame I kicked a can of Red Bull at Greggs in an act of wanton futility and my cheeks burned like the fire that Take That and Lulu were keen to ignite.

As my cheeks burned hot, it was then I understood:

I love you. Yet, you were repulsed by my very form.

What could I do? I needed a strategy to excite and delight your very eye. A way to woo you. Some form of sexual voodoo, white witchery. Anything. You had to be mine. I alighted the cumfybus to return to Hesketh Bank and my Father’s lodge on the estate of Lord Kennedy’s. On the bus, I was suprised to see my girlhood companion, Lady Spinderella, on the backseat. I sat next to her, and we made our usual greetings. She noticed my flushed countenance and I noticed several blueblack bites of love poorly concealed under the collar of her Naff co 54 coat.

“I see you have sweet marks of love on your neck, Spinderella. What knave makes these black holes of love and how did you entice him? I’m not being funny or anything, good lady, but you smell like a butcher’s shop”.

“Ah!” began the good lady “I am courting Sir P of Diddington. These black holes of love that you see before you, poorly concealed were hard won, lady. For Sir P did not care for my glances when we met at Prince’s Nightclub. No, he only had eyes for Lady Jennifer of Lopez. However, I entered a hot body show in Burnley, and won. News of my victory spread far and wide and Sir P heard of the felicitatious knowledge. Consequently, he felt a yearning so strong that no remedy could abate, not even calpol. He could contain himself no longer and he had to have me, like a black and decker workbench or Stream of Soda”.

It was then I knew. My course of action was charted for me, like a great sea adventure. My voyage began. I picked up my quill and began to write to the only person I knew could help me…

To be continued…

Lady Sandra Growbag