There are times m’dear if well fortified beforehand with the contents of half a bottle of vintage Bollinger sloshing about inside me, I could stick out an upward palm to be peered at by a soothsayer. I have been known of an evening, if sufficiently cheered on by friends to even allow a sayer of sooths to squint his eye, and register scorn at the squiggly lines on my palm and tell me this and that about my future. But, overflowing with the spirit of espieglerie not to mention Bollinger though I usually am, your personal witch doctor Eliyantha was not a chap your ole friend Thellie really took to.
It is not only because in the landscape of Paradisian sports, as he goes about distributing amphetamines disguised as mysterious nettles, Eliyantha Lindsay looks like a ludicrous popinjay. No. It is not even the fact that the strannik or religious pilgrim if you prefer, mixes medicinal portions like an over excited barmaid. I think what really pipped him at the post as far as becoming Thellie’s faith healer was the fact that he came highly recommended by none other than the biggest poop of the nincom variety. In a word, you.
I mean to say darling if the young Adolf while ambling along Kapuzinerstrasse in Passau Germany were to stop a hausfrau on the sidewalk and say to her, ‘Gretchen, – if her name were indeed Gretchen –‘Gretchen,’ if he were to say to her, ‘let me recommend to you my personal medicine man,’ I feel in my gut old fruit that hausfrau Gretchen would have run a mile.
Likewise Thellie vis a vis you old prune. You see dear, everyone seems to be coming down hard on the poor fellow just as much as the aristocrats in Russia’s Royal court came down hard with poison and guns and badly made pastries on Rasputin. But as I often tell you I’m one of the keenest minds of my generation especially when I’m up to the gills in a fine Chardonnay, and to me the poor fish is a marionette whose strings are firmly entwined around your chubby fingers.
Darling, even Shiro will look up from the cutting board and leave her broth boiling over at the hearth to tell you that the White fellow has enabled you to meet and greet a wide variety of celebrities, without whose herbs and nettles you may not have had the pleasure.
Anyway darling you’ve had rather a full plate lately have you not and I don’t mean Shiro’s pol sambal and pittu. I mean the Free trade zone becoming a high security zone and bullets whizzing into demonstrators with the only thing missing being your Americanised sibling going on the Beeb in Blighty to say that everything is a legitimate target. The problem with you and your sibling dear is you are always looking for legitimate targets in illegitimate places.
And talking of legitimate and what not, I was rather surprised to hear from the lips of none other than the profisori and your external ministerial angel that the reason you fellows were not going around trying to round up the customary claque to applaud your war efforts in Geneva during the Human Rights Council sessions recently was so as not to attract any attention to the UN Panel Report. And this despite channel 4 films and gory pictures and what not coming at you like an uncontrollable hailstorm.
My dear old chap. That is like my little chi hua hua Tipsy restraining herself from her customary yelping when a speeding caravan of juggling elephants passes by on the basis that if she stays silent the caravan of Juggling Es might stop and give her a private performance instead.
Ichabod m’dear, much as I may have poured over a law book or two penned by the Profisori during my salad days in the ole law school, I have to say that such reasoning baffles me. And begorra and begob, I’m not one to be easily baffled. Thellie has had the singular pleasure of dealing with fellows in your cabinet like Merv. A fellow I may as well tell you, whose brain if it were made of silk wouldn’t have had sufficient material to make a canary a pair of cami knickers.
Anyway dear I’m just wondering if your chap Eliyantha may perchance not have a concoction to give all those civilians and victims who seem so unreasonably to want justice and whatsit , some kind of amnesia. I mean he has been known to stir up an aphrodisiac or two a little birdie tells me but what if he can shake up an amnesiac in a bottle or better a little something in the form of a nettle or herb perhaps. I mean give them an arishtaya of nelli rasakinda and some mystery ingredient in order to make these fellows forget everything.
You see darling the problem with people who lose everything and then go about beating their chests and donning the old sackcloth and demanding justice and babbling on and on about that little something called human rights is that they have nothing more to lose. Rather lethal all this, you may find. Then again you may not.
I’d rather like to ask ‘wither Paradise’ or something clever like that as a sort of rhetorical question as I pen off until next time, but perhaps it is only young Eliyantha White who could predict the future or at least look into the middle distance. As for me darling I can only reference our Indian roots and say, Oh dearie me! What a Sham!..an.
Ta ra for now
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