MY HEAVENS, LITTLE LADY!

The other day someone said that I should be in movies. Not because of my accent – which tickles certain people no end at times, being all snooty Anglo and such – but because of the humour in my tales and the eloquence of my speech.
Or something like that.
Seeing as they were already five whiskies to the wind, I am not giving it much consideration. Intoxicated people are frequently flattering.

Remarkably, though, I am not the usual target of drunken praise.

I am not a shapely young woman with sparkling eyes.

Admittedly, when you’re quite blotto, nearly everyone shares the fine characteristics of a shapely young woman with sparkling eyes. The particular addled alcoholic might even think that he’s speaking with a blonde.

“Mah heavens, lidull lady, yew shorer purrrdy!”

“Wood yew lahk to cumupa mah-pullace unsee mah-retchings?”

Who can resist an invitation like that? Come to think of it, if you stay in a bar long enough, you’ll see everybody’s ...... etchings.


A SPONTANEOUS ETCH!

I've always felt that the invitation to see 'etchings' should be both heartfelt and based on sober considerations. Not a spur of the moment liquor inspiration.
Most little ladies who are worth associating with are not likely to hang around bars, and certainly not bars where woozy drunks leer at them.

"Would you like to come up and see my etchings?"

In actual fact, I do not have any etchings. And as you may expect, the idea of viewing the etchings is simply a convenient fiction. If you were to seriously require etchings, I would be quite embarrassed.

I can show you my pipe collection....... will that make you happy?
Over one hundred pieces of briar, including a dozen Comoy Blue Ribands, several other fine Comoys representing various periods, Peterson pipes from the thirties through the two-thousands...... altogether truly excellent wood.
Surface translucence, lovely grains, classic shapes.
Dramatic contrasts, dark red, natural, and a heavy wax rub.
Look, this is a large bent Dunhill with patent number stamping, and this is a deep, deep sandblast.
Go ahead - please feel the texture, stroke the rippled surface.
There's something sensuous about tobacco pipes.


See, that's another reason that no little ladies have been asked up to my pad.
The little lady who can appreciate fine briar is extremely rare.
In fact, I've have yet to encounter a little lady who has even the slightest interest in that subject.

That is not to say that I've entirely forsaken the idea that there is a nice person out there, and that I might inveigle her to drop by for a cup of tea and some heavy groping between the two of us. But it would not be someone met in a bar, nor a person who thinks that I should be in movies or is tickled by my accent.

Happy relationships, of a sexual nature or otherwise, are built upon sincere interest and accord.
Not fictitious etchings, or drunkenly falling for a face, an image, or an accent.
It's as simple as that. Let's meet over coffee, and share a laugh first.
If we keep talking it's because I find you utterly enchanting.
In which case you may definitely see my pipes.
In fact, I would love to invite you.
When would you like?


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