WICKED LOVE

My dear, I had no idea that your Teddy Bear was so degenerate! Really, hanging around at the abandoned church with the louts, with a pipe sticking out of his jaw. And I'm fairly certain he was smoking an aromatic. Possibly Erinmore Flake, which has a distinct odour of pineapple in the topping. That is NOT a good sign. Pipes and perfumed tobaccos pave the road to ruin, I'm fairly sure of it. Those things are indications of indolence, degeneracy, and a decadent mindset. Most unsuitable for a small domestic ursine! You need to talk to him.
I think he would probably like Erik Stokkebye's 1931 flake as well.
There's a lovely spicy-fruity wuft to it, very old fashioned.

What do you wish to do on a warm and lazy afternoon?

Something that involves the teddy bear, of course.

May I suggest dragging the couch out into the orchard, so that you can have tea there with all the stuffed animals that live in your bedroom -- especially including that sinful bear -- while white white apple blossom petals drift down in the gentle breeze? There you will be, surrounded by fuzzy love, with delicate hints of flowers and fresh grass all around.
Perhaps with a wedge of pie.
À la mode.
The bear, meanwhile, is setting light to a bowl of rubbed blonde leaves with hint of.... I really don't know what that smell is. Maybe it is a fragrance that was popular among lively young ladies before the war. Did someone spritz this discretely between her bosoms before going dancing? Or maybe dab a touch on her wrists and along her collarbone after the bath?
Both maidenly and daring, all at once.

Say, how old IS that bear of yours? He can't possibly have lived through all that, can he? Are those his memories, or has he been reading that salacious novel you hide under your pillow? No, I refuse to even mention what else is sequestered there. It should not be mentioned lightly, just share it with an intimate friend sometime. It isn't anything to feel guilty about, but yes your mother would never understand. She'd misinterpret everything.
The older generation has done too much stuff.
No wonder they have evil thoughts.
Richly depraved lives.


As twilight approaches, a wind picks up, swirling the petals in that orchard of yours. It isn't unpleasant, just far cooler than the hours before. Your skin feels interestingly prickled, and maybe it's time you should go inside.
Between your fuzzy friends and you, the couch gets dragged indoors again, the antimacassars arranged upon the back, and the cushions re-plumped.
Faintly an echo of apple blossom still adheres to the fabric, along with the merest trace of your Teddy Bear's newly discovered flake tobacco.
He smiles dreamily, remembering an afternoon in the warm sunlight; you bury your face in his stomach, and sniff deeply of his warm soft fur.
You are very fond of his fuzzy touch and reassuring presence.
He's a bit of a wise-guy, and rather eccentric.
But never the less a fine ursine.

Outside, clouds of petals swirl and eddy under the trees.
Like snowflakes or ghostly butterflies.
Springtime haunting.




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