THERE'S JUST A HINT OF THAT

It is Saturday evening. If you are reading this, you are not rutting with the common herd. Or perhaps you already have (in which case, kudos to you and keep up the good work). You are reading stuff on the internet at present. Which is as good a thing to be doing on a Saturday evening as anything. And far less likely to give you cancer.

As kissing the thick layer of make-up on many faces would do.


This blogger disapproves of make-up. I have never grasped its appeal. If the face is expressive, and the eyes are more than passingly intelligent, it seems quite unnecessary.
Well, except for lipstick.

I have this fond yet probably absurd fantasy that at some point I will be sitting across the table in a restaurant from an intelligent and interesting person, who is wearing a dark blouse and a pale skirt. Her shoes are elegant yet sensible -- she can walk in them, instead of tripping and falling through plate glass -- and her jewelry is discreet. Perhaps pearl ear rings or a pearl necklace. The fact that she is sparklingly clean and well-dressed, and entirely devoid of trollop paint from Macy's basement, says much about her.

Of course that raises the question why she is with me. A dashingly foxy yet clearly depraved middle-aged man, who for all the world looks like he eats little girls for breakfast.

Looks can be deceiving.

I would rather offer little girls fine tobacco products and juicy steaks than eat them for breakfast. I'm not really a breakfast person. Breakfast in my world is coffee and a smoke. And, alas, my depravity is more in your imagination.


Dinner, and perhaps some wine. Coffee afterwards, and a stroll through darkening streets arm in arm. In deference to the sensibilities of the intelligent and interesting person with the pearls I shall not smoke. That is for later, when I am alone again. At which point her lingering perfume will mingle with the leaves, influencing the subconscious, and leaving potent memory seeds.
Truly a wonderful evening. The food tasted better for the company, the conversation kept me entranced for hours.
I'm rather good at imagining things. Which is what Saturdays are mostly about anyway.

Slowly a wisp of fragrant smoke curls skywards. On a hill in San Francisco a badger is dreaming.








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