Arts
I’m given to understand that this episode of the Funfiltered podcast is especially topical, with my oral labourers covering an array of diverse, hot-button issues. Even if that array is regarded through the unidimensional lens of disappointment. Superficial glances* at social media expose ever more cess being flung into the pit. I don’t how much more cess the pit can take, assuming that the pit is finite. The pit is encumbered with cess. Tenably fortunately, my personal domestics have precluded me from indulging in the zeitgeist. No time have I had for the howlings over the Oprah-atic Meg(h)xit† debrief, the Gramophone Awards or the re-appraisal of Winston Churchill (although, to nippily put all matters to rest… Rule, Britannia!, it’s “the” Stallion and Rule, Britannia!, respectively.) No, no, tyrannising my sentience has been the development what I’m about to now disclose. Pfidze is engaged(!) I’ve told her and I’ll tell you, I use exclamation marks staggeringly selectively. But I’m content-ish to sandwich the odd ecphoneme ‘tween brackets if it’s an occasion about which I’m expected to care. So yes, she’s engaged to paramedic Dexter Chisp. One might reasonably think his job would fill his hands, impeding them from pilfering my Balt. Alas. They are set to be wed later this annum. Good! Frankly. My house to myself again, finally. Just me, myself and I. Just the three of me. The woman has obligations, I hope she understands that. She may be nuptially otherwise, but things are not going to do themselves. “Hear-hear” and hear this: remember who granted you bi-weekly access to his sheltered patio when life wasn’t so bridal magazine. Pfidze! *Yes, I know that this is a redundant tautology. I know goddamn tautologies when I see them. †On the page, this vogual is an aesthetic assault.