Jane Austen becomes seduced

Wednesday, 25 January 2012

Romeo has been entering by way of the window at all hours, and dare I confess to having been so encouraging of it. One should never deem to entertain thoughts of opening arms to such a creature, don't I beseech it. The obvious Lothario that he is, indeed, a professional an artiste of seduction as you could ever meet. To share or compete for an object of the male species is pure madness, it is without demonstrable self-respect, as all eventualities will be what the ego and wisdom (or lack thereof) justly deserves. This being so, I am in deep quandary.

I cannot but declare to being an utter fool. Knowing for a fact as I do that he frequents not merely at Number Two, but half or more of the ladies of the street in its entirety, and who knows whom else beyond, in lobbying for their sweetest caresses. So incredulous is he, such that he does not possess the decorum of mind to even attempt in hiding his true Casanovarian nature. Nay, instead he slinks and winds himself about me as we stroll of an afternoon, it can but be said, with the vivacity of a common gigolo.

And I duly swoon. Putting up defences no more than a warmly inviting smile, beckoning coo and becoming embrace. He winks languidly at me, purring in my arms all the while with manly pride during our brief snatched moments of intimacy, before I, with a heavy heart, doth relinquish him to another. For although I have not personally sighted her, I know they reside together in apparent, yet clearly false, propriety at Number Five. I beg, if her ladyship had any good sense at all, alongside the engraved address on his feline collar, she’d place also a warning bell for birds.

Old sweethearts

Thursday, 5 January 2012

Tomorrow painters arrive dabbing brushes, rolling awakening around my home. Builders will renovate, reconbobulate, titivate... leaving plumbers to tap into the goings on. While the garden fairies (or are they gnomes?) weed and plant evermore evergreen and flowery flourishes.

Then they will come. Discussing the merits of location, and romancing themselves with thoughts of days of old, just as I myself have done. The auctioneer will bang his little hammer in excitement (is there any other way?) Soon after, me and my tiny part in her history will be gone.

I have loved this grand lady from long before we lived together. Dreaming in her, about her - and although she was never really mine - making each other our own. She is calming, enlightening and creative, wrapping me up and sending me out into the world... to always embrace me back in again.

Yes, I will miss her dear old woody heart, her colourful spirit. It's from within these walls the last two years I've become more of who I really am. May it be a long hot last summer, just me and her. And when I close her door for the very last time, somewhere, another shall open.