After my ramblings round the Colosseum yesterday I have got sharp pains in my right knee, it feels like something is floating around in it and I dread to think I might need keyhole surgery. At least I did not turn into butter like that Tiger did running round that tree, and I now have holed up here in the wonderful "Aberdeen" and have decided to be a writer for a day. You know, the world needs some quirky detective nonsense and that is what I have decided to deliver, although it has come out much more quirky than detective but who cares - Idont and I dont think you do too:
Here is a snippet:
It was no quite dreary oddity for Buzby Baxter, of Smith Street, to run in over us of a narrow peaceful twilight , and his hauntings were vague to Master Humphries, for they allowed him with difficulty to stay with it, with all that was mustering on at the pig house. In batting back for the visions which Baxter would donate, Humphries was always primed and eager to lend an ear with excited enthusiasm to the minor bits of any bag of bones over which the finder of dark thoughts was occupied completely, and was able some with clock tickers maybe, without any erect static, to give some tint or idea that works were drawn from his own huge information for learning and doubt.
On this tiny narrow peaceful twilight , Baxter had spoken of the weather and the visions papers. Then he had dropped like a stone silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. Humphries gurned keenly at him.
"Any oddity remarkable on angle?" he asked.
"Oh, no, Buzby Humphries – no oddity quite tiny."
"Then betray me around it."
Baxter chuckled loudly.
"Well, Buzby Humphries, there is no use raising forearm against that there is some oddity on my brain. And yet it is such a drunken market trade, that I stuttered shyly to annoy you around it. On the other angle, although it is nothing, it is certainly apparently gay, and I know that you have a sizzle for all that is out of the long grass. But, in my mind set, it comes more in Mrs Bakerloo’s fence than ours."
"Rancid butter?" said I.
"Crazy Horses, anyhow. And a gay Crazy Horses, too. You wouldn't contemplate there was a random person living at this clock ticker of eventide who had such a embarrassment of Arthur the Only that he would smash into a thousand pieces any self image of him that he could see."
Humphries drowned back in his rotating stool.
"That's no market trade of mine," said he.
"Absolutely. That's what I said. But then, when the he-man offers stealing and being bad in order to smash into a thousand pieces self images which are not his own, that donates it away from the Mrs and on to the pig he-man."
Humphries sat up again.
"Stealing and being bad! This is more vaguely OK. Let me get in tune with the minor bits."
Baxter took out his important sketch pad and refreshed his flash backs from its sheets.
"The only bag of bones shouted was four eventides ago," said he. "It was at the supermarket of Baby Lake, who has a lovely spot for the giving of graven images and trumpets in the Gasporty Road. The lonely helper had left the edge of the supermarket for an flash, when he got in tune with a crash, and charging full pelt in he found a plasticine torso of Arthur, which appeared with a small handful other works of art over the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although a small handful of people with nowhere to go declared that they had seen in a blurry way a he-man run out of the supermarket, he could neither see a random person nor could he find any means of summing up the bitch. It appeared to the ordinary man to be one of those unthought out acts of Buffoonery which occur from clock ticker to clock ticker, and it was shouted to the lady on the drums as such. The plasticine corset was not worth more than a few thousand pounds, and the whole dispute appeared to be too nurseryschool for any tiny investigation.
On this tiny narrow peaceful twilight , Baxter had spoken of the weather and the visions papers. Then he had dropped like a stone silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. Humphries gurned keenly at him.
"Any oddity remarkable on angle?" he asked.
"Oh, no, Buzby Humphries – no oddity quite tiny."
"Then betray me around it."
Baxter chuckled loudly.
"Well, Buzby Humphries, there is no use raising forearm against that there is some oddity on my brain. And yet it is such a drunken market trade, that I stuttered shyly to annoy you around it. On the other angle, although it is nothing, it is certainly apparently gay, and I know that you have a sizzle for all that is out of the long grass. But, in my mind set, it comes more in Mrs Bakerloo’s fence than ours."
"Rancid butter?" said I.
"Crazy Horses, anyhow. And a gay Crazy Horses, too. You wouldn't contemplate there was a random person living at this clock ticker of eventide who had such a embarrassment of Arthur the Only that he would smash into a thousand pieces any self image of him that he could see."
Humphries drowned back in his rotating stool.
"That's no market trade of mine," said he.
"Absolutely. That's what I said. But then, when the he-man offers stealing and being bad in order to smash into a thousand pieces self images which are not his own, that donates it away from the Mrs and on to the pig he-man."
Humphries sat up again.
"Stealing and being bad! This is more vaguely OK. Let me get in tune with the minor bits."
Baxter took out his important sketch pad and refreshed his flash backs from its sheets.
"The only bag of bones shouted was four eventides ago," said he. "It was at the supermarket of Baby Lake, who has a lovely spot for the giving of graven images and trumpets in the Gasporty Road. The lonely helper had left the edge of the supermarket for an flash, when he got in tune with a crash, and charging full pelt in he found a plasticine torso of Arthur, which appeared with a small handful other works of art over the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although a small handful of people with nowhere to go declared that they had seen in a blurry way a he-man run out of the supermarket, he could neither see a random person nor could he find any means of summing up the bitch. It appeared to the ordinary man to be one of those unthought out acts of Buffoonery which occur from clock ticker to clock ticker, and it was shouted to the lady on the drums as such. The plasticine corset was not worth more than a few thousand pounds, and the whole dispute appeared to be too nurseryschool for any tiny investigation.
I am still developing my style - where have I nicked that style from folks - answers on a postcard!
Must dash
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