‘And in St John’s,’ I ended, ‘there’s a well-respected man who does it with calves: what do you say to that?’ She rolled over on to all fours, her delightful bottom coquettishly raised. ‘Mooo?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Oh, very well.’
2015-08-24 12:34:26 GMT
overtaken by reality
— Kyril Bonfiglioli, After You with the Pistol
I have often thought of acquiring an old lady to keep as a pet. They’d be of little use for a shooting man, of course – no nose, d’you see, and useless over marshy ground – but for the town-dweller they are incomparable. I cannot understand why people pay fortunes for nasty cats and dogs who leave puddles and puppies and kittens all over the place when, for nothing but the cost of her keep, one can have an old lady, clean as a new pin and warranted past child-bearing. Old ladies can help one, too, in countless little ways such as marking shirts and arranging flowers: tricks which few dogs and no cats can be taught. True, they can be noisy, but I imagine that a few cuts of the whip would break them of this – or I dare say they could be surgically muted for a trifling sum. True, too, they are a wasting asset and, if you had the bad luck to pick a poor doer, she might become bed-ridden and linger on for years; a misery to herself and a burden to others. I suppose the thing to do would be to leave, pointedly, a bottle of brandy and a loaded revolver on her commode, as one used to do with a Guards Officer who’d been caught with his fingers in the tambourine.
The sculpture was astonishingly fine and of a fruitiness not usually seen outside the rare Supplement to the Museo Borbonico. I could not resist pausing in front of an unusually explicit ‘Leda and the Swan’: I understood at last how the swan had managed the trick. You’d never believe it.
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