Thursday, July 21, 2011

With any more of this weather, we may be compelled to remark on it

Andrew Cooper, you must realise, came to our auditions for O'Hara's Raspberry Sweater with a perfectly serviceable impression of that fruit upon his frame. By mid-morning, as you see, even he was aware, at best, that we could engage him only on the character of our present temperatures, upon which no civil remark can be fashioned.

Indeed, lengths, those reaches of whose greatness many have been known to pursue, to abjure consideration of our weather, are becoming curiouser and curiouser in the protraction of a present caricature of our unfortunate seasonal renown. At such times, it's a toss-up between Winnie the Pooh and naughty Wittgenstein, as to whose reasonableness holds the likelier shelter from that fright of every tea bag of spontaneous effusion. Dawn, indeed, may require confession of these circumstances.

For this evening then, let us band together in denial, our gouty feet defiant on a café chair's vented rest, and celebrate when trousers were required to precipitate that emission to which they gave their name. When people come to us, to ask how we endure it, their incredulity will be so sharp that they will believe anything we tell them.

And is that not the genius of the idiot savant? If it works for Mrs Palin, to hoist a perfect parasol against invasive fact, why should we not aspire for a night to own her bliss?

i  Chabernaud
ii Cooper

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