’Tis A Wee Joint
A Winter’s Joy — A Winter’s Solarity; Tales To The Warm-hearted In The Frigid Season — Morning Papers XXX
Rejoice In The Somber; Chart A Dance Worthy For The Heart With This Morning Enjoyful Tart
©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
THE LAST PAPER:
Something homebound, some brief, some cozy, this is what I return to with this series… For now at least, and try to coax a number of you that I can speak without bravado or beguiling wit… Oh, what disloyalty that would be — So, here we go!
Look out yonder now — having the idea that most will be near a window while reading this would be a naughtily right one, and what do you see? A great big hand reaching down for you and me. All the strangers came today and it looks like it is here to stay.
I scribble — I hold and I refer to that lad Bowie, and here I AM, staring out of a window from an undisclosed location — perhaps I’m here, in a Café drinking a lovely warming brew of Yorkshire tea with a custard tart, Mhm, tiny resorts! — or perhaps I’m over there, in a damp field, with not the foggiest of ideas…
The trotting of carts and the humans led on by their horses… No, wait, wrong century or perhaps wrong locale; you two have fashioned an enviable current, achieving so much that it has inspired you to call what powers your current automobiles by it: Horsepower!; A metal capsule with many things of diminishing usage; a place rampant for petty augments and for children to be sick in — Mhm, lovely specks of green!
So I meander, and I think useless thoughts as a way not only to pass the time, [as we must!] but to refine and purge myself of any redundant thing up there, such as me skiing down that great awful pillion of glass in the middle of London-town, Oh, think of the attraction!
So they go, and so I must go, from my creature comforts of Proper Tea for Proper personhood and leave the specks of crumbs woefully there on my plate — Oh, think of the drama! — Tip the Cafés barrister with the College degree, and head out for my daily tipping of shenanigans — Beautiful word!
So here is me, strolling down an icy path, all weaving and deeming at the legs, trying not to let myself go — the story of my life. Spring will soon be arriving faster than how the Fall was let go of a few months back; Lambs will be gestated in the womb, some will flatter there, some others will be born for the later culling of their birth — and so soon too.
Cabbages will be had, and Custard tarts replaced by ones made of the former vegetable; ever tried a potato cake before? Or is that too much causing a mockery of my mild Irish tendencies… Well, I believe a dear friend of mine also has such aftershocks to the pudding!
So I remain strolling in my blue pants and fanciable long coat, staring at these seemingly humane scenes as the sobriquet known to me infers a wee wayfarer coming on through the thoroughfare — I never linger around for long enough to see the imperfections that meld their way out from the soundless scene; Of course, there, I am lying.
Ever careful am I in using too many idioms to extend something so pretentiously beyond its needed longevity — such huffs and awful tishes!; No wonder this English Langauge has so many dyslexics — poor sods!
So let me go on, as I must do, and I shall let you depart too. Till our next whimsical spell of mild stories. Ta-ta
Ever yours; The Doctor [Adams]
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