Hello darlings. It’s been so long I wonder if anyone remembers me. But I am here encore un fois as the French say. But of course, they also say merde a lot, and if Monty Python is to be trusted (and really, how can they not be?) then they are also fond of colourful insults, like their bread dipped in batter and fried, and their potatoes julienned. Me, I think I like my fries Julianne Moore, but then, I’m strange that way.
Friday Fictioneers, if you recall, is a writing prompt run by the ineffable Rochelle Wisoff-Fields whereupon participants write responsively to a pictorial prompt. One hundred words. That’s the plan, darlings, but when Helena writes, one hundred words is hardly even a pre-amble. So you’ll pardon me if I went ever-so-slightly over with my return, and obviously I did so self-indulgently, because I could clearly cut several words from this scene, but then it wouldn’t quite have that self-indulgent charm for which I am renowned.
So without further ado, I will present first the picture, and then the tale. After reading, you can decide whether my self-indulgence is endearing or annoying. Picture is courtesy of J. Hardy.
“Yes, yes, I can see what the artist has done here,” I mused musingly with amusement.
“Well I’m not amused,” the Countess Penelope of Arcadia said, invoking late Victorian lingo in a way only the late Victoria, Queen of England, is capable. That is to say that she would, were she not, you know, late. “You promised me a rose garden, Helena.”
“I never promised you a rose garden, darling, I said there would be paintings – maybe even a garden. But this installment just speaks to our times – all the destruction, it’s just so zeitgeist.”
“’Kayso, A) I don’t think you’re using that word right, and B) I think we’re at the wrong address. The Museum of Modern art is three blocks down.”