Friday, September 21, 2007
Venus had asked me for two nights of pure sensuality and I’d readily agreed.
I knew there was a catch. In preparation she’d asked me to book two nights at the Savoy Hotel in London and a first class train ticket to get there and back. You’ll have noticed that I said ticket, in the singular. The two nights of hedonistic delight were for her to spend alone or with a temporary partner she liked the look of once she was there. There was no look in for me at all.
“It isn’t about the ability,” she said. “It’s about the freedom of expression.”
I felt disinclined to say this wasn’t Art we were talking about but the oldest pleasure since God invented “anatomically correct.”
Not that I minded overmuch. I was quite happy to spend time with my partner.
Er… you know… thingy. Felicia’s sister.
I headed back to Wiltshire with a heavy heart. True to her word, Venus had gone back in time to 1959, the day that our mysterious gentleman had collected Lydia and Missy and found out more about him.
I pretty much gave up hope then and there. He’d loaded their suitcases into his car and driven off, engine clanking like a hammer on an anvil, into the sunset. Literally.
The number plate had been THOR 1.
Great. Lydia had shacked up with the God of Thunder (retired)
You know, mucking about with Gods and Goddesses puts me in mind of the bible. I mean, who do you actually trust to write the truth? Moses? He was supposed to have written the whole Pentateuch but when you examine the source material it’s written in different hands on paper that varies by centuries in age. Come on, he wasn’t that old. This is after the flood, remember, when radiation from the sun flooded the land and gave everyone cancer before they even had electron microscopes.
No-one ever tells you the story where Moses went back up the mountain and said to God: “Ere, mate. I’ve had a word with the lads and they want is something a bit less prosaic. I showed them the parchment you gave me and they set fire to it.
I mean, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours ass?’ What does that mean, exactly? Just his ass, or does that extend to mules, goats and camels too?”
God was not amused. He chucked out two great tablets of stone. “What I writ, rewritten,” he said. “This is the Word of the Lord thy God.”
So Moses goes trogging back down the mountain to find that the Israelites are worshipping a golden calf.
And they say that God doesn’t have a sense of humour.
Still, Harold was in high spirits when I got back to the manor 3.7 seconds later. He’d been for an Indian with Gillian (he, a curry; she, a chef) and had actually beaten her back to the house. (her on foot; he in a car). She was not amused.
Guess that’s Harold an I having a boys night in together then.
Until the morrow.