So the reviews are in:
On 16 Oct, Jean Passepartout wrote,
You ok? Storm passed over but it didn’t stop you using hyperbole and unnecessary imagery in your ‘blog’. Awful. I wretched.
I was writing your birthday card. (Yes 50 this year). What do you need that I can send out. I here they are short of spoons. What do you miss and what do you need? Please bare in mind I have limitless resources plus a blood feud against the entire area.
Saw Our mutual friend (his name has been omitted to protect the innocent) at lunch and that was nice. Went to the Phoenix, The Saatchi Gallery and a bookshop. We moaned a bit. Which was nice too. Been a tough few days. But, I have decided that the important things render everything else the less important.
Yours,
Passepartout
_________________________________________________________________
My Dear Jean,
For our mutual amusement I have entitled my reply:
And the pot called the kettle black…
The Pot, for it was only a poor thing made of metal, did not know it was black.
Years of hanging over the sooty open fire had slowly turned the once shiny pot to the darkest black. Encrusted with years of fire filth and grime from poor cooking, it had built up layer upon layer of rust, dust, soot and silt until eventually it was blacker than darkest night.
The dim light that filtered through the moss tinged kitchen window of the run down shack was hungrily absorbed by the shadow surface of the pot, sucked deep inside never to reflect back into the gloomy room.
Day after day, year after year that old pot hung over the fire, its contents bubbling. An endless stew of old mutton, hare, age softened vegetables, whatever meagre fare its broken old owner could find.
Never washed. Never emptied. The battered old pot hung over the insipid fire every so often dimly recalling a time when it had been new.
It hung sullenly in its dimmly lit nook resenting the fire, resenting the gloom and thinking dark thoughts. It swung listlessly muttering and moaning, bubbling and groaning and from time to time vaguely remembering when it had been mirrored and unblemished. Unaware of how time and long use had changed it, the scars it now bore and the colour it now wore.
Very few things in this world are or were as black as that old pot. Over the years the blackness that painted its outside penetrated its cold metal heart until it was as dark within as without.
And yet, it did not know.
One day the old hermit who dwelt in that gloomy abode shuffled in from the cold outside.
Wrapped in poor rags and still peppered with snow from the winter world outside he shuffled stiffly to the fire place and dumped down an old threadbare sack.
Hacking and spitting, wretching and coughing he spat into the flames, the gob of green glistening sputum glowing briefly, like an emerald meteor, before burning out in the flickering flames of the poor fire with a damp hiss.
Reaching into his bag he pulled out a brand new enamelled kettle and filling it from an ancient bucket he hung it next to the old pot.
The old pot turned and saw the kettle and with a sneer he greeted the newcomer in a voice full of gloom and with not a hint of irony or self awareness it mumbled, “God you’re so black…”
‘Hyperbole and unnecessary imagery’ have you read your own emails lately? ‘The important things render…’ trite nonsense! At least the tripe I write is cheerful and upbeat…
And it’s ‘hear’ you donkey, if you are going to take the piss put a little effort in, otherwise it just seems lazy!
Thank you for your concern, we are OK for spoons. A container load arrived from Mexico just before Hurricane Matthew hit, they are not Sheffield Steal but as cheap pressed metal spoons go they are not bad. The edges are a bit sharp but I think that is because they are designed to be used both as soup eating implements and for eye gouging.
How are you for Marmite? I could FedEx you some. I hear things are pretty difficult over there what with Brexit and the Nazis being back in power.
The families in my school community have put together a collection of food, drinking water and hygiene products that they were going to send to Haiti. But even after the devastation of the last few weeks, upon hearing your story and reading about your plight in the Daily Mail their sense is that with the plunging pound, Chorizo prices rocketing and Evian and L’oreal becoming unaffordable, due to an unfavourable exchange rate with the Euro, you may need it more. Remember winter is coming. Expect a container from us soon, it will be the one with the big Red Cross on the side smelling of sunshine.
In terms of your generous offer, as regards my birthday, there is a picture in a local gallery that you could contribute towards. (But if you do, could you wire the money from your overseas account because the £ is worth bubkiss and I will get better value for your gift if you send it from outside the UK).
With fondest regards your dear friend,
Phileas Fogg
Marcel has objected to this post as he thinks he may actually be blacker that the pot described in the story…
I have tried to explain it is just a s story but he does not get it because he is a cat!
P.
Under an Endless Sky 