WOULD BE TURNING IN HER GRAVE! I’LL NOT PRETEND HERE THAT ELIZABETH AND ME EVER HAD SO MUCH AS A CIVIL WORD TO SAY TO EACH OTHER, BUT THAT’S HARDLY THE ISSUE, IS IT?
THE ISSUE – POINT OF FACT – IS THAT INFERNAL DUCK OF YOURN! I CALL IT A DUCK BUT IT’S THE SIZE OF A GOOSE AND IT KNOWS IT AN’ ALL! THAT DUCK IS A WRONG ’UN. IT HAS THE EYES OF A KILLER.
WALTER FRANCIS SAID THE THING ATTACKED HIM WHILE HE WAS CHECKIN’ OVER SOME EGGS AT MRS RHODES’S STALL. HE SAID THE WRETCH CAME DOWN ON HIM OUT OF THE SKY LIKE AN EAGLE! HE SAID IT POOPED ALL OVER HIS JACKET. HE DROPPED THE EGGS IN SHOCK AND BROKE THREE OF ’EM. HE SAID HE DIDN’T FEEL INCLINED TO PAY FOR ’EM AFTER THAT, GIVEN AS THEY WAS BROKE, BUT THEN MRS RHODES CAME CHARGIN’ OUT OF HER HOUSE AN’ GIVE HIM A PIECE OF HER MIND FOR’T! HE SAID, ‘I’M HARDLY GOIN’ TO PAY FOR THAT WHICH IS ALREADY BROKE, MADAM!’ SHE SAID, ‘WELL THEY WASN’T BROKE BEFORE YOU HAD ’EM IN YOUR THIEVIN’ HANDS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, MR FRANCIS!’ THEN ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE OR SO I’M TOLD.
NEXT THING I HEAR THE DAMN THING HAS BROUGHT DOWN THE GUTTERING ON BRIAN BREWSTER’S EXTENSION. THEN HE GOT INTO MRS LOOSE’S KITCHENETTE AND IS FOUND MAKIN’ HISSELF AT HOME IN HER WASHING UP BOWL! SHESAID IT GIVE HER THE HORRORS WHEN SHE SAW IT SITTIN’ THERE WITH ITS BIG RED FACE ALL DISFIGURED LIKE IT WAS SCALDED. I SAID THAT’S AS HOW THE BREED IS MEANT TO LOOK, MRS LOOSE – UGLY AS SIN, AND FULL OF SIN AN’ ALL. IT MAKES YOU WONDER AT THE KIND OF HUMAN MIND THAT COULD CONCEIVE SUCH A SIGHT WAS WORTH THE LOOKIN’ AT! SHE SAID I DON’T EVEN CARE ABOUT THAT, KEN, I CARE ABOUT THE POOP WHICH WAS ALL OVER MY COUNTER. SOME OF IT HAD EVEN GOT INSIDE MY SECOND-BEST TEAPOT!
IT’S GREEN POOP, SHE SAYS, AN’ IT STINKS TO HIGH HEAVEN!
THIS VILLAGE IS IN COMPLETE UPROAR OVER THAT DAMN BIRD. I’VE NEVER SEEN OWT LIKE IT IN ALL MY NINETY-FOUR YEARS. IF YOU DON’T TAKE A PAIR OF SHEARS TO ITS WINGS THEN I’LL SURE AS DAMMIT DO IT M’SELF.
I’M AT THE END OF MY TETHER, OR THEREABOUTS.
DON’T SAY AS I DIDN’T WARN YOU, LADIES!
YOURS SINCERELY,
KENNETH CRANSHAW (SR)
Find enclosed: letter 7 by Edo Wa Makuna (of Bleachers) in some weird Franco-African lingo (completely incomprehensible) followed by the translation I commissioned (7a), in some kind of deranged, haut-bourgeois English (equally incomprehensible).
The translation costs amounted to the princely sum of £897. Given that the translation is almost twice the length of the original, I am at least confident that we got our money’s worth,
Loz
[letter 7]
Bleachers
The High Street
Burley Cross
Wharfedale
20/12/06
Oh my dear Brother!
Every year the same, old charade, eh? Every year our mother’s first-born puts pen to paper – his hand growing shakier, his French getting clumsier – in the pathetic hope that his brother – the second-born – will receive his letter and hungrily devour it with his crazy, shit-coloured eyes and be born to him again.
We both know the truth, eh, Bro’? We both know the truth, too well. But every year…
Where are you, my brother? I see you, as of old, sitting on the thick stump of that rotted acacia outside the Catholic Orphanage in Leopoldville! Your sunken cheeks! Your quick, angry laugh like the yap of a hyena! Your long legs sticking out like twigs from a pair of tattered shorts. Those brown knees pinkened with scars! Those brown arms chalked a ghostly white with streaks of sweat.
How loud you were! How you stank! A maniac! A fiend! Stolen mango pulp festooning the gaps between your gnashing teeth! You always were the greatest thief! A terrible liar! A vagabond!
How mad you made me – eh?! Blowing on that whistle that you kept hung on a piece of string around your neck. What became of that whistle, dear Brother? What became of you? Why did they take you from me? So suddenly? Where did you go to? Where did they carry you?
Ah, no – no. Too painful!
Let me
THE ISSUE – POINT OF FACT – IS THAT INFERNAL DUCK OF YOURN! I CALL IT A DUCK BUT IT’S THE SIZE OF A GOOSE AND IT KNOWS IT AN’ ALL! THAT DUCK IS A WRONG ’UN. IT HAS THE EYES OF A KILLER.
WALTER FRANCIS SAID THE THING ATTACKED HIM WHILE HE WAS CHECKIN’ OVER SOME EGGS AT MRS RHODES’S STALL. HE SAID THE WRETCH CAME DOWN ON HIM OUT OF THE SKY LIKE AN EAGLE! HE SAID IT POOPED ALL OVER HIS JACKET. HE DROPPED THE EGGS IN SHOCK AND BROKE THREE OF ’EM. HE SAID HE DIDN’T FEEL INCLINED TO PAY FOR ’EM AFTER THAT, GIVEN AS THEY WAS BROKE, BUT THEN MRS RHODES CAME CHARGIN’ OUT OF HER HOUSE AN’ GIVE HIM A PIECE OF HER MIND FOR’T! HE SAID, ‘I’M HARDLY GOIN’ TO PAY FOR THAT WHICH IS ALREADY BROKE, MADAM!’ SHE SAID, ‘WELL THEY WASN’T BROKE BEFORE YOU HAD ’EM IN YOUR THIEVIN’ HANDS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, MR FRANCIS!’ THEN ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE OR SO I’M TOLD.
NEXT THING I HEAR THE DAMN THING HAS BROUGHT DOWN THE GUTTERING ON BRIAN BREWSTER’S EXTENSION. THEN HE GOT INTO MRS LOOSE’S KITCHENETTE AND IS FOUND MAKIN’ HISSELF AT HOME IN HER WASHING UP BOWL! SHESAID IT GIVE HER THE HORRORS WHEN SHE SAW IT SITTIN’ THERE WITH ITS BIG RED FACE ALL DISFIGURED LIKE IT WAS SCALDED. I SAID THAT’S AS HOW THE BREED IS MEANT TO LOOK, MRS LOOSE – UGLY AS SIN, AND FULL OF SIN AN’ ALL. IT MAKES YOU WONDER AT THE KIND OF HUMAN MIND THAT COULD CONCEIVE SUCH A SIGHT WAS WORTH THE LOOKIN’ AT! SHE SAID I DON’T EVEN CARE ABOUT THAT, KEN, I CARE ABOUT THE POOP WHICH WAS ALL OVER MY COUNTER. SOME OF IT HAD EVEN GOT INSIDE MY SECOND-BEST TEAPOT!
IT’S GREEN POOP, SHE SAYS, AN’ IT STINKS TO HIGH HEAVEN!
THIS VILLAGE IS IN COMPLETE UPROAR OVER THAT DAMN BIRD. I’VE NEVER SEEN OWT LIKE IT IN ALL MY NINETY-FOUR YEARS. IF YOU DON’T TAKE A PAIR OF SHEARS TO ITS WINGS THEN I’LL SURE AS DAMMIT DO IT M’SELF.
I’M AT THE END OF MY TETHER, OR THEREABOUTS.
DON’T SAY AS I DIDN’T WARN YOU, LADIES!
YOURS SINCERELY,
KENNETH CRANSHAW (SR)
Find enclosed: letter 7 by Edo Wa Makuna (of Bleachers) in some weird Franco-African lingo (completely incomprehensible) followed by the translation I commissioned (7a), in some kind of deranged, haut-bourgeois English (equally incomprehensible).
The translation costs amounted to the princely sum of £897. Given that the translation is almost twice the length of the original, I am at least confident that we got our money’s worth,
Loz
[letter 7]
Bleachers
The High Street
Burley Cross
Wharfedale
20/12/06
Oh my dear Brother!
Every year the same, old charade, eh? Every year our mother’s first-born puts pen to paper – his hand growing shakier, his French getting clumsier – in the pathetic hope that his brother – the second-born – will receive his letter and hungrily devour it with his crazy, shit-coloured eyes and be born to him again.
We both know the truth, eh, Bro’? We both know the truth, too well. But every year…
Where are you, my brother? I see you, as of old, sitting on the thick stump of that rotted acacia outside the Catholic Orphanage in Leopoldville! Your sunken cheeks! Your quick, angry laugh like the yap of a hyena! Your long legs sticking out like twigs from a pair of tattered shorts. Those brown knees pinkened with scars! Those brown arms chalked a ghostly white with streaks of sweat.
How loud you were! How you stank! A maniac! A fiend! Stolen mango pulp festooning the gaps between your gnashing teeth! You always were the greatest thief! A terrible liar! A vagabond!
How mad you made me – eh?! Blowing on that whistle that you kept hung on a piece of string around your neck. What became of that whistle, dear Brother? What became of you? Why did they take you from me? So suddenly? Where did you go to? Where did they carry you?
Ah, no – no. Too painful!
Let me
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