A tormented week has passed and I have been tardy in communication. Young Werther never had it so rotten, but then he had a fetching blue coat and yellow breeches to sport. I, having packed only light vestments for the sunny climes I was promised, am faced with frozen extremities and a sluggish spirit unless I don the ubiquitous black uniform of this town's inhabitants.
I ventured in to town some days past, wrapping a gaily coloured scarf about my neck as protection from the icy gusts that spring from nowhere, violate every crevice of one's being, then dematerialise before one can utter a startled ejaculation. For reasons lost to me now, I sauntered down the town's main street in search of an outfitter who could satisfy my need for some warm vestments. I observed the foolish locals who seemed oblivious to nature's depredations, ambling with curious garments that neither offered protection from the climate nor a modicum of modesty. Certain folk paraded about in breeches that were neither full nor half sized, ending at centre-calf as if to advertise to all their status as village idiot. Others had placed slabs of vulcanised rubber beneath their feet, displaying their toes to all as if metatarsals were one of the finer aspects of the Unspecific Deity's handiwork and not something that should be shrouded and not mentioned in polite conversation.
The first clothing store I came across was bathed in a light so unwelcomingly harsh as to discourage from entry but the most aesthetically challenged. From the footpath I observed that its wares were made of the nastiest fibres, poorly assembled by indentured labourers into unlikely shapes and accordingly absurdly overpriced. It proclaimed itself to be a gentleman's outfitters but its market was clearly the youthful lout straight from the academy who knew no better than to purchase two of their vile shirts, one for his role as an office boy, and another wipe-clean version with a diamond pattern to wear down the pub on a Friday evening to get splattered in viscera.
Bypassing this establishment, I happened upon another clothing store but, as I could not see past the dreary mass of black and grey garments clouding the entrance, I continued my traversal. It was then that I noticed my colourful scarf was attracting the attention of the locals. Several ladies would turn their heads, but as my glance met theirs, they would lower their eyes modestly. Others, less soberly attired, stared straight at me, their gaze fixed on my neckwear, unable to comprehend what was clearly a category error. Approaching gentlemen would tug their companions from my path, so as not to risk collision. Feeling uncomfortable, I abruptly turned off the causeway into a coffee shop. Now, you know, dear reader, that I would not normally enter an establishment dedicated to the supply of stimulants, those exciters of mind and body, but I was soon to learn that this was a test the Unspecific Deity had designed especially for me.
About me were ridiculously high tables, beneath which were tucked equally ridiculously lofty stools, upon which were perched caffeine reprobates like drunken parrots , greedily slurping the last of the froth from their sinful mugs. I was soon to learn that not only are the people of this land enslaved by the wicked bean, they have not the moral fibre to take it straight. All of their nasty addictions must be adulterated by excretions from the vile udder and all manner of superfluous sweeteners. I begrudgingly respected the real citizens who tossed back the hot black stuff with no need for effeminate additions.
The narrow long room was swathed in gloom and permeated by an incessant thump that I initially took to be the labours of neighbouring constructioniers. In weeks to come I would hear this racket emanating from all manner of retailers, who appear to believe that inflicting the percussive thump and repetitive ostenato on its clientele will assist in the sale of their wares. I was about to turn tail and depart this sulphurous den when my pivoting head caught glimpse of a blinding light at the bar. There, surrounded by the detritus of man's baser appetites, stood a vision of feminine purity in a filthy smock. Her hair shone like straw in a dung heap, and though her mouth was nothing to speak of, her coal-black eyes roughly grasped my lapels and impelled me towards her. Upon closer inspection I reasoned that she was no Suki, and she was a little on the short side, but reason was cast out by the force of desire I felt, such urgent longing I had not felt since the accident with the jam and my fiance's white dress. I had taken a path in the opposite direction since then, forswearing the carnal appetite and all its worldly complications, but here was something so compelling I was willing to abandon my dusty route. This all passed in a second and I was able to reassert myself. I dare say I felt a touch of satisfaction in the rapidity of my self-correction.
A gruff voice behind me caused me to turn. I expected it to berate me for my foolish moment of capitulation but instead it questioned my right to claim possession of masculinity whilst wearing a colourful accoutrement. I was prepared for such a preposterous argument, having been warned about the tenuous grip this country's inhabitants have on identity and their constant childish need for reinforcement, but before I could summon an 'I say' with which to begin my riposte, she behind the bar took up my defence, effortlessly commanding the voice's owner to remove himself from the premises and questioning, rather gratuitously I thought, the magnitude of his reproductive organ. Strangely, the voice offered no defence and sullenly stalked out the door.
Normally such a display of coarseness, especially from the mouth of the fairer sex, would have me reaching for a book of corrections with which to bludgeon the miscreant into submission, but there was something special about this voice. For this was no slack-jawed mumbling resident, but a creature from a far more sophisticated realm, in which was entertained the possibility that there could be more than two vowels. I knew my resolve was crumbling, but her nasal whine began in my fetid imagination to resemble the celestial chorus. I was able to jerk myself back from temptation to compos mentis, quickly turn and leave this lounge of enticement, just glimpsing in my rapid departure the name on her badge.
I resolved to purge myself that evening with a hunk of stale bread and a mug of icy water. I fooled myself that such privations would cleanse my soul for the hours ahead, but I found myself awoken from my restless sleep by the eerie sound of the goats' nocturnal gambols on Mount Misery. I fearfully report that their baleful wailings no longer sounded like my lamented Suki; instead, I recall with a shiver, they increasingly resembled the rhinal rasp of my coffee-house temptress, the lusted-after Lenore.
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