Q: To be or not to be? A: Who asketh the query? Q: Bond – James Bond. A: Sound and fury, it seems to me. Q: They say you’re a talker – is that true? A: More of a thinker. Q: Then a doer? A: I put many acts in play. Q: The power behind the throne? A: When the throne is rotten. Q: So, do you dither? A: Whilst thou hither. Q: What is your wish? A: To whisper in your ear. Q: To tell me what? A: Fear not, it won’t be poisonous. Q: Will it be a secret? A: More likely than not. Q: In my line of work, secrets are Death. A: You deal with Kings and Queens? Q: I’m on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. A: A double life is a double sword is a double bind. Q: How do you know that? A: I write plays. Q: And tell the truth? A: My word is my bond.
[My own web site and Facebook Supreme tell me I posted this two years ago. I have no memory of it whatsoever. So, I guess that memory was also confiscated by the Police.]
It was not a day like any other day, so I suppose it did not start like any other day. I don’t know.
However the day started, it did not end well. It did not go well. It ceased being well half way through.
Half way through the day that did not end well, on the street that leads to the Causeway that crosses the Bay that leads to the street that takes you into the heart of the city, the police pulled over the dump truck of delights.
One police car with flashing lights approached the dump truck of delights and pulled it to the side of the road and parked behind it with its lights still flashing and . . .
Well, that was it.
The dump truck, painted a utilitarian grey with a rusty dump covered in a tied-down tarpaulin, was stopped.
Halted.
Pulled to the side of the road by the black-and-white police car with its flashing blue-and-red-and- white lights flashing dully off the dull dump truck.
Far enough!
End of line!
Turn off the engine!
Chock the wheels!
And that was that. In sight of the city proper. So near and yet so far. Over the Causeway was the forbidden land. Do Not Enter!
For the Dump Truck of Delights would rouse the populace and inflame the imagination and loosen too too many tethers.
There were unicorns, of course, in the Dump Truck of Delights.
And Spheres with moons and stars whizzing around them.
And rabbit holes to disappear into.
And cotton candy, floating floating floating like clouds.
And real clouds coloured like cotton candy.
And the Tree of Knowledge weighted down with fruit.
And angels and seraphim with trumpets and harps and chubby cherubim with big brass drums.
And the joys of the flesh and the hopes of the soul.
And the biggest, the widest, the firmest beds where anyone, anywhere, ever eased off into sleep.
There were warming winds.
There were cooling breezes.
The food and drink were – well – beyond description.
So – of course – the police were instructed to stop the Dump Truck of Delights, and keep such pleasure and peace from the people. To make sure it would not cross the Causeway and disrupt the commerce of the city.
Besides – the driver had no permit to transport unicorns.
In the multi-window turret at the top of the yellow mansion that looks so far out to sea you could see France and even – with the right telescope – some vineyards, Alison Alexandra has a party where the dancers dance and the poor dancers dance beautifully and the singers sing with perfect voices that reach half way to France and the whisky embraces your mouth with hints of smoke.
Ships at sea with their spyglasses trained on the many-windowed turret that has never had a curtain or blind lowered to obscure the view of the ocean can hunt out the smouldering life water that the thirsty dancers hold aloft before they quaff the stinging liquid without one drop –no, not one – escaping to trail down the side of the glass. These shivering seamen in their frigid crow’s nest turn to one another and with words that puff white vapour between them say: “Aye, do you see smoke?” And the vapour reply of the other is “Yes.”
The smoke from the smoky whiskey.
And Alison Alexandra does not know if these sailors are headed to the snap dab middle of France or not. Or even if they have left there days ago and are soon to be in her port and tie up at berths beneath her cliff, either to the left or to the right, but, if they do – if they are smacking their lips at the prospect of the warm, smoky whisky and the hot dancing ladies, Alison Alexandra raises her other hand not holding the smouldering whiskey and beckons to them to come and join her. She likes to talk to sailors. She likes to see them dance the jig.
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