Journal Entries
The philosophy of TED Smith - Grocer's assistant
Posted Dec 14, 2000
As I sit, Dear Reader, contemplating the day's events, my mind turns to thoughts of higher things and I find myself wondering - what if a jar of pickles were to fall from the shelf at work and break on the floor, would it make a sound? Maybe not, I think, but I would have to clean the bloody mess up in the morning...
I have often cogitated about the thought of the senses: are they to be trusted, Dear Reader? Is my sense of smell actually real, or does Mrs Thompson who comes in on Thursdays, really pong like unwashed nappies or is my mind deluding me? What about my hearing, is it all that infallible? Do I really here the taunts of those horrid little ruffians from the estate down the road as I cycle past on my Standish two-stroke velocipede or does the brain play tricks upon me? I will think on this further.
As I sit longer and my eyes alight on the fireplace before me, I realise that it is 11.00 am and I have completely forgotten to go to work today. Is this true, or am I dreaming that I am a Chinese philosopher dreaming that I am a butterfly dreaming that he is a grocer's assistant who has forgotten to go to work today? I decide to test my theory by taking out the hot poker from the embers of the fire and jam it into my upper thigh. It is here that I discover that, though I am alone in my flat, I still make a noise as I scream out in pain. Scrub theory one about noises...
The postman has just arrived, Dear Reader, and prompts me to continue questioning my senses - did he really say "Up yours" when I enquired as to the reason for the shodiness of his uniform, or did my sense of hearing merely garble his, very probably erudite, reply?
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Latest reply: Dec 14, 2000
The weasel under the cocktail cabinet.
Posted Dec 14, 2000
My dearest Thadius,
My thoughts are with you on this Christmas Day. How the past two years since I set out on my journey to find the source of the Thames have been filled with calamitous happenings and rollicking adventure. Yet, it seems like only yesterday that I was opening Christmas presents with the all of you at Cavendish hall and how I felt safe and secure in the confines of your glorious munificence. Remember how we laughed when Grandmama fell from her rocking chair into the fire and we all joined in rolling her about on the floor to put her out, chuckling and singing Christmas carols as we did? I can still see the beaming looks on the children's faces as the ambulance took her away, her singed hair still smoking in such a festive fashion. Ah, the memories of that last Yuletide have been my strength all this time.
Enough of the reminiscences for now though, Thadius, I must tell you of my adventure so far. As you know from my last missive from Barcelona, I met a man who assured me that for just a few thousand American dollars, he could put me in touch with a man who has a friend who may know the whereabouts of a map pinpointing the source of the Thames? Well, to my delight, I managed to find this fellow in the darkest jungles of Mozambique. After four days of trekking through beast-infested undergrowth (and the unfortunate shooting of a good deal of my African guides for food, which also resulted in my having to leave behind my precious cargo of plumbing fixtures that no one was left to carry) I arrived at a rather salubrious collection of huts and lean-tos on what looked like the site of an elephant's graveyard. My quarry came into sight bedecked, incongruously, in the finest Marks and Spencers regalia, (replete with a splendid little felt hat that I thought would suit you to a tee, Thadius)and said in a deep and resonant baritone; "I suppose your here to read the meter...?" to which I replied in my most eloquent fashion,"No, I'm not". It was a splendid first encounter and, after we got over the mix-up about the purpose of my arrival and my rather poor attempts to fathom the nuances of meter-reading, we were soon discussing the prospect of finding the source of the Thames....
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Latest reply: Dec 14, 2000
Xolin
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