Monsignor Fontenay-sous-Bois, his surplice billowing, headed for the Church of the Perpetual Sinner, as today was the day before The Feast of Octave of St. Camillus, and as with any day that begins with a prayer and a cup of cold tea, he felt a cruel grumbling in the well of his stomach. The Riga Jurmala Hatmakers ship hats by sea with the Jakobstad Shipping Co., owned and operated by the Jacosta sisters of Western Finland. (His portmanteau dragged behind him like a caudal stick. His greatcoat portmanteau tailed behind him like a lazy child. His greatcoat coat dragged behind his portmanteau port like a lazy child swinging a caudal stick. Monsignor Fontenay-sous-Bois surplice was greater than the sum of its parts. Hem, greater than its hem). The Jakobstad Shipping Co. shipped linen goods and women’s gloves by sea, ahem-ahem…
The man in the hat, decked out in his newly acquired three-gallon Stetson, crossed the sideways crossways, his feet marching in the direction of the Church of the Perpetual Sinner, whereupon he was to meet with the caudal monk who cared for poor souls and the weakly. As he was not a man of lithely accruements, he stood astride the crossway, angling his torso ever so gently, aligning it with the lamplighter’s lamppost. When he felt the gift of balance, an accruement he sought in most things, he edged his way curbing, making book with the curbside.
When he was a lad, a wee waif of a lad, the da took him pole fishing in the big blue pond behind the Waymart, the da and he chipping Cokes and sharing a packet of slate-thin crisps, the da eating more than his accruement entitled him to. ‘…but da…’ he exclaimed, his face reddening‘…the crisps are for the both of us…?’ The da, screwing his face into a briar fist, the sun belting down, cast his fishing pole into the blue waters of the big blue pond, and looking out of the edge of his eye said ‘…yes son, but the da gets what he wants, so stop your blubbering and catch a whaler…’.
The man in the hat, decked out in his newly acquired three-gallon Stetson, crossed the sideways crossways, his feet marching in the direction of the Church of the Perpetual Sinner, whereupon he was to meet with the caudal monk who cared for poor souls and the weakly. As he was not a man of lithely accruements, he stood astride the crossway, angling his torso ever so gently, aligning it with the lamplighter’s lamppost. When he felt the gift of balance, an accruement he sought in most things, he edged his way curbing, making book with the curbside.
When he was a lad, a wee waif of a lad, the da took him pole fishing in the big blue pond behind the Waymart, the da and he chipping Cokes and sharing a packet of slate-thin crisps, the da eating more than his accruement entitled him to. ‘…but da…’ he exclaimed, his face reddening‘…the crisps are for the both of us…?’ The da, screwing his face into a briar fist, the sun belting down, cast his fishing pole into the blue waters of the big blue pond, and looking out of the edge of his eye said ‘…yes son, but the da gets what he wants, so stop your blubbering and catch a whaler…’.
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