The first time the two, the shamble leg man and the man in the hat met (on a Thursday at exactly 27½ past two) the shamble leg man thought he’d met a Tithe cobbler not a simple man in a sou’wester. The man in the hat, in a similar pitch, mistakenly took the shamble leg man for a Brahe peasant with a gamy leg. Both men, simultaneously, thought they’d been hoodwinked, each by the other, or by some other they had yet to meet or acquaint themselves with, like a Bakhtaran vicar or a Katowice blackguard. The harridan met both men at the Mayday church bazaar. Neither man, the shamble leg man, who she mistook for a common oaf, or the man in the hat, who she thought was a Deacon or a haberdasher, having left much of an impression with her. People with oddities were common, as was mistaking a Bakhtaran vicar for a Katowice blackguard or a Brahe peasant for a Tithe cobbler. On rainy days things looked like things on sunshiny days, on cloudy days and clear blue sky days, and on Thursdays and every second Saturday, things could easily be mistaken for things on Mondays or Fridays. Neither either or, or either neither or, some things just don’t make a loadstone’s worth of sense.
The Deacon’s assistant, a tonsured brawly with a haranguing smile, hid the Eucharist in the rectory closet next to the biscuit tins used to collect the offering. The harridan’s sister crept into the rectory, carefully so as not to upend the Almighty lectern, and swiped one of the biscuit offering tins, thinking she could sell it as an liturgical oddity or a penny ketch. She painted the tin ostrich blue, adding a doily frill around the tin’s mouth. She placed it next to the Pop-siècle placemats, a hair’s reach from the edge of the table, thinking it might encourage someone to pick it up and gaze fondly at it. She sold the ostrich blue offering tin to Dejesus, who upon fondling it in his gaze exclaimed ‘… a Tithe cobbler’s tin, what luck indeed...’. On Mayday mistaking a Bakhtaran vicar for a Katowice blackguard, or a Brahe peasant for a biscuit tin, was permitted, as long as the rectory closet wasn’t mistaken for a commode pot, the punishment for which was 27½ lashes to the backside with a cob-stick.
The Deacon’s assistant, a tonsured brawly with a haranguing smile, hid the Eucharist in the rectory closet next to the biscuit tins used to collect the offering. The harridan’s sister crept into the rectory, carefully so as not to upend the Almighty lectern, and swiped one of the biscuit offering tins, thinking she could sell it as an liturgical oddity or a penny ketch. She painted the tin ostrich blue, adding a doily frill around the tin’s mouth. She placed it next to the Pop-siècle placemats, a hair’s reach from the edge of the table, thinking it might encourage someone to pick it up and gaze fondly at it. She sold the ostrich blue offering tin to Dejesus, who upon fondling it in his gaze exclaimed ‘… a Tithe cobbler’s tin, what luck indeed...’. On Mayday mistaking a Bakhtaran vicar for a Katowice blackguard, or a Brahe peasant for a biscuit tin, was permitted, as long as the rectory closet wasn’t mistaken for a commode pot, the punishment for which was 27½ lashes to the backside with a cob-stick.
No comments:
Post a Comment