June 8, 1997 (#18) (and before ...)
My sweet little gherkins,
Me voilą. And it truly has been so long that I've missed you immensely, but I've had to attend to one or two mishaps back East. My house guests seem to be getting along very well indeed. The change of air has just allowed them to blossom much like ants on a peony bush.
I've even taken to civility with that woman and her dating service. In times of war, one makes strange alliances. She really is quite a dear, a bit misguided, odd sense of fashion, but such a love -- in a pinch. How can you not feel sorry for her? (I on the other hand am simply being tolerant. Moreover, I think she has had "work" done. And if that's true, I'd sue.)
All this time away from home and I hardly recognized Abattoir and Mr. Lancelot on my return. Needless to say they were ecstatic about my return asthey attempted to return my overflowing joy. I worry about Abattoir so, he seems to be losing his accent and I fear for his identity.
I would like to acknowledge Mr. Collier-Wise and his very hard-hitting school report, for which he contacted me for "ghost" insights. A very commendable investigation from one of his age and we can now all hope for the youth of America and its school system in a more positive way.
As my humble home has swelled to accommodate its new (and increasing) number of occupants, I've taken the time to savour the relative obscurity into which I have been thrust without my assent. In other words, I am trying to apologize for my absence. I must assume that you accept my apologies guardedly as I am aware I have let you down before. But I am trying so hard to teach you all not to rely on your own expectations, but to trust mine completely.
It's just so much easier that way. And it will leave you infinitely more time for pursuing you dreams, such as they might be, and won't we all be happy then. It's all I want for you, my pliant concombres, happiness and undying fidelity -- to me that is.
On a more venal note, the instigators of my little episode of crab grass, (oh how suburban!) seem to be getting that which comes around. Oh, tell me how I weep for them. How I will weep for them. How I might weep for them except for the thrills of pleasure coursing through my body.
Yes, I know that was uncalled for, but it's practically summer and I really can't stop myself until September.