Born under Mercury
I was ever a picker-uperer of unconsidered trifles.
Conversational trifles, I hasten to add (unlike Autolycus, I'm perfectly trustworthy when it comes to kerchiefs or trinkets) but I'm the Jackdaw of Rheims when it comes to unexpected snippets of conversation. Doesn't matter if it's among friends or strangers, my ears tune in to the bizare, the surreal conversations, the sweet, or the brilliantly worded one-liners, and my mind over-rides the immorality of earwigging and thinks "Lud, that was a good line, I'm 'aving that," and sometime later it turns up in a story, or a poem or a play. And I feel very bad about it, but not bad enough to actually become repentant of my sins.
Now, most of the time I'm fairly sure I have actually heard the remark I've thought I've heard. People are strange beasties, and I've always been prepared to believe that "what he really hates is razor blades in his coffee," "you can't do that Charles, you need a submarine license", and "but she looked very sweet with an elephant sitting on her knee," all had internal logic.
However... sometimes I know I've just misheard:
In the Poundshop today (a wonderously down-at-heel place, where everyone looks older than they should and the staff have their names mis-spelt on their printed name-tags -- Elizebeth, Tracee, and Filip), two old ladies are standing behind me in the queue
Old Lady 1:
Well, he's been dead for a while now, but he came back over for a holiday a couple of years ago and loved it. He's says he feels privileged to be back over. Privileged, he says. He's thinking of coming back over permanent, like.
Old Lady Two:
Well that'll be nice for you.
Old Lady One:
Well it'll be good to have the company, but I hope he'll leave it a year or so... My Alice's girl, you remember Alice, don't you? Well she's eighteen this year, just finished her A-levels. We were hoping we could send her out there, on one of those gap year things.
Now obviously I know I mis-heard. And I even know which bit I mis-heard, but I prefer my version of events.
My mind is filled with the dead coming back for holidays and students taking gap years to Hell.
What does one do on a gap year expedition to Hell. Would it be an adventure holiday -- travel to the Slough of Despond, the pit of no return, special package deals for the inner circles and budget hostels tucked beneath the throne? Does one do voluntary work -- care and counseling for tortured souls, and imp relief on weekends? Or would one work as an intern in one of the executive offices? My mind is boggling.
Conversational trifles, I hasten to add (unlike Autolycus, I'm perfectly trustworthy when it comes to kerchiefs or trinkets) but I'm the Jackdaw of Rheims when it comes to unexpected snippets of conversation. Doesn't matter if it's among friends or strangers, my ears tune in to the bizare, the surreal conversations, the sweet, or the brilliantly worded one-liners, and my mind over-rides the immorality of earwigging and thinks "Lud, that was a good line, I'm 'aving that," and sometime later it turns up in a story, or a poem or a play. And I feel very bad about it, but not bad enough to actually become repentant of my sins.
Now, most of the time I'm fairly sure I have actually heard the remark I've thought I've heard. People are strange beasties, and I've always been prepared to believe that "what he really hates is razor blades in his coffee," "you can't do that Charles, you need a submarine license", and "but she looked very sweet with an elephant sitting on her knee," all had internal logic.
However... sometimes I know I've just misheard:
In the Poundshop today (a wonderously down-at-heel place, where everyone looks older than they should and the staff have their names mis-spelt on their printed name-tags -- Elizebeth, Tracee, and Filip), two old ladies are standing behind me in the queue
Old Lady 1:
Well, he's been dead for a while now, but he came back over for a holiday a couple of years ago and loved it. He's says he feels privileged to be back over. Privileged, he says. He's thinking of coming back over permanent, like.
Old Lady Two:
Well that'll be nice for you.
Old Lady One:
Well it'll be good to have the company, but I hope he'll leave it a year or so... My Alice's girl, you remember Alice, don't you? Well she's eighteen this year, just finished her A-levels. We were hoping we could send her out there, on one of those gap year things.
Now obviously I know I mis-heard. And I even know which bit I mis-heard, but I prefer my version of events.
My mind is filled with the dead coming back for holidays and students taking gap years to Hell.
What does one do on a gap year expedition to Hell. Would it be an adventure holiday -- travel to the Slough of Despond, the pit of no return, special package deals for the inner circles and budget hostels tucked beneath the throne? Does one do voluntary work -- care and counseling for tortured souls, and imp relief on weekends? Or would one work as an intern in one of the executive offices? My mind is boggling.