C6DVD cardathon <3
Work (and a craaazy windstorm on Tuesday that kicked up every un-breathe-able thing you can possibly imagine) has kicked my ass this week, or I'd have had this up sooner. Apparently I intercepted some errant Valentine's Day sentiments intended for some troupe of actors at New Burbage. :D
Hmm, wot's this? A flyer... dated August 1989 for The Assembly Rooms in Edinburgh. [OMG!!! FLEA. CIRCUS. With industrious and learned RUSSIAN fleas!!! :::dies:::]
.:.
Crikey!
Remember this and all the stuff we got up to at the Edinburgh Fringe? That kid with godawful bagpipes and heavenly thighs, who showed us what Scotsmen keep wear under their kilts?
xx
Frank
Wasn't me, ducky. Wasn't me.
Not that I don't like the idea - you, me and a Scotsman with heavenly thighs... sign me up, ducky. But that was the year my agent went for the Godspell tour. They're all bloody useless, agents.
It's nice, though, that you made it me in your memories. It was probably that [?] from Vancouver, so he's best forgotten anyway.
Think we can afford a trip to Scotland this year, eh?
Love
Cyril
*****
Scrawled on the outside of a heavy white envelope, an address: Ellen Fanshaw, New Burbage. The return address simply reads Lakeshore Psychiatric Hospital, Toronto:
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed:
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who are black as hell, as dark as night.
Geoffrey
Oh, Geoffrey. This is how I love you best, bitter and yet still so hopelessly done for. :::hugs him:::
Thank you so much, clever anon! The black rose on the card gave me a special hint of glee as I'd used a similar idea last year from Geoffrey to Darren. Whee! \o/
Hmm, wot's this? A flyer... dated August 1989 for The Assembly Rooms in Edinburgh. [OMG!!! FLEA. CIRCUS. With industrious and learned RUSSIAN fleas!!! :::dies:::]
.:.
Crikey!
Remember this and all the stuff we got up to at the Edinburgh Fringe? That kid with godawful bagpipes and heavenly thighs, who showed us what Scotsmen keep wear under their kilts?
xx
Frank
Wasn't me, ducky. Wasn't me.
Not that I don't like the idea - you, me and a Scotsman with heavenly thighs... sign me up, ducky. But that was the year my agent went for the Godspell tour. They're all bloody useless, agents.
It's nice, though, that you made it me in your memories. It was probably that [?] from Vancouver, so he's best forgotten anyway.
Think we can afford a trip to Scotland this year, eh?
Love
Cyril
*****
Scrawled on the outside of a heavy white envelope, an address: Ellen Fanshaw, New Burbage. The return address simply reads Lakeshore Psychiatric Hospital, Toronto:
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed:
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who are black as hell, as dark as night.
Geoffrey
Oh, Geoffrey. This is how I love you best, bitter and yet still so hopelessly done for. :::hugs him:::
Thank you so much, clever anon! The black rose on the card gave me a special hint of glee as I'd used a similar idea last year from Geoffrey to Darren. Whee! \o/