I think, on reflection, that I should simply cut out the middle man and change my name to Nonsense. Or possibly Non Sense. Not my middle name, obviously, as that would be too obvious. Plus the middle man would think he’d still got me somehow, and come after his 15%. Which in this case, pleasingly would be ‘No’. After rounding. And there is no rounder figure than zero.
Equally obviously, I could not change my Christian name – wouldn’t want to be done for pundanamealism. Plus it would be giving in to extremists. That which is not in the middle, by definition, must be extreme. And is there any further extreme than the senses? So simply denying one sense, or implying there is only one, true, non-sense, then I would be putting myself up for some impromptu beheading action.
We could name our children Im Promptu and Im Plausible. Assuming they were boys. Or Vanity and Verity, should they be therefore, of the flowerier gender.
Our pets would be Project Execution Plan (dog) and Mass Digression (cat). We’d also keep a swarm of pygymy (word of the day) butterflies in a bell jar. I’d train them to use their wingbeats to create soundwaves that when attuned through the correct ear trumpet would transceive as the rules of Monopoly.
As I typed this post a hollow bell sounded in my ear. Most odd. Perhaps caused by the noisy plane flying off course overhead. Off course because the magnetised pygymy ions from my Nonsense has travelled upwards in an Unlikelihood Vortex and tickled the First Officer’s moustache. (Back to Movember, I see).
Let’s hope no airliners on their way to Peru go astray over Western London. As I wouldn’t want to explain what had happened to a Pig (these feature in novel #2).
Reader, it’s going to be a long day. Let’s stop this nonsense and see what dragons/blaggards/name changing dullards I can slay today. At once. (Aside: why must all nonsense be stopped ‘at once’ – why can’t it simply be talked down from the ceiling like any old thought plane? Or herded tenderly, like a flock of sillies? All very anti-nonsense, it would seem. Especially the Victorians. And Thatcher.)
A.Ny. Way. The novel’s that way ==> (not you, dear reader. Pour moi. Amuse yourself among the increasingly accurate category cloud girdle-busters)