The Wax Conspiracy

Friday night at the taverna

Stops are pulled chasing rapprochement, this is what the medical professional has demanded; otherwise, the dysthymia will not be resolved. Le sigh, to come into close proximity to those whose callousness can be scraped off the skin. Cue a pic of Job scratching at his flesh with a shard of clay.

An Italian by birth but by the look of him a Welshman or an Irishman – certainly the latter by demeanour: a púca, a goblin, mischievous in nature, slid out his mam with the gift of gab intact – sentences need to be stripped of attendant monounsaturated fats for any real meaning to be displayed.

Conversations are like minefields, to be parsed not for meaning, for there rarely is any in the babble, but for the invariable joke at the expense of others, the unceasing gossip, the venomous barb that isn’t content to insinuate itself but must make its way inwards.

To come out of such an encounter worse than one went in is surely not worth it. “Do you want to grab a beer?” A rueful shake of the shaggy head, “No.”


Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Saturday, 26 January 2013

The Wax Conspiracy

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