‘Silvia Winfield’ at gmx.com thoughtfully spams in the dying moments of 2012 to alert me to some ‘overlapping issues’ regarding the appearance of this, my bogl. Browsing admiringly through my Posts while at the Opera, presumably in the crush-bar during the lengthy scene changes, she says, everything looks hunky-dory. However, when viewed at home in Internet Explorer, it does not seem to fit.
Well, Silvia, I think you already know what the answer is. Compatibility is not my strong suit, I leave that sort of thing to the kind people at WordPress, whose program this is. But I have rung round this morning, and no-one I have ever known has used Explorer much after the age of 13. So I think you are flirting with me, naughty lady.
I agree, it can be hard Parmesan listening to Verdi, whose bicentenary year this is. The unification of Italy is no longer much of a talking-point. But if you’re up for a date with an elderly gent with a posh British accent, driving a bright red Alfa Romeo, and you’d like to know more about the Papal States, we can discuss it over dinner; after the Opera, if you prefer. Or during. There are no overlapping issues on my part, Silvia, I’m divorced, in full working order, and have the framed certificates to prove it.
Now, I’m going to write a poem about how sad I am to be alive. I composed it while out walking little Hunzi this morning, through the sparkling puddles in the unaccustomed sunshine.
Catch you later!
I am not exactly sure how things work. I have received a message from someone whose name I cannot decipher, from a lengthy email address that is partly in Russian but which has a dot.uae – what do you call it, area code? No, something. Where it’s from. My guess is that it is not really that flyblown desert dump from which, miraculously, shining new air-conditioned towers made from oil and gold teeth extracted from the corpses of indentured Pakistani slaves are rising daily. But I will also guess that it is not your own address. You have borrowed a poxy server, haven’t you, naughty boy?
The sender is most admiring of my Posts, naturally, but is concerned for the great number of spelling mistakes they contain. Please understand, Ivan, you have formed that erroneous impression only because you patently don’t know how to write English yourself. I don’t make spelling mistakes. When not fomenting this garbage, I am a professional editor. Have been for over forty years. And a qualified teacher of English to puzzled, shaggy-headed forest-dwellers like you, who have found yourselves abandoned in the midst of civilization.
Now get off my bogl, or I will send my drones to collateralise you.
A kind email arrives in my Spam queue from ‘kitsucesso’ of Brazil, asking for more Posts. According to Arkayla, the WordPress postman, ‘kitsucesso’ is responding, not to any of the 132 Posts I have already Posted, but to one of the headlined Pages.
If you look under Home you will find all my lovely Posts, ‘kitsucesso’. You could be enjoying reading them from now until Christmas, along with all my other lovely Spammers who never get past the first page.
Obbrigado. Boa tarde. Etcetera.
Very much post-scriptum: Having had a course of lessons in Portuguese I now realise that, assuming Kitsuccesso is not a man or a ladyboy, that ‘thank you’ should have been ‘obbrigada’, to agree with her gender.
On the other hand, why make that assumption? Wishful thinking, I suppose.
For some reason, the number of Comments on this blog has been slowly shrinking over the past few months, and now stands at only two. Coincidentally, there are two similar messages listed in the Spam folder, both very kind if somewhat disjointed.
In order to spice things up a bit, as the Chinese say, I have therefore decided to start a new column offering solace to the world-weary and lonesome; people indeed not unlike myself, who might well improve from sharing their experiences with the other reader.
Opening my postbag, then, I see there is a letter from a Mr Bogl of Aberystwyth who writes:
Dear Uncle Bogler
As a proponent of luxuriant facial hair, I have noticed that the top of my moustache starts growing well up inside my nose. It seems wasted there, as no-one can see it. Is this possibly evidence for the said proboscis having evolved sometime later than the human face?
Chuckling sympathetically, Uncle Bogler replies:
Dear Mr Bogl
There is no better evidence for human evolution of any kind. Nasal hair, as it’s known, affects large numbers of people, I forget exactly how many. Strange to think that women, who like to portray themselves as clean-shaven, are, in truth, carrying moustaches around secretly inside their facial appurtenances. Thursday is well-aspected and will bring luck to Pisces.
Good advice, I’m sure you agree. Do feel free to write in. A burden shared between two is a burden halved, a wise man eventually noticed.