Only Wankers Use Diminished Chords

And as he turned away from the three bails and glanced artificially at the sweeping horizon, a note from the flutist's exposed pipe fluttered with all the gall of an ancient Frenchmen, and lapsed like a refreshing blanket around the previously silent and awkward mood, finally settling in the yellow grass near a fisherman's neglected knitting needle. The glancer's illusion shattered like so many dead flowers in a field (I've seen it happen, you know), and he was suddenly grounded in all his horrible flaws and imperfections and left with a face uncertain of whether to laugh or ball. In fact it did neither; he merely nodded slowly and glowered his way out of sight. But can you blame him? What man wouldn't act thus if he was faced with the same dilemma? As for the flutist, well, he just blew out the rest of his steam and went the other way.

The next day had the advantage of youth and celebrated by way of a particularly shimmering sun, which awoke the still-sleeping and patted the awake gently on the nose. One of the latter was cooling himself by a faulty air-conditioner in a building of sorts, and fluttering his store-bought eyelashes for extra heat-resistance. Another of the same was next to him and eating a ham roll mundanely, while all around flies made their presence felt on her yellowed right-hand. The same couldn't be said for someone who wasn't in the same situation, and won't be.

But on returning home, neither the flutist nor the industrial relations employee knew where the secret of All Rather lay. I did, but that's another matter. And then it happened. I wasn't watching, mind you, so I won't be able to fill you in on the details.

After forty years of the stuff, it didn't hold up, and eventually was laid to rest in a tomb of caskets.

To be discontinued...