Being prodded awake with secateurs was not my most favoured method of being raised from my absinthe inspired slumber. A face sporting horn rimmed spectacles, topped by a head of what can only be described as a blue rinse perm, and a smiling mouth filled with old lady dentures looked down at me. A wicked glint in her eye accompanied smile induced crows feet, and a manic grin to match told me that whatever was about to happen next, would eventually leave me as the brunt of a joke all bar myself was likely to finish laughing at.
“Wake up my girl!”chortled Death. “The day is new, you have your place in the Now, and oh the fun we will have!”
‘What fresh hell is this?’ I thought, pulling myself into a seated position from the tiger skin on the floor. The world lurched around me, and I was sure my head was about to land in my lap in two separate pieces.
“Here you are lass, drink up!” said Death, a little too happily as far as mid morning hangovers were concerned. “It’ll cure what ails you my dear, put a wiggle in your walk, and may even add a shine to your hair.”
“Bugger my hair.” I mumbled to myself as I eyed the cup and saucer in my hand. Sniffing the lethally hot black tea before me, it slowly dawned that what I was holding was a cup of Death’s own opium tea. Coughing over a burnt tongue and scalded throat, I asked “To what do I owe the pleasure, my dainty friend?”
“Well dear,” said Death, “first of all I thought we might continue our celebration of your birth into the Now, and then, well, who knows what might happen!”
My soliloquy ran ‘DEAR GOD NO!’, followed by, ‘I wonder if there is any tea left in the pot?’ as all thoughts glittered dully from synapse to cleft. At that moment a horribly bedraggled looking Cat stumbled into the immense lounge room.
“L’bradt you thespian loving bastard! Why the hell did you let Death in without waking me?!” Cat yelled vaguely in the direction of the kitchen, one hand holding her head, the other holding a chipped mug, pink teddy motif stamped to the side. “Great tea by the way Death. Your own brew I take it?”
With that, Cat, Death and I fell into a set of matched couches surrounding an extremely robust and exceptionally worn coffee table, complete with scorch marks and what could only be described as axe blows. It had been Cat’s Prague flat front door, up until a rabble with a hint of pitchfork and torch about it had decided that Cat was not ‘their sort of people’ and had dropped in for a chat and maybe a public execution. After she had laughingly explained to said rabble the error of their ways via gunpowder and shot, Cat had felt that maybe she had ‘outgrown’ Prague, and had removed her old front door for the sake of prosterity, dragged it across europe on the back of a peasant, and taken up her current rabble free residence here beneath Paris.
Death placed a teapot the size of Napoleon’s ego into the centre of the nostalgic coffee table.
“I might add a drop or two of Monsieur Pernods finest green wormwood elixir into mine.” said Cat, more to herself than anyone else, and shouted “L’brat you vampiric vegan man whore! Absinthe! Now!”
With that the day deteriorated rapidly, the initial effect of Deaths opium tea, combined with lashings of absinthe and cocaine, made for an interesting afternoon. It was then that Death told us of her predicament, and therefore, ours.
Ok, it’s Sunday afternoon, and I have just written the above one handed. This has been specifically due to the my five year old lad seated upon my knee, whilst reading me a story from his book, covering both the keyboard and computer screen in the process. Hence, this ain’t my most thinky piece o’writin’! Click the picture of the witch above.
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