Tweet....tweet.... I am rowing down the sixes.... 4th September

Pardon me, for the late posting. I was on the roll with a given long weekend break from work (blessing in disguise although I was not bedridden but presiding over the throne like a King) with my short journeys to the castle throne (bloody idea to adhere to the Queen's command that cleansing was good for me. If only I knew she meant bowel cleansing and not an impalement. No, they did not need to shaft the brush up my arse but I felt my arse was brushed out then.)

Bloody good work it did during the cleansing was that I had time to do my writing. Maybe it did sort out the creative part of me (narry am I admitting my creative section resided in my bowels though) but I dunk in 30K words in the last few days on a tale I left hanging at 10K for some weeks then.  An except is here.

It was then the pianist tapped the keyboard to play the tune of Carmen and the lovely voice soon followed.

HABANERA - Carmen's aria from Carmen

Quand je vous aimerai?                                                          When will I love you? 

Ma foi, je ne sais pas,                                                               Good lord, I don't know,

Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain.                                      Maybe never,  maybe tomorrow.

Mais pas aujourd'hui,  c'est certain.                                    But not today, that's certain.

L'amour est un oiseau rebelle                                                Love is a rebellious bird

Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,                                                  That nothing can tame,

Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle,                                    And it is simply in vain to call it

S'il lui convient de refuser.                                                     If it is convient for it to refuse.

Rien n'y fait, menace ou prière,                                             Nothing will work, threat or pleading,

L'un parle bien, l'autre se tait;                                              One speaks,  the other stays quiet;

Et c'est l'autre que je préfère                                                  And it's the other that I prefer

Il n'a rien dit;  mais il me plaît.                                              He said nothing;  but he pleases me.

L'amour!  L'amour!  L'amour!  L'amour!                              Love!  Love!  Love!  Love!

L'amour est enfant de Bohême,                                              Love is the child of the Bohemian,

Il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi,                                          It has never, never known any law,

Si tu ne m'aime pas, je t'aime,                                                 If you don't love me, I love you,

Si je t'aime, prend garde à toi!                                              If  I love you, keep guard of yourself!

Si tu ne m'aime pas,                                                                  If you don't love me,

Si tu ne m'aime pas, je t'aime!                                                If you don't love me, I love you!

Mais, si je t'aime,                                                                      But, if I love you,

 “No, your voice needs to be more …affectionate. It’s love we are singing here. Try again.” The pianist told the young soprano. “Or you will miss your dance lessons soon.”

Firmin was transfixed by the voice that sang then. It was wonderful to his ears although he was not an avid opera goer but music was a universal sound. It transcend into people’s moods.

“I will telegraph, Trevor to join us in the opening.” Firmin walked away leaving Armand standing there with heavy thoughts. 

Oh, excuse me. I am needed at the throne room. 

Where is my darn... I meant my sweet accompaniment Samsung. 

What else do one do when seated on the throne? Pass judgement? Narry I say. They all look down and held thoughts of the better times when they are not seated there. 

Talking about thrones, do you know why certain publications are printed in pocket size? It can be concealed in between blankets or tucked in the rear and not between the cleft please. 

Mum used to shout from the throne room when she discover the stash. She will asked who was the reader. 

"Not mine, darling." Dad will look at me then. And my reply would be.

"It was Willy's." Although we don't have anyone named Willy at our home but it was a useful alibi. 

"Well, tell Willy that the next time he leaves his books here, I will have it recycle as toilet papers for him." Mum was cruel then. Newsprint are worse than canning marks.