🚀 go-pugleaf

>Happy Anniversary.  Darling.

Another try at a reply: the long version:

In those circumstances, m'dear m'dear m'dear, there is no possibility
at all that I would have thought to remain outside the tramlines of
fire.  This here document, currently being read, is also non-existent,
and, as such, is not permitted to be quoted at any time.  But, for now,
should I feel a need of my own to add a few small points to any posted
fictional histories, they would run thus:

-- jun 91: self, in another guise, is both bored and busy, intensely
   dislikes statistics, and takes to dashing off quick letters to
   anywhere at all in between page-turning.  One of these ends up in
   where is just about as wrong a place as possible.

-- Tuesday, 9 jul 91: a header, ever so slightly out of sorts,
   appears, as m'dear had a headache and forgot to wear his dark
   glasses, which, in bright sunshine, only serves to augment the
   pain.  This possible occurrence is nullified by the tested
   and agreed caveat that Tuesdays absolutely never, ever count.
   The incident is filed for future reference, along with an
   earlier review of sbrhym: this forms the beginning of a
   mail-folder called "ammo", which made excellent reading, now,
   sadly, deleted.

-- oct-dec 1991: during this stretch of time, our hero, due to
   general benevolence and a formidable talent to please, is fallen
   utterly in love with by a passing fool, who was by then already
   half-way there.  Something Comes Up, and is highly disapproved of.
   The fool, after recovering from a slight upset, sets out with some
   diligence to discover what exactly said hero is up to, why he should
   earnestly desire to be deleted, and whether an error of judgement
   is made in positing his yeux to be beaux; events of this time will
   not be precisely recalled as it is not a feature of the plot that
   the protagonist should know what exactly went on, nor, indeed, at
   what time exactly what went on went on.  It is established that,
   for worse or worse (as "better" is only what is never felt; he
   keeps telling me this), a "Brid" and a "H." do not markedly differ
   in their tiresome appreciation of events.  Our hero is designated
   H's property, forever&ever: this inevitably leads to massive
   insecurity, ineptly concealed, when he later shows signs of belonging
   to himself alone.  It is concluded that no error of judgement was,
   in fact, made.  This, I shall label the "answer answer answer"
   phase, the title ironically meant, as none were actually spotted
   in the undergrowth; this, at least, served to disproof self's
   earlier quoting of a conjecture that one more readily controls
   those whom one can name.

-- dec 1991: never happened: 1991 was an unusual year, consisting,
   as it did, of eleven months only.

-- jan-feb 1992: our hero produces several of his more deliberately
   obscure postings, feebly countered by H., who hangs on to him in
   a quite disgraceful manner, ignobly trying to tell him what is
   what, but foiled by the fact that what is thought to be what
   is not what at all; this inevitably leads to self-contradiction.
   H800 makes himself useful by his absence.

-- a break: upsetting the chronological order, the writer goes and
   makes self tea, briefly digressing.  Hello, Niall; are you still
   overworked?

-- feb 1992: our hero closes the door, in what could be gentle
   dismissal or "other".  H. both cares and minds, but does not
   inquire what the "other", if any, might be, as she is by now quite
   accustomed to having strings ending in certain subsets of the
   character-set, most notably "?", ignored.  She spends several
   days refusing to talk to anyone, even H.s, outside of bare civility,
   and develops the first signs of a psychosomatic limp, which will be
   seen to reappear on sundry other occasions.  This elicits a good
   deal of gratuitous sympathy, which is less than useless to the hearer,
   not being conducive to the return of a knight in shining and, if
   anything, over-effective body-defences.  A letter of farewell
   is produced, the absolute last of its kind, one of self's
   few postings which, viciousnesses competently deleted, actually
   exists.

-- mar-apr 1992: the first [jellyfish] phase.  All succeeding
   phases will be seen to be [jellyfish] phases.  H. duly
   complains of unwarranted interference in the determination of
   what manner of reading-matter shall appear before her, but is,
   thankfully, ignored.  Good times ensue, slightly marred by
   an unerring ability on the part of our hero to get others
   wrapped up in the strings of their pasts.  We go to tea with
   Seosamh, and swop weedkiller stories.  An interlude on fnord-l
   is best forgotten, as H. unwittingly makes things start to
   have done with, and, noting the consequent re-emergence of a
   limp, makes an ineffectual attempt to stop them.  The merits
   of "to put up with" are considered as an alternative by HQ,
   and passed.  HQ is thanked for this, as gratitude was then
   neglected.

-- till the present day: a return home.  It is diligently aspired
   to keep complaints to a minimum; this policy, needless to say,
   never gets off the ground.  Someone has the temerity to post a
   review to sbrhym (probably faulty in that the work was read, as
   taught, for perspectives) on jun 3rd, beating some, but not all,
   of the national press.  Henry marches, yes, I'm afraid that does
   indeed read "marches", centre-stage.  Later, H. turns quite soppy;
   this, while inexcusable, is symptomatic of ... no, merely
   inexcusable; the effect is slightly mitigated by the substitution
   of the word [jellyfish] for the word [darling], together with other
   related words, a cavalier measure if ever I've admitted to the
   measuring of one; notwithstanding this, proceedings are seen to be
   both highly [jellyfish] and [wish the enemy were here], which is
   no damn way to win a war: fear of loss of a hero, maintaining a
   worrying presence in the background, is attempted to be negated as
   unthinkable and thus disposed of; this also fails.  The utter
   [jellyfishity] transpiring cannot be dismissed as the Wodehouse
   effect of hot weather, as one of the offending parties considers
   25 degrees in the shade to be 25 degrees too much; the fault is
   thus presumed to be that of the other party (*).

-- lunchtime: I write to the Times, but cannot be bothered to buy a
   stamp for the letter.  I have lunch -- oops, back to the topic of
   discussion.

-- a short while ago: H. tells her obsession to "go away"; not, as is
   quickly realised, the brightest of notions.

-- just now: the portion of a sentence marked (*) above is retracted,
   as its author is not just now in the slingshot game.  It may
   reappear at some future date.  H., disregarding the fact of
   her promised appearance elsewhere one hour ago, practises her
   typing, apologises, would damn you if it were feeling up to it,
   contradicts herself, would not damn you for anything at all you
   might care to offer, and declares exponentially increasing devotion.

Thank you,

H760