Sentence the Onehundredandthirtysecond
And so I sat outside The Malt Shovel Inn, but rather than typing up my account as I had let you, Dear Reader, believe, instead I watched Bettany Hughes' discourse on Socrates on the BBC iplayer:
Oh, I never knowingly miss her when she is on Television and of all the women I would dearly love to meet, she is the foremost – so intelligent, so enthusiastic, so lucid in her descriptions of ancient history, she is in herself a revelation and utterly auroral, bringing the dawn light to bear on me (but Hush! no word of any of this to my dear Aunts and former Tutors, Daphne and Maude, for to speak thus might be seen as a betrayal, but it is not, for it is only through the wonderful insights which they gave me when, as a young student, barely able to read and write, they nurtured me, caressed my mind and inspired in me such a love of the past and an ability to see it alive and thriving and creating the possibility for the time yet to come, and without their guidance I would never be in a position to appreciate the teaching of Bettany Hughes) and breathing life into the ideas and teachings of those long-dead visionaries; and she is also Gorgeous, with a fine countenance, an ample figure, with lovely legs and a bosom to lay one's head upon; so absorbed was I and so overwhelmed by my interest in what I saw on-screen, that I quite failed to miss the departure from the pub of the Man I
had been following – of course, I knew nothing at this time of his Size 13 Boots and their links to other things, only that his connection to the evil Martin Elginbrod must signify something; but when my Dear Reader and Companion of the day came out and placed a hand somewhat intimately upon my shoulder I gave a start and an involuntary cry: “what is it?” I asked and my Companion, my Watson or Tonto, quietly pointed to the figure just disappearing round the bend of the street down to it's junction with Market Street: “oh!” I cried, “we must make haste and follow him”- and in horror I saw that my cry had been too loud, and had carried over the heads of the tourists and stravagers ambling up Cockburn Street, to reach the ears of our quarry – he turned and looked up the way, but fortunately neither I nor my Reader were so tall or significant that he caught our eyes, and as he quickened his steps we we were about to hasten after him when – I suddenly became aware that we were not his only trackers, for there, just across the road and moving swiftly in pursuit, was my old school tormentress, Bernie Westwater, but I could think of no reason why she should be so engaged; nevertheless, it gave me an idea – I would let Bernie move ahead and act as our shill, by following the Man, while I and my Dear Reader could drop back, and all we had to do was keep Bernie in our sights and where she went, we would follow, in the certain knowledge that our quarry was leading the way and if he became suspicious, it would be Bernie he might notice, rather than us (that would give me time to constellate and think up some justification for being wherever we might be, should Bernie herself turn and see us behind her – I hope this is not confusing, but you will understand that I was thinking on my feet, not a practice that comes naturally to me) further back; at the foot of Cockburn street, where there’s a little roundabout, we saw Bernie turn right, and as we reached the corner, we
saw her hurry across the road, just past the Photographers Gallery, and turn left, down the steps leading to Waverley Station, “run,” I urged my companion,” but she was no faster on her pins than I, and we had to wait for several taxis and a Post Office van which were coming up towards the roundabout, before we were able to dash to the Station entrance and, as we paused at the top of the short flight, we could see – no-one!
And so I sat outside The Malt Shovel Inn, but rather than typing up my account as I had let you, Dear Reader, believe, instead I watched Bettany Hughes' discourse on Socrates on the BBC iplayer:
Oh, I never knowingly miss her when she is on Television and of all the women I would dearly love to meet, she is the foremost – so intelligent, so enthusiastic, so lucid in her descriptions of ancient history, she is in herself a revelation and utterly auroral, bringing the dawn light to bear on me (but Hush! no word of any of this to my dear Aunts and former Tutors, Daphne and Maude, for to speak thus might be seen as a betrayal, but it is not, for it is only through the wonderful insights which they gave me when, as a young student, barely able to read and write, they nurtured me, caressed my mind and inspired in me such a love of the past and an ability to see it alive and thriving and creating the possibility for the time yet to come, and without their guidance I would never be in a position to appreciate the teaching of Bettany Hughes) and breathing life into the ideas and teachings of those long-dead visionaries; and she is also Gorgeous, with a fine countenance, an ample figure, with lovely legs and a bosom to lay one's head upon; so absorbed was I and so overwhelmed by my interest in what I saw on-screen, that I quite failed to miss the departure from the pub of the Man I
had been following – of course, I knew nothing at this time of his Size 13 Boots and their links to other things, only that his connection to the evil Martin Elginbrod must signify something; but when my Dear Reader and Companion of the day came out and placed a hand somewhat intimately upon my shoulder I gave a start and an involuntary cry: “what is it?” I asked and my Companion, my Watson or Tonto, quietly pointed to the figure just disappearing round the bend of the street down to it's junction with Market Street: “oh!” I cried, “we must make haste and follow him”- and in horror I saw that my cry had been too loud, and had carried over the heads of the tourists and stravagers ambling up Cockburn Street, to reach the ears of our quarry – he turned and looked up the way, but fortunately neither I nor my Reader were so tall or significant that he caught our eyes, and as he quickened his steps we we were about to hasten after him when – I suddenly became aware that we were not his only trackers, for there, just across the road and moving swiftly in pursuit, was my old school tormentress, Bernie Westwater, but I could think of no reason why she should be so engaged; nevertheless, it gave me an idea – I would let Bernie move ahead and act as our shill, by following the Man, while I and my Dear Reader could drop back, and all we had to do was keep Bernie in our sights and where she went, we would follow, in the certain knowledge that our quarry was leading the way and if he became suspicious, it would be Bernie he might notice, rather than us (that would give me time to constellate and think up some justification for being wherever we might be, should Bernie herself turn and see us behind her – I hope this is not confusing, but you will understand that I was thinking on my feet, not a practice that comes naturally to me) further back; at the foot of Cockburn street, where there’s a little roundabout, we saw Bernie turn right, and as we reached the corner, we
saw her hurry across the road, just past the Photographers Gallery, and turn left, down the steps leading to Waverley Station, “run,” I urged my companion,” but she was no faster on her pins than I, and we had to wait for several taxis and a Post Office van which were coming up towards the roundabout, before we were able to dash to the Station entrance and, as we paused at the top of the short flight, we could see – no-one!
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