my suffolk summer

at one time, when i was much younger and imperceptibly less handsome, i challenged you to write about your summer using the 12 words of the word summer series. while the results are still trickling in, i wanted to alert you all to my friend amelia and how she spent her summer cruising for boys wearing speedos (join the club, amelia). let’s listen in… 

I can crookle very well.  It was my party trick as a child; I used to spend my summers cooing across the lake by my grandmother’s house in Suffolk. She’s into tyromancy and recently read in a particularly ripe stilton that a boy was coming my way soon. My Suffolk summer was therefore dedicated to finding him. A gossipry of old ladies in the village caught on to my venture and would laugh at me as I waited hopelessly on the park bench. One week our village pharmacy ran out of pulvil, so the old ladies all got terrible sores on their bald scalps – served them right. One of them tried to apply silica dust to her wig instead, but she caught pneumonoultramicroscopic-silicovolcanoconiosis and was rushed off to hospital. That turned the attention of the old ladies elsewhere, as they spent their afternoons picking lakke flowers to take to her bedside. On a rare warm Sunday I was swimming in the lake when I spotted him. The boy. He was standing on the bank opposite me.  I thought he had shot me a belgard, but apparently he’s always doing that.  I later found out that he’s a gongoozler.  Normally I can see that in a guy’s eyes, but this one was so palpebrous that his features were partially hidden.

He pulled down his speedos and started wading towards me. I had to make a quick enatation, startling ducks as I splashed clumsily onto the bank.

Boyfriend hunt is cancelled; I shall take up polydoggery instead.   Here ends my ben trovato.

(Source: ragbag)