The Fringe

The honeymoon is over.

So cliche.

The metaphorical puff of flatulence has moved the honeymoon into marriage. Blissful ignorance into reality.

We've now been in our house for nearly six months, so we had a good long honeymoon. Some might have wanted a little longer but I'm not overly greedy. Want what you've got and all of that, a good adage to pretend to live by.

Act One: Honeymoon: Our own home. Perfect in its apparent and robust imperfections. Protagonist weeds garden and dreams of decks and lattice. Children bounce on trampoline and remain uninjured.

Act Two: Honeymoonic Rumbles: Movement noted in curtains when blustery gales buffeting the city. Builder arrives on blue sunlit day. A bit off rip here and bang there. The house will be blustery no more. What's that dripping noise? Starting to see imperfections not over robust.

Act Three: Marriage: Dark clouds gather. Thunder threatens. A stud which I've often been on a quest to find from within the walls has mysteriously disappeared. Where is the stud? Where can it be? It can only be found with the opening wide of the wallet and emptying of its bowels.

And so when will the play finish? How many acts will torture the once entranced house owner? Fingers crossed if the borer continues to hold hands the house will remain erect. Had mad thought that injecting Viagra into the holes might help in this aim.

But luckily, we're located on what is cheerfully noted as the 'City Fringe' by real estate agents.

The fringe? Considering where the city is, say where the nose is on the face, then the fringe would be the pubic region. And I don't want to think about those sort of fringes. I suspect real estate agents in their poetical wisdom do not think it a goer to advertise houses on the city's pubis. Sounds positively painful.

Thinking about fringes, they're usually used to cover things up. My fringe sails over a craggy brow. The fringe on the chaise lounge disguises a car wheel which I really don't know where to put or what to do with. Fringes can be deceit-fool.

Here I dwelll on the city fringe - I wonder what exactly this fringe is hiding?

Truth Trudge

The truth of the matter is that we should be packing.

The house fairy did make an appearance and with the bang of a hammer and a little nod as we signed away our souls to an Australian bank, the Pt Chev Team now find that we might be in need of a new name. Once we've moved we can't truthfully say that we're the Pt Chev Team. Mind you how many Whos are left in The Who? But I digress.

Interestingly, 'true' is pressed under 'trudge' in my dog-earred Oxford. To remain truthful could be seen by some as a bit of a trudge. Trudge... a solid if not dogged word, Budge's slower cousin. Now Veracious could be stoical Truth's hard-lined cousin, all tattoos and teeth. Veracious, lounges beneath Venus in my Oxford. Lucky Veracious. I am not qualified to comment on the truthfulness of the goddess of love, one would think though where love is concerned, not all comments are completely trustworthy in the throes of passion. Look at poor old Milo, her arms have flailed her, did they lose their grip or did Veracious rip them off in the heat of the night as they lay pressed and gasping between the pages?

I'm starting to look at my little Oxford in a whole new light, a more seductive glow. Look at the passions it houses, some perhaps, which never rest but simmer and weep through the pages. The secrets that must lie hidden between the lines.

I seem to be on an alliterative trail - Trudge - Truthfulness - Trust.

Trust, the godmother to Truth? She could be wearing sensible brogues and a twin-set with pearls. She could fold you to her breast, but as you press your ear to her heart you can only hear the rhythmic beating of a robust organ, no flutters or quick, lusty beats ever rattle her rib-cage. And in her kindly embrace you can easily be fooled that Trust is indeed a fool albeit a kind one but a fool no less. And a fool can have the wool pulled down over her eyes but her heart can still break. I'd suggest enjoy the embrace but don't mistake Trust with Stupidity.

Stupid surprisingly wrestles beneath Stupdendous, the later none of us minding to be accused of. Stupid lolls without intelligence or cleverness, it could be placed on the car dashboard and left to crack and blister in the sun. Stupidity is not something we relish being accused of, but it shouldn't be confused with Trust or Kindness. These two traits can often temper Stupidity.

With Sod squirming beneath Socrates, I suspect I'd better get back to the kitchen cupboards.