Veronica and the buff folders…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s adjectives are: crusty, bumptious, cloying, operose, stylopised, and fusty.

I received a postcard in an envelope this morning; it had a US stamp on it. It was from Veronica Crush, writer from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League, now living in New York with tall tree surgeon and heir to a multimillion dollar fortune Monty Tick.
The card had a picture of a grinning Donald Trump in lurid colours on it, and it invited me to vote for him. I’m sure Veronica was being ironic. She also included in the envelope another of her ‘stories’ for me to share with you:

Billy Rufus Tonk stretched back in his real leather black chair, took off his spectacles, threw them down, rubbed his eyes, and stared over the pile of buff folders on his thick obsidian desk, and on through his window at the City of London and the Thames lit gold by the late afternoon sun. An enormous green scaly sea monster was strolling down the river, its mouth opening and closing like a great loosely-hinged trap door, as it looked to left and right, snarling and growling.
Tonk couldn’t hear the sounds though; the building’s windows were specially designed to shut out the awfulness of the world for people like Tonk. The ambling sea monster, its name might have been Gorgo, waded along, knee-deep, stirring up the muddy water with each galumphing step; he had a few minutes earlier given the Palace of Westminster’s clock tower a good shaking causing Big Ben and the other bells to sound, surprising and shocking many London folk and particularly the Members sitting in the House of Commons below. He was heading for Tower Bridge, which he had taken an instant dislike to after having to dodge under it on his way up river that morning.
Tonk buzzed his assistant Roxy Pune and asked him to pop in.
‘Yes sir?’ said Roxy.
‘Two things Pune. What are all these bloody buff folders doing here, and is that Gorgo wading up and down again?’
‘Yes, sir, it is Gorgo, he is a bit late today, and the buff folders are only there to make it look as if you are busy.’
‘Why would I wish to look busy Pune?’
‘Viscount Dumpty is speaking in the House of Lords today, and it is possible that he may pop in to see us afterwards.’
‘Ah, right! Good thinking Pune… By the way, are we expecting dactyls today?’
‘No sir, the FT say that they will hit the Hong Kong Exchange late in the day tomorrow, but otherwise we will be…’
‘Alright Pune… I was wondering about the Fukushima Lobster, have you any views on the subject?’
‘Well sir, she seems to be concentrating on the US, she’s munched down two ships in New York Harbor, but Wall Street seems to be holding up rather well so far… By the way sir, your broker has been on the horn asking about your idea of following Amazonian Giant Wasps.’
‘Oh, right… What would be your advice Roxy?’
‘Me?… I’d stay well clear of them sir… Oh look!…’
‘There go the bascules…’
‘The what?’
‘Tower Bridge sir, Gorgo is eating it.’
‘Damn!… Pity he didn’t have a go at Tate Modern on his way past – they have got Damien Hirst and Martin Creed on at the moment.’
‘Indeed sir… Oh dear… I can hear growling and chomping coming up from the south stairwell.’
‘Good god! Is it Gorgo?…’
‘No sir, I think it’s Viscount Dumpty; I don’t think his speech in the Lords can have gone down too well – it sounds like he’s had a drink or two.’
‘Oh God! Hand me a buff folder, where the hell are my damn glasses?’
At that point the Great London Worm, the fracking mutated giant earth-boring annelid nudged the corner foundation of the Dumpty Tower, which caused the whole building to slide gracefully, with hardly a splash, into the Thames…

Veronica Crush. 2016.


About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
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