B wore a sort of lime green turtleneck sweater, but made from chainmail. The delicate links were so finely woven together, and so crafty in construction, that the steel hauberk rippled like the skin of a young fox, or as light playing on a pond.
Anyway she and Leonardo had made a couple of trips here and there across Europe. This outing saw them stopping off in London — here they were sat outside a small inn or tea shop as was, on a bend in the river by Southwark cathedral. Feet up L lounged like some Italian gangster on holiday. His hat with long Chinese pheasant feather and light tan crombie making a definitive statement and offsetting B’s green top and suede pants with the silver sparkling long shoes, each resembling a darting minnow or more like a perch wriggling and perhaps leaping from a lake or river in the ancient light of those days. Strewn around them were various sketches for paintings and bits and pieces they’d brought along in the new experimental craft what L had fashioned earlier that week. This design based around the idea of several wooden sea chests fitting together. The chests were tessesacts. Their strange multi-dimensionality made ‘em look like later Schwitters paintings - your eyes got sore looking at them, so you tended to avoid regarding them and looked instead slightly to the side. Or you spoke of the vehicle and gestured vaguely in its direction. Anyway B’s flank rippled in approximation of an ermine moving through reeds, perhaps in fenlands or in the Somerset levels, and she reached across and lifted the small lute type instrument from Her backpack. A tune drifted out across the water, playing counterpoint to a couple of herons fishing from an island in the mid current. River weed swirled in Tarkovskian eddies as the quavers slowly rose skyward creating a real ambience adding intrigue and a delightful elegance to the already stylish scene. Later L suggested they make a stop off in Ulster. So they gathered up all their bits and pieces, chucking them into a great sack very handy for that sort of thing, and they downed the last dregs from their horn cups and covering their eyes, backed carefully into the craft. It’s non Euclidean nature meaning it was better to just assume it was there, rather than push it, and attempt to actually see the bloody thing. Once behint the controls up in the cockpit, L set the controls for Ireland, and they started to chant the series of couplets that would start the engine - a tiny blue robin’s egg couched in a cocoon of frog spittle and dandelion seeds - and hey jingo - they were off. The craft lifted then started to fold in on itself, moving upwards and spinning faster and faster and almost disappearing until it popped like a soap bubble making a grebe in the river dive in fright. Years later the grebe finally came up for air, it was 1973 and this time it was the drummer and the lead singer out of Tyrranosaurus Rex who were lounging by the very same tea shop, although it was drizzling and the river had no foreshore as such there having been a lot of building work in the intervening centuries. Bilbo the drummer, scratched his black ‘tash and lit the stub of his roll-up, closing his eyes and imagining he didn’t have a hangover. He’d had enough drumming with the band and was thinking about buying into a small business, maybe a dish shop in Scotland - you could buy an island these days quite cheaply he mused to himself... Merci bien, By Me (Not sure this got on the list the first time I mailed it - apologies if it did already) Sent from my spyphone
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