This week’s words: Damask Waist Neck Landslide Vignette (a decorative design or small illustration used on the title page of a book or at the beginning or end of a chapter. an engraving, drawing, photograph, or the like that is shaded off gradually at the edges so as to leave no definite line at the border. a decorative design representing branches, leaves, grapes, or the like, as in a manuscript any small, pleasing picture or view. a small, graceful literary sketch.) Moonstruck (mentally deranged, supposedly by the influence of the moon; crazed. dreamily romantic or bemused.) Melt Flawless Mince Torch Sachet Metaphor
Crawford was the most moonstruck character I knew. He had just minutes earlier minced into the room carrying a tray of fruit mince pies.
There was something about him that made you ill at ease. He was a human metaphor, he was all things but himself and that made for the most disturbing of relationships. You never knew where you stood with him, as you were never sure who it was you were dealing with.
So he came into the room with the tray of mince pies and set them down on mother’s favourite damask tablecloth, the one she had imported from Damascus, hand sown by small waisted virgins under the strict control of flawlessly dressed men in white suits.
Crawford didn’t care for mother’s tablecloth nor did he give a rat’s arse about her ancient volumes of Sanskrit text, each chapter containing a vignette valued in the millions. This volume mother would place out on the coffee table mainly to show off her wealth and influence.
Crawford was a sad excuse for a human being and why mother tolerated him was often beyond me but apparently it had something to do with a landslide father was involved in many years before. Father was a politician and had come to power in a landslide election result and Crawford’s father had been his opponent.
It turned out that Crawford’s mother held a torch for my father, it was on an expedition into the Jenolan Caves back in 36 and somehow or other a little while later Crawford had appeared. His mother died in childbirth and the story was that Crawford was adopted into our family as his father the husband of Mrs Crawford refused to stick his neck out and claim the boy as his. So I grew up with an older brother, one we called Sachet, as a little bit was all you needed.
So as Crawford minced around the room being his obnoxious self I decided that in the company we were keeping tonight, of Princes and Princesses it would be best for me to melt into the surroundings and pretend I didn’t know him.
I knew that there was only so far Crawford could go before father had him removed by this many minders, the no neck muscle men he gathered around him capable of producing a landslide all of their own with the simple twist of their hands. Sure enough as Crawford was about to show Lady Stella mothers favourite vignette he was seized and dispatched to his room, the now familiar meltdown room built especially to contain Sachet in moments like this.