Alas! Poor Richard, I knew him well.
Or not quite as well as you might have hoped, seeing as how I've taken the liberty to either champion your cause or eulogise you, I haven't as yet determined the exact extent of my fervour.
I would be remiss to call it fervour, as well, because I simply haven't sussed just what it is I'm talking about.
This is the effect of some incurably intangible disease (though I was sorely tempted to write "dirigible" instead of disease there, to add my own version of levity to an otherwise, erm..., article) I seem to have, and have had, I daresay, since I began reading or something of that nature so many years ago.
No, we're not talking tales of chivalry and knights errant, not gothic tales of hamster-people running around dark passageways.
We're talking about books with some sort of anthropomorphic creature shouting "Blat!" for the space of a page and monkeys and reasonably friendly space aliens that got away with not having to get a work permit.
And, while it didn't necessarily inspire me to run about, shouting "Blat!" for the worldly equivalent of a page (though, thinking of it now, that does seem like it would be a good deal of fun, and I might just give it a go later on today, probably right down Fulham Road, as a matter of fact, and in case anyone's bored and desperately wishing for someone running down Fulham Road yelling "Blat!" to add that special something to their day. I understand if this isn't your cup of tea, or your barrel of feathers, as, up to a few minutes ago, neither was it mine, but it's grown on me to the point that I would say, yes, it's my cup of tea, and if it wasn't me out there running around screaming, I'd be more than happy to pop by for a watch, and join in, possibly, if the screamer were to offer. So you never know, it might not be your thing to begin with, but, by the end of the day, you may find yourself really relishing the idea.), it did do something quite... something quite indeed to my current condition. That condition being the whole fervour/not-fervour state in which I found myself. In case you'd forgotten.
I have a name for the disease, as well, and I don't believe it's just something I've made up, though that scenario could very well be the case. No, I believe it's a well-documented (well, of course it's well-documented, that may be the whole nature of the beast, as they say) name and dis-ease both, which makes me feel marginally better (again, the nature of the beet, as they say), and comfortably, incorrigibly, comfortable.
disclaimer:
Please stop by, if you do get a chance, for the tour of the London sanemagazine offices, and afterwards, head to the memorial bench for Richard Instance, in the Flower Walk of Kensington Gardens.
Thanks for the flowers.
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