I am often amazed, late at night, in an office half-lit, possibly by choice, to instill a sense of hardship and difficult situations in ourselves, working hard at it, all night, in the semi-dark, eyes growing strained (I would say myopic if I hadn't read Oscar and Lucinda and been bludgeoned to death with it)
candles, had we needed them for light and had them burning in the present instannce, which, of course, we hadn't, probably weren't allowed even, considering what happened last time we lit candles around the office, in a purely innocuous enough manner, but the dancing masseuse, as is always the case, I would wager, tipped one over in the course of cavorting, and, well, there you had it, no more candles around the office, not even if we promised to be careful, and only have a stationary masseuse, probably imported from France, where they seem to have a particular affinity for people standing absolutely stock-still in the middle of crowded thorough-fares, though I'd also wager, (not that I'm terribly prone to gambling, which is the point I'm trying to make by making note of my willingness to wager, as I don't generally, wager, that is), as candles tend to seem suitable whenever there's a masseuse in the room by some odd culmination of historical precedence and, perhaps, morality, though whenever you use a word like that you have some reason to fear an immediate loss of your audience, or at least fear offending your audience, then, pending their mood, stand to either lose them or gain an unfavourable audience, the worse of which I honestly would not like to have course to choose.
I am amazed, in this still (or semi-still, if there happen to be others working late as well the atmosphere for such a quiet, reflective type of piece is somewhat ruined, most poignantly when someone insists on playing their music entirely too loud, taking advantage of the lessened numbers in the office to remove their headphones and subject the rest of us, the "lessened numbers", to some horrible trope, of which particular poor humour I cannot even begin to describe, all the while eating a rather loud type of food, probably the last of the HobNobs, the milk chocolate ones, too, making an absolute mess of the kitchen-like area, which I'd just written an email about earlier in the day, but, it seems, to no avail) scene, this quiet, peaceful den of work, this factory of ideas, hopes, dreams, and lots and lots of horoscopes every week, that we don't have a television in the office. It'd make writing these issues so much easier, let me tell you.
disclaimer:
This issue was written very late at night. Very. And, in the French translations, without a comma. Not a one. Or the letter 'e'. Except for that last bit.
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. platonic, yet only barely so.