This morning, dear Reader, I surveyed my oak-lined rooms and thought, il me manque quelque chose.

This is why I found myself silently opening the door of my colleague Dr Fflloyd’s office a few minutes later.

I fingered the fabric of Dr Fflloyd’s smoking jacket, dear Reader, as I noiselessly pushed the door to behind me. I slipped the notepad marked ‘DSM VI – A New Way Forward?’ out of the breast pocket, tossed it into the wastepaper basket, and replaced it with my set of all-purpose skeleton keys.

Now that I was wearing something more comfortable, I turned back to face the room.

Dear Reader.

There, guarded by a phrenology head at one end and a oiuja board at the other, lay the object of my desire, covered in a silk throw.

I approached. My heart pounded.

I lifted the throw.

There lay Dr Fflloyd, dear Reader, a pair of knitting needles quivering in his lifeless chest.

I pushed him to the floor, seized two legs, and carefully walked backwards, leaving only the faintest of scratch marks along the parquet.

As I paused for breath by Dr Fflloyd’s trophy cabinet, my glance fell on the cups marked Vienna, All-World Pyschotherapeutic Championships, 1961, 1962, and 1964.

But where 1963 should have been, dear Reader, there was a round area, perfectly clear of dust!

I could not pause to ponder the significance of this absence, as the sirens in the distance were getting louder.

Happily, I made it back to my own oak-lined rooms.

Dear Reader, I am pleased to report that Sigmund’s chaise longue goes perfectly with my Egret and Hibiscus pattern wallpaper (circa 1770), and that there is no longer an indefinable lack.

 

 

Advertisements

4 thoughts on “Something is Missing

  1. Do you plan to pimp the chaise longue, dear Ada? I read in blogtopia of an exciting new product: sofa paint. Apparently the paint hardens softly and may be used on fabric. Perhaps it could help you with concealment.

    1. I have ordered a job lot, my dear, and may try to conceal myself on the chaise longue should the need arise, like that dim child in the Hunger Games who threw a bit of moss over himself and remained alive thanks to a combination of low cunning and cake decorating skills (One of mine, you know – 2.1, Runeology, 2007).

  2. I fear the tell tale scratches on the parquet and unsightly stains on the chaise may lead to the need for concealment before the cake paint arrives.

    Do you suppose the knitting needles were the instrument of demise, or an ill-fated attempt by a well meaning psychotherapeutic undergrad to knit together the severed threads of life?

    1. Poor Sigmund did look very demised in the brief second or so he was in my line of sight, but I did not examine the knitting needles closely to see if they were, in fact, part of the University’s Health and Safety kit. And as for who committed this terrible deed – it is all a Mystery, dear Dr End, a Complete Mystery.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s