I should think he is now sitting at his bureau in the sky.Does that mean he's a "ghost writer", now?
He thought the world of you, Jip.
I do think Ponders would have disapproved of the superfluous comma in your sentence, though.
Thread of Condolence
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He thought the world of you, Jip.
I do think Ponders would have disapproved of the superfluous comma in your sentence, though.
I like to think of Ponders sipping peppermint/green tea in his Folly while the autumnal leaves swirl gently around him. His cravat is loose yet his post dinner jacket is warm enough. He sips his tea and ponders.
Other than the cravat and the tea, you are pretty much spot on. Ponders wore a burgundy cashmere scarf and enjoyed the finest Ethiopian coffee.
A super piece of prose, though, Gambol.
Not Ponders, sadly. He lived a fast and ferocious lifestyle until he turned 30. The last eight years were relatively sedate, yet the damage had been done.
He thought the world of you, Gambol.
Bless him.
I like to think of Ponders in an after dinner visit to his Folly.
His cashmere scarf is lazy over his shoulder because it's a bit chill and he might need it. His tie is loose as it should be after a fine meal. He comforts his own stomach by a gentle hand in thanks. He sips his coffee and ponders.
His cashmere scarf is lazy over his shoulder because it's a bit chill and he might need it. His tie is loose as it should be after a fine meal. He comforts his own stomach by a gentle hand in thanks. He sips his coffee and ponders.
That's a bogie stuck to your ethereal computer screen, my friend
That's a bogie stuck to your ethereal computer screen, my friend
**** off. Yer ruining my ponders prose*
*better writing than yours and I didny even try very hard
PS. Prose means structure and flow of language
I would knock him the **** out. Then his wife would berate, bash and browbeat me the way only a stout, no-nonsense, God-fearing, grit-cooking, headscarf-wearing woman of colour can.
Other than the tie, you have pretty much nailed it. I shall suggest this passage as part of the bio's sleeve.
You have a real talent, Gambol.
Out in the desert lives a man called Mon
Who has a black wife and a half-jack son
Although he's a Scot he likes the heat
And also a penchant for hairy, dark meat
The cause of this fancy we just can't figure
But he upped and married an African, lady
With skin like a rhino and hair darkest noir
She ruins his manhood within her boudoir
In the heart of Islam he makes a home
But has no love for Catholics of Rome
A Proddy is he, the Queen's number One
He can't stand Taigs, this wee Orange Hun
On his threads does Mona like to extend
Enquiries as to the coming Weekend
With tales of barbeques and plenty of beer
The self-claimed GC Poster of the Year
Who has a black wife and a half-jack son
Although he's a Scot he likes the heat
And also a penchant for hairy, dark meat
The cause of this fancy we just can't figure
But he upped and married an African, lady
With skin like a rhino and hair darkest noir
She ruins his manhood within her boudoir
In the heart of Islam he makes a home
But has no love for Catholics of Rome
A Proddy is he, the Queen's number One
He can't stand Taigs, this wee Orange Hun
On his threads does Mona like to extend
Enquiries as to the coming Weekend
With tales of barbeques and plenty of beer
The self-claimed GC Poster of the Year