The Hoar Of Ages
Monthly Mumble.

Entry 4 of me Monthly Mumble…and all the trimmin's! (Turn yer speakers on!)

Oh I suppose I ‘should’ write something in me Monthly Mumble! After all…I started the feckin’ thing! But don’t ya just hate ‘having’ to do something, when so much to be done nowadays amounts to so little on the sight of life through a wider angle of its ever changing and often miserable visage. Now there’s a shaft of philosophical mutton for ya! Eat up! Eat UP! EAT UP YA FECKIN' GREADY-GUT!!

Pigeons! ‘Tis The Hoar of Ages ‘ere, slumped over me desk in the back parlour where, among the clutter of ‘all acquisitions unnecessary’, and behind that yellowing oriental screen, one now finds me writing again. A new year…the tenth frock since last I was fitted…and me third bottle of gin this day! A slug…and I’m away!!!

Mister Freake has it all nowadays, I hear tell! Albrecht his manservant is preparing for a lengthy journey is all I know. Hence a delay in the long awaited letter which, to all intensive purposes, should be arriving soon. I believe they're headin' North...somewhere...on some stretch of business. 'Tis all I know.

If I give it (The Long Awaited Letter) one more mention, “the hole”…now wide enough to serve as a cat den or quick accommodation for a rat orgy…the very same hole that smiles in a wide gape directly behind my desk chair…shall swallow me up and ‘have it on with me’, devouring all, and only spitting back my dentures as onerous ‘remains’ for forensic fart-maestros to discover on entry to my flat, if I not manage to ever return!

Now that would be a sight to marvel over...!

“You found what?”

“Dentures. That be all that is left of her!”

Therefore, I shall not mention at length Freake’s Latest Letter…and trust instead that it ‘shall’ arrive…when Freake at will decides upon its dispatch!

Kildare!Oh Kildare. What shall I say of ‘my’ master here in Dublin save to request that your worries be not wasted on him at this time, for he shall not hear them nor ‘adhere’ to them. He has found solace in hiding, following a rather long spell of ‘public notoriety’ over The Festering Season. I have been up to his rooms but thrice since last we talked in person, and on that third visitation I found a note:

‘Dear Hoar,

Much to be done within! A clean sweep of all that is lying tattered upon my library mantle. A freshly made Runion Cake and three bottles of fine Italian wine to be placed in the pantry as provision for guests. Bedding is soiled again…dregs and remnants of a ravishing night out! Please attend to this unsightly disarray! Your payments are sealed and lie on my boudoir. I shall communicate with you upon your next visit in one week, but for now my dear, let it be known that I am in hiding.

Kildare’.

And me? Well, I have made a new friend. So…I’m off tonight to pay attention to him and shall trustfully find myself well-oiled on gin by the time the night is up and at it. I shall write again soon and thank you not for stopping by. Why?

I’m The Hoar Of Ages! That is why!

The Hoar Of Ages

Dublin, Ireland. February 1st 2002.