Saturday, 12 September 2009

A Visit to Mr Hornbill

Notes: Apologies for the garbled recollections. The transcription below is all I could discern from a page or three of writing in the diary of Esme Montebank Bliss. Sections had suffered greatly from water damage, I have marked these areas in a way I feel appropriate. Keen admirers may already know of the treasure trove of writing I discovered in my loft some time ago while looking for the camping equipment. Those lacking humour please note that this is a complete work of fiction. Miss Bliss' work can also be found in "My Kitten Cora," "Marigolds," Miss Bliss and the Navvies" and "To Somerville."

Mr Hornbill has had me talking to the dead again
Tuesday mornings do seem to last forever
When he closes the curtains and removes his shiny
watch I am mesmerised...but, after all he is a mesmerist!

I get ahead of myself first, his pi~~~~nez ; one can't help feeling it stays on his nose by sheer force of will as he really has no nose to speak of, more like one of those rubber buttons that go through the mangle so much better than the brittle sort! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~has a bald pate~~~~~~~~~~~~~by three strands of highly oiled hair. The middle strand, ~~~~~~~~~~ determined to curl back toward his left ear. Incidentally, his ears have a profusion of hair, all wiry and with sufficient natural wax to make any manner of personal grooming ~~~~~~~~~~~quite ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Down to business, I shall write as candidly as I can, knowing none but myself shall ever read this. Mr Hornbill is~~~~~~~~~~~~of the most intimate~~~~~~~~~~intent . How do I know this? Well, being the consummate actress that I am, and with a streak of incorrigible belligerance I believe I inherited from mother, I have never truly been under his spell. Rather, I regard our Tuesday mornings as~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ an~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~into the human psyche, in particular that of the male. Mr Hornbill was his most daring yet and I must admit to feeling such excitement, thrilling at my control over him, all the while, he~~~~~~~~~~me in his thrall.
It was almost eleven when I arrived and esconced myself upon his~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(he calls it his "couche d'investigation" - strange considering his grandfather was a cartman from Hackney). The~~~~~~began ordinarily enough, Mr Hornbill regaling me with his latest success; he believes he can now talk to the dead and that his~~~~~~~~~~~~~~is an instrument of divine teaching. More of this some other time, I have more~~~~tial mattters to recount. As the clock in the hall struck the quarter hour Mr Hornbill took out his~~~~~dutifully I gazed upon its shiny~~~~~~~~~~~as he sought to subjugate me, I being of the~~~~~~~~~~~sex, of course.
Fortunately, as a cat owner, I have often~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~level of awareness~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~he proceeded to question me about things of an increasingly personal nature which no lady would ever divulge under normal circumstances.~~~~~~~~~~~wonderfully liberating revealing to a man~~~~~~~~~~ that~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~while in a state of undress. I did notice at this point of revelation that the material at the front of his~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~pinstripe was sent somewhat awry. I have known times when gentlemen have suffered such public discomfort and crossed legs~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~of an inordinate value, but it appears that owing to my being completely in his power, Mr Hornbill was emboldened and sought merely to rearrange his particulars to offer a greater ease.
I tried to concentrate upon my "analyst's"~~~~~~~~~when he actually tried to draw my attention to his flies. "Remember, Dear Esme" he entreated, "how you would count, using your fingers to help you. I have some buttons here that you may count." In my best monotone I would count "One," I pushed my finger at the upper button and heard a strange gasp from the mesmerist "two," I prodded more firmly,~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~to calculate more quickly. At "seven" I pushed hard with my index finger at the lowest button feeling a softness beneath.
"AaaaaIIII think we shall stop there!" he squeaked. "Eight," I jabbed at the same button ferociously. "Nine, ten," a double helping, just for good measure. Mr Hornbill~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~crouching somewhat. I felt sure he was about to bring me back to the surface of consciousness. I was therefore surprised when he bent over my head and attempted to kiss my lips.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~with my right foot and succeeded in toppling the vessels with a loud crash. Instantly feigning my waking and pretending to be shocked at Mr Hornbill's face in such close proximity I struck~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Session over, Mr Hornbill called in Millie, his maid, before scrabbling about the~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~pince-nez. I now am wondering if I shall continue with such treatment or whether I have learned enough. For now!


  1. Posirtively palpable, have you seen this blog, you might like it:

  2. Thanks for that Kitty. I'll shoot straight off to mad Aunt Bernard now, I must let Esme know too! Nice of you to drop in!