Thursday, 31 March 2011

Dashed Peculiar

In a second hand bookshop in Teignmouth, Algernon Swift discovers a rare nineteenth century novel, and is immediately engrossed. (However, further research into its author draws a blank.)

It was in September in the year 18— that I found myself on the road to B------, in the county of D-----. As night was drawing in, I asked a ruddy-faced man how far on my way I had yet to go before I reached my goal.
“B------!” he exclaimed. “Don’t go to B------! D—---n b---------d place! You’re better off going to H-------.”
“H-------?” I queried. “Why not B-------?”
“D----n me, you can go to the d-------l, for all I care! But B------! It’s a b---------d awful place. The men are b----------------s, the women are b-------------s, and their children are the biggest b---------d bunch of d---------d imbeciles you’ve ever seen.”
I asked him on what he based his information.
“Why, man, I have lived there since 18--! Or was it 18--? D--—n my eyes, I can’t b--------d remember! And why do I stay? Because I’m the d----n b---------d village b---------d school teacher, b-------t it!”
“---------------,” I said. I was lost for words.
My new acquaintance now fell in beside me, and clearly intended to accompany me all the way to B-----. I, however, was much affrighted by his manner and, when the first opportunity presented, made a -------- for it.

No comments: