REJECT A DAY iv
[Edit out ‘some,’ ‘all’ ‘sighed’ & ‘side,’ re-examine]
…okay, as you know, since losing my mind, my eyes, and my arms only, I retired from the writing bureau, and now post snippets of prose – meaning I shall write again when we move house; already I have written 100 000 words about sitting here at my desk, and enough is enough. Today’s entry for ‘Reject-a-day’ – well it embarrassed me at the time, but given hindsight I think she is all right. There’s some ponce pre-amble up top, probably from a year ago, hmmm. [nb, delete over-usage of the word ‘all.’]
Marris Chips in Marriage, dr1, flaws mainly in area of…sense…breathe a week, I’m sure a prizewinner in waiting
‘Darling…about this trip to the garden centre tomorrow?’ said Marris.
‘Oh Mister Chips…do not worry your shiny head, please remain in bed, my love,’ said Mrs Chips, [she was] his wife ‘…Thirty hours paid labour requires necessary recuperation,’ she said.
‘Lotte, are you sure? I mean, I just lie here on the bed, all weekend, like the iron lung man.’ [he said] Marris stirred, [groaned] looked out of the window. The sun shone and outside men sponged white, or black, utility vehicles. [
‘Honey, please remember whose iron lung you are for,’ said his kindly wife…seeing Marris all stretched over and deliciously bare [window-side].
‘Why, you flatter a patty, and why not…feast another look whilst you have the opportunity?’ he said.
‘Yes, my lovely, an impressive impression…for sure, a quite glorious morning.’
‘You know, I really must shower the bloody thing. Well, not yet. Wife, I command. Cease your travels to the washing machine, for once. [and] Attend to me. [my tickle]’
‘Darling, your appetite exhausts a woman, however, well you do have a…a most sizzling spuddy,’ she said.
‘Yes exactly. I am a king potato of a man, and thank you…can we play…potato?’
She sighed, ‘perhaps I might rest from my chores; tease on your thigh, drop on a-dripping. Lock the door.’
‘And you…close the windows, the curtains too…for we do not have all the day, for this play – later we must drink. I will now nibble your skin,’ he said.
‘My potato,’ said Charlotte, rolled to his embrace.
‘Mind out dauphen- [w]oisssse up and give me room to swing, my big potato wong,’ he said…very sexually[smooth]
potato wong,’ she said, with some gratitude – that framed her words. [yes] [in pink]
‘No, no, I am King, Edward potato wong, bakes
ing on Betty Wong, darling. Am I wong, tigerlilly?’ he said.
‘But roasting with Betty is always best,’ she replid, really quite freakish in her taste. ‘Am I not your little Betty Wong? Look at me, here my garters spread, and completely high overhead – French maid potato a la salade…
surely it is surely not wong, monsieur?’
‘Woman, I don’t care for technicalities, remove the housecoat. Either topside or shallows. I am going to fry you up: every highway shall be explored, by tuba. Eddy want play in pan with Betty Texas,’ he giggled [bravely],
yet retained his masculine exterior. ‘[now]Turn over,’ he said.
‘Let me fetch the tin foil bonnet,’[she said]
‘No, by jizz of crisp I cannot wait for that,’ he said, ‘Come to tatty, see me boil, and await highlight; champagne of potato cakes shall hurtle through the void…see,
‘Yes, yes I will, and can do, if I twist.’
‘…Now Lotte,’ he said, ‘my part-ready is ready – by cycles, at the very tip for you, it is all for you…mother-ready and roused. So remove your jersey top too, and me ride a bumpy, a moment – midway and at midday. Celebrate love, eye, an eye, and another eye an eye…’ he said all this, as if he were singing [really], like Bob Marley, without the (a) whaler(s) in the world.
‘Rasta bob boy, bump me on the pillows, your protuberance, spud,’ she said, half Jamaican [in speech], she was a woman of the world with an extensive collection of documentaries to her shelf. Almost a fantasy woman figure, who late night would writhe the Erika, even – with her man. It was after all, only music, [he assured her most sincerely] like this engagement that now progressed, and reached…
‘Bumpy. Yours, all yours, and a golden…delicious is riding to conclusion,’ he said, the house poet he had become.
‘Don’t you stray genre, my body…grind like pepper out of me,’ she reminded [chided] gently.
‘I am grinding, Charlotte,’ he said, some urgency to his voice.
‘Charlotte me, Marris.’
‘Peeling, peeling Marris Piper. I am king of the potatoes.’
She squealed nicely,
‘Bunny, mashing bunny mashing. I am mashing,’ she said – in all honesty.
‘Oh my steam, you are buttery insides, But, but where is it , has it, has it but snapped off, my potato protuberance.’ naturally There was some anxiety in his predicament.
‘Strap it back, back to your anya, now,’ she said.
‘Draw the curtains. Turn on the lights. I have sellotape, oh my god, over my split sides. I knew I should not have slept with it on,’ he said.
‘And the cigarettes – where you rolled, you…they have been entirely destroyed, dumpty,’ [un]satisfied, she wrapped her housecoat, compounded man’s misery.
‘You should never leave tobacco on the bed when I am aroused,’ he said in a voice that had become entirely defensive.
‘I shall not, next time, if you rolled your own…’
‘What are you saying, I never roll on my own. My sack is always full for you…for you.’
‘But where is it, has it rolled…the seedlings, our sprouts – Walker, our children, if surely they shall discover him missing – from box…they do like to play…in the drawing room.’
‘The thing, yes.’
‘Your Mr Potato Head.’
‘Our Mr Potato Head.’
‘Don’t shout. Look under the bed.’