I’m ever so pleased you’ve entrusted me with the hair of your dog to knit a hat spun with llama wool. Pleased, too, to make it with Elvis’ fleece for you. Black llama mixed with the creamy hair of your wee canine will be absolutely stunning. You do have an eye, my dear.
You know, you’ve just given me an idea for the Twist of Fate. I could post pictures of all our llamas and invite customers to choose their llama wool. That adds an even more personal touch, eh? Although, what if everyone chooses the same llama? Well, I suppose I could lie. Never mind. Not a good idea after all.
I’m glad you got in touch with me because it’s time to set the record straight. Frankly, you’ve got Harry and my story all wrong.
Yes, you’re right – I’m directive and yes, I pull the wool over my own eyes when it comes to Harry’s fondness for much younger women. I was apoplectic about the Tulia Affair and I took an extended holiday in Canada so he could mull over life without me. But we patched ourselves together through gardening – you got that right – and dug holes and buried our troubles and planted Hellebores and Dianthus barbatus. I accept Harry as he is because he’s just a man and as a sex, you know, they’re rather weak.
What you don’t know is that Harry doesn’t have exclusive monopoly on the appreciation of beautiful young figures. It’s not that older women don’t admire the musculature of young men or their ability to carry on a conversation without breaking into a phlegmy cough or to achieve a nicely erect penis, it’s just that we’re more subtle about it. While Harry may hold an avid conversation with a woman’s breasts, I never make eye contact with a handsome lad’s crotch. I like eyes. Harry’s are Wedgewood blue and bulging as though his sockets are too small. Like a man wearing Speedos.
I blame that vile Hugh Hefner – whose name I only just learned was not heifer – who made older women with vigorous libidos into a joke. No, I’m not going to confess to any affairs. There have been none – at least too few to mention in the words of another vile pop icon, Mr. Snotra. As an aside, it is my opinion that “My Way” – written by an Ottawa chap if I recall correctly – is a narcissist’s anthem. Who has a life of no regrets? Patently absurd. Do I regret Harry? Never. Well, hardly ever.
I’m peeved at the way you go on about my bald head. It makes me appear vain, as though having hair is all that matters. You should know I don’t feel unlucky. On the contrary, I believe fate and chance have dealt me a good hand. Perhaps not a Royal Flush, thank God, because I gladly said goodbye to a life of privilege. I am relieved to have shed all those stifling expectations and I thank Harry for that. Give me a hand thrown pottery mug over a Minton teacup any day. I’m happy, Susanne, though hairless I still have Harry.
Harry’s guilelessness makes me laugh. I like to make him step-up. I can see your eyes widen because you think I’m being conniving but he keeps stepping up doing everything I ask. Do you think that’s why he wanders? Rebellion from his patroness, The Lady Veronica Smock-Speedwell? On the other hand, he knows I’d forgive him anything. Anything. There’s just something about Harry. But it’s not sex anymore. Actually, it never was. He’s just not that good at it. It’s the comfort of knowing him. I’ve watched a map emerge on his face, knowing I’ve been to all those places with him. You know, Susanne, the truth is, only half his marionette lines are mine. I don’t control Harry completely.
On second thought, I think you do have our story straight. Carry on.
It should take about a month to get your hat to you. We’re all caught up on our Christmas orders now, thanks to Derrick and Rose. Harry’s still busy mending fences.
We have a cria to celebrate. I’ve named her Adele. She and Elvis say hello and send their warmest regards.