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Amelia,

Yeah, it’s true.   I do think it.   That the chance to play with me across Europe once again will be just too attractive an offer?   Nostalgia for when I was a novice, and you were a monster superior, and the kills were alive with the sound of horror until their death and our dining intervened?

It was always one of your favourite things to take me hunting through history, wasn’t it? –  the fond step-mama and governess, who governed her wayward charge with her own kind of love, and taught ripping and writhing and a quick attack.   And how fast I learnt: suddenly sixteen going on seventy, and we’d shared decades of ferocious fun.   Remember re-christening the Colliseum dust with new blood a few centuries back?   Calling you the original Madame Guillotine in Paris, and then standing there, surreptitiously licking our fingers while your revolutionary namesake did her own dirty work biting into clean white necks?   Making sure the Tower’s Bloody Gate continued to live up to its glorious name?

I even remember that crazy dollhouse hotel in Venice, not so long ago during a little truce of ours, when we watched your favorite fucking movie in Italian and tried not to get the housemaid’s innards on the carpet, all to the inspiring strains of ‘Arrampichi Ogni Montagna’….

And that brings us back to – doh.   The inevitable nunnery scene where I tell you to get to one, and you tell me that I’ll have none, and there is spite and delight and bloody fight, and I escape over the mountains and you hunt for me in vain in the graveyard, and the dust settles.

Until the play begins again.

Only you changed the script last year, and then I rewrote the ending, and then you threw in a twist by eating a friend, and taking an enemy, and leaving a Jonathon – and maybe that’s the answer to the riddle.

But if it isn’t , you can write me some new lyrics when we catch up, once more,  in Europe next month.

I’m sure you’ll be there, looking happy to greet me.

Because this is the finale – isn’t it?

 

ISN’T IT…?

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2 Comments

  1. watch out. it’s a (von) Trapp


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