Albert used to have a big farm. Dominic’s request was bold, and he made it while having his supper.
‘Case in point; give me my inheritance.’ Father, looking in the book, managed to find some liquid assets and gave them to him.
What did this lad leave? A farm was abandoned by the prodigal; leys were also among the countryside items he abandoned. He went to Dissipation City, where the buildings were ornate, if not a little goudy (old style), or what some might call chic. A godly temple had corinthian capitals.
Friends such as Lucida Bright, Aldus, Clare ‘n’ Don and Korinna joined him for a weekend of fish and chips, mushy peas and vinegar; a Monday of cake and a Tuesday-Friday of fine steak, seafood and caviar. He asked one of the rather immoral girls ‘Tulip, I can’t recall if you are the sort that prefers polished floorboards or carpeting.’
The bembo replied ‘Neither, I’m the Lino type.’
There was also a ritual associated with honouring chancery furniture. Mary asked ‘Can you tyre-change in a hurry?’ Said Sam ‘Er, I can Ty…’ Pew rite respectful, clearly.
Dominic was planning to get himself a Souvenir but then his cash ran out and a famine struck.
He took a job tending pigs in an ill-maintained sty. ‘This place could do with redecorating – someone should take care of it. A lick of paint would work wonders.’
Such was his terrible starvation, he went down with kwashiorkor in nasty doses. The pigs ate pods that were mouldy and some other forms of plant (in various states of decompositing). He could not have felt lower. Caseous[1] smells were not pleasant.
The realisation that he was envying the pigs came with considerable impact – it was news. ‘Go, thickhead, and ask for a job!’ he told himself. His hunger had been leading him into temptation.
He got up, determined to give his father a surprise. It’ll be magic, as long as I’m humble, he thought. He practiced his script. ‘Don’t know how to address you formally, Pa. Latin? Oh, that’s ridiculous, and reflective of olden times. New romans don’t use that! Perhaps I should send a letter, but I have no courier. I’m no longer worthy to be called a son.’
Meanwhile, the boy’s father stood on the high part of the house, watching, dressed, in his wisdom, casually. He knew he shouldn’t be continually hoping for his boy to return. ‘The conclusion that is logical is to accept he’s dead…’ His feelings were gloomy (yet then he saw the lad coming through the mist), rallied and rose towards glee.
‘My boy, you’re a star! I always hoped you would return. I wanted to send you to study and had made a list: a) the Conservatoire de Paris (you could learn verbs like etre); b) UCH, etc!’
He presented symbols of welcome: a coat, some shoes, and a ring with an inscription.
‘Oh Dad, thanks for the rock. Well, I could eat a horse…’
‘We could roast the calf! And eat lots of things… soybean cake? No, let’s go for something rare and avian… I think it would be rude to bulk it out with tofu. Turacu might be less politically correct…’
His father sat in the marquee, keen to test the speaker system, and equally eager to send correctly-addressed invitations some invitations. ‘Right… Jeremy, RM, Susan, JKP Bullion, Fran… KL Ingot… H… I cannot remember, son, so tell me Ingrid Smith’s full initials, through the intercom.’ ‘I.C.S.’ answered Dom, casually. ‘I always thought one of her middle names was Brenda, so I was in danger of including B at some stage…’
‘Let’s get a barrel of beer. We can pay the Cooper. Black olives, and a big tuna - and don’t forget to remove the bones, fins and gills!’ Answers came in the affirmative, so the fish dish was sure to be perfect. ‘We’ll have peaches with condensed milk, a chocolate fountain, toast with marmalade (I prefer Old English) and perhaps a little game bird – although I have always been pro-grouse and somewhat anti-quail…’
‘Ladies and gentlemen: I’d even gone so far as to write letters to our Solicitor and to the Undertaker – here they are in the satchel – Vet?… It can only mean I reckoned him dead. He’s my son, so I don’t have to adopt – I’m already his dad! Let all who live and breathe within the universe sing praises!’
[1] Fragrance of cheese
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