Sun shining, air fresh & balmy, the fair boy asks his father – aloud – to be a source for alms. ‘Don’t whine; there are so many discrete things I want to buy.’ Father allowed this.
‘By the time of your return, I shall have missed you,’ said the father, taking his cue, with the tone of a prophet as the boy ventured forth.
After barely a pause the lad was in Dissipation City, his jeans stuffed with loot. He couldn’t wait to encounter so-called new friends, including a man who claimed to be a Colonel, plus the people he knew. These included wild women (at least one was a whore) and a pair of gamblers who rarely won and their lives were coarse through and through.
He drank and bought porn and decided ‘Those girls can put their paws on me when e’er they like,’ and put on a bet or two. He’d made little effort to curb or lessen his spending or heed any warning (he just rode his luck), having decided to seize the day, lavish his sauce all over, hire a suite of rooms on the fourth floor, learn no lesson and get farther into sin and wickedness. He was not in control; neither being discreet nor making a profit.
On the first day, he started to pare down his cash; only a week or so passed and it was gone. He had nothing to pawn, even. All was spent, and his companions deserted. Not only did he err personally; the national scene was about to alter, too; famine! It was winter, as well, and there was a hoar frost.
He was starving, losing weight from his waist, and his arms became weak; his stomach was a knot.
He took a job to aid and abet a man who owned pigs. ‘I find my eye is on their food,’ he thought to himself with a wry grin, ‘but I know that’s barmy. They’re eating waste rubbish.’ He came to his senses. ‘As I sow, that’s how I must reap. I shall arise and go to my father (where else can I go?) and say I am wholly unworthy to be called his son, and because of this flaw, say you’re going to have to make me one of your hired men. I deserve to be fined, or banned, or told to shoo.’ He was about to write a note to the pig owners and their trough-wright, but then failed to do so.
He stepped off the kerb and walked up the road, as he had no money to pay a fare. The exertion made him sweat through his pores. But while he was still a long way off, his dad (ho prays daily) sees him through the morning mist and has the flag highered to show he’s been seen. He runs to meet the boy and kisses his neck; lavishing gifts generously – like a coat to wear and a left and right shoe and a torus to show he’s family, and got the same genes. And he kills Taurus, the fatted calf.
‘No, forget the past, days of yore, and what is owed, son,’ said dad. And he threw a village fayre. There was rarely-roasted meat to gnaw, poached pear, tubers with thyme, a heap of lemon sole, some chicken wrap (made from rye bread), a band with two tubas and a lute, a poet who performed a rap and an ode, a cast of actors, some dancing and a cake with sweet icing made from the kernel of almonds, plus fine wine, which a waiter pours when the maid made the signal, having joined the queue of servants.
‘This soul was lost, but is found. We thought he was dead, and were about to perform a rite on an altar, but no, he’s alive! Cast off mourning! Ere we eat, let’s sing a hymn! Holy God deserves all praise, of course. This is my heir – my beloved son!’
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