Bligh wasn't in tonight, but the somewhat more benevolent, if just as equally ignorant (academically speaking) older brute was in charge of the Bounty this evening. Naturally, the poisoned dwarf and her older sister (the 'bit') were in attendance, fault finding, working against me at every possible turn. That's okay. One does one's best, letting the work speak for itself (done to the best of one's ability, as I have been raised) and attempting to establish harmony and foster good-will wherever possible (not that any such efforts are appreciated in Dark Age Britain...).
In (another) rare instance of humanity and kindness, the older thug granted me four days' shore leave from the Bounty, manned by the protagonists from William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Therefore, away from all the naysayers, the fault-finders, the subductisupercilicarptores (as Laevius once wrote as recorded by Aulus Gellius) both my good self and my best friend (the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world) will soon be departing for fairer shores. The Romans (according to Pomponius Mela, Strabo and other ancient authorities) once called this blessed corner of fair England Belarion. Words cannot express just how much euphoria it is to break away from the servile and demeaning duties of a slave, at the behest of village idiots, simpletons, heartless juveniles (my 'learned' superiors) to enjoy a precious day or two's respite.
I am supposed to be getting packed and ready, but in truth, I have done little except gather what needs to be gathered. The fair lady is due to arrive in six hours time, and I shall be ready. This is going to be a magnificent little adventure: she is as another Venus, aphros, born of the foamy main (according to Ovid), and I, like the First Man written of in the Good Book (and indeed the hermetic texts). If I am truly honest with myself, this is simply another test, but one of our enduring friendship. I ought to be great company: gallant, accomodating, in good humour, proper, and always (always) put her needs above my own petty wants. She is a lady, and moreover, an intellectual. More than that, she is a great friend, my best friend. I always remember how it was when I was thousands of miles away from my native soil (fair England: greatest country on the planet, for all its [glaring] faults) and be compassionate, understanding, and indeed most considerate of what it might be like to be her. She is a fragile flower that has been through the mill and bounced back with the heart of a lioness. Even so, one ought not to take her friendship for granted, for she is a lady, a hard worker, and intellectual, a scholar, and most of all: a decent human being, honest, kind hearted, considerate, a person of good character.
I cannot say that I do not have feelings for her, but moderation and restraint are best, I feel. One ought to treat her with the kindness, politeness, and courtesy that her (or indeed most any lady) deserves. I respect her, and though I would do most anything for her (for she is the most beautiful woman in the entire world: and not just a pretty face, but a bright spark) I would do well to treat her with the dignity and respect which she deserves, as a lady, and a dear friend.
Dear Diary, I shall let you know how it went, but for now, I must depart for fairer climes, far from the juvenile tyrants, the obstinate dictators, the gossips, the snakes that inhabit my workplace (hell on earth). Let us give thanks to the Lord for this great opportunity to spend time with the fairest flower that ever deigned to grace fair England's shores with her heavenly presence. Max.
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