Message from The Management
Yes, that’s right – a message from me, la patronne herself. Reparata. And that’s Saint Reparata to you lot, by the way. I thought it was high time that the patron saint of Nice – me, you ignorant bunch of heathens – had a say on this blog. After all, it’s written by one of my most faithful new devotees. And these days, croyez-moi, a saint can’t afford to be too fussy about those.
Especially with all the competition from that thoroughly alarming and, in my humble opinion, even more dodgy book publishing genre, the misery memoir. I mean, what can I say? Leave it out, people – We are the ones around here who do martyrdom. Leave it to the professionals, why don’t you?
Anyway, Min – that’s Minnie for the slow ones among you (or males, as they are known in my neck of the woods) – is very time-consuming as devotees go. I’m on emergency duty at all times and on all fronts with this one, I can tell you. In fact, you’d be hard put to it to present me with someone quite as disaster prone – except for myself and most of my consoeurs and confrères, that is. She should try moving a bit more slowly, for a kickoff – I mean, Mach 2 or what, innit?
All the same, don’t knock it – the old girl has been doing a spot of the old business development/sales promotion and profile-raising on my behalf. Which is good. In theory – although I’m with Karl Popper on that score [yes, he’s here, too]. I refer, of course, to his view that if a thing’s correct in theory, then it flaming well works in practice. Right? Rhetorical question. We saints are good at those, among other things – many other things. Just thought I’d stress the enormous scope of my capabilities, for those of you who don’t know about such matters.
Anyway, reverting sharpish to Min. One of her best friends, Maude, has had her ear bent at regular intervals on the subject of little moi. Which is nice of Min, of course it is – don’t get me wrong: I am in the business of appreciation. All the same a local divine’s gaga old bat of a wife, when ailing and duly receiving from Min a ‘get well’ postcard depicting me in my 18th century statuary incarnation, decided to come over all art critic-y. Then hit me with the KO left hook:
“She [that’s me. Try and keep up, do] looks awful,” concluded our expat from Oz. “Really pale and weedy …”
What TF? She’s having a laugh, innit? What does she expect, after a beheading at age 12 nearly two millenia ago? How would you like to have your bonce chopped off by some sword-wielding civil servant in a metal skirt and sandals that are, like, soooo BC? Eh? Maude should be telling me I look fab, considering. And as for my age, the first millenium’s always the worst, girls! Harharhar, my little joke. Of course, I am eternally pubescent. And that’s another matter: how would you like to be permanently stuck at that age? Yeah, thought not.
Still and all, I’ve been pleased with the candles that Minnie’s been lighting beside me. Oh, I have my own side-chapel,
didn’t you know? Small, but very, very exclusive – the Baroque look, like seriously glamour, albeit a tad gloomy in parts – not to mention downright S&M in others. Of course, the entire Cathedral’s mine – not that I like to boast, hem, hem. Still, mine’s a premium piece of real property in a ditto location – so am I worth it, or what? I’ve even stirred my stumps (try that when you’re headless) and carried out a few Good Works for Minnie and her mates. Do I hear the words “thank you”? Do I the Other Place! Tcha! And tsk! I dunno, the people of this era …
Anyway, my latest trick was to turn a positive into a negative for Min- anybody who thinks all ‘positives’ are necessarily good is simply talking out of their arse, right? So after Min’s first round of tests yielded ominous results, I really felt I had to step in and intervene when the whole bally exercise went tits – or up to the next level. This was definitely one of those cases where you want negative results. Really you do: trust me on this. So that’s what she got. Chuffing good, eh?
If you hadn’t already heard about it, I’ll have to have a quick word with Minnie – her promotional skills might need brushing up a smidgeon. Especially now she’s not got the pernicious gnawing whatsits doing the nasty in her tum. Largely thanks to me, I’d have you know – a fact that cannot be overemphasised in my view. Oh, and there’s also the contributory factor of The Son’s reaction when presented with the prospect of Min-as-sunbeam. He only bleeding fell about, didn’t He? Straight up: when The Top Geezer’d finally ceased guffawing, He wiped the tears of laughter from His eyes, muttered something about ‘quality control’ and toddled off to have a butcher’s at some other candidates. Men, eh? What can you do with them. They will have their silly little whims, won’t they? Worse, the buggers act on ’em.
But you see it, don’t you? You can see that I have my uses. Although they should be respected a bit more, I think. So next time Min meets that old witch, I’ll be there, hovering over Minnie’s shoulder and giving TOW The Eye (not the evil one, the other kind. Honestly, some people never learn! What can you be thinking of?). That’ll show her, and no mistake.
Because I’m here to tell you that the axeman not only cometh, but doeth as well. Right, that’s all for now. I’m off on a tour of some of Min’s muckers in foreign parts. And I’ll bet you a whole month of Holy Days I have a lot more fun in those places than I do here most of the time. What did I say? Gorblimey, but here we go again – a bunch of tourists right front of me, so pardon me while I sort ’em out:
“Oo you lookin’ at? Eh? EH? Moi? Mock the afflicted, would you? Do you want some? C’mere if you think you’re ‘ard enough! And cut it out with the blonde gags, right?”
Martyrdom. It’s the real thing. Accept no substitute.