WhiteRabbit

Presiding over the meaty rump of Seabishop sat cold and limp, wrapped in thin plastic upon the counter, I wonder whether I’ve made a grave mistake.
Perhaps a more traditional white wine and herb jus would have been a wiser choice than the ‘Pickled Whelk’s Beard Sea Foam’ base I have elected to accompany the dish. It was a brave choice, given my deep repugnance of anything ‘de la mer’, and the small matter of tastes palatable (or otherwise) to ‘The Condemned’.

God I only hope it isn’t HIM.
If it is, I hope at the very least he has a shellfish allergy. I shall relish every moment, slowly dabbing my mouth and placing my crisp starched napkin in my lap whilst watching his podgy red face quickly turning purple as his airway shuts off the final wisps of oxygen to his already withered mind and listening to his final dry, desperate breaths.
I do hope his last words are…..Some <wheeeze> Say…...
I shall finish his sentence for him.
Some say: He has a shellfish allergy: All we know is, he’s not going to make it to dessert.
Heh.

I should dress for dinner.
Debrett’s Etiquette for Ladies would suggest I go with a skirt no shorter than one inch above the knee and no longer than mid calf.
Low to mid heeled pumps of the same colour or darker than the hemline of said skirt and a solid colour blouse with belt no thicker than an inch.
I muse upon this for a second and opt for the 1970’s style electric blue culotte style off the shoulder jump suit, gold belt as thick as my not inconsiderable calf and towering heels.
I look ABBA-spiffing. If this splendid get-up doesn’t afford me a few extra points then nothing will!

Just before I add enough Magenta Eye Shimmer to make my guests wonder whether I’ve been the victim of recent savage domestic violence, I hear the doorbell! It can’t be! Rushing to the top of the stairs I peer down, into the porch and through the stain glass oval of the door.
A figure! Oh god! It is!
Trapping down as elegantly as 6 inch heels and a jumpsuit will allow (think new born Bambi-on ice), I fling the door open with a warm smile, and there he stands.....
Huge rosy cheeks bulging out between the mischievous, sparkling eyes of a boy and the Jack Frost kissed hair and beard revealing a man of time served wisdom.
A gentleman whose presence is so vast and so regal that everything else seems to implode into his aura. Robed in a curious deepest purple smoking jacket with swirls of gold and ruby banding, he roars a great booming “Hello Dahling….. Where’s the sherry!” and sweeps past me, seemingly into his very own new home.
He smells of liquorice and old wood, of brass polish and smoked kippers and of musk and warm brown sugar.
“In the kitchen”, I offer open mouthed, as the tail end of Lord Bath’s silver locks and brass spurs disappear from view.
This is truly going to be an evening of spectacularly epic proportion.
Before I can shut the door to attend to the eccentric Lord currently stalking my kitchen on the prowl for Bristol Cream, another figure appears. My heart and jaw both head south.
It’s not ‘The Curly Haired Giant Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken but Here’s Hoping He Has A Shellfish Allergy’, oh no.
Worse. It’s David Attenborough.
SIR David Attenborough.
Sir ‘Respected face and voice of natural history, conservation, Life On Earth, Life Of Mammals, BAFTA winning, animal saving and much revered bloody all round good egg’ Attenborough……… And in 40 minutes time I’ll be serving him stuffed, rolled and roasted Tapir (fat on).

Suddenly I feel in league with the criminal who denies knowing having ever met the girl, knowing full well she’s wrapped in bin liners and stuffed up the chimney.
I’m a comrade of the man tripping through customs looking every inch the family man whilst concealing £240,000’s worth of freshly milled narcotic up his arse.
Fucking Tapirs.

“Come in!”

Lord Bath’s in the sherry, I’m matching him drink for drink with Neirsteiner and the Tapir (which Attenborough now thinks is pork) is coming along nicely.
In the meantime a final guest has arrived, kindly let in by Bath who having gone for a nosey has returned with the mousey, square jawed, short haired, terrified looking young imp.
She doesn’t know who I am. I don’t know who she is and frankly, I’ve had too much cheap German wine to care.
The ‘boys’ seem to know her though, Bath isn’t interested, he’s fully immersed in my collection of bamboo percussion but Attenborough is all over her like a hobo on a hog roast.

No sooner has the Sea bishop hit the table than Bath starts…
“You can spend as much time up to your knees in primeval slime as you want Atty”, he booms, gesturing wildly at the Sir with the grey whelk on the tip of his winkle fork, “You won’t bloody convince me”

I turn to the Imp, whose glare I have been avoiding all evening since mentioning a fish starter and try to make conversation.
I tell it all about my obsession with the Amazon, of the trickle of water it starts as to the tribes, the illegal loggers, miners and coca growers.
It continues to look at me blankly, an increasing look of sheer contempt.
Perhaps this curious urchin does not appreciate my rapier wit.
Perhaps she is deaf, explaining her incessant and unnerving stare.
Perhaps she has feelings for me or wonders if I am in fact, Agnetha of ABBA fame. I do look devastating tonight.

I manage to get Bath on his own as I leave the room to attend to the Tapir.
“Who the fuck does she think she is Bath?”...I hiss, hoping for a concise answer.

“The woman you’ve been insistently lecturing all evening about the fact that the Amazon actually runs through India and out via the Seychelles and not, as previously thought by generations of Intrepid Explorers, through South America?”

“Yes”

“The woman you’ve baffled entirely with your dogged insistence that India is indeed easy to find, just get to the South of France, turn left and then bang!, you’re almost on the mouth of the Amazon?”...He scoffed with glee....


“Yes, yes!”

“.......................Ellen Macarthur..................”.

"Pork?....... Anyone?"