I Regret I Have Been Detained
I'm in it. Get me out of it. Without a doubt, it's not where I wanted to end up. Quelle debacle, guys. You would have thought that after all this time, I would have known better. But you don't, do you? You get all geared up for debonair, trip over your feet so totally that even the fa/fa mice look up from their food dishes and laugh, suspecting a pun, and there you are. Deep in it. And the mice stop dancing, just for a minute, to watch the situation deteriorate.
It may be the silent letters. The fa/fa mice move from Diaghilev ballet to square dancing while they delude this point. (Note that their movement always involves detail, careful planning and a long tradition of choreography.) Silent letters have a way of hiding the debris of the past; there are those who think they act as a deterrent, keeping the innocent (incompetent?) through with it. On reflection, this is deeply debatable. Silent letters distract, even when thinned out with strong detergent, odd on idyllic days like during the detente. Besides, I personally can't hear them.
I have determined to combine dancing with escape. If it weren't for my debility, I would enlist the help of the fa/fa mice during the full moon, when they toss their reticules into a heap and leap into the trees, singing Mah Jong to Peoria in their pure clear voices. They subsequently disenarbour themselves and launch into a devastating debauch which lasts until morning, and the beach is littered with mouse drivel. Scientists love it. I
dislike and would prefer to detach from it thoroughly.
Help me. Leave messages under the third dish to the left, the one with the spoon next to it.