Rancid Pansies Read Online Free PDF

But out of nowhere it suddenly comes to me, whether via Richard Strauss or this ludicrous encounter: what I’d really like to do is write an opera, commission the music and have it performed. Why have I never given this serious thought? It would so perfectly match my talents. Opera was my first love, of course, but the trouble with first loves is that one needs to pluck up too much courage to do anything more than gaze at them from afar. Still, money does wonders for self-confidence and I really think (already singing as I walk along) this is something I simply have to do.
    By now I’m well into the celebrated Buggers’ Chorus from Act 1: ‘Balls to his hollyhocks! / Uproot his hydrangeas! / Teach him some manners / To perfect strangers!’ Somewhere in my mind’s eye the curtain comes down to a storm of applause, while on the road to Crendlesham the startled pee-wits flap restlessly on all sides. It’s wonderful what a good solid sum of money will do for the spirits. But foolishly, and for quite some time, I forget a cardinal item of hard-won Samper wisdom. It is never safe to heave a sigh of relief.

Adrian 1
    email from Dr Adrian Jestico ([email protected])
to Dr Penny Barbisant ([email protected])
    OK, it’s not easy to spot a sick marine bivalve. But have you looked for mitotic suppression and/or nuclear polyploidization? I’m assuming you were asleep in my karyology lectures. Think chromosome set changes. You’ll find that tabulating percentage changes will give you some figures for the sub-lethal effects of pollution.
    You asked about Gerry. He is indeed the same Samper who wrote about the awful Millie Cleat (‘As told to’). More, you’ll be surprised to learn that he and I are something of an item. At least, I think we are. Nothing’s ever quite that straightforward with Gerry. I’ll certainly tell him you found his book a laff-riot: he’ll be dead chuffed, on the grounds that anyone who found it
that
funny will have seen what he was getting at. Almost everybody else has taken it as a kind of sporting holy writ. They’ve been especially po-faced about the boating heroine since the Sydney harbour episode. Not since the Blessed Diana was wafted to Heaven by teams of bungling French surgeons have such crocodile tears been shed. You were still at Southampton when Millie screwed up the EAGIS survey, weren’t you? (time moves so fast). Don’t worry – sooner or later it’ll all come out.
    As for Gerry, he’s just told me they’ve sold the film rights to the book for 1½ million, so he’s quids in, lucky sod. But in a funny way I’m not sure how much difference it’ll make to him underneath. I told you he’d lost his Italian house? It hit him harder than he’ll admit, for all his tragic act, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do next. He really needs something extravagant for him to get his teeth into. I’ve notknown him for that long but he’s obviously one of those people who need work, a project, a proper intelligent occupation. These Cleat-style biographies of his definitely haven’t filled that need, even though he’s been amazingly successful with them. Poor Gerry! For all his high jinks and sheer amusement value he can be surprisingly bleak at times. He has the habit of singing rather loud operatic arias in falsetto when he thinks he’s by himself. Personally, I’m not sure it’s possible to howl like that without imagining an audience, even just one of inner ghosts. I once asked him whether he thought stranded people, loners, rebels, might sing in the hope of being overheard and rescued? He gave a pure Gerry reply. ‘Robinson Caruso, that’s me,’ he said. Exasperating though he often is, one can’t help being drawn to him. Who else at the age of fifty would embark on a course of penile enhancement that he didn’t need & may temporarily have screwed up his endocrine system? He always claims he did it purely in a spirit of scientific enquiry, which you & I would think a