nimble invasion then timeless occupation

to the bloated victorious the spoils of war

bars of gold, works of art, champagne and any fine lady

more of the same, more of the same, then some more

It irked her that, surprisingly, his wallet was empty. Yet by way of fortunate recompense, the street wise working girl had had the foresight to steal the cavalry jackboots from the fetid feet of the soft bellied general lying there in a schnapps induced drunken stupor, snoring away like the fat pig he was.

She had heard tell that southeast of The Alps and faraway there was a place prone to the occasional earthquake, where the locals ate seafood, made their own fresh spaghetti, drunk white wines aplenty and paddled in the warm enclosed ocean as and when the fancy took. Also, she understood that the sun always shone there. Certainly, the Quartier Pigalle did not feel like home presently, and when word got out regarding her theft there would be hell to pay if she stayed put.  It was clear she should leave the city without delay.

She determined that such a land as she had learned of would make for a perfect getaway save for the fact that she had not the official papers granting her leave of travel, and regardless she had not sufficient money for the train fare. Still, upon reflection and notwithstanding the potential for blizzards at high altitudes she could travel by foot.  After all, the stolen cavalry jackboots looked to be expensive and as good as new and would serve her well on her long and, as an alpinist devotee had once made mention of, potentially treacherous journey. Moreover, it was somewhat fortuitous and perhaps a good omen that she shared the same shoe size as the previous incumbent of the boots.   Indeed, having given them a trial she had concluded that they rather suited her, especially so when undressed for work. Additionally, in terms of marketing her exclusive services to all of mankind her new best ‘up to the thigh’ footwear would, she had little doubt, tickle the fetish fantasy of many a red-blooded businessman or give a delightful twist on comfort’s take for any lonely soldier boy.

From the evidence of his wallet, it was a given that the slumbering, lumbering general plainly had no intent in paying her for both time and body. So, for good measure she stole his pistol also, then tied his feet together in case he awoke in order that she could safely make good her exit.  It was thus that she followed in Hannibal’s footsteps across the mountain range only pausing to pick edelweiss and nibble upon rye-breads and strange looking cheese with holes in it gifted to her by grateful goat herders and yodellers in traditional garb she had fallen across along the way. She had a tendency in that regard.

However, as is inevitably the case when the rabid untamed beasts of war are on the rampage and home grown heroes still wear short trousers, when she reached rainbows end all she found was another city of the vanquished.  A place where there was little need for the all-conquering to transact with the oft times timid, sometimes impulsive, now neutered populous. Yet by way of trading subjugation and subordination for blindfolds and sweet promises she found she made an income better than most others.  Her thieved cavalry jackboots and her realization of wild fetishes served her well…and, at least the sun shone all the time.





    1. Agreed! I sighed when I reached “short trousers”….such deep tragedy, and yet the surface sweetness of our heroine keeps it all…rich. Impossible to turn down. Yet another triumph, Friend Michael. 🙂

      1. My thanks the lovely Ms Lee. As I think I mentioned to Ms S earlier I think this gal would make a better cartoon’esque type character than a written tale…shame I cannot draw, in part or at all!

    1. She did rather grow on me as she evolved. Reckon she might make a good cartoon character, albeit a touch on the controversial side!
      We were exchanging tales of Victorian houses last week. You may recall that I made mention of just how expensive September had been in terms of repairs and that now things all seemed to be sorted. How wrong I was! Just yesterday, as Shirl was moving bits of furniture about the place she called me. ‘Is that a damp patch up there staining our newly plastered walls and ceiling?’ I was not a damp patch, but a leak. I traced it first to the floor above and discovered in her built in, ancient wardrobe all her clothes (and she has a lot) were soaked through (colours had merged thus ruining some; plus, my 1976 Page 3, Sun Calendar – Jilly Johnson will never look the same!). Up to the next floor…the source of the problem, hidden behind a glorified skirting board, an old Victorian stop cock we didn’t know we had (still don’t know its purpose) had failed to cope with the water pressure off the new pressure cylinder. Being hopeless, I popped over the road to where our plumber is but he was down the pub what with it being Sunday lunchtime. Several hours later as I was watching The Arsenal on the TV the plumber arrives and sorts the problem out thankfully…the thing is, the game was nil-nil at the stage of his arrival. The only goal of the game, scored by my beloved Arsenal was the last kick of the match…I missed it…bloody missed it, as said plumber wanted to show me what the issue re the stop cock was all about. Bollocks!

  1. Christ-sake Mike! Plumbing in Victorian houses is a nightmare. They did not seem to get the biz of keeping it simple. Behind every wall is usually a pipe and that pipe usually has water in it though why it should no-one knows. In fact there’s not just one pipe there’s a fucking network. May this be the last of your problems. To get back to your story it is marvellous. She is a great creation. Nothing wrong with some controversy.

    1. Well you nailed that one…said plumber just returned to check all was well…under the floorboards in miscreant room he just showed me a London Underground map of pipe work! Plus, unbeknownst to him he’s trod cat shit all over out new stair carpet…deep joy!

  2. WOW! Your use of imagery is magnificent as always, my friend, but I do with I had a tangible photo of the shoeless fat pig general so I could truly see just how tiny his feet were! 😉 ❤

    1. Tell you what Rachel…I saw this post as a cartoon, except I cannot draw, paint etc. Oh, and by the way, in the room Shirl named ‘Rachel’s Room’ we found the source of a water leakage spreading down walls and ceilings in the two floors below…thankfully, on Sunday a pissed plumber who had been in the pub all afternoon eventually resolved said problem (in jusy 30 seconds)…pity Shirl with all the painting she has to do when everything dries out! Deep joy.

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