Nov 23, 2010

The Sneaky Metaphor and The Silly Similie.















-----------------------------------------------------------------



Part One



Though the text was spaced for easy reading, Professor James Franklin MacCoddleswap's rubbery lips moved silently as he examined the single page report.
      Even with the help of his finger nails tracing the lines,  it still took him an atrocious four minutes and thirty seven seconds to read the whole page.
      Finally, with a gasping sigh that suggested he hadn't understood any of it, he shoved the report across the desk and curled his lips with distaste.
      "Oh jolly jam hot spot," he said to me. "I hate it when we find these things." 
      Next to the report on his desk was a revolver - a well used 1970's NSW police issue Smith and Wesson.   
      He noticed I was staring at it and he picked it up with two fingers. He pretended to examine the bolt where the paint had chipped off and showed the bare metal.



     "Expecting trouble? I asked.
      He ignored me and concentrated on caressing the muzzle of the gun.
      "Didn't think so," I said.
      He glanced up, squinted at me over his glasses. "Watch your tongue," he said. "I'm trying to be nice to you."
     "You kept me waiting two hours."
     "And with very good reason."
     I said: "It's unprofessional for a shrink to run late."
    MacCoddleswap blushed. "My boy, that's only your opinion. I worked horrendously hard to get where I am today. And my position often gives me a great deal of pleasure. Just like now, when I get to tell you the wonderful news."
     "And that is....?"




      "My good friend," MacCoddleswap said, "I'm afraid the chaps in the lab feel you've been a little sneaky." 
      He pronounced the word 'sneaky' with undue emphasis and I sat straighter in my chair.
     MacCoddleswap continued. "They are very concerned," he said. "And so am I. You haven't quite lived up to our agreement.."
     I sat up quite rigidly now and crossed my arms over my chest. "I've stuck to the rules as well as I could."
     MacCoddleswap guffawed. His adam's apple moved up and down in his neck. It reminded me of a flapping fish wedged in a pelican's gizzard.
     I watched him carefully as he placed the gun down. He placed the gun on the report so it didn't scratch the dark cherry wood of the desk.
     "Rules?" he said. "Oh poppleycock! You, my fabulous Feenian friend have been at it again, haven't you? It's the very  first thing you do after our sessions. Admit it."
     I looked up at the ceiling. "Not the first thing," I said.
     "Don't deny you've been burning the midnight oil every night this week. Mark my words, eventually you'll run out of wick. You're racing to the end of it."
      I blinked. Run out of wick? I thought that was a bit personal - and said so.
     "Nothing's secret here," he said. "Pretend I'm your considerate conscience. Aren't you supposed to be reading books rather than poking people in the eye with your illustrations?"
      I didn't blink, held his gaze. I recognised the hidden words of course.
     Burning. Sneaky. Racing.
     He was using all the right words. They'd been Illustration Friday prompts over the last few weeks. He knew it and I knew it.
     Something was going on here, something I didn't understand.
     "You can't go on," he said. "Apart from your wick, something else will give. Probably your corpus christi cerebullum. It's already looking like a Peruivian pickled pizza parlour. It all has to stop."
      "Never," I said. "You've mixed me up with someone else. There's another Finnie around here somewhere."
     "You mean that that sparkling chap in New Zealand? The gay and lesbian one? The one who wears a codpiece on his head? Oh have no fear, we're onto him too."
      MacCoddleswap picked up the gun on his desk by the trigger guard. With the other hand he shoved the report across the desk at me.
     Though it was upside down I pretended to read it.
     I didn't need to read it of course. I knew what was on the report already - after all, I'd written it    - not that I'd tell MacCoddleswap that.
      Let him find out for himself.
     Obviously we were getting nowhere. On the spur of the moment I decided to try another tack - something I'd learnt as a Sunday School teacher when I was trying to get the kids to behave.
     Instead of reading the report I decided to stare at him.





   MacCoddleswap was an ugly man so I started at the best part - his eyes.
   Now I took more notice I saw that his face was obnoxiously horrid.  Not only did his face make me want to mix my metaphors, but to go into flights of ridiculously lurid similies - it was the only real way to describe what I saw.
  MacCoddleswap's eyes were mostly dirty green, illuminated by flecks of cardigan grey that speckled his irises like faded and abandonned Macdonald's hamburger wrappers in a park of dead grass. His eyelids were red and inflamed liked broken blisters, the base of the eyelashes caked with yellowish specks - blepahritus - literally inflamation of the eyelids. Unkindly I hoped the blepharitus was terminal. I'd heard somewhere that in one in three million cases the victim needed amputation at the neck.
   Gradually I let my gaze wander to his nose.
   It was a bad move.



   Obviously MacCoddleswap had once been a rugby player. His nose was pushed to the his right side and fishooked up so I could see into his nostrils. His nostrils were small, dirty caves, the spiky nasal hairs jutting into the dark recesses like tarnished stalagmites. I guessed that somewhere in that foetid lushness was hiding a pea sized brain.
   By now he seemed to know what I was up to, and twisted his head ever so slightly to spoil my line of sight.
   That didn't stop me. Casually, and without fear, I continued my visual degustation of his face.
   Beneath the nose I discovered the dry river bed of his nasal labial cleft. Deeper than normal, it could only mean one thing - that he'd been an only child - and been a spoilt one at that.
   My gaze lingered on that cleft, imagining that when he cried and his nose ran it became a disgusting bubbling brook of watery nasal excrement.
  I think my disgust finally showed on my own face because by the time I reached his mouth, he was wriggling uncomfortably in his chair.
  I realized he'd had enough when he started to waved the gun around in my direction.
  "Oh do stop staring!" he said. "It's so tiring."
  I continued staring at his mouth.
  Suddenly MacCoddleswap swore. He banged the butt of the gun on the desk.
   "Hot damn! That's it! You can't push me like this. Do you know who I am? I've had enough. You're pushing the wrong bells and all the dings have been donged!" He grabbed the buzzer on his desk like it was a dead rat.
   Unperturbed I kept staring at his mouth and said: "Still having your injections?"
   His hand stopped at the buzzer. "Injections?"
  "I heard you'd been volunteered for botulism tests....."
  Something within him snapped then, his fat lips began to vibrate with anger, the ora-serratta widened, his fibrillating cheeks went beetroot, his eyes bulged like unopened tulips ready to burst and, for a second, his face swelled and his lips, obscene and ripe, beckoned to me like a shiny bubbling waterfall of wet, pink pigs' bladders.
   "It's Botox, you idiotic imbecilic ingrate," he said.
   "Botox?" I glanced at the half dead flowers on his desk. "There's rosemary for rememberance? And there's pansies, that's for thoughts," I said. "But Botox for beauty? Too late for you I'm afraid."
   MacCoddleswap's fingernails were long and curved like claws. With a piggish grunt he jabbed at the buzzer over and over until a foreign accented voice answered.
    He lent close to the speaker and shouted: "Svetlana!"
    A minute passed. The door behind me opened. A thick chested woman clumped in, stood against the wall on the right of the door. Except for the orange hair and the dress she might have been MacCoddleswap's twin.
   But not quite. Unbelievably she was even uglier than MacCoddleswap.





    "This hunk of sveltic beauty is Svetlana," MacCoddleswap said. "Svetlana ich bin ein Easter Berliner. Before the wall came tumbling down, she used to make 1000 Kronor a day. Not bad for a woman with a wooden leg and the IQ of an under-ripe grapefruit."
   "Doing what?" I asked, ignoring his atrocious German. I had poor taste in women but even I could see that    Svetlana was too ugly to be a prostitute. Perhaps, if her hair had been longer, she might have been in high demand as an orangatang impersonator for childrens' birthday parties.
   But I doubted it.
   "Oh, jolly jumbucks! Just wait and see," MacCoddleswap said.
    He'd finally had the guts to put the revolver down. Every now and then his red rimmed eyes glanced at it to make sure it was still there.
    Unsteadily he climbed to his feet and opened the curtain that covered most of the left side wall of his office.
    Behind the curtain was a sliding glass door. When the curtain was fully open I could see through the door into the next room. In the room about eight men were sitting on chairs. The chairs were arranged neatly around the walls of the room. The men had been dressed in the same grey overalls I usually wore. Though they were not three feet from each other, none spoke. I wondered if they'd been drugged.
    In one corner three other men were lying face down on the floor, not moving.
    "It must be time for me to go," I said.
    MacCoddleswap shook his head sadly. "Dear dolly me, I'm very afraid I can't let that happen," he said.
    Reflexively I sat forward in my chair. Behind me I could feel Svetlana take two lumbering steps towards me. There were false teeth on the desk. I pretended to admire their sleek plastic finish.
    MacCoddleswap grinned. 'They were my grandmother's. I keep them there so they remind me of her smile." His own grinned widened and I saw that his own canine teeth were yellow. I shivered. The grin on his face was as out of place as a cheap Christmas ornament on the wall of a funeral parlour.
    "You love to mix your metaphors," he said.
    "So what? That's not a crime."
   His grin vanished. He held his right hand out and spread the fingers. He tapped each one with the black barrel of the revolver. The metal clicked against each of his long yellowed fingernails.






    "Let's go over a few points," he said. "Point one. What about your book, the one you're supposed to be working on?"
    "Give me a chance," I said.
    "You've had your chance. Three weeks is enough. Point two. Not only did you use passive tense, but you mislead your readers on that last post."
    "What post was that?"
    He looked at me accusingly.
    "Oh.... " I said. "You mean the Secret of The Dancing Ducks.... I explained all that."
    "So don't be shy. Explain it to me."
    "It was purposeful misdirection. Everyone forgave me. To be honest I had every intention of telling the truth but I ran out of space"
    MacCoddleswap guffawed. He tapped the barrel of the gun on his fingernail again. "Point three.... "
   He paused and I noticed he was staring at the lower part of my face
    "Listen," he said. "You've got food on one of your chins. Do wipe it off, will you? It's making me feel squeamish."
    I didn't touch my face. Instead I kept my hands at my sides and stared out through the glass doors. The silent eyed men in the next room hadn't moved an inch. I kept staring.
    Eventually MacCoddleswap took the bait and followed my gaze.
   I took my chance. Surrepticiously I wiped my chin.
    He was right. There was a glob of sticky white stuff just below my bottom lip.
    I wiped it off with my index finger and held my fingertip up. In the poor light of his office it was hard to see clearly. The blob appeared to be whipped cream mixed with brown sugar and a small piece of honey coloured croissant - yesterday's breakfast.
   Unfortunately the cream would have gone off by now.
    MacCoddleswap was still gazing curiously into the next room, so I wiped the blob on the back of my chair. It would do the velour good.
    After a minute MacCoddleswap looked back at me. His eyes narrowed and he seemed to realise that I'd been leading him on. Apparently he was as stupid as he was ugly.
   That raised my hopes. Unfortunately.
    "Now where were we?" he asked.
    "Point five," I said.
    MacCoddleswap seemed confused. Then a light blinked on behind his eyes. It was only a dim light, but it was definitely a light.
    "So we've covered point three, passive tense?" he asked slowly.
    "Yes," I said.
    "Mis-spelling?"
    "Definitely."
    He grunted. "You're not lying to me I hope?"
    "Never," I said.
    He looked down at the report on his desk. There was a gold pen in his jacket pocket. He took it out, held it between two fingers and ticked off a few boxes.
    "Ahhah!" he said. "We didn't cover point three and a half - 'trying to write like a cheap detective novelist'. I'd remember if we had."
    I clapped my hands together, imitating his sudden enthusiasm. He didn't notice.
    "Oh we did," I said. "Don't you recall? You accused me of being a Dashall Hammett impersonator."
   MacCoddleswap screwed up his face so much I thought the tip of his nose would poke him the eye.
"Dashall who?"
   "Ha, very funny," I said. I stood up from my chair. "Time to go when you start making bad jokes."
In an instant Svetlana's hand crushed my shoulder. She forced me back into the chair.





    MacCoddleswap said: "We haven't finished yet."
   "My normal shrink only gives me two hours," I said.
    "Your normal shrink doesn't work for the government," he said.
    "Okay. I give up what's point five?"
    "I'm afraid it's in regard to the pictures at the very end of this post. The ones with that sneaky kid stealing those ducklings."
    "What's wrong with that?"
    "Well, for a start, they're not ducks they're geese."
    I shifted uncomfortably. The velour was starting to give me a rash even through the overalls.
    "No one will notice," I said.
    "Balls," MacCoddleswap said. "If I can see they are geese then anyone could.."





    As if to underline his statement MacCoddleswap did the contortionist act with his nose again. This time he twisted the tip so high he looked like an albino monkey having an epileptic attack.
    I tried not to laugh. Instead I nodded.
    "Yes I can see your point."
    "I'm afraid you need a rest," he said.
    "I just had a rest."
    "Rest? I've heard you are working on a commission."
   I didn't say anything.
   "And," he added snidely, "another book."
   I kept my lips buttoned, didn't tell him I hadn't even sent off  the first one yet.
   He changed tack then. "How much do you weigh?"
   After a moment I told him.
   He blinked. "Pardon?"
    I told him again - this time in pounds and stones instead of kilograms to make it easier on his brain.
   He looked astonished. His lips started fibrillating again.
   "That's it," he said. He nodded sideways at Svetlana.
   Svetlana was quick. Before I could move she'd dragged me out of my chair.
   I tried not to cry out, but she had a death grip on my hair and was doing her best to scalp me.
   "Take him to Room 13," MacCoddleswap said. "Two weeks."
   "That's not right," I said. "
   Svetlana dragged me by the hair toward the door. I grabbed at the chair, missed it. At the doorway I stamped on her foot.
   She laughed at me.
  "MacCoddleswap!" I said. "You're making a mistake. Don't let it end like this. It's just not right!"
   MacCoddleswap came out from behind the desk. "Hold on Svetlana," he said and peered at me through his spectacles. "What's not right?"
    "You can't lock me away. I haven't answered my comments yet. There's blogs I want to visit."
   I pointed at the paper on his desk. "Read the back of the report. Then give me a few hours at least."
    MacCoddleswap picked up the report from his desk. I think the excitement was too much and his brain had stopped working. He scratched his chin to look intellectual.
    "It's on the other side," I said, indicating with my hands how he should turn the page over.
    Eventually MacCoddleswap found the back of the page. Eventually he even found the list - the list being the only thing on the page.
    He put the report back on the desk, turned his back to me, then lent over the desk like a school master and read the names slowly, out loud, having as much trouble with the English ones as the foreign ones.
    When he was finished he grunted and said "Too bad. Take him away."
    Svetlana didn't need to be told again. With one fist she banged open the door, the other fist dragged visciously at my hair. 
    As she dragged me out into the corridor I managed one last glimpse of MacCoddleswap.
    Already he'd gone over to the glass doors. He slid them open so he could see unobstructed into the next room. He had the revolver in his hand again. With the revolver in his hand he watched the mannequin men, the way they sat against the walls with those blank eyed stares.

    We'd made several turns down the corridor, heading for the east wing, when I heard the shot. It was muffled by the walls, but a shot never the less.
    Then came the sound of a man screaming softly.
    And, finally, just like in a John Le Carre novel, another shot. Then silence.
    As we reached Room 13 I couldn't help myself. I began to laugh.






    Svetlana never loosened her grip, but she was curious all the same.
    She said in her broken English "Vat's up with you Fennee? Why do you laff?"
    "Oh no reason," I said.
    How could I make her understand that finally at least part of me was happy.
    She wouldn't understand that, at long last, the gun had been fired. She wouldn't understand that I could finish up my story now.
   Well the first part anyway.
   The second part - the part about The Secret of The Dancing Ducks - well that would have to wait for two weeks - when MacCoddleswap finally let me out of Room Thirteen.
   And he would let me out of course.
   That's if I made all the right promises.




Author's Note

Well oh dear, I'm still here and I'm so sorry I haven't got back to some of you. You know who you are. Heh. I'll be at your place this arvo. They've decided to let me out for a break and I noticed an abandonned laptop outside room 15 and a half.
What follows is a kind of apology for my last post. The one about "The Secret of the Dancing Ducks." It's a work in progress.

The images below an at the beginning of the post are all a WIP.  From: The Secret of The Dancing Duck. Also known as "IF: Sneaky."

Have you seen Elizabeth Seaver's birds? If you are after great bird paintings check out her site. These Ducks are a nod to her wonderful images.

For me, I'll be back in a few weeks when I get out of  Room 13.
Thank you for being so patient with me :)























































34 comments:

  1. Wow, am I actually first? This is amazing. Where do find the time for all the writing, the multiple illustrations and a commission for a difficult client to boot? ;) Insufferable bragging eh, hmmm, didn't read any of that. Great story and I love the ducks. That is one ugly guy though and I think you are right, your Svetlana is maybe uglier. Have a good hideaway while you are locked away.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I really enjoyed reading this, I couldn't stop! You write so interestingly, it's hard to look away. So we will get to know the secret of dancing ducks after all? Haha. Well, I hope you'll be let out of room 13 sometime in the near future!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Hello my dear Mr. Finnie! As soon as I read that there was a revolver involved... I had to keep reading to make sure that it would be fired. I knew you wouldn’t break the unwritten rule :o) I feel so honored that in your short release from room 13, that you stopped by and left me a comment! (and an absolutely spirit-lifting/ego-building comment at that!) I don’t know how you stared at the professor that long. I had to scroll past that ugly mug quickly, but then I was rudely greeted by the even uglier Svetlana! I hope the gruesome duo doesn’t torture you... especially to the point of damaging your brain or your creative hands. I’m a little selfish and I want to find out how Svetlana made a living, and the secret of the dancing ducks. If I send you a hand written letter, will it get to you if I simply address it Andrew Finnie Room 13? Take care and mark the days on the wall so you don’t lose track of time.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Il n'est pas aisé pour moi de tout comprendre... mon anglais est bien pauvre ou je pense qu'il y a des tournures de phrases qui font que hop je décroche parfois!!
    Les illustrations sont terriblement attachantes. Votre ballet d'oies me fait craquer. Je succombe aussi sur le gilet de votre personnage James Franklin...
    Je vous envoie plein de bonnes pensées et si votre appétit est toujours présent je vous invite en France pour une petite virée dégustative... Bisous

    ReplyDelete
  5. Oh, bravo, BRAVO! I am standing on my chair and giving you a standing O and high-fiving you at the same time! When the gun went off, I busted out laughing and nearly choked on my own spittle. Hahaha! Oh look, now I am on the floor kowtowing to you. LOVE the ominous ducky shadows. (Coincidentally, that's about the only shadow shape I can make with my hands.) And Svetlana's come-hither stance is a big turn on. Now I am doing cartwheels in excitement. Have fun in Room 13, my amazing friend! Make sure you take good care of that wick!

    ReplyDelete
  6. You have an imagination like no other. No other that I know of at least. I can understand that you are too busy for blogging. You should be writing books all the time. All that imagination must be out to use! But of course, while waiting for your books, I really appreciate the splurge of imagination shared here on your blog :-)

    ReplyDelete
  7. Fantastic. Fantastic. Fantastic!!

    ReplyDelete
  8. These illustrations look frighteningly real. The man reminds me of that comedian Democratic senator from Minnesota who used to be on Saturday Night Live. I have to read this next time because I am still trying to sneak in my Sneaky illustration... I want to know what everyone is talking about, especially the gun!

    ReplyDelete
  9. I got your message! :) YOU are right, I need to take that one word out - is that what you meant? he he he. Like i said, coming from you i take it as the highest compliment...so I WILL!!! I ll be back to read this "sneaky" story while the turkey is cookin'! just wanted to pop in quick - xxx

    ReplyDelete
  10. I think you could beat these charges with a decent attorney. What about freedom of speech?! I just love your writing and love the way the illustrations help tell the story. Love the dancing ducks too. Thanks for making me laugh!!

    ReplyDelete
  11. Wonderful and horrible, with all due respect to your mad illustration skills! I had to focus my eyes to make sure I was seeing clearly with this one! Your stories are always hilarious, but I think this is the one that's going to send all of us to room 13! ;o) Btw, is this the same door you hinted about quite a few weeks back?

    ReplyDelete
  12. Where in the world do you come up with these incredible stories? And find the time to make these incredible pictures? I am in awe.

    ReplyDelete
  13. oh, lieber Andrew... welch großes Schaffen in jedem einzelnem Wesen, manches macht mich ein wenig traurig und manches sogar etwas Angst, ist es möglich, daß meine Seele so fühlt? es ist so eine eigene andere Welt, die sich mir auf den Bildern zeigt, vielleicht habe ich heute auch Weltschmerz, und muß es so sehen, liebe Grüße von Jasmin...

    ReplyDelete
  14. Brilliant! Brillianter! Brilliantest!
    Thank-you for sharing your awesome talents with us.
    Just please keep them coming!

    ReplyDelete
  15. !!!
    Amazing!
    Fantastic history!
    greetings from Brasil,
    li

    ReplyDelete
  16. I beg your pardon, Mr. Finnie. I seem to have stubbed my toe on what appears to be a brain. Is it yours? I only ask if it's yours because I took a peek inside -- you know, to see whose it was. And I saw a pair of bosoms.

    ReplyDelete
  17. When does the time machine come into it? Because I know you must have one to create so much amazing stuff in rapid fire! Enjoy your stay in Room 13... you deserve a rest!

    ReplyDelete
  18. Sometimes i forget how great it is to read your stories. When i said i'll visit you tonite i meant to say thank you for writing me and yes see you in two but,
    hello Andrew....u drunk.
    ;))
    as always, u know i love it.
    bravo,
    old friend.

    ReplyDelete
  19. great story...I was expecting the shot as soon as I find out about the gun (the rule) and I'm not disappointed :)
    Mr. MacCoddleswap and Svetlana are quite scary, the way they behave makes me wonder about their lives...will we get to know more about them in the future? I also wonder why they have one particular duck (or goose) in a cage and the others are wandering free around the office. Has it something to do with the secret?
    Ok, I hope you tell us more when you finally get out of room 13.
    Good luck finding a way out!

    ReplyDelete
  20. Estimado: Estoy solo en el primer gargarismo-google, estoy atrapada en el detalle de los surcos de la nariz, profudizare en mi roto ingles en lo que me queda de noche... por ahora un enorme saludo.

    AOC.

    ReplyDelete
  21. Bien, yo como Antonia, estoy algo perdido. No importa, ya sabes, unas semanas yo entiendo, y otras semanas no. De todos modos las ilustraciones, como siempre, son de primer nivel.
    Por aquí está comenzando la época de las lluvias, así que pronto podremos nadar en el río.
    Abrazos (desde el Club de Abrazadores Anónimos)

    ReplyDelete
  22. Bueno, realmente, que Andrew se haya ido no es motivo para no seguir dejándo comentarios. ¡Seguidores infieles!
    Andrew, yo seguiré dejando comentarios hasta que vuelvas!!!!!

    ReplyDelete
  23. Andrew, yo sigo viniendo a tu blog!!!
    Magnífica ilustración!!!!!
    Felicitaciones!
    really not fun to leave comments when we know someone will read them. The funny thing is to leave them when we know that no one is there to read.

    ReplyDelete
  24. Eh .... me again.
    I feel like I'm alone, like I was "The Lone Commentator"
    oh ... in the vastness of the plain blogger !!!!!

    ReplyDelete
  25. I am the faithful commentator, who returns, even if the blog owner is not. ha ha!

    ReplyDelete
  26. Well, you're not here...

    Still in boot camp? Or was it..err.. what did you say it was? Special "surfer-eye poker-writer-misspeller-health gadget operator" meditation camp? No? Well I hope you brought along your high boots to keep warm and, umm, doggie snack for Svetlana? She might be the closest to company you'll ever get there!!(harrharharrhaarr...)

    But seriously. Have I ever told you I suck at drawing ugly faces?? It's just SO hard... I always start with a round face, a big nose, but then I'd end up with a duck or a dawg instead. And you?? You do cute, handsome, pretty and ugly all with equal finesse! One more thing to add into my "Envy Finnie" list... (though I don't envy you for Svetlana).

    Well, enjoy the time off, doctor. Don't forget that souvenir I asked! And the bubble wrapper too! Heheheeheehhhh...

    ReplyDelete
  27. Oh, I MUST Keep a notepad at the ready for your posts, because I have a glee-filled comment every few seconds and by the time we reach the clima--the end of the post, I can't remember them all!

    All I can remember are these:

    How does one know if the cream has gone off without licking it? HUH?

    And the bit about how it took him a while to find the list, and it was the only thing on the paper? HA!

    Thank goodness that gun went off... I mean, if you're going to be a detective novelist like Dashielle!

    ReplyDelete
  28. Yowza! I'm feeling all claustraphoby-ish! Get me outta here! This guy has bad breath, along with his ocular diseases. Eeeeeewww! Sorry I won't be able to visit you in there, I think I have other plans... if not, I'll make some.

    ReplyDelete
  29. I'm going back to Happysnowmanland. Alas, if you weren't locked up, I'd invite you over.

    Peace to you, my brother.

    (And because I know you love these comment codes, happy UNIZZING in there.)

    ReplyDelete
  30. Hey you! I was beginning to worry that you got stuck behind that door! Thanks for stopping by to say that you're still above the surface! :o)

    ReplyDelete
  31. Andrew,
    it seems that arrived slightly late for the comment ...
    I had read a few days ago, but unfortunately, many stretches were confused, with the translator .... and this time you gave us a history almost complete unless the mystery of the dance of the ducks, which still hangs in the air ... and I was very scared with the Svetlana , the 'beautiful' sister/mate/assistant, of MacCoddleswap!
    and I thought cool you being in history!

    As for the illustrations .... wow!
    are too good, great, perfectly flawless!
    ;) ducklings are very very beautiful!

    well, I think the mechanics of brains,
    did a great job! :))

    rainy greetings from the [almost] summer
    in São Paulo
    a hug!

    ReplyDelete

Hya! Thank you so much for leaving a comment. I appreciate your time and thoughts.