Dear, gentle reader…
I find myself in the unenviable position of having what is now commonly known as an ‘early start.’ That is, being woken at a premature hour from sounds within the household which, due to their persistence, have kept me from sleep since one o’clock this morning. My condition of insomnia has not, as some might think, been caused by the controversy yesterday’s eatery discussion has caused among the Ton, but by a rather talkative husband unable to differentiate wakefulness from hypnagogia.
That aside, I find myself at your most early convenience, alert of mind and aural capacity, and taking tea at a most unusual hour in the drawing room. This, being the ‘season’, all households of decent society must throw wide the windows and French doors to accommodate the heat, and thus, I lay myself open to the sounds from without the house: the sounds of very early morning. One might say the sounds of the children of the night. What music they make.
Music, that is, as pours forth from what we shall call White’s, the gentlemen’s club across the harbour, so enthusiastic in its revelry at two in the morning. This, however, is not unpleasant or cause for alarm, being only audible when the doors are flung wide, and even then, the ensuing music is reticent. It must be, for I can also hear the lap of waves against the quayside some two-hundred feet below to the north, a most comforting sound. Or, it would be, if not accompanied by the inescapable strains of ‘Happy Birthday’, and I speak here not of the established rendering, but of an altogether more modern (and some would say, failed) attempt to refashion the trusty favourite.
I do not have to sit listening for long before the unmatched sounds of a society ball and the movement of the sea are overcome by something of even more interest, that of an unusual bird call. At first, one might be forgiven for thinking it is the ‘Manos Parot’ of Yialos fame, but it is more local. It is also repetitive and clearly the call of a night bird, though not of the owl. Had we them on the island, I might venture a fox, though only half a fox cry, as I remember them from my rural youth. I tried, dear reader, to capture the sound on the Samsung phonograph, but alas, as is often the way of fortune, no sooner had I readied the machine to record, than the unusual sounds ceased. I am reminded of the words from Sondheim’s entertainment, ‘Into the Woods’: Opportunity is not a length visitor.
This interruption of the bird’s song may have been due to youth. Not the youth of the bird in question, but the no-doubt male youth and his conviction that the louder the thing between one’s legs, the larger the general public assumes it to be. I can assure the child in question, that not only is one not impressed with the volume of his motorised velocipede, but one is also unimpressed by the lengths to which he goes to advertise his lack of manners and manhood. To cause carburettish clamour for one length of the harbour wall may be considered excusable, but to repeat the unnecessity at length sounds like affliction. A disorder that suggests the youth in question needs more attention than he deserves. To this author’s mind, he deserves the indispensable attention of our most diligent of authorities to, perhaps, take away his new toy and replace it with something that would endear the offender to public respect rather than ridicule. They have plenty of opportunity to advance upon the being, for his chorus of cacophonic clamour begins on the far side of the harbour, and seemingly lasts until he has reached the upper village some fifteen minutes later.
After this nocturnal nuisance, now since faded, we are left with the gentle lapping outside, the unwanted persistence of a mosquito inside, and the ramblings of the sleeping husband in the next room. Thus, I turn my attention to the page and pen, aware that this is not my usual quick note on events of the day, but something far more pompous written in a state of somnambulistic stupor. Rest assured, dear reader, that a more traditional service will be resumed on these pages before long.
Ps. Yes, I have been watching Bridgeton. Yes, only three hours sleep. Yes, the photos are unrelated.
Pps. I don’t care.
