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Monday October 30th 2017Tim Candler9

 

     For those who may be curious, and tempting though it might be, there is no suggestion of collusion drawn by your N scale enthusiast between the pure hearted Devotee of Diana, Alejandra Pachis and the young political weasel, or foreign policy advisor, Georges Papadopoulos. The Greek names are purely coincidental, a happy accident if you prefer. The whole point about N scale is to get as far away from the impasse between reason and passion as possible and dwell mightily upon simpler things. The answer to the question why? It's a fairly straight forward attempt to avoid becoming one of those who convert a chlorotic condition of old age into something other than pointlessly shouting at the frosts of change over which he has no control. Call it constructive fantasy or dementia, I don't care which. Sadly the world beyond has a habit of framing the details of the present and who knows why the beautifully named Georges Papadopoulos was riding the Pony Express with a letter from Oman for the young prince Saeed bin Saeed.

 

Past

     The horseman had taken the shortcut, an old rarely used ox drawn wagon route through the wilderness. Convinced he was lost to the world and would soon be set upon by fierce beasts, he pressed his unfortunate horse onward, both of them desperate to find signs of human habitat. It was a great relief to see Saeed's tents in the distance, a rising sun sparkling on the pennants of Muscat and Oman. He galloped through the valley, up the hill and in true Pony Express fashion he leapt from his moving horse and came skidding to a dusty halt inches from Alejandra and Saeed, who appeared to be engaged in some sort of pioneer head patting and silk pajama coming of age ceremony. Georges however was a busy man, and without messing about with anything like niceties he lifted a letter from his pouch, read the label and he announced "Anyone know where Mr. Said bin Said might be?" The youngest son of the Sultan of Oman had no great interest in learning the English language, and Alejandra had never heard of anyone called Said. Indeed this critical letter may well have gone astray had it not been for one of Saeed's seamstresses who boldly emerged from the seamstresses tent, and pointing at her prince in an accent that contained a hint of Wales she said "That's him. That's your man. He's right there. The rotter!"

 

 

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