Tickety-Boo #2
An apology from our Illustrious Editor, Mr E. Bear
Today’s featured article was meant to be released some time ago, a delay I must humbly beg apology for. Alas, recent calamity has rocked the publishing world to its core, as you might have noticed by the lack of paper on your breakfast tables these past few weeks. Breakfast of course was also the lesser because of the Great Honey Shortage (GHS), made all the worse by collapse in farming markets across the world in New Zealand and utter apathy on the part of bees everywhere.
It has been an Ordeal of the Highest Order, let me tell you. But…is that not what we are for, here at Tickety-Boo? Indeed, should we not take strength and power from this misery, leaning on our banner until we have the capability, nay, the wherewithal, to raise it once again and demand, “No-more Sir! Elevenses for all, not teatime!”
Anywho, Mr Holmes has been ever so obliging to promise unto us a further demonstration of his literary prowess and great humanity on the upcoming peace conference. However, today’s feature article is something of a mystery. It appeared alongside a pot of most unusual Honey from the Dark Continent, so I am sure the author is of similarly unusual but excellent taste and character. Do enjoy it.
…
It was a surprise and, may I say, delight to be…presented with this new paper tasked with the upliftment of Mankind. At my age, melancholy is a habit rather than a hindrance yet I do not dislike the temporary despoilment of ancient misery such a thing provides. I am not young, and time does not heal all things. It must be said, however, that Mr Edward Bear stoked a fire within my chest that has not yet proven fleeting. It has certainly made me consider my living arrangements if nothing else.
We are, all of us, entombed within the walls of our homes more often than not. Where we sleep, where we…reside, where we feast and hunger, where we plan and concoct, these places of ours are not mere residences but a part of our very being. No man with a song in his heart and a spring in his step returns home every day to a joyless abode or darkened hall. Dilapidated it might be, but love and warmth will coat its walls in a manner paint or blood never could. Similarly, a ruined fellow, who has taken the world upon his shoulders and been crushed by the weight, who walks bow legged and bent backed, might live in the mightiest of castles yet his hearth is cold and his possessions, though potentially ample, will be dim with dust and rust.
My homeland tis of me, any sweetness upon its wind spent over centuries of terrible war and tragedy. My ancestral place, a ruin of a castle, a mockery of a family seat, where never again shall a child laugh in delight nor a maiden swoon in genuine romance. Such is the way of things. The past may be a foreign country, but it encroaches like any imperialist upon that which it should by rights lay out of. Nothing is sacred these days.
I have decided to make a change, to remove myself from such entropy and re-join with society in another place. To live again, amongst the living of the modern age. Such a thing for me is fraught with difficulty, liturgical, logistical and…otherwise. To that end, very soon a fine Englishman will be arriving at my sorry dwelling. I hope he is not infected with its demeanour, but in all honesty this place hungers for more things than I care to mention.
Forgive me, a person of my unique condition slips often into rhapsody and unforgivable bouts of depression. As I was saying, each of us contains a part of ourselves within our homes and takes part of our homes away with us. So, what is to be done? Well, you must make your place fit for your purposes I suppose. For those whom require air, light, a connection to nature – all such things can be provided with a large window. Preferably unlatched. The more studious, independent, dare I say…lonesome types, they would presumably prefer a wall to wall, floor to ceiling library, shuttered windows, limited light sources, that sort of thing.
What I am getting at, distracted as I am with thoughts of dinner (never write hungry, my new friends) is that each of us is less in control of our moods than we might like to think. Our surroundings make us as much as we, human and animal alike, make our surroundings. The streets of London, as filled with delight and fancy as they are, also hide many monsters of your own making. How dark do those winding streets go? How loudly must you scream to pierce the thick fog and cries of machinery? How can any man feel healthy and full-blooded in a place that saps vigour and life like…well, regardless-
Perhaps the City is…not the best place for a person as of today. Still, I must see for myself and rest assured, dear readers, I shall report back to you on my findings. Should anyone wish to enquire upon my good self, I am sure I shall make myself known in your fair kingdom upon my arrival. For now, goodnight, and sleep well.
-The Most Ancient and Noble, Count Dracula, Defender of the Faith in Romania