Tuesday, June 23, 2009

I interrupt this show to tell you that

I hired a couple of detectives and now have conclusive proof that our dear friend Anna FomP has been abducted by alien nuns and is living in seclusion somewhere on a remote island, but which remote island I am not at liberty to reveal. My informants did, however, go undercover and take this photograph - there's Anna on the left, just after being forced to take her vows by the mother superior. She is now known as Sister Boffinata of the Journals. And below is the cave that she sleeps in, it's actually one of the more luxurious ones. The thing about this particular order is that they are very big on Lent. So big, in fact, that it's always Lent and never Easter, which means that they are always doing penance of one sort or another.

Anyway, I'm sure you'll be grateful that I've kept you up to date with the situation - well someone had to. Do her a favour and pay a visit to her house. Word has it that if you make a big enough noise the sound will reach her, even in the murky depths of the cave.


trousers said...

Thank goodness for those detectives: it's good to have some news. I am simultaneously highly reassured and extremely fearful having seen that photograph of her.

Perhaps there is some device (or even, ritual) which could render Lent to be over?

Reading the Signs said...

Good thinking, Trousers, I feel sure you must be right and we need to come up with something quite soon because, well, look at her. This is what happens to people who get abducted and stop blogging, we should all take heed.

Need to think.

And where the blazes is The Doctor?

Mim said...

Never mind Lent. It's always Halloween in the UK!

Reading the Signs said...

Mim, I think you might be onto something. Yes - and now all we need to do is to prove to the Lenten abductors, and to Sister Boffinata herself (who is probably suffering from Stockhausen syndrome), that what you say is actually the case. Halloween rules, not Lent. Bring on the pumpkins.

Nicola said...

Lovely cave, Signs. Not sure I'd come out if I had one of those. I've just been over to visit and left a little something to tempt her. x

Cusp said...

Aha...so that's where she's been/is. Poor soul. Maybe she'll manage to dig a tunnel and then row ashore hiding treasure in her wimple.

Reading the Signs said...

oh no, Nicola, don't say that or she won't come out. We need to persuade her that life here on the (virtual) outside is really where it's at.

I doubt it, Cusp, she never struck me as the tunnel-digging kind - too intellectual. I think we might have to hire one of those cult-busting re-kidnappers to get her out.

Though on the other hand, we could just leave her there. It's a thought.

Anna MR said...

Beloved Signs, hei. How are you doing? I must say, first and foremost, a big thank you for finding me. Without you, you see, I might have forever stayed in the form of Eric Idle - what a fate, even for him himself, no? (And you may note I'm smoothly choosing to ignore your closing line (ah, what a cruel line) of "Though on the other hand, we could just leave her there. It's a thought." I'm super smooth and good at ignorance, as you may have noted, Signskins, but I'm not about to stick my neck out and ap*l*gise for my ignorant behaviour(s), for that habit (no pun intended) has left me punished most heinously, in the past. Oh no. No more poetic punishments for moi, sees my dear.)

I must, of course, thank you for bringing to the public fore the esteemed Sister Dominique-Nique-Nique. What a wonder, and, being as you are, a PWIM blogger, you may have noted (as you created the link of wonder) a certain resemblance with a certain someone and the fine Sr Nique-Nique - yes, the eyebrows, the spectacles, the faint, quaint, facial hair...Ah, you shouldn't let everyone know about my beautiful singing voice, I'm a shy bird, you know.

But yes, how are you doing? I have fallen into a hole, it seems, a hole of the lameness of one's keyboard tongue, and saying anything became rather an inexplicable impossibility. The other day, someone had called me up, and apart from being at work, I would have picked up (ah, the cruel fate of the working classes). That someone also left a text message, saying it was all a terrible accident, and I would - naturally enough - have replied, had not the lameness of keyboard tongue thing kept me quite lame and silent. However, today, it seems, I have managed to sneak behind the Superego which controls all lameness in a person (ask Mr Signs (to whom I send my sincerest wishes of well-being and tokens of friendship) if you don't believe me - I feel certain he's covered the Superego-controlled lameness in a person in his therapeutical shrinkology studies), for I believe the Superego currently sleeps in a nook of my broken back (I believe you and the esteemed Mr S have both suffered from this, too, this autumn, and I hope you're both feeling much better now. It would seem fair and reasonable, given that I have it now, and that the cosmic quota of broken-backedness remains consequently upheld), drugged, as it were, with the painkillers and thingumies.

Um. What the hell was I saying? Yes, hello and hei, that's certainly one thing. The word verification bastard beasties are saying uncere, which seems a tasteless and distorted opposite of "sincere", and I think they're being bang out of order to be insinuating such things. I prefer to interpret it as a typo on "unsere", which, as wir wissen, ist eine Referral zum der togetherness of die Spirit wir im Blogoslavia feelen k├Ânnen. Ja, wirklich, verily.

(I should be writing an essay, Signs. An essay to ensure that my unreasonable aim of a PhD in ten years doesn't stop with the laughable failure to complete the foundation course. Trouble is I should have twelve pages of excellence, and in its stead, I have seven pages of shite. What to do. What to do. Go go go, incidentally, on the NaNoWriMo thing. I would go too, if I had anything to say, and if I didn't have these unreasonable and laughable aims which I have decided to torture myself with, for reasons which haven't really become clear to me. I am watching this space, Signskins my dear, and have been all the time, even though you may not have seen me (invisibility cloak). Love all over you and hope things are just tickety-boo, in the way that life will allow.)


Reading the Signs said...

Hey there, FomPie - well I did actually spot you sans invisibility cloak over at Stallion's place. Pretty sure it was you (blogcrimes etc), and pretty chipper you looked too, as you do here, the heavens be praised. And like I said, seestah deah, I don't believe you're lame at all (the bastard WVL beasties are on to you, ha!) . Them crutches is just props, innit? But I won't breathe a word, honest.


Anna MR said...

Slonhas, comrade Signs (it is wvlspeak for "greetings" - close to the "slitzweitz" of gnome-language, the root of ancient Celtic tongues). I am, as you can plainly see, working my way out of the lametongue illness - it is a mere fortnight or so since I last said something here. Positively speedy, no? But oh woe with a hat on, you (along with Montag the Wise, it seems) have been more cunning than I thought, and seen through the deft disguise of thistledown I donned to speak at the Stable of the Stallion. And I thought I was being so clever. Deary me. Makes me wonder how many others saw right through me, to my naked blog-criminality? But not to worry, for I will never confess to anything, ever, anywhere (apart from here, and - to an extent - at the Montag House. But only hidden way down in old posts. I am wise and cunning).

But yes, hei. How are you doing? Judging by your recent post, pretty damn cleverly, you know. Well done on your Nanowrimo excellence. I have allowed myself be told it is a case of just *writing*, you know, no editing allowed *whatsoever* (time constraints assassinating the inner critic, and stuff). I hope you're keeping to this fine rule, and that you continue triumphantly to the full 50K glory. Cleverclogs you, I would love to see what you're writing. I am fairly certain it is wonderful.

I am, actually, going to write you a letter, before too long, oh yes I am. This is therefore only a brief hello. Hello, Signs, and loving salutations from the Northern Lands, also to the Signal Tribe.


(I took so long writing this they are now saying flund. You have the best word vers, you do.)