Dapper in his fisherman’s sweater and jodhpurs embroidered with
silverfish, the jester thinks himself a fine figure of a man. In a good
light you might notice that his shirt is a little faded, that his shoes
are tawdry, that he still has a couple of rollers left at the back of
his hair, to illustrate the pains he has taken to in preparation. But
the light in the huts is not good, and so he looks at his reflection in
the polished coaster with unwarranted pleasure. He is the joker in the
pack of hosts at this national supper, at which octopuses will dance
with themselves, and herons fish for compliments. He furnishes the
whole affair with that air of demi-monde. Oh, the jester, the guests
will say: you know what he’s like, with his commas and his moons, his
fish-on-a-Friday, his xtra-large portions. Fishhooks and
knickerwhiskers, how he fancies himself. What a pollock!
The copyright of this post belongs to Jill Glenn
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