Follow Your Saint. No, Seriously, Follow Your Saint!

In honour of the lovely song that I've been singing to myself all
morning (yes as a receptionist in a pilates studio), let's have a little 17th century sing-a-long:

Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet ;
Haste you, sad noates, fall at her flying feete :
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrowe pitie moue,
And tell the rauisher of my soule I perish for her loue.
But if she scorns my neuer-ceasing paine,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and nere returne againe.

All that I soong still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first ; still she my songs did end.
Yet she my loue and Musicke both doeth flie,-
The Musicke that her Eccho is and beauties simpathie ;
Then let my Noates pursue her scornfull flight:
It shall suffice that they were breath'd and dyed for her delight.

- Thomas Campion

(For a real Thomas Campion karaoke experience visit: http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/follow.htm, where the music is played for you on a harpsichord!)

I have seen it.

I have seen it my friends. I have seen it.

Yesterday I was in well known coffee chain. This well known coffee chain tends to have washrooms at the back of their establishment. A little door. A little room. And, well, you get the picture. Well yesterday I needed to visit said room and I went to the sign and lo and behold there were stairs. This unnerved me.

But I went down the stairs. They turned and twisted deeper deeper down into the bowels of the coffee establishment. Deeper past unknown rooms, past unknown sounds and smells. Deeper still, the yellow walls fading to a murky brown. To a door. A door marked with a sinister silhouette of a woman. Tentatively I pushed on it. I entered.

Sitting there on the toilet bowl, looking at me plaintively, was a roll of toilet paper.

With no hole.

No hole in the middle.

"Uh hi."

What madness is this?

We spent a short time together, and then as quickly as I could, I left and ran as fast as was possible back up the stairs. Back past the strange sounds and smells. Back into the light. Never to return again.


I have seen it my friends,
where the long stairway ends,
and yellow hall wends,
it awaits on the bowl.

It awaits on the bowl
like the stories you've heard
and they're true, every word
what you've learned of the roll.

What you've learned of the roll?
Yes it does have no hole.

And it's here for your soul.
And you'll know that it's true,
when it calls out to you,
to come visit the loo.

For I've seen it my friends,
where the long stairway ends,
and yellow hall wends,
it awaits on the bowl.

Contact

We've made contact with Freddy.

There is a hole in ceiling of the storage units high above the sink and shower of our bathroom (kinda like the song: "there's a germ on the flea on the hair on the wart on the frog on the bump on the long in the hole in the bottom of the sea").

He has found his way into said units and rustles away in there.

One day my housemate opened one of the doors to check it out and I watched in the reflection of the mirror. There he was.

"Freddy you little f*****!"

A little grey head, eye contact and then a scurry back into the roof.

I have seen the monster, and he's awfully cute.







But still annoying as hell.