He's All Stalk

My dear friend, Poppy Tupper, is being cyber-stalked. She finds it all a terrible bore. I - being easily excited and often showing questionable judgement -  think it's a sign that she's arrived.

'Arrived where, darling?' drawled Poppy, tapping her Fabergé cigarette holder against my skull. 'I've not left the chateau for days. If I've failed to leave, then how - foolish chit - may I arrive?'

At least, I think she said chit ...

I changed the subject swiftly - to Trollope, gin and the Sport of Kings (Poppy's areas of expertise) and spent a pleasant hour in her company. Only a debate about celery and its collectives and singulars  -  does it come in heads, ribs or stalks? - brought our discourse back to perverted practices.

Still, I maintain that anyone who's anyone has a stalker. I've got Leonardo (the poor boy will not take a hint) whilst Leonardo himself has several potentially dangerous stalkers (given his startling resemblance to a potato).

At least Leonardo shows some artistic merit. (His films notwithstanding). There is nothing more dispiriting that an unimaginative stalker. Years ago, whilst working for a Commercial Estate Agent, I was the recipient of heavy breathing phone calls.

'Good Morning, Henry Moores and Son*. How many I help you?' I'd say and get Fuh, Fuh, Fuh, Fuh in response.

After several weeks of persistent asthmatic gaspings, I became exasperated.

'O, you are dull!' I said. 'All this breathing is boring the pants off me.' (Not the cleverest thing to say to a would-be pervert.) 'You could at least say something obscene.'

So he did. And it was.

The police caught him in the end. A solicitor across the street. 'They're the worst,' confided the policeman. 'All mouth and no trousers.'

Which was accurate as the no trousers bit was why the lawless lawyer got caught.

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