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Training


I'm hiding, waiting in secret. I'm learning. I'm sitting in the kitchen of the millionaire's house (I'm the maid's friend and lover) who can notice me? I'm biding my time until my personal 1917 will thunder in. But until then I scrub the rooms, or I touch up a door, or I screw in a bolt, or sew a skirt, or alter pants I earn my keep. The wife of a lord a visitor from London paid me a compliment yesterday, Such beautiful boots you have! I wanted to reply by telling her, What a nondescript mug you have. You and your queen too. But I kept quiet. I'm not going to insult her, I thought. What does she know about me, anyway?

A friend or lover of the same lady a famous architect, passing through the kitchen to get his yet another drink, glanced at my hands and became ecstatic. You have the hands of a creative person, he proclaimed. This time I couldn't deny myself the pleasure and said carefully and with malice that only I could appreciate: Perhaps of a destructive person, who knows?

That's how I walk in the midst of enemies. I learn, I sit quietly in a corner. I don't open my mouth much, I do more listening. I'm waiting, gathering my strength. Then we'll talk. At the moment, I'm in training.

And that lady from London she even has her own elephant. I saw the picture: she's sitting on her elephant. In London.



* * * | Diary of a Loser | * * *