a dinner invitation.
Chere Alice!
The queerest thing occured yesterday. I was about my afternoon sunbathe when a frightful group of camera-clicking tourists aroused violently me from my siesta. I would have told them off summarily with my teeth and claws, but they managed to have me completely flabbergasted before I could even bellow.
They moseyed about my parlor, chatting in their inperceptable heathen tounge, casually breaking pieces off of my furnishings and popping them into their mouths! Apparently, they found this practice both nourishing and delicious, for one of them peered directly up into my face with a dreamy expression upon hers and commented that my samovar tasted exactly like truffle seasoned with saffron.
And I'll be corn-swoggled, but do you know that she was perfectly right?
By the end of the afternoon, I'd served up the fouton, the formica kitchen table and matching chairs, the corning ware, the silver service, and all those semi-tacky stackable storage units, which, I add, tasted just perfectly of a finely ripened havarti with dill.
The french tapistry, however, is only a little bit nibbled upon, tasting heavily of Anise.
My parlor and dinette were undeniably bare by the time the party left, somewhere around vespers, but really, to quote, all I have lost were some versitile solutions for modern living.
If you are free some evening, my dear, would you care to join me for supper, while we sample all the flavors of my lounge, library, and boudoir?
yours,
Jabs.
