Thursday, April the 8th, 2004

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The Disgusting Bilge of Cadet Vig

Cadet Vig's bilge was disgusting. Most people remember him as the so-called “tiny cadet”, but I always think of his bilge. He kept it in a pail in his locker. I wrote the sign for him: Cadet Vig's Locker—Keep Out—My Disgusting Bilge Is in Here. He wanted it printed in 24pt Gill Sans Condensed, but I told him to shut up, and scrawled it with my nib. I will tell you all about my nib another time, on a day when the astrological signs are favourable to my doing so, that is, Toxin in the Fourth House with Gymnopédies rising and Cack in the Funnel of Smew. That old bat-headed man with the bandaged ear tells me that this conjunction is unlikely to occur for the next two score years and ten, so you will have to be patient, just as Cadet Vig was. I made him wait a year and a half for his sign, suffering as I was from whitlows and scrofula, but he never, ever complained. I think that was admirable, particularly for a cadet renowned for his rigour. Well, I should say for his rigour and his bilge, and indeed his tininess. Gosh, was there ever a tinier cadet? I suspect not. I had my amanuensis trawl through the records, just in case a cadet tinier than Cadet Vig had trodden these blue corridors at some time in the inconceivably distant past, perhaps during the time of the Great Dismal Thaw, but alack! nothing was found. Now I sit slumped in my boudoir staring at the one photograph of Cadet Vig in my possession. He has a forlorn expression in the picture, and looks as if he is chewing something, or about to chew something. The air, perhaps. There is a hummingbird on his cap, but whether it is real or made of styrofoam is hard to tell—the photograph is blurred. I try so hard to pin these things in prose, but how could I ever compete with Beerpint's poem? The old rugged cross / The cows in the field / [something, something] / And Vig [something]. Hand me that sandpaper. Crows have landed on the roof, and I have work to do.