Saturday, March the 18th, 2006

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Potted Autobiography

Occasionally the Hooting Yard postbox is choked with letters from readers all of which say, in so many words, “Frank, tell us what you're really like”. My natural diffidence makes me reluctant to respond to such pleas, but today I have changed my mind. Here, then, is a brief but devastatingly accurate pen-portrait of “Mister Hooting Yard”.

Unlike Maya Angelou, I have no idea why the caged bird sings. Nor am I particularly given to singin' and swingin' and gettin' merry like Christmas. On the contrary, I have an almost fathomless ignorance of ornithological matters and the Yuletide season will find me moping and lugubrious. Thus, if I am ever to write a series of memoirs, it will not do for me to plagiarise Maya Angelou's catchy titles. I will have to come up with my own ideas, and the strain of doing so makes it unlikely that I will be in a fit state to continue writing once I have hit upon the perfect title for the story of my own life. Of course, if I was able to get my hands on the Cordial Balm of Siriacum (see O Cure Me, below, 6th March) that might provide the fillip I need, and I would be able to type away energetically, regaling you with anecdotes from my past, attempting an amusing yet cogent dissection of my current state, and even looking forward to the future with the aid of psychic messages from a squirrel. I beg you to wait patiently, therefore, while I seek a reliable supply of the Cordial Balm. When I have done so, I shall continue with my potted autobiography.