Zeer toevallig. Mijn eerste keuze om weer thuis te raken van op Melanies kot was de metro via Victoria line (de lichtblauwe). Unfortunately, there were no services on the
Dus nam ik eerst de Northern line (de zwarte) naar Embankment, daar de Circle line (de gele) naar Westminster en tenslotte de Jubilee (de grijze) naar Finchley.
Op de Circle line zag ik een Widgetposter nét boven de deur. Tralala, en die hing een beetje LOS.
Aan Westminster trok ik de Widget in één beweging uit z’n kader en marcheerde de metro uit onder afkeurend tonggeklak en getsk van de achterblijvers.
Mijn Widget hangt nu breed-lachend in room 116, Lord Cameron, Hampstead.
*tea-leaf is rhyming slang voor thief
10 comments:
Oooh knoes ^^
does haar kamertje is mooi!!
Te cool does!
Nu nog ne Widget (sees everything) voor mij ;)
Tsk tsk! (gniffel)
Jeeeeeej!
Dat hebt ge goed gefixt!
Zo'n posters bestaan toch enkel en alleen maar om ze op een of ander manier mee te nemen!
Dear Rosie,
Although I strongly disapprove of girls yielding to the temptation of becoming for a short moment tea-leaves (as you call it), I will refrain from commenting on the incident you seem to be so proud of. One reason of my clemency in this matter is to be found in my conviction that we are dealing here with nothing less and nothing more than one single indecent incident in the otherwise decent curriculum of a good girl living up to the standards of virtue and decency stamped into her immortal soul by the excellent education she received at home and at school. Another reason for my unwillingness to condemn you (and certainly a more compelling one) is that, as I gather from the very last word in your message, you are living in Hampstead.
HAMPSTEAD! My God! How could I ever blame a girl living in Hampstead? It is such a fine place, isn’t it? According to me there is no finer one in the whole world and I deem it impossible that any wicked person would survive longer than a few minutes in the serene atmosphere of that heaven. Hampstead! Oh! I cannot pronounce its mellifluous name without tears. Let me take off my circular spectacles in order to wipe the glasses clean. In the meantime I can tell you from which old well the waters of my emotion are springing. As a matter of fact it was there, in Hampstead, that once, long ago, I spent the happiest of my days. Haven’t you got 'The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club' in your library? Well, take it then. Read it. From the first chapter of this worthy book written by the greatest of my admirers, the late Mr. Charles Dickens, you will learn that on May 12, 1827 I addressed the members of the forementioned Association with a paper entitled `Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats.' May I ask you to read the description by Mr. Dickens of myself, your humble servant? ‘There sat the man who had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved as the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen of the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen jar.’ The description reflects both my scientific success and the radiant splendour of my personality, but it doesn’t reveal their origin. Well, let me reveal once and forever the secret of my scientific and personal preponderance: it was my stay in Hampstead that made another and a far better man of me. While speculating on the source of the Hampstead Ponds and observing the local tittlebats, I felt so happy and so important to the world that I changed into a person that Mr. Dickens without the slightest exaggeration was able to qualify as ‘the immortal Pickwick’.
But back now to the overwhelming experience of reading the word ‘Hampstead’ in your message. It was nothing less than an ‘Open Sesame’ to me. It brought back for a moment the prime of my life. It resuscitated lost happiness. It reawakened my loving concern for my darling tittlebats. So, dear Rosie, thank you for reintroducing me to the treasures of my past life. And now, may I ask you one more favour: could you tell me what has become of those dear creatures, the tittlebats of Hampstead? Is their offspring thriving? Are they prospering as they used to be in my days? Please, Rosie, go out and find them. Find them and give them my greetings. And tell them that the immortal Mr. Pickwick hasn’t forgotten them and keeps them in his heart forever. If you are willing to do so, dear Rosie, I shall be willing to pass the sponge over your brief fit of tea-leafness.
Your humble servant
The late Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. *
*General Chairman – Member Pickwick Club
P.S. And would you please give my sincere greetings to your friend Melanie too?
Dear Mr. Pickwick,
Brevity is the soul of wit.
Polonius
Dear Mr. Polonius,
Your comment to Mr. Pickwick's letter would be more convincing if it were not taken from the long-winded and rather tedious introduction you needed to tell Claudius and Gertrude that Hamlet was mad. Have you forgotten the full text with its excess of superfluous words? Here it is:
'My liege, and madam, to expostulate/ What majesty should be, what duty is,/ Why day is day, night night, and time is time,/ Were nothing but to waste night, day and time./ Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,/ And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,/ I will be brief. Your noble son is mad:/' (Etc. etc.)
Be warned, old fool. Don't you ever again insult a character of mine.
(the late) Charles Dickens.
Mr. Dickens,
Let me be brief. The internet edition of your Pickwick Papers contains 1438 pages. If brevity is the soul of wit, there can't be much wit in it. 'tis true 'tis pity; and pity 'tis, 'tis true.
Polonius, principal secretary of state.
Dear Mr. Dickens,
Do not be bothered by Polonius' phrases. Judged by his own standard of brevity, he had but one witty moment in his life. When I stabbed him, he confined his comment to four words: 'O! I am slain.' According to me they were to the point, but in all their brevity they couldn't make me smile. There is more wit in every single line of you than in Polonius' collected balderdash.
Hamlet, prince of Denmark
Dear Samuel, Polonius, Charles and Hamlet,
Hush! Stop your ghastly argument!
Yours faithfully,
The tittlebats of Hampstead
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