She very much reminded me of a pretty eccentric demoiselle I once did know some time ago. I do not rightly recall now exactly where I was when she had come up to me and introduced herself as a prominent member of the daughters of the Soho riots. Well, i'll spare further expressions of first impressions and just plainly relate that it was surely scented with pure unadulterated amusement at first sight between the two of us. To escape from the ghastly boredom in the over-populated bourgeoisie poetic atmosphere we were surrounded by, - again I'm not quite sure where it exactly was, we pushed over a few monotonous chatty choir members who took no obvious notice of being shoved but mechanically went right on trivially chatting away, and made our way into a less tired old musty air-filled room. Standing there, all alone in a forgotten nook, was an old piano. I said, "My pretty demoiselle, I feel the sudden urge to play a largely unknown tune now what say you?" "Wait," she replied, "somethings missing for a moment such as that," and ran back out of the room; though not before bumping into the adjacent wall by the door . Not long after she returned, carrying with her an oddly shaped crystal vase full of freshly cut daisies and rubbing her shoulder. "There, one cannot play properly a little known tune without fresh cut daisies don't ya know Mr. Johannes." she proudly proclaimed while placing the vase neatly on top of the piano. "Yes, yes, of course you're right dear," I replied, "but, one also cannot perform a little known duet without sipping on some of the divine C.C.'s finest amber wine." She agreed and thereupon I left the room and returned shortly with a bottle of C.C.'s very finest tucked securely under my arm and two crystal tumblers. I expertly poured one for the pretty eccentric demoiselle and the other for myself. We made a loud toast to C.C.s passionate honor then sat-down together and started singing the most out-of-tune duets one has ever heard of bad wine and lemon cake, and yet, we really did not care, not one bit, whether anyone heard us or not, but simply laughed all the more uncontrollably.

We parted rather intoxicated with plans to meet at sunset atop the Pennines the next day. When I arrived she was already there, with an imaginary constructed banned blog daisy crown, a shawl and a parasol. I, of course, had my silly imaginary constructed hat tilted just so. We had already talked of many foolish things: of scribbles and playful killer clowns and of Half Jacks etc...when she suddenly asked me my own thoughts on friendship.

"Certainly I suppose friendship calls for an understanding", I began, "but not the kind'in which the one always knows what the other is going to say, no indeed, what it needs is that one never knows what the other is going to say. If it got to that point, my pretty eccentric demoiselle, the friendship should certainly cease. But friendships of that kind also make such people believe that they understand everyone else too. Hence the complacency with which they say that they expected one to answer just as one did, which is often untrue and based on the presumption that everyone's conversation is just like their own, vapid, trivial and pointless. They have no suspicion of a whole array of uniquely individual traits that make every remark very, very intriguing. It is always well to avoid such people in my mind, for in spite of all their understanding they continually misunderstand..."

"Oh do stop all that rhetorical reciting foolishness Mr. Johannes, its really too much, and besides, if you keep going on in that way I'll have to write some of it down and I certainly do not want to scribble in such nonsense," the pretty eccentric demoiselle with the daisy crown said while giving me a wink. She then got up, let out a longing sigh, looked towards eventide, and was about to say more when she slipped on one of those old loose stones that always have excellent stories to tell; and fell backwards over the edge of the cliff-side. Shocked, I ran to the lip and dreaded to look down but to my amazement there she was far off sitting confidently astride a 'butterscotch' saddle, mounted on a 'pocket dragon' flying away through the 'dusk-dusted clouds'. I laughed out-loud, watched her fade out into the distance, picked-up her left behind parasol - a most important aspect of any imaginary construction involving pretty femmes mind you, and made my way down from the Pennines.

I never saw her again, though I imagine she is still cutting fresh daisies along with some pansies maybe - I am no florist after all so if people do not cut fresh pansies that is not my fault. But when I find myself stuck in some stuffy petty-poetic atmosphere, I immediately seek for that less musty air-filled room off to the side, the one with an unused piano; and if I find it, I pour myself a drink, get an empty oddly shaped crystal vase, put a blue ribbon in it and recollect on the owner of the parasol lying currently all alone in a nook of my foyer. Then I start hitting the keys chanting the verses of a Slow, show and recollect back 29 years to the those joyous days of bad wine and lemon cake.