Although we are frighteningly low on Vintage Auchroisk, Dailuaine, Tomatin, Longmorn and Glenesk, Juan insists on stopping to hunt for roses at every opportunity as, he says, to be without a rose is stupid. There is nothing, he claims, more useful for wooing a beautiful woman than a beautiful rose. I say that he is being overly romantic and remind him that he hands out diamonds and pearls to every beautiful woman he meets. He says that that makes it even more important to give her roses, to show her you know mere trinkets can’t buy her. I point out that he also gives them aeroplanes, fast cars, yachts, houses, islands and, on several occasions, kingdoms. Juan says he only does what any man would do, but, he adds, only for women who need those sort of things. I point out that, so far, they all need those sort of things, which is why the three of four republics, of which he was president, are hopelessly bankrupt and subsist entirely on malt and bananas, not to mention
’s missing millions. Juan says that it was spent on a good cause, but that doesn’t diminish the value of a half-decent rose. Lithuania
I show him a sketch of a rose, but he sneers and says it’s a trailing rose and a trailing rose, necessarily, trails, and, as we are battologistically behind schedule, trailing a rose would slow us down. I argue that any rose is a trailing rose, if it’s trailed; held out in front, it would be a ‘leading rose’, or, held to the side, an ‘accompanying rose’. This rambling, stupid, conversation quickly escalates into a brawl; although I get a good grip on Juan’s beard, he hits me on the head with his bagpipe drones, I throw him over my shoulder but he grabs my sporran and we fall down, tumble down an incline and roll over a cliff.
Crashing into the sea, and looking at the sub-sea wildlife, which is looking back at us, Juan asks why even the fish are dangerous here. I tell him that they need time to evolve and that the big thing with big teeth that was having a snack while it decided on its next meal, would probably evolve into a perfectly harmless little Humperdinkterygii, which will probably go nicely with toast, but, as that will take millions of years, we decide not to wait and, after quickly opening Juan’s Special Reserve hip flasks and toasting little fish, we scream hysterically and splash around in panicky circles, as fast as we possibly can.
Professor Humperdink’s Diary