They Know the Croaking Chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes

Even as the bedrooms at Bell End have been clogged to capacity with residents from as far away as Polynesia and as near as Washington Avenue, the social hub has been curiously quiet. Right? Almost as if Selwyn sent his Dorothy Parker frock off to the dry cleaners and forgot to have his valet pick it up?

Well, you know. It’s summer. A challenge to armpits sworn off deodorant. And Selwyn has been busy in the upstate aerie goading his hair into a cascading corona; it’s like Paris’s helmet when he prances like a dressage pony in front of the fuming Myrmidons, but enhanced by 18 miles a day of bicycle-induced windswept Catskill feathering. You’ll see. And you will agree; it was worth the wait.

Selwyn relaxes at home in the Bovina with Lisa Howard and a lyre. Rob Howard is away shooting AT&T. Ms Howard requested Selwyn sheath his paralyzingly lovely genitals and hair in matching orange beanies before her visit. ‘Anything less would be impolite’ she said.

But the primary cause of Selwyn’s absence? Meet Gilbert, meet Sullivan. Weaned from the Lovely teat on meatloaf fashioned into the form of buttocks and well water sprung with Bell End Marge. They arrived by FedEx from Iowa, two identical, slender nuggets of bumfluff, tiny pink duckbills attached seemingly with elastic bands, like creatures from Wallace & Gromit. In the space of two weeks they have lengthened into pint-sized bowling pins, creamish down peering through yellow fuzz, bustling round the coop like flustered Aunties. They don’t quack though. They cheep. And when 6 year old Dusty picks them up in her determined fist, they cheep like the End of Days. Like Cheep Trick, they do. And before you ask; no, they won’t be gracing the table at Bell End this fall in their confit sweaters. But they might pop down for the occasional visit, and will definitely be in attendance at the opening night of Bell End’s inaugural production of The Mikado.

Gilbert. And Sullivan

Stay warm through August, Bellenders. And if anybody’s in Italy during the first two weeks of August, do pop by Bell End Venice for a Campari Spritz and some salty nuts, with Sara Glick, Ian Hundley, Paul Bromley, David Willis, Ian Stuart, Henrik Knudsen and Selwyn himself. If he isn’t there, cool your heels in the library, he’s probably just channeling Dirk Bogarde for a few minutes at the Lido. He’ll be back shortly.

Selwyn goes for The Long Snooze


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