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Mrs. Monk's Would-be Diary should have been written by Mrs. Monk, since she is the "Writer" in the family.
However, since she is a writer only in the conceptual sense, I have undertaken to fill these pages on her behalf
If not by her, these pages will certainly be about her, and other important matters of the day         Leslie Monk

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14 February 2011

Liberace Love Lamp

You might think that Mrs. Monk has a lover, because fresh roses appear almost every other day and the house is overwhelmed by the smell of Moulton Brown, which sounds obscene, but is apparently something that ladies covet. 

On Valentine’s Day, this becomes a problem that I usually resolve by providing the gift of a love poem, or even a love song. But what more could I offer? My big idea this year is to provide her with the gift of an antique chandelier, or what we now call The Liberace Love Lamp.

This lamp was restored by Mr Monk, who reclaimed it from the garden shed, removed the dead spiders, rewired it to render it safe, (touch wood), and polished it to an irresistible glorious Liberacedom.

The “chandelier” comprises of eight individual lamps and an internal wiring system that would confuse a concord pilot. When I got it going it had  enough luminosity to attract alien space craft. This meant that the installation of a dimmer switch was required.

I defy any handyman that messes with electronics to deny contemplating the thought of it all going horribly wrong when about to touch a wire that might or might not be alive. I had disconnected the mains, so what could possibly have gone wrong? At the crucial moment when I was about disconnect the live, or dead wires in order to install the dimmer switch, there was a huge explosion, that made my nerve ends recoil with horror. In fact Mrs. Monk had purchased a red stickered, expired-sell-by-date, bottle of orange juice that went off not two feet from where I was standing.

I told Mrs. Monk about this on the phone and she told me to clear up the exploding juice mess before she got home. I was not thinking love lamp at this point, and turned my mind to the gloriously Puerile Berlusconi who did not seem to have too much trouble finding loose women to polish his lamp for a little cash.

In the Monk house Charlie and I respect the woman under our roof, as long as we both get fed.

 

This artwork was produced overnight and before I descended the wooden hill, to greet me over breakfast

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