Calm down, calm down. I know it’s been a day or two since I posted. Of COURSE I still love you. The Viper is very busy and important. Sometimes he can’t get to his lap top, even though you’re positively jibbering with desire for more of his dotty ramblings. Fear not, little one, Viper is here now. This is just for you. Yes, you. Not the others, this is between us. They need never know.
Reading my blog is like playing a metaphorical Russian Roulette with your psyche: will you get something jaunty about shoes or something soul chaffing about depression? If you think reading this shit is bad, imagine living with it. Poor Mrs Viper and the Viperinos. No need to fear today, however. Today is going to be a jaunty post about stuff. Things and stuff.
Aren’t things wonderful? Material goods, how I love you. You never argue with me. Actually, that’s not true. In future, I intend to write a post called ‘The Conspiracy of Things’. I firmly believe that all objects have a sense of humour and they see me as the stooge in a slap stick routine that will entertain the dark gods of chaos. I may even share the anecdote about the exploding bag of cat poo. Look forward to that, readers!
For today, we shall look at lovely things. I pretend that I’m not a materialist. I pretend that I have an almost Buddhist disdain for the material world and its ephemeral nature. What cares the Viper for objects? Objects are illusory, there are only processes. Everything is in a process of decay or renewal. Move placidly through the waters of this unreal world. Nah, sod that, I want pretty things! My problem comes from the fact that I usually have unrealistic expectations of the quality of the things that I deserve to possess. I have the arrogance of a country squire, why can’t I have the antiques too? An acquaintance was once surprised to learn that I attended a state school as a child and that I lived in a terraced house. Apparently I give off the air of privilege. I should hope so, I’ve maintained this facade for bloody years. I want people to think I might be a Duke that has fallen on hard times. I’m pathetic, I know. Either hate me or love me, just don’t be indifferent. I only exist if you notice me!
What sort of stuff floats the Viperish boat? Let’s have a sneaky peeklet at some of my treasures. Hands off, you look with your eyes, twitchy fingers.
I’m a fan of Sherlock Holmes. I read the original stories when I was a youngish teen and they warped me. I wanted a life of intrigue, arrogance and close male friendship. Be careful what you wish for, dear hearts. You see my magnifying glass? It’s a beauty, ain’t it? You should see me doing my special ‘detecting walk’. Go and watch Jeremy Brett as Holmes and you’ll have some idea of how I conduct myself day to day: camp, waspish, intimidating and unsettling. Brett is my favourite screen Holmes, even though he’s no truer to the superman of the stories than any other. In my opinion, Holmes is the original superhero: he’s remarkably strong and his intellect is virtually supernatural. He’s Bruce Wayne without the daft costume. Downey Junior is a fun Holmes, but a little too dishevelled. Cumberbatch’s version… I won’t start. Look, I like the actor and I’ve enjoyed the show, but it’s not Holmes. Shut up! Don’t goad me! Look at the sodding slipper in the picture! I keep tobacco in it, just like Holmes did. That’s who you’re dealing with! You ingrates should be THANKING me for sharing my life with you. Stop laughing at me! STOP!
That’s one of my Lion Bookends. He’s called Sleepy Aslan. He’s ace, isn’t he? He’s not normally on the floor, obviously. He’s on a bookshelf. I’m not showing you that particular shelf as it is filled with forbidden tomes of eldritch lore.
You want it rotating, rotate it yourself, shitty. It’s my candelabrum. I sometimes put candles in it, though it’s a risky business in a house with clumsy cats, clumsy kids and clumsy me. Perhaps I welcome visitors into my dark home while holding my candelabrum and rasping in a sepulchral tone, “So glad you are here. I was hungry… for company.” Perhaps I don’t.
The subject of this picture is supposed to be the attractive swivel chair. I know. It’s not the best shot. Just look at the chair, will you? It belonged to my father. Well, he stole it. True story. Maybe. I had it restored, back in the days when I had money for that sort of thing. It’s both stylish and comfortable. The kids like to spin around in it until I make sounds of rage and war. It is NOT a toy! (For keen observers and nosey parkers, the carpet is IKEA. Yes, you can see the candelabrum in the background. And some footwear. And my sexy satchel.)
Vintage suitcases. I love old suitcases. I use these bastards as a coffee table. They look much better in proper lighting. I acquired these from a mysterious old man who gave them to me for nothing. I found some odd documents within. I wanted to question the old man, but he had moved house. True story.
Part of one of my many bookshelves. I love books because I am dead intellectual despite my low station in life. I have arranged the objects on the shelves to give you clues, if you can decipher them. If you think you understand, let me know in the comments below! (Sorry it’s a bit blurred, I’d been drinking.)
This is Wellington Aftershave by George F Trumper. Look at that bottle and that case. Mmm. Yeah. You like that, don’t you? Sorry about my scuffed newel post. God, you notice every little detail, don’t you? So picky.
Never trust a grown man who has a teddy bear. I, however, am a father. I have access to many bears and similar soft organisms. I like this one very much. His name is Tiberius. The children pay him no attention. He likes to talk politics with me. He also likes to cuddle.
I think that will do, for now. I don’t want to show you EVERYTHING in one go. I’m a tease. I’ll give you a glimpse that leaves you thirsty for so much more. When I trust you, I may show you many wonders: my mineral collection; my humidor; my samovar; my Fungeon (Fun Dungeon).
Try not to be consumed with envy. I know it must be difficult to see my lifestyle. This is like an episode of ‘Cribs’, isn’t it?
Try to be kind,
V. D. H.