Facts

Aunt Sophronia

We have been discussing "facts" and "fictions".

I don't believe facts.
They are not all they are trumped up to be. Just because they are somewhat more reliable when you are stumbling around in the middle of the night, trying to find the light switch, doesn't mean we have to "believe" them:  fact -  the switch is to your right, and down;   fiction -  the lights are water-activated, so you must flush the toilet to be able to see.

To me, facts are like the dowager aunts who are the bane of our existence, spending their time telling us to get a job, badgering us to not be a drain on society, and generally trying to find us a potential wife, who will make something of us. Indeed, having had the temerity to write it down, I see they are very much like my Aunt Eleanore. Her very demeanor leads one to urgently desire to append  "of Aquitaine"  when speaking her name. Or Aunt Stella, who lived to such an advanced age that everyone still alive had forgotten what a termagant she had been; they forgot, that is, until the will was read. Then it came to them.

Fictions are more like the chorus girls that we stage-door johnnies pursue with bouquets and love-grams. We hang around the, well, the stage door after the evening show, waiting for the parade of pulchritude to exit, and we swoop them up, and make off to Toots Shor's bistro.

I actually intended to make this serious.
However, I am quite sure that you will agree that the tone I adopted is much better suited to the discussion.

(pause)

Needless to say, by such agreement, you give me my point.


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