goldener oktober

She got up to go.
Oddly alluring motion.
Poetry in motion.
And off she went.
The ghost of CS Lewis appeared.
Nobody else in the Costa Cafe on Dawson Street seemed to notice him.
"Now that's what I was talking about," said he, inviting himself to sit down at my table. "She's a proof of God. When she smiles it's enough to repudiate every darkness. You know James, the world is so charged with proofs of God's existence that the forces of evil have to struggle constantly to get us to misinterpret them. The best they can do with a girl like that is to try and get you to disrespect her through lust. Otherwise you're just going to be rejoicing at the majesty of the creator and the wondrousness of life every time you see her."
"You got that right CS," I murmured.
In the corner of the cafe the ghost of George Harrison started strumming.
George Harrison sang:
"She
Is so lovely
I can think
Of nothing else
While my guitar gently weeps."
I rather liked the plaintive note George got into his voice. Bit like Jim Croce's Time In A Bottle. Or The Alan Parsons Project's Old And Wise. Yeah I liked it.
But CS Lewis was less impressed.
"Hey George," quoth he, "did you ever think of getting your guitar to tell a joke or something? The weeping routine is getting kind of old."
The discussion might have developed further only at this moment the ghost of Rudyard Kipling walked in and pulled up a pew.
George Harrison shrugged and went up to the counter seeking latte.
His guitar remained sobbing in the corner while he was gone.
"What was she talking about today?" Rudyard Kipling asked me.
"What do you care?" I shot back.
"I heard you say something about favourite books," said he.
"Don't worry, it's not you," I told him.
Kipling's bristles bristled bristlingly.
There was an awkward silence.
"Who was it then?" he asked after a moment.
"She says she likes Nabokov and the Marquis De Sade," I told him.
"Bloody hell," interjected CS Lewis.
"My thoughts exactly," sez I.
"No mention of The Jungle Book?" wondered Kipling.
"Er no," sez me.
George Harrison returned to his corner with a caffe latte.
"Do you know Kipling?" I asked him, indicating the newest ghost to sit at my table.
"No," said George Harrison. "I've never Kippled."
Soon he started singing again.
"She
Is So Lovely
Reading the Marquis
De Sade
While my guitar gently weeps."
The other two ghosts shushed him peremptorily before turning back to me.
"Alright!" said CS Lewis.
"Alright what?" said I.
"Presumably you won't be meeting her again," said Kipling.
My piercing blue eyes widened piercingly.
"Wotch you talkin about Rudyard?" I demanded.
By way of answer Kipling stood up and began to declaim one of his poems.
He declaimed thusly:
"As the dog returns to the vomit
And the pig returns to the mire
The fools wavering finger
Goes wandering back to the fire."
I nodded sagely.
"You've lost me," I told him.
Kipling sighed.
"Okay," sez he, "try this."
He began to declaim again.
"As the Jihadi returns to the jet liner
And the suburbanite returns to his Weetabix
The lustful dim witted twit
Goes wandering back to the dominatrix."
The noble Heelers found this a bit too much.
I waved to George Harrison.
"For God's sake George sing," I said with feeling. "Sing with all your might and main and cornyness. Sing or these two crushing bores will never go away."