Well, isn’t this jolly, all of us having our tiffin in this lovely English garden waiting for the sun, and if the sun don't come, we’ll get a tan from standing in the English rain. What a clever way with words these Brits have, always joking around and making light of the darkest (and wettest) situations. Here we are, in the very thing-um-a-jig of a Snark Hunt, crosshatching to the left of us, crosshatching to the right of us, and our merry lads have seen fit to burst forth into song, a semimelodious bit of Old English galdor reminiscent of the salad days of Aethelred the Unready and suchlike skaldic mumbo-jumbery.
of which affords this illustrator a bit of artistic license sufficient
to render a thimble, some forks, an esperant anchor, a smile and some
soap, ie., five-sevenths of the afore-mentioned Snarkic prophylaxes.
He’s also taken the liberty of laying on some cakes and ale (on an
illustrator’s meager salary of a moon and sixpence) and has
even hired a band-cum-bandshell, all of which should provide sufficient
innocent merriment for the B-Boyz and their Protosurrealist
demimondaines, at least enough to show ‘em that this illustrator cares.
Naturally, this illustrative care
increases our stanzel’s Combined Snarkic Prophylactic Level (CSPL) to
six-sevenths, which fraction, when its numerator and denominator are
multiplied, provides us with the number 42, a number mooted by some to
be The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything in It.
Lewis Carroll thought enough of the number 42 to provide it with a comfortable home and small pension,
way back in the Good Old Days of Fit the First. There are certain
small-minded persons who will always look askance at such instances of
numerophilia, they will mutter darkly of alphanumeric miscegenation and
cryptokabbalistic cabals and all that sort of thing which they suspect
is always going on at parties like the one pictured above. Which is why
those sort of people never get invited to this sort of party, huzzah!
so, ladies and gentlemen and sundry weirdos, proclaims this illustrator
as he sways drunkenly onto his feet, I propose a toast!
Let’s hear it for Lewis Carroll (tipsy shouts of hear, hear!) … the best Anglican maths-tutor-cum-nonsense-wallah Oxford ever produced (gurgled cries of approval emanating from a giant thimble full of wine) … a true friend of man and anapest alike (slurred bleats of rhubarb-rhubarb, custard-custard) … and the most important Victorian poet to ever use the words 'railway-share'! (exeunt all, with general bedlam, light to variable).