Two Swedes are hiding in my attic at the moment. Cope only knows how they found their way to Tolly Maw. Normally the village is hidden within a barrier of fog and you need to hitch a ride in with the delivery van. The delivery van that brings in fresh meat and smart clothing, in boxes a bit over six foot long. They filmed one of the segments from the 1980 film The Monster Club here. With me yet? Two Swedes, who shining with the fresh beauty of Scandinavia attracted every ghoulish horror of Tolly Maw. I had on hearing their distinctive voices to rush, to wave, to bundle up in dog blankets and away to where now they hide.
It’s not their fault. It’s a cliché but that makes it no less true. Whilst in England we were so bruised by the ugly stick that even healthy we conspire to look abused, in Scandinavia they have to be taught how to tune down their looks. Twenty years ago I knew a good number of Swedes and they all had to wear a lot of make up just to stop everyone else from giving up. They were a confused, miserable lot that would sit in drunken layers about my front room watching A Clockwork Orange, dubbed in their own language. I presume they all came over to England back then as some sort of disaster relief.
My beloved Q and precious sprouts are of course just as beautiful. More than indeed and shining bright. But then they’re all from the north and their blood Viking because of it.
So ta, Ragnar. I’ll smuggle out the descendants of your daughters you left at home because of the descendants of the daughters you left here.
Says the troll.