Mr Honk never understood
the look of bewilderment on people’s faces
when he whistled Christmas carols
in July, as if he were singing commercials
at a funeral. And it wasn’t that he was trying
to convey some profound message—
he simply enjoyed the cheerful tune,
as only an infidel could.
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From anacoluthon through zeugma,
Mr Honk savoured his grammatical incongruity
in the omnitude of the alphabet
as if linguistic phenomena were the draught that gave him life—
even if pronounced by a Doppler shift—
with an inclination to say ‘perhaps’ rather than ‘maybe’
and ‘indeed’ instead of a blunt ‘yes’,
which earned him the well-deserved title of snob—
a negligible price to pay for a stint in the temple of solitude—
the lost consort.
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Although a treasure trove of words,
Mr Honk only ever said a few
on any one occasion, as if preparing
for a quiet life in a discreet garret
or in a but and ben on the cliffs
were as important as avoiding the perceived
embarrassment of mentioning toasts
in Towcester.
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Raised in a facetious milieu—
like a delayed palindrome with an imposing façade
yet very gentle and kind—
Mr Honk decided to be cheerful for a change
and wash radishes for breakfast
without the usual wry contempt
for corporeality,
although he knew it was a whim,
not a Nicomachean attempt.
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Mr Honk has been born out of necessity,
as no one knew how to pronounce his real name
or if he even had one; after all, he often struck people
as a rather peculiar figure—an elderly bairn
who always wanted to write long and amicable letters
but didn’t foresee that he would become the sole addressee.
But he came to terms with that just as he did with the fact
that some books were taking him longer, though he never knew
if it was the extent, the typeface and kerning,
or simply the purport.
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When it comes to English actors, two names always come to mind: Hugh Grant and Colin Firth—mainly because of their voices. The former caught my attention back in the nineties—Four Weddings and a Funeral, of course—with his light, slightly soft voice, often carrying a hesitant rhythm. That West London accent, touched with an informal edge, became an instant embodiment of Englishness. Over the years, though, that flavour has lost its charm; now it actually annoys me to a degree.
The latter is another story entirely. For a long time I somehow managed to miss Firth and can’t recall him at all until I watched his Oscar-nominated role of a grieving gay man in the romantic drama A Single Man. What a delight. That controlled, calm and authoritative tone that lends gravitas and elegance while conveying the underlying despair and tragedy of loss—no wonder his accent is often seen as the epitome of refined British upper-class speech. But what struck me the most is that I find Firth’s voice magnetic regardless of whether I watch Mothering Sunday or Wings of Fame. That probably says more about me than either of these two actors.
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In the mornings I sit by the window and read—partially to draw inspiration but mainly to kill time between dates on my future tombstone—but at the same time observe the little world outside, and today I noticed a rather baffling scene. A car stopped by the kerb, and after some erratic movement inside, a middle-aged woman emerged out of it, smoking. She walked aimlessly around the vehicle, her entire focus on the cigarette, but once she finished smoking, she returned to the car and went on her merry way, leaving the crumpled cigarette butt behind. How peculiar.
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hidden pilcrow 