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Shirley, Soma and the Persian carpet
Koon-fused, Part III

October 8, 2002
The Iranian

I've just received a letter from Shirley the Samovarist. She is doing quite nicely, thank you, and as brave as always. She is sipping native sundowners in Bora Bora. She's heard about my piece "Koon-fused, Part II" [Wild and mild], through a glass-pearl necklace seller called the 'Diamond Dude', who assured her that it was an original given to his great-great-grandfather of an unpronounceable tribal name in South Africa by a non-hirsute, pinky Caucasian, in exchange for other shining objects.

How he found out about my piece can only be attributed to the excellent, inexhaustible, faster - than - the - speed - of - light Iranian information network; also called gossip. All going a bit zig-zaggy, but in any case, she has read through my piece and "quite frankly " Shirley says, "I am appalled!"

Contrary to popular belief, she has no objections to any of the gargled gibberish that I've subjected everyone to. No. She has always insisted that we are all responsible for ourselves and "if they don't have anything better to do than struggle through your ongoing verbal diarrhoea, my dearest dumpling, then really it is their own fault, isn't it dear?"

What she is quite adamant about is putting the record straight. She was never, and never will be, of Irish descent. "With only six degrees of separation, heaven forbid, I might be related to a bushel-brain bush!" She insists that she has always been and will be half Icelandic/half Croatian. I leave it up to you people to decide if this is an improvement. I mean apart from the howlings of Bjorn, have you ever heard of anything else coming out of that nation of in - springs - sitting - till - wrinkled, inbreeding islanders?

One can only assume what the Icelandic, apart from Shirley of course, think of us lot; perhaps: a bunch of syphilis-ridden camel-humpers, hobnobbing with finger-printed Sinbad in as-yet-not-inspected hammams, fighting bushy demons with pistachio-bombings on flying carpets! But that doesn't bother me.

What really worries me is that Shirley seems to be a bit miffed: "What really bites the biscuit is you, my dearest dumpling, turning into such a silly sausage and calling me a Sodom-ist. Not that I have anything against Sodom. But it must have been that day when Donald the Dumper donkey had missed his dumping hole in the cave again and your ears felt a little stuffy. I shall never forgive myself this burden of burdens. I was and always will be a Soma-ist!"

Hey, boys and girls, I'm with you! I didn't have a clue what she was talking about! Until one day last week. Since then I have found myself in a state of beautiful, stupid bliss. I love the fact that even stupid people like myself, accidentally surpass themselves and are not always stupid. Somehow out of the blue it had hit me, just as I had hit "Happy Hour" at precisely 18.00. A miracle! She means the happy-making-please-shut-up-and-keep-the economy-going pills in "Brave New World!" That's what she meant!

A Soma-ist for goodness' sake, not a Sodom-ist at all! Shirley is a firm Samovar-ist / Soma-ist! Like you, I haven't quite got to the stage of seeing the point of this, but I'd love to have a chat with the 'Diamond Dude' and maybe come to an arrangement with a farm in South Africa and get this 'soma-ism' into swing. Has anyone got a spare flying carpet? Any grapevine source? It could save me a lot of paperwork. And could you please give the carpet directions to Bora Bora? I haven't a clue where Bora Bora is and I might as well avoid any "am-bush!" Thanks in advance!

Comment for The Iranian letters section
Comment to Marjaneh Zahed-Khorassani-Kindersley

By Marjaneh Zahed - Khorassani - Kindersley


Suddenly Pavarotti hit the high C. And so did I!

Wild and mild
Koon-fused, Part II


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