Greetings, on St David’s Day, from Llareggub, where Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard is dreaming of nagging her two late husbands.
First Voice
Now, in her iceberg-white, holily laundered crinoline nightgown, under virtuous polar sheets, in her spruced and scoured dust-defying bedroom in trig and trim Bay View, a house for paying guests, at the top of the town, Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard widow, twice, of Mr Ogmore, linoleum, retired, and Mr Pritchard, failed bookmaker, who maddened by besoming, swabbing and scrubbing, the voice of the vacuum-cleaner and the fume of polish, ironically swallowed disinfectant, fidgets in her rinsed sleep, wakes in a dream, and nudges in the ribs dead Mr Ogmore, dead Mr Pritchard, ghostly on either side.
Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard
Mr Ogmore!
Mr Pritchard!
It is time to inhale your balsam.
Mr Ogmore
Oh, Mrs Ogmore!
Mr Pritchard
Oh, Mrs Pritchard!
Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard
Soon it will be time to get up.
Tell me your tasks in order.
Mr Ogmore
I must put my pyjamas in the drawer marked pyjamas.
Mr Pritchard
I must take my cold bath which is good for me.
Mr Ogmore
I must wear my flannel band to ward off sciatica.
Mr Pritchard
I must dress behind the curtain and put on my apron.
Mr Ogmore
I must blow my nose.
Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard
In the garden, if you please.
Mr Ogmore
In a piece of tissue-paper which I afterwards burn.
Mr Pritchard
I must take my salts which are nature’s friend.
Mr Ogmore
I must boil the drinking water because of germs.
Mr Pritchard
I must make my herb tea which is free from tannin.
Mr Ogmore
And have a charcoal biscuit which is good for me.
Mr Pritchard
I may smoke one pipe of asthma mixture.
Mrs Ogmore Pritchard
In the woodshed, if you please.
Mr Pritchard
And dust the parlour and spray the canary.
Mr Ogmore
I must put on rubber gloves and search the peke for fleas.
Mr Pritchard
I must dust the blinds and then I must raise them.
Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard
And before you let the sun in, mind it wipes its shoes.
http://blog.waterstones.com/2013/02/cheat-sheet-dylan-thomas/#more-4568
01/03/13
