The Follies Of Going Outdoors

Dearest Diary,

It has been too long since I last clutched your quivering pages 'tween forefinger and thumb. And it is too long still, for I hold you this evening not in my bare spindly hands, but with my phalanges ensconced in elbow-length sheaths made of rubber. That these decidedly tasteless gloves are accented with little plastic daisies is of no comfort. Nor does it bring me joy that these not-fingers are a pleasant and matte shade of purple.

But it must be so, dear Diary. Father claims. And it is all the fault of my adventurous spirit.

You see, the other day, I decided to take a walk in the south garden. Yes, out in the open air! I should have known so much better! But my mind was feverish with decisionings about Lady MacDuff and the merits of chin foliage and Young Siward's dastardliness and Lady MacDuff ...

Where was I? Ah, of course, out in the south garden, in the carefully spaced rows of dandelion and rutabaga that my dear sainted Mother tended right until the very end. Though she has been gone all these many years, the billowy little dandelions are still just dandy. So ... feeling spritely for a moment ... I did as I would when I was smaller. I bent at the waist to pluck the best dandelion I could find, to make a wish upon a right good blow.

Yet after a bit of tuggly struggle -- during which I failed to detach from the earth my dandy of choice -- I fell chin-ward into a nearby clump of rutabagas. One of those ornery little root-fruits nearly lodged in my nose, and would've done so, had I not sneezed immediately, righting myself in the process. Were it not for that moment of dandelion fluff induced nasal propulsion, I might've stayed there, chin-thrust unto the damp topsoil. Few recognize the benefits of being incredibly svelte and slight, after all.

But soon thereafter, dear Diary, did I find myself swooning. With no small amount of effort, I stumbled back toward the south-wing portico and my ever-faithful fainting couch. Sadly, this was not my daily fit that comes regularly at 2pm, but something altogether more profound.

In those few scant moments of gardentry, I managed to contract .... Le Grippe. Coughing, aching, sneezing, running of the nose, fever, shakes, poetry, clamminess. All do afflict me and cause me more grief than that of a Slav clad in scratchy burlap pants.

And worse still, dear Diary, is that Father threatened to take you from me. Muttering something about "blasted Scarlet Fever," I overheard him ordering cook to steal you away, to be tossed out with the evening's oven-leavings. He said you were probably the root of all my ills. When I found you missing that evening, I wailed like a sore-throated banshee. Which is to say, meekly.

But not to worry Diary, as through a series of hand gestures and hand-written signs, I was able to convince the visiting Lady Lennox to distract cook for just long enough to pluck you from the refuse. I called out to her quietly when I'd retrieved you -- as well as these protective mitts that were nearby -- but she didn't answer to accept my gratitude. Cook wasn't to be found either.

In other news, my recuperative pancakes looked particularly festive this morning, what with those smiley faces emblazoned on each with syrup. Almost lascivious, they were, so I could not meet their gaze. I did, however, eat them. Yum.

And so, Diary, I will hide you between my mattress and box-spring. Wish me well, as I do hope my humours will align such that I can dispense with these elastic barriers and hold you close once more.

Yours, albeit prophylactically,
Sniffly Prince Malcolm.