People don’t want to be invited to leave their jobs and journey with you to far Asia in search of something you can’t describe.
Strangers don’t want to be told that they’re pretty; trees don’t need to be given names.
Friends think you’re odd if you tell them they’re wonderful, enjoying company is a mysterious sin.
No one wants cake in the post; postcards from Tamworth confuse and upset.
You can’t talk to people about desires, they think you mean them.
Apple blossom isn’t beautiful, watching the sea is strange
You shouldn’t worry about zombies, or invent a device to scare cheese.
People don’t want to know why you think dragons should exist or what to do if Dracula lives in your cellar.
You should never, ever, put a tea cosy on your head.
People don’t quite know what to do when faced with any of the above, they really don’t. It’s sad, because now they’re the sort of thoughts I screen out to avoid making others uncomfortable. When exactly did they ban whimsy?
Dracula! THE CELLAR MONSTER! We left him at Harrington Drive
Belvoir.
You should be more careful with your supernatural beasties Lucy, they’re easily angered and hard to placate without goblets of blood and virgins. Send them a postcard.
Karl, I can still tell you’re deliberately pronouncing it wrong. Stop it.
Beaver
Correct!