.I’ve been imagining this:-
“If, once more, you charge £5,000 for botanical books I’ve not bought,” (I’m saying this in a tough, gangsterish voice) “I’ll go to the police.”
The woman behind the counter pales. Shrinks into her suit.
“Pressed geranium flowers,” I whisper (menacingly).
She’ll send no more. (I can tell by the way she clutches fearfully at her beads.)
Oh! Very likely!
Truth is as floppy as a Spider Plant leaf.
As squashy as a ripe persimmon.
But with invisible threads (like a prickly pear) - and the skin slicing power of grass.
The bookselling woman would ‘sing’ about Ming.
Identity - uncertain.
Papers - forged.
Date of birth - unknown.
The police wouldn’t look for Algerian Goths.
They’d soon find out where we live.
I need a lie.
A good one.
Bad . . . . . .
She steals books from the British Library and sells them in brown-paper covers?
Her cleaning lady is paid a pittance?
Does she drink while she drives?
Plants . . . . . .
Ferns . . . . . .
Pluto . . . . . .
. . . . . . Might be worth a try.