I wanted to write a farce. It had a donkey in it.
I pushed the thought away – I had a salary to earn. More specifically, I had an ad to write for a range of cold creams scented with violets and sweet briar, honeysuckle, damask rose and thyme.
They wanted something new, different. That ruled out our house photographer, good but not at home with novelty. I had a slew of his prints across my desk, an indolent girl with a pre-Raphaelite air, the only hint of modernity in the cigarette hanging limply from her hand.
Cigarettes . . ?
Woodbines . .?
Honeysuckle . . .
“ . . . where the wild thyme blows . . . nodding violet. . . luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine . . . ”
. . . all the scents of Titania’s floral bower, and they hadn’t even realised. An imp of mischief seized me – a puck, perhaps. They wanted something different . . .
I wrote them a farce. It had a donkey in it.
This week’s entry comes with profound apologies to a certain Mr WS, whose worked I have hacked badly to keep within the word count.
It also comes with the discovery that Word thinks that every dot in an ellipsis is a word in its own right. I did wonder why I was finding it so difficult to come in under the limit . . .
As ever, you can find other responses to the prompt here.