All is not as it may first seem

Dear Friends,

sometimes all is not as it may first seem, as I have discovered, much to my embarrassment, this weekend.

Some words of wisdom from Fetlock

"Ne hodi po travi".

A double-take

Forgive me, for I sense we must investigate the concept of confusion a little further before we proceed down an increasingly bizarre path toward the House of Electrofried. No doubt you will have observed on your way in today two portly figures, both of whom are dressed in black and wearing Predator sunglasses.

One clutches to his breast a well-thumbed Slovenian/English phrase-book and the other a manual film camera whose genesis began some ninety three years ago in the mind of one Oskar Barnack.

But who is the real horologist? And why?

Central Exchange

This weekend has seen a veritable frenzy of phone-calls and increasingly confused emails as various members of the family electrofried have emerged, one by one, from behind a series of curiously fashioned Circus masks to reveal their true identities.

Perhaps confusion is a natural hazard of hosting a Chronicle that is subject to the vagaries of the shifting sands of time. So take a seat as the drama unfolds.

An invitation is extended

A few weeks ago (if time can be relied upon) I extended a family-wide invitation to visit the House. The initial response was muted, the electrofrieds being a somewhat cautious and sensitive clan.

Brave nephew, Piercelings, was among the first to visit, though to date he has yet to register his presence formally. Perhaps the mention of his name will prompt a comment - please do keep a sharp look-out for any trail he may leave.

Piercelings was followed closely into the House by much-loved son-in-law, His Imperial Hirsutelessness, who was bold enough to venture into print. His first, but hopefully not last, contribution to the Chronicles appears in the chapter entitled, "TW3".

So take a bow, Piercelings and His Imperial ...

Fungal Growths

All was quiet for some time then, much to my surprise and great joy, a comment appeared overnight like some exotic fungi deep within the woods, from another family member. Enter stage left, Lagerfried.

For those of you who are remotely interested (and I sense you must be in the rather less than significant minority) the debutante pasting of Lagerfried can be discovered by scrolling down to the very bottom of the page.

There you will find the first entry to my journal entitled,"Tap, tap, tap .... ping!!" and hidden amongst the comments is a brief, but highly revealing entry.

Thrown off the scent

It was the reference in that pasting to West Country lineage which threw me off the scent. I automatically associated it with my dear Cousin Frazzle, a Bristolian emigre, mother of two and fellow imbiber of strong continental lagers.

Imagine my surprise, when I discovered the true identity behind this cunningly titled nom-de-plume. Earlier this afternoon, during discussions on the telephone with my elder brother, it became clear Lagerfried, was not a she, but a he.

Step forward then, elder brother. Pray remove your Circus mask, take a bow and lay claim to your rightful title as Lagerfried!

"Nip and Tuck"

Were this to be a Shakespearean opus I would doubtless stand accused of being a gorbellied tickle-brained scut for making such a simple error of judgement. Fortunately, my immediate family are of a more forgiving nature.

Accordingly, I have been able, during the course of the day, to make a number of "nip-and-tuck" operations to the blog to ensure Lagerfried does not have to pass himself off as yet another transgendered electrofried.

Will the real slim frazzle ...

Which just leaves Cousin Frazzle to lay claim to a comment on my blog. She has expert assistance readily to hand in the shape of her gamine like daughters - once suitably rubbed down and oiled with a can of the old super-strength, she too may be tempted into placing finger to keyboard in response.

Should she do so, I feel sure regular Visitors to the House will make her comfortable. Be careful though. Once she's thrown off her tartan blanket and matching bed-socks she's a force to be reckoned with.

A different perspective

So as you leave the House once more, did you guess who was who?

The portly horologist on the right was responsible for the Gallery of Tinctured Abstractions, just a scroll away downstairs. Do call by and have a look - there's a special prize for visitors who guess correctly the subject matter of the photographs.

And as for the imposter on the left, all that remains to be said is, "Ne hodi po travi," or, "Keep off the grass", as the Slovenian/English dictionary would have it.

best regards

electrofried (mr)