Miss April Advises: Help Didit, Help Me!

Dear Miss April,

A childish prank has got slightly out of hand and left me in a bit of a pickle. Quite an embarrassing pickle as it happens. Due to a serious miscarriage of justice, I find myself residing permanently in the local lunatic asylum. Do not upset yourself over this. It is not such a bad life. The problem arose when I decided to bring some excitement and laughter into the very dull lives of my fellow inmates who do little more than rock back and forwards in their chairs all day long or scream at the invisible people in the asylum. I felt certain that having entered the asylum kitchen and laced the staff luncheon with a mixture of strychnine and strong laxatives, a good deal of amusement would be provided for the inmates. Strychnine as you may know causes severe convulsions and of course laxatives have a single purpose for which they are most effective. The two combined are guaranteed to cause a good deal of hilarity (except of course for the person who has ingested the mix). The problem arose when I decided to add something special to the event by setting fire to the mattress in my cell. The mattresses we use are quite old and tend to be stuffed with horse hair and goodness knows what else and create a thick black cloud of toxic fumes when burnt. I have accidentally pulled the door of my cell behind me and it has locked. I cannot attract the attention of the staff who are otherwise engaged after having enjoyed their luncheon. I cannot extinguish the mattress and a cloud of toxic fumes is spreading slowly toward me. Dear Miss April, what should I do? I would appreciate your wise advice at your earliest convenience. Yours hopefully, Alfred Didit.

Dear Mr Didit

Oh, alas, wellaway, Mr Didit, wellaway….

I am overcome with self-loathing as I must assume that sir, you have passed. It has been a good week gone now, and unlike those who have been born in a modern age, I do not visit the lights of my computer regularly. I am often sitting in the garden for days on end, waiting for a lover to run over the hilltop – poetry, flowers, sunshine, my life is an imagination taking place outdoors. It is my utter disgrace to have left you locked indoors amidst your fiery hellish doom.

Alas, you have passed. My dear sir, may you find peace.

However, for those who are reading and find some similarity in your circumstance let me help you thusly. For God’s sake, use the fire extinguisher. None about? Use the woolen blanket. Throw it over the flames to smother the oxygen, hence suffocating the red dancing demon. He is gloating you know.

Now let me address some more serious pathologies of lovely Mr Didit. Death is not entertainment except to the psychopaths. Psychopaths do not need advice, they do not accept advice, they do not deserve advice. Those of others who are in bedlam but are not psychopaths are not by default dull. Oh no, they are most likely very ill and just trying to survive.

From your enjoyment of the combination of poo and eccentricity you reveal yourself as an anglophile, or merely a British Royal. Bravo, sir. You have made it to the history books. If you did not run and jump, escaping through the closest window into the murky moat, or as suggested used that lovely woolen blanket as a saviour, then I bid you farewell Sir. Life has come, and life has passed, and perhaps we are all the safer for it.

Remember Didit, fire and sexual repression go hand in hand, so hands off,
yours, Miss April

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Miss April Advises: Hair Affair – snow-fro sex.

Dear Miss April,

I’m going out on a limb here, but I am thinking of dating a man with an sno-fro.

However, my issue lies not with the ‘fro’ itself but rather the silhouette of the afroe mentioned man when post-coitally wet. In polite and sometimes impolite company his often buoyant locks and joi de coiffure fill the room.

Should we unite as one of backs and cracks, and spend a dream loosened from the stream of lucidity, then shaken in the fur light of the morning as tulips wilt or weep, one can be taken to flee at the sight of a freshly showered poodle. What was once a throng of bubbling follicle froth is suddenly a limp moist tonsure tossed from the tub in lost hope.

Of course I hypothesise as the scene of my distress is still a play to be run but the problem lies in that the cast are ready to mount the stage and I can only see one act. What should I do?

Cordially yours

Hair Affair

Dear Hair Affair

Bravo to your cocksure wordsmithing! Continue to wax lyrical like Lord Byron and I might be out on a limb myself if I were so endowed.

There is such familiar comfort for me in your combination of confidence and pessimism in the face of good fortune, it reminds one of….oh yes, you must be Jewish, Neurotic, Catholic, an over-analytical stuck-up aesthete.

You are contemplating dating a snow-fro gent; let us assume that he is willing to accept said scenario and we have two protagonists in this play of life. Surely your admiration of him runs deeper than the personification of his natural bouffant? But already you fear a limp, flaccid snow-fro will have the equivalent effect on your desire…for an encore.

The most important piece of advice I have for you here is that if post-coital meeting of the secret gardens you aren’t both sodden messes you clearly aren’t doing it right. To be sure, I would not underestimate the resilience of a genetically formed snow-fro, nonetheless if it does metamorphose it is your duty as a lover to allow uninhibited vulnerability. It is your duty to yourself to allow the same for you. Or else, where’s the fun?

My second piece of advice may have more lasting significance. I say this to you – enter stage one with the true intentions of a thoughtful Thespian. Introduce these characters to each other; get to know them, allow the inhibitions to dissipate along the journey, and leave the consummation for the finale, by which time even if the snow-fro turns into a bathmat it may do so without fear of repulsion, merely the sense of satisfaction for a job well done.

Break a leg Hair Affair, may pleasure be your applause,
Most affectionately, Miss April

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