Call me the Golden Herm.
My mother bore me in the Southern wild but, "she, being mortal, of that boy did die," as my Aunt Titania says, though "boy" in the circumstances is pushing it, a bit, shes s me, there, shes rendering me unambiguous in order to get the casting director out of a tight spot. For "boy" is correct, as far as it goes, but insuffit. Nor is the sweet South in the least wild, oh, dear, no! It is the lovely land where the lemon trees grow, multiplied far beyond the utmost reaches of your stultified Europotric imaginations. Child of the sun am I, and of the breezes, juicy as mahat mythopoeically caress the Coast of andel far away on the porphyry and lapis lazuli Indian shore where everything is bright and precise as lacquer.
My Aunt Titania. Not, I should assure you, my natural aunt, no blood bond, no knot of the umbilical in the e, but my mothers best friend, to whom, before she departed, she entrusted me, and, therefore, always called by me "auntie".
Titania, she, the great fat, showy, pink and blohing, the Memsahib, I call her, Au-tit-tit-ania (for her tits are the things you notice first, size of barrage balloons), Tit-tit-tit-omania boxed me up in a trunk she bought from the Army and Navy Stores, labelled it "Wanted on Voyage" (oh, yes, indeed!) and shipped me here.
Here! to -- Atishoo! -- catch my death of cold in this dripping bastard wood. Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain!
"Flaming Juhe sarcastic fairies mutter, looking glum, as well they might, poor dears, their little wings all sodden and plastered to their backs, so water-logged they hardly take off and no sooner airborhan they founder in the pelting downpour, crash-land among the plashy bra furls amid much piteous squeaking. "Never such weather," plain the fairies, amid the brakes of roses putting on -- I must admit -- a brave if pastel-coloured floral show amidst the inclemency of the weather, and the flat dishes of the pale wild roses spill over with the raindrops that have collected upon them as the bushes shudder in the reverberations of dozens and dozens of teeny tiny sneezes, for no pla their weeny anatomies to store a handkerchief and all the fairies have got shog colds as well as I.
Nothing in my princely, exquisite, peacock-jewelled heredity prepared me for the dank, grey, English midsummer. A midsummer nightmare, I call it. The whirling winds have wrehe limbs off even the hugest oaks and brought down altogether the more tottery elms so that they sprawl like collapsed drunks athwart dishevelled fairy rings. Thunder, lightning, and, at night, the blazing stars whizz down and bomb the wood. . . nothing temperate about your temperate climate, dear, I snap at Aunt Titania, but she blames it all on Uncle Oberon, whose huff expresses itself in thunder and he makes it rain when he abuses himself, which it would seem he must do almost all the time, thinking of me, the while, no doubt. Of ME!
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath
Because that she, as her attendant hath
A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;
She never had so sweet a geling;
And jealous Oberon would have the child!
"Boy" again, see; which isnt the half of it. Misinformation. The patriarchal version. No king had nothing to do with it; it was all between my mother and my auntie, wasnt it.
Besides, is a child to be stolen? iven? Or taken? Or sold in bondage, dammit? Are these blonde English fairies the agents of proto-i
（本章未完）