Behold My #Bigpens: A Yuletide vignette of Pedagogical Import in which the Writer tries to touch the Reader

A photographic representation of an enormous quill adjacent to a boulderly pebble of equal proportion.

I was sitting in my study, stroking Mr Tits and playing with my #bigpens, when Mrs Whats burst in upon my reverie to exclaim: “My, but Mr Whats, you are a tender and surprising lover!”

I love writing, don’t you?

“That’s by the by,” I replied, for once at a loss for a witty reply. And then my eyes lit upon my #bigpens and a sparkle came to my eye as is does one that has just had an idea. “Since it is Christmas – or nearing so,” I said, “Let me entertain you with a Yuletide vignette, Mrs Whats.”

Smiling by way of assent, Mrs Whats joined Mr Tits and I on the divan. “My, but Mr Tits is looking fulsome this pastnoontimesuch,” did Mrs Whats say upon regarding his personage therein upon the seatable surface of the divan.

“Quite,” I replied, not unused to exchanges of such a conversational nature, “I have been fluffing him quite whilst whiling away the afternoon playing with my #bigpens.”

“Your #bigpens?” my wife inquired.

“My #bigpens.” I replied, proferring them so.

“Ah, but of course.” she replied, taking up my #bigpens amongst her slender fingers, “It sometimes seems these be the very core of your being.”

“My #bigpens?” said I, not uninquiringly so.

“The very same,” said Mrs Whats, her fingernail tracing a circle around a lid of one said of my #bigpens.

“Forgive me,” I replied by way of reply, “My very same?”

“Your #bigpens.” she did not gainsay. And for a moment we both fell into the selfsame reverie.

Suddenly, without warning or prerequisite, I stood from the divan, spilling my #bigpens, and marched to the window’s casement. Therein the window seat, I sat cross legged like a… like a… I sat cross legged like a carpet-seated primary school child in receipt of either starter or plenary.

“Lord, my Mr Whats!” my wife exclaimed upon regarding the suddenditude of my divan’s exuence, “What has taken upon you so to leave my side betwixt Mr Tits and your aforementioned #bigpens?!”

“It is both nothing and everything, my dear.” I said, looking out upon the grounds through the misted casement. “I feel myself… how can I put this?”

“You feel yourself?”

“I do. I feel myself.”

“How you do you feel yourself so, my dearest Whatonomy?” her eyes implored me as if with outstretched arms. It was all that I could do to resist the warm embrace of those eyes’ arms.

I heaved a not unheavy sigh and not briskly turned to her, cheek by cheek, cross legged in the casement window seat. It took some moments to execute this manouevre of such buttockal dexterity, but all the while Mrs Whats did regard me with a most sympathetic carriage.

“I feel myself upon the brink of greatness, Mrs Whats.” I fixed her steadily with my gaze.

“Greatness?”

“Greatness.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“Which one of us is talking now?” said Mr Tits.

“Oh, Mr Tits, do shush so.”

“Quite.”

At this moment, I betook myself from the sill and bestrode the length of the study, in a turmoil of not unmisted thought of a not unproblematical bent.

“Are you quite feeling yourself at this moment?” my wife asked, a look of grave empathy seated upon her brow like a ungrotesque and loving gargoyle.

“I am feeling myself, most assuredly,” said I, “but I am bursting to show the world my #bigpens!”

“Your #bigpens? You are feeling yourself and you want to show the world your #bigpens?”

“Truth be told, both are so,” said I, taking up in hand my #bigpens and waving them in the face of Mrs Whats. My, but she did blink at my #bigpens. Mr Tits, it must be acknowledged, was rather nonplussed by my #bigpens. In fact, he took to a most rigorous cleansing of his nethers – whether to underscore his insouciance or in actuality to primp himself free of various winnets, only he could say (if he could say).

“But my Mr Whats, why fret you so, bestroden of this studious espace?”

I turned from my perambulatory segue to again give Mrs Whats the full force of my visage, strained as it was with little tics and nervous agitations of the brow.

“How can I be sure that the sundry educational supplements will take kindly to such an airing of my #bigpens in their environs?” saying so, I twisted the lid of a particularly large selection of my #bigpens – much to Mrs Whats’s wincement.

“My good and kind Mr Whats,” my wife interjected with a keening heartfeltedness, “What have you, the pioneer, purveyor and wielder of your #bigpens, to fear from such naysayers as might naysay and look askance with a wither at your #bigpens?! You, who have demonstrated with an ampleness and great width of generosity the pedagogical effects of the use of larger escribements, you have nothing to lose in the public forwarding of your #bigpens. Push on, I say,” she said with no little force and a not unsurprising amount of spittle, “push on and, perforce, place your #bigpens into the public domain!”

She looked me up and down with an admiration of which any recipient would be both proud and bashful.

“But, pray, before you step from this study to make your #bigpens known to the world, do put some clothes on.”

I love writing, don’t you?

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