Smoke and mirrors

I had my Bathsheba moment, standing on a palette, washing myself with a bucket of kettle-boiled water, waiting for David to notice my beauty in the moon light.
Maitre Barbelane was entertaining some wealthy bods on his terrace below.  A laurel tree hid me from them, but they laughed a lot and made me feel self conscious.  I gave up on David.
The Great Gods in the Elysian Fields realised that there weren't enough teachers in this arse-end of France.  The Academy Archangels in Toulouse sent an email to the lower angels in Foix ordering this fallen angel to get back in classroom.  
My own angel Gabriel rings me every night from Ireland and plays his guitar chords and his harmonica down the line and makes me miss him all the more.
Leila has monopolised the hold of a Ryanair plane from Barcelona to Dublin.  All her worldly goods are heading for Trinity.  I wanted to buy her a plug hole plunger so her tangle of hair doesn't clog up the Liffey, but she doesn't have room left in her luggage.
It seems like my family is relentlessly shifting north and west.
Meanwhile the factory where my boys work has gone up in flames which has turned into toxic smoke. 
The week was over. Bernie rallied his sheep by the canal and the grey cat mistook a mirror for a window.
 
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