This post will not be widely red, rather it will adopt a subtle, ochre hue (or, if you’re feeling uncharitable, a jaundiced tinge). The funny thing about hues is their tendency to cry at the slightest provocation, as opposed to Hugh, who was a member of the Borg collective, although defective in their terms. The Borg would certainly have termed this post ‘jaundiced’. Assimilation is not synonymous with charity.
Ah, the multifarious joys of the English language and the abuse thereof. As a well bred, well read and prolifically literate Englishman, I consider it my birthright to write, right, wright and rite. Pedants control yourselves, please, I’ve only just started! And as the likelihood of this post being widely, or even fully, read declines line by line, I feel inclined to ramp things up a little.
Remembering a time when I rite right to the lake, paddled my coracle to see the oracle, rowed with him and then rowed back, having stolen his stole as well as his rowing boat. I rode back up the road on a hoarse horse and went to the tack shop, but they had no tacks, only an inexplicably large supply of pears. I asked for a pair, they said I could have a gross. I didn’t want to eat that many as I might become gross, which would be really gross. I started to grouse but they didn’t deal in gallinaceous birds either.
I ponied up for a new pony and rode the bay down to the bay, a low bough causing me to bow low in avoidance. I wanted to pick up some whey on the way as long as it didn’t weigh too much, they measured some out and the weight was worth the wait.
When I reached the shore I was sure I would see the sea, but it was nowhere to be seen. The scene was completed as I was passed by a chimpanzee, on a tricycle, wearing a fez which was, predictably, red.
— Inspired by the writing prompt ‘red’ from the now sadly defunct StudioThirty+
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