Evening Primrose, not related to Primula Vulagaris or True Primrose
Baxter is finding it very difficult to accept the possibility that Corgi Archibald likes painted garden gnomes and the Heiress, whose name is Delyth Primrose, does not like painted garden gnomes. It's those sort of little details that cause Baxter to doubt the authenticity of my recollection, sends him running to The Spleen for confirmation. Meanwhile The Spleen is not only a geriatric, he's unreliable, he has his own agenda. He has persuaded the aging collective that at the moment of death a committee from on high will descend and each one of our constituent parts will be tried. Those given an A grade for their service to our shared life will go to heaven. Those given a B grade will be given their next opportunity to shine again by being reborn in someone else. Anything below a B grade goes directly to hell, none of this Dante nonsense there's only one level, flames and little people with pointed sticks. Baxter, the aneurysm, has no chance of avoiding the little people, and neither do I, which is why we are both interested in the possibility of an almighty who believes in Grace, it's the effort grade for a jolly good sort of chap whose true virtues are well hidden, they make excellent and cheerful company for a perfection that seeks to lighten the endless millennia of monotony with a little diversity. The Puck of the Afterlife amongst the madrigals and charades. Can you imagine, a damn good reason to hope for the Nietzschean Limbo of a B grade.
