Last night I dreamt of this place: The Courtyard of the Fluffy Penguins. Twelve supremely fluffy penguins, marble, are poised in the center of a perfect Moorish courtyard, supporting a delicate fountain on their shoulders. Listen. The water trickles gently past the orange trees. Close your eyes. Breathe slowly. There are figs, and pomegranates, too. Open your eyes. The light flickers through.
I have learned that after a great deal of scholarly hemming and hawing, conservationists will this year undertake a careful cleaning of the penguins and will scrape away their calcified crust, thus revealing their true, svelte design and detailed tummy fur. I read of this on a plaque at the museum, erected next door to The Courtyard of the Fluffy Penguins.
The courtyard is in a palace, and the palace, of course, has a moat. It was a sensible decision, especially in such trying times. The moat was filled with marmite and although the Christian kings built rafts out of toast and tried to float across they always got stuck. This is true origin of that ever so delicious treat, marmite on toast. I did not read about this treat at the museum, but one day I am certain I will.
You have been wondering about the harem? Their living quarters were unparalleled. First off, the showers had great water pressure and the hot water could be counted on to last all day. It never ran out before the harem finished rinsing the shampoo all the way out of their ringlets, as is often the case in Passage West, County Cork, Ireland. Slippers were all pre-warmed, there was a kitten for every lap, and on every patio you might find fountains of cafe con leche (in the winter months) and lemon squash (in the summer).
Marlo gave dance lessons to the harem, or instructed them in pilates if they preferred, and Steve serenaded them with his guitar (but Steve, eh, it's hands off -- the harem is all mine). Sheila was the court photographer; Jim the court pornographer; and Carlos the court jester. Botz charmed the girls with both his cooking and his access to designer rubber gear. Andrea taught the harem to preserve their digital artifacts and in the lazy afternoons you might find girls of all ages, reclined on cushions and dutifully backing up love notes, bad poetry, snapshots of last summer's holiday in Malaga, and mp3s -- all saved to a specific archival standard, with correct and well constructed metadata attached.
Now these backups have been lost to the winds of time but some metadata survived, in the quilts Francesca was hired to make. A fragment of metadata from a late 20th century artifact uncovered at The Courtyard of the Fluffy Penguins, reads, in part: "sweaty hands -- english boys -- tin whistle -- sunburn -- cornets -- pomegranates -- jelly slippers -- dust storm -- george michael."
