Dear me old sock, what the devil does that friend of yours, Wee Wee, mean by taking up valuable TV time required for other purposes including the airing of The Bold And The Beautiful and re-runs of Friends, by wallowing in a bucket of tears better preserved for the Punchi Theatre stage.

This and other like matters I can tell you whirred through my incensed brain as I raised an eyebrow at the fellow. He may have expected, from the unnecessary verbiage flowing like water from his lips surrounded by oily foliage, a look of burgeoning admiration from me. He may have thought his verbal diarrhoea couched in some pretty impressive vernacular language would grip the heart of the martyred proletariat.

But the milk of human kindness sloshing about inside the bosom of the martyred Pee had already dried up, what with milk going at over Rs.675 and promising to spiral further. And who said you didn’t keep your promises, sweetie?

I mean to say, not that Wee Wee’s hair, nails and bally 150 thousand rupee mobile phone didn’t tickle my fancy. A thing Thellie can safely say hadn’t happened to her since the Dutch Burgher Union Midnight Magic Ball of Nineteen Forty Three.

But what really had me biting my left thumb nail dearie was the fact that Wee Wee seemed to have taken umbrage at some rags allegedly speaking about his hair, nails, toes, slippers, wife, mobile and so on and so forth.

Not so interested in pimpled faces surrounded by oily black locks, Thellie cannot with any certainty say she read anything about Wee Wee’s foul person, though I do recall that my general factotum, Rosalyn, once told me that a man called Weerasangalee was scribbling a load of muck in a vernacular tabloid. She also whispered in my right ear, my left being otherwise occupied, that Weerasangalee and Wee Wee were one and the same.

Odds Bodikins m’dear, that is right. The chap boasted in parliament that he had dabbled a little with the ink well and quill in some vernacular rags.

Not only that he grumbled like an old Scotsman during Prohibition that his own party prevented him from taking legal action against the rags. In other words going to the Hill and seeking redress from the black cloaked ones. Perhaps m’dear, his own party was protecting him from getting egg on his face.

Though Susi, my beautician, tells me that there is nothing like an egg on the face to get rid of the odd pimple.

It’s bad enough m’dear to have to endure the oiled curse babbling on and on about getting shot from the inside and being a leper on the outside or whatever it is he was mumbling on about the other day, but I shall thank you to stop your friend from likening himself to old uncle Julius.

I mean to say dearie this talk about Mark Anthony and Julius Caesar is just about all that a red blooded homo sapien like me can take these days from a bally bacterial infection — whether it is in the form of Wee Wee or otherwise.

I may have misheard, but I doubt it. The Wee Wee, looking redder than a Nuwara Eliya beetroot, was crying buckets of tears about his daddy and mummy much like Rip Van Winkle would recall his dear ones after a deep dream of sleep. However his tears were not likely to resonate with Thellie, I can tell you that. Pray, what about all those mummies and daddies of all those headless bodies floating like candles in a glass bowl down the rivers of paradise in the terror days of the Jay Vee Pee?

Ichabod darling, the fellow seems to be totally wrapped up in himself. Sort of like a Lindberger cheese in cling wrap and tin foil. He laments that he couldn’t bear to face the parents of one of his dear, rebellious friends who lost his life in the 80’s violence. Well, Wee Wee sure seems to have come out of his shell now at any rate. If there was one person who was able to face the parents and loved ones of those murdered by the red brothers with a stocial heart and an un-batting eyelid, then that person was Wee Wee.

One thing is true darling. Wee Wee did add the dazzle and the sparkle into the Jay Vee Pee as he claims. I mean to say, have you seen the glint in his curly locks as the dripping oil catches the rays of the morning sun? Now if that isn’t a dazzle for you I don’t know what is.

Anyway, what with Somai accusing your chaps of burning the Leader press you must be having your hands pretty full eh? Especially because he also accused Wee Wee of being tight lipped about the whole thing despite him being the party media chappie and a self proclaimed scribe to boot.

But it did pull a little at my heart strings darling to learn that poor Wee Wee had not been able to either go to Sri Pada or to Sigiriya because of his dedication to his political career.

How I cried buckets to hear about this sad state of affairs. For a Wee Wee who hasn’t touched the Lions Paw or been stung by a bee at the Lions Paw is a Wee Wee who has not lived. A Wee Wee who has not set his eyes upon the lissome lasses of the frescoes or scribbled a scribble on the mirror wall is a Wee Wee who is less of a man — if that is possible with a man like Wee Wee.

And so I wept large tears into my Chardonnay but I soon mastered my emotions to listen to him speak once more.

"I could not do my ‘A’ Levels" he said.

Darling, it shows.