Cathy, A Comic Opera
My people. It is me Mr Lab. I need your help and advice again.
Many of you would have seen pictures of my wedding in November to Catherine. Alright, I know she had been around a bit but I loved her and what did I expect from a girl called Mobile. She had settled down at last and she chose me, a mahogany pauper from overseas. You saw the tall distinguished best man I hired for the day, and all the expense I spared on the cheap fare.
Yet we had and saw the most intoxicating honeymoons from the back seats of the consultants’ cars parked just next door: for variety and flexibility they say are the spice of married life.
Perhaps jealous of my bridge-broad smile, my hop, skip and step up around the hospital beside my new bride, my boss and an old boyfriend of Cathy’s, Count Beano Kanta of Tattered EpsoKorna is threatening to pull rank. He put me on late shifts and now insists on checking on my fidelity by insisting that he needs to “have nocturnal access” to my beloved Cathy. The Count ascends he says. Why should it matter to me, he says, when he should be out before I return at 3?
If I say no I will lose my job and be deported. Cathy and I will starve and burn in the Sahara: and the same thing will happen to the next Figaro to whose wife the Count takes a fancy. But if the Count gets his way I would have let my Cathy down. I am not brave I am not wily or clever and I am sorry to trouble you once again; but I don’t know to whom to turn. My people what do I do?
Solar Lab
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