Parte the Thirde:

Minxes & Mackintoshes

I must confess that my enthusiasm was beginning to wane somewhat by this point, so how relieved I was indeed for the most excellent entry from ICELAND, which, according to Cassandra, is ruled over by a Saint Nicholas. The young lady who performed between the two boisterous gentlemen in mackintoshes had a minxish glint in her eye, which I have recognised in Cassandra's whenever she passes a male public convenience. Although somewhat disturbed by Selma's refusal to adhere to the set working week, I found this a most exhilirating entry, and one that would surely finish just seventy points adrift of the English Isles.

After this amusing distraction, I then became concerned for the CYPRIOT artist who appeared to have developed a metallic rash. Perhaps it was merely buckshot from a recent pheasant shooting expedition that had as yet escaped the scrubbing brush. I have heard medical minds tell how metal can poison the blood, and it had surely affected this woman as she was extremely excitable at the close of her song. Her whooping and cheering were nothing short of common and really quite disgraceful. I secretly wished her a poor result, almost as severe as that I had wished on the overly gaudy Spanish performer.

Sweet Papa chose this moment to end his sentence of purgatory, yet still he must have felt the cross of guilt upon his shoulders, unable to face his daughters. I heard his light step on the carpet as the SWEDISH singer appeared on stage, yet almost instantly it turned and became quicker, retracing the guilty path to the bathroom. I swelled with pride, how noble it was of him to spare our blushes. I admired the religious tone of this song, with its links to the Ascension, and its similarity to a tune I have heard tell of a score and five years since. Cassandra marvelled at the pneumatic qualities of the young Miss Nillsson's chest and tightened her corset in an attempt to provide the necessary uplift. I, however, remained smugly swan mute. I had heard of a procedure where less reputable surgeons mix a solution of India rubber and whale fat and insert it into the chests of vain women. I was quite sure that this woman had undergone the same treatment.

In fact, I was quite sure that the PORTUGUESE singer, with her long flaxen locks, would also wish to enquire about a similar operation, perhaps with an option to remove the embarrassing stubble on her chin from which Aunt Agatha also suffers, but then the kindly Wogan gentleman informed us that it was in fact a man whom Portugal had sent to represent them. I was most relieved.

I was quite sure that I would jump through the bolted window into the shrubbery rather than endure the dull ballad from the IRISH peoples. I made a mental note of the tune, so that I could reprise it the next time I acted as governess to poorly behaved children as a form of punishment. I told Cassandra of my intentions, and her expression was instantly grave. Such cruelty, she informed me, even if directed at the offspring of chimney sweeps and the such, would inevitably lead to a custodial sentence. I agreed, shocked at my streak of evil so vehemently coming to the fore. We were secretly relieved then, to revel in the simple yet enchanting charms of the AUSTRIAN song. How daring, we thought, to pen a lyric that deals with the complications of physics, yet Refractions In Your Eyes was everything that those who tell of music assure us is fine tunesmithery. I found Roberta Singer to be a most charming young girl, obviously not far from her debutante season, and we both agreed that one who looks so impish would never be short of either friend or companion.

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