Choyang

“Chrissy, m’boy. I would like to tell you that oars are pilchard stew.” “Pilchard stew?” He shook his head, his eyes never quite settling on me for a moment. “No, no, boy. I wanted to tell you that I saw a picture of you… in the newspaper. You looked most apple light and runcible.” He had a metal tankard in his hand – his own personal one which he took to the pub each day – and he waved it about in the air so that drops of beer splashed about the place. “Apple light and runcible?” I asked to check that it wasn’t my hearing that was the problem. “What do you mean, boy?” He examined me as if I were quite mad. “I said you looked upright and respectable. I haven’t used the word runcible in my life. I don’t even know what it means.” He stopped then and gazed about the room as though unsure what he was doing there. “Anyway, as I was saying, there was a phonograph…” I understood this slurred word without asking for clarification. “… of you with your grasshopper.” It went on like this for quite some time. I particularly enjoyed a story he told from when he was a child on his family’s grand estate. He was playing with his two best friends – a unicorn and a hacksaw – and they discovered a purple blancmange. By this point, I had given up asking what he really meant and tried to enjoy the bizarre story for what it was.”
― Benedict Brown, The Christmas Candle Murders