My friend The Actress has bought a griffin. A lady griffin. Very regal. Buffed talons, bright beady eyes, a ruff of gleaming bronze scales and a magnificent spear-tapered tail.
“I can’t begin to tell you how extraordinarily happy she makes me,” The Actress told me as she reclined on the day bed sipping her customary Wolfblass.
I’d make house room for a dragon or a dodo but I’m not a griffin enthusiast as a rule. But there’s something about this one. Perhaps, the way she sits disdainfully on the sill with her tail coiled gracefully around her hind legs.
We both stood there side by side, gazing out through the picture window as we stroked the griffin’s head and traced her scales and talons with our fingers.
I cannot imagine how unfair life as a widow must seem. It is little under two years since my dear friend The Actress lost her husband.
And yes, she’s perky, industrious, infectiously optimistic and terribly glamorous but I suspect she is doing her level best to check her resolve. Resolve that must be needed to deal with the paralysing grief of losing a soul mate.
So on a chill morning when the sky is streaked with the frozen pinks of the north, my dear friend’s griffin seems a most agreeable companion.
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