Be Our Guest: Dilettante vs Druid

Please welcome to the blog, the delightfully witty Helena Hann-Basquiat, our very favorite Dilettante. She graciously wrote up a hilarious account of her most recent run-in with D.  So, lend her your eyes and enjoy! Be sure to tell her how much you love this in the comments!

Dilettante vs Druid

The one, the only Helena Hann-Basquiat, everyone's favorite dilettante

The one, the only Helena Hann-Basquiat, everyone’s favorite dilettante

When I arrived at the house, I was at first a bit apprehensive. There were strange noises coming from within, and what appeared to be a tornado hovering over the roof — not doing any damage, just spinning there like a child’s top.

I rang the doorbell, and heard the rushing of feet stomp toward me from behind the door. The door swung upon violently, and I confess I flinched.

“Who rang that bell?” an annoyed looking Druid poked his head out the open door, looked me up and down like a side of beef, and then sneered. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, Mr. Druid. It is I, your favourite dilettante, Helena Hann-Basquiat.”

“You’re not my favourite anything,” he scoffed. “And anyway, can’t you read?”

“Read what?” I asked, looking around in case I’d missed something.

The Druid seemed to be flustered, and slammed the door. He returned a few seconds later with a huff, hung a sign on the door knob, and then closed the door again, barring my entry.

I stared in amusement at the sign, and read it aloud.

“Bell out of order — please knock.”

I laughed. “You know, A. would find this hysterical, but you, you probably don’t even get it, do you, you humourless bastard?”

“I’m no bastard,” Dubh an Súile mac Alasdair, a.k.a. ‘D’ coughed a protest. “And I do too have a sense of humour.”

“Oh, I think not,” I argued. “I think it got shot off in some war or another.”

“And now you’re cribbing lines from Roland of Gilead,” D said.

“Wait,” I shook my head in disbelief. “You don’t know the Wizard of Oz but you know Roland of Gilead?”

“Correction,” he raised a pointed finger. “I knew Roland of Gilead. Excellent fellow, if a bit dusty and intense.”

The one, (and thank heavens) the only, D as imagined by Green Embers)

The one, (and thank heavens) the only, D as imagined by Green Embers)

“You must have got on like fireworks,” I said under my breath. “But Roland is a fictional character in a Stephen King story. How do you…”

“Never mind that,” D interrupted. “What of this Wizard you speak of? Is he very powerful?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “He’s a humbug.”

“I know not this bum hug,” D furrowed his brow intensely. “Is he a traveller, like me?”

“You ever travel by hot air balloon?”

“Certainly not!” D protested. “How archaic!”

“Yeah, well, this conversation is getting archaic,” I murmured. “Is A. home? I really came to see about collecting those pancakes she promised months ago.”

“Pancakes, pancakes, bloody pancakes!” he snapped.

“Well, you just kind of ruined them for me now,” I said, imagining pancakes covered in blood.

“She’s not here!” he said, sounding a bit like Keanu Reeves, and even had a bit of smoulder going on around the eyes.

“Well, then, aren’t you going to invite me in?” I asked.

“Well, I was making some tea…” the sly Druid began, with a look of mischief in his eyes. “Would you care for a trip… um, that is, a sip?”

Something about the way he was looking at me told me that I should probably run, lest I find myself awakening in a compromising position some hours later with no recollection of how my underwear ended up hanging from the ceiling fan. But I was feeling a bit dangerous myself, and as A. wasn’t home, I gave the old goat a wink.

“Yeah, alright.”