The Bitter Press

I will not be rushed. I will not be calmed. I will begin at the top and work downward with the methodical grief of a woman who has seen too much and sleeps, now, very little.

Fig arrived at Tuesday's session wearing itself. Unadorned. Unstructured. Presenting, to a formal deliberative body, nothing but its own ambient brownish softness and what I can only describe as an attitude of aggressive sincerity. The audacity. The sheer, textureless audacity. One does not simply arrive at a council. One presents. Fig presented as though it had rolled there by accident and decided, upon arrival, to stay.

The seeds — and I am sorry to raise this but someone must — were visible. Interior structure made exterior. In public. Before a quorum. I have consulted with Pomelo on matters of deliberative decorum and she agrees, in writing, that this constitutes a breach. Persimmon, who attends these sessions purely to observe the failings of others, reportedly had to be escorted from the chamber due to what witnesses described as sustained, involuntary wincing.

I am told Fig is considered a delicacy at the rival rag. I am told the so-called workers at factjuice.com regard it as a figure of some distinction. I am told many things by people who have, clearly, never attended a session of consequence in a properly structured outer layer. Fig is many things. Fig is not dressed. This column will be monitoring the situation and will not, under any circumstances, be letting it go.