The Broomstick

It could never really be defined as a walk, which commits one foot in front of the other in roughly equal measure, slower than a jog yet quicker than a shuffle. Nor could it either be described as a march because a march presupposes purpose and Ernest Moss moved without any purpose. What Cicely captured moving towards her at breathless speed was an aimless arrow fired from the fingers of an inebriated archer. Two frail legs bounding and lunging vigourously, the whole entity ebulliently vacillating from side to side and all this movement barely calibrated by his second rate eyesight.
 

Upon recognising Cicely, Moss's method of greeting revealed and antiquated charm, extending first his delicate pink hands which enveloped her wrist followed shortly thereafter by bending a knee to unveil, what was to him an endearing overture, a score of kisses to her unblemished arm. With remarkable animation he rose to vertical and further adorned both sides of her cheek. Within a few seconds the ritual was over thankfully for the receiver.

Cicely, like her botanical namesake was sweet but unlike it didn't have an umbrella. Shaped like a broomstick she had rather long flat feet on top of which sat slim edible legs, curveless midriff, a face countoured with precision to flush out her universally enrapturing features, and the counterpoint, a sad mop of drenched, near black hair.