Hippodrome April 3rd countdown. Diary 4

Another Animated Brain Tableaux email from my future self. Would I really want to risk not magically visualising my way to absolutely guaranteed success with a purchase of, let's call it, Rehash Resplendent?
At the bar after my recital recently, drinking with Claud and Gordon, the M and S obsessed couple that my mother has fag-hagged since 1976.
Gordon said we must be wary of false prophets. 'Booze.'
'I always get the right message from my fifth voddie,' said Claud.
'Drugs.'
'Only Night Nurse with a cod liver oil chaser.'
'The rehashed trend for living in the visualised desired outcome of dreams.'
'Is that false, too? But I do my affirmations with tealights, a mini gong tinkled, wearing my mother's wedding veil. Shall I not
get my high tea at the Ritz then, with Doris Day, Marian Keyes and
the Briefs Factory boy with the YoYo?'
'Oh, you fickle queen,' said Gordon. 'What about the muscle beauty in the green suit Iestyn got onstage at the Round House for
that frabjous Boom and Bang show?'
'Jay Copley,' I said.
'And might Jay Cop-Me, please, be at the Hippodrome on April 3rd?' Claud asked.
'Busy with his swamped classes at Barry's Bootcamp and modelling. But maybe.'
'Well, for another sighting of him, forget positive visualisations:
I'd positively blue-whiten mother's wedding veil!'

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