The Exungulation of the Drogulus

A DFL Thingy

 Mary exungulated the drogulus every day at Noon. It was equally easy or difficult to do anything to a drogulus, because a drogulus is defined as “a presence that shows no evidence of its presence”.  A real word.  I ask you to look it up. 

Some believe, however, that any drogulus does indirectly show some evidence of its presence by means of mental flags.  An atmosphere.  A simple fear.  A frisson.  An instinct that the drogulus presence is there around you, beside you, in the distance on the horizon or wherever. Even amid the ashes of a dead fire. 

But your own feelings about its presence are surely not dependable pieces of evidence as to its actual presence.  Many of us, however, are wise enough to appreciate its purity of presence.  That’s what makes the presence of a drogulus so comforting.  A complete faith in a presence that shows no evidence of its presence is a comforting faith.  This faith was its presence, perhaps.  Only philosophical doubt could remove its presence.  And Mary did not do philosophical doubt. 

 So, it is best to define a ‘drogulus’ as a presence with no evidence whatsoever of its presence.  It is best.  And, indeed, it was best for Mary.  Even if she gave the matter not a single thought. 

Steve wondered, therefore, why it was necessary for her to make some sort of regular ritual concerning the drogulus every day at Noon.  Steve and Mary had been married for sixteen years and, probably, you would have thought, he had known of this ritual before marrying her.  But her ritual at Noon involving the exungulation of the drogulus was now getting on his nerves, a typical irritation that happens to most husbands, with or without a drogulus involved. 

The presence always reversed the exungulation before the next Noon of the next day.  A pure altruistic selflessness in continually providing the edges of its ‘body’ for Mary’s use. 

Let me not waste your time.  As with most DFL thingies, I will allow you more scope to read entertaining books of fiction by cutting this story short.  The marriage of Mary and Steve was a middle-of-the-road one, even if you took into account Mary’s eccentric ritual with the drogulus.  She, a pretty woman, simple-minded, brooding for children that one of them couldn’t manage to fertilise into existence.  He, a slightly less than handsome man (a run-of-the-mill human being, not the brightest nail in the toolbox, but adequate) who did a mundane job to keep them both in reasonable style.  They loved each other, after a fashion.  Sadly, neither really knew what love could be.   

You must imagine the rest.  You will not be far from the truth; indeed no nearer the truth than if a whole novel had been written about them. 

Steve decided one day that Mary should consult a shrink (his word, not Mary’s).  They had very few savings for such a thing even by never going on holiday.   Not an easy decision process.  But a decision that, after sixteen years of marriage, was deemed necessary.  Neither Steve or Mary knew how they had got here, but having got here, here was the best place to start.

Psychiatrist:  When did the presence start its daily visits?  Sixteen years ago, did you say?

Mary: Pardon?  What presence, what daily visits?

Psychiatrist: Let me put the question another way. When did you start cutting its nails? 

Mary: I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Doctor.  I’ve only come to see you about my depressions.  My husband said I should.

Psychiatrist: I don't want to put words into your mouth.

Mary: I really don't understand what you mean, Doctor. 

Psychiatrist:  Hmmm. I can’t see any marks on your face. I think I need to examine the rest of you. Just undress behind that screen. 

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 The Grinagog The Famulus The Hummum