My daughter used her first obscenity the other day. She heard me say 'fuck!' as we missed a bus by seconds having queued for change in Starbucks behind a herd of buffoons. A minute later as we hoofed it along the street she uttered a soft series of fucks from her perch on my shoulders. People were staring so I shushed her and on the spur of the moment suggested she say 'oh dear' instead (pathetic, I know). I thought this had done the trick, but two days later she was messing about in the bathroom when I heard the sound of her dropping something heavy and then an adroit, perfectly-timed 'fuck!'
To tell you the truth, her mother and I are proud. Missing buses, dropping things, who doesn't medicate their frustration with a 'fuck' at times like this? I suppose the trouble is most of a two-year old's times are like this.
How many times have I visited the superb Vancouver Aquarium, and stood in its rainforest exhibit, scanning the foliage for one of the reputed resident trio of three-toed sloths? At least 20. But fruitlessly: until today. Late this afternoon, after the throngs had gone, I watched awestruck as one of the exquisite furry creatures traversed the scanty canopy not six feet above my head, oozing mesmerically from the tip of one bent bough to the tip of one opposite, draping and drooping, probing, progressing by invisible integuments, moving with a meditative calmness which was a balm to the quotidian pangs within me. The performance was like a graceful dream in which nothing happens, over and over again, like a late Beckett play, which is nothing in the passing, but on passing, something. And then, unbelievably, I noticed the other two three-toed sloths: one was snoozing atop the tallest tree, the other eating an apple.
I haven’t eaten an apple. But tonight I ate a gingerbread man in the following order: arms, legs, head, torso (neck down).
And last week I had a son, will wonders never cease! He doesn’t make much sense to me, but then, to misquote an ent, he is very small. And the smell! I love the smell of baby in the morning.
Scans, monitoring. Good nurses, bad nurses. Ghastly consultant. Pisco. Off work, aquarium, belugas, ponytail, triangle. Readings. Monitoring, scans. This Tuesday. Baby. Tummy. Out. Hi! Woah.
I can have an expensive haircut today, or a cheap haircut next Saturday.
Whatever option I choose, paying for a haircut annoys me because I have quite fine hair, so on a per-hair basis I’m paying a lot more than most. Would it be so hard for barbers to weigh the hair removed and charge accordingly? Would that be an insurmountable challenge for our snip-happy friends?
Apparently it would.
Risk Coordinator, Risk Services, Risk Group
- recently-created position at my place of business.
Music-wise, what was the first 45, single or download you bought?
Submitted by Paddy Melt Wagon.
Music-wise? As opposed to what - video-wise? Ah yes, well. Actually I'm a bit of an old bugger in that I was around before not only downloads, but singles and 45's too! My first DVD was 'Ben Hur' on the old '78' format. Bloody exciting when it first came out, everyone straining round the clay tablets, spinning them as fast as our mammoth-flensing duties would allow!
Dear santa, (not the one
who hails from Lapland
and is generally beloved,
but this simulacrum,
this plastic Garganta
on the roof opposite me),
you blaze in ways
unrecorded by apostles;
you pronounce, right arm raised,
your secular decree:
peace on earth through trade,
and beneficial impiety.
Poppar. To pop. E.g. “¡Caramba! Mis oídos están poppando.”
In an attempt to block out the moronic American action movie, volume at max and picture jerking spasmodically on the TV screens as my bus corkscrewed down out of the Andes, I draped my fleece over my face and set my MP3 player to repeat the only polka tune in my collection until all my conscious being had bled entirely out of my quaking eardrums, leaving me a mere husk.
But still, in between repetitions, "roger that, we've got another SWAT team on the way..."
Unfortunately, like a fart, reheated curry only smells nice when it’s your own.
Here I am, being driven from the office to wander the rainswept city until the enfeebled airconditioning system can process the pong.
Like some indigent friar in my goretex cowl.
