As posts go my last was a flop.
Before I threw myself on the line yesterday evening I had sliced an onion, nay two, very finely AND I did NOT cry. My tear ducts were as unmoved as Salome’s when John’s head was presented to her on a silver platter.
Which made me take note.
The absence of eye water throwing up my existential question, namely, how many years and onions it takes before you stop crying. I did a quick calculation, more of which in a moment.
Magpie proceeds to tell me – at length – how to cut an onion. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I slept it over. In the morning Ramana – as only assorted Asians can – advised me to pay someone to do my dirty work for me. Leaving aside that I enjoy cutting onions and making my own bed, it shows you a cultural difference. On a finer note he adds that – having cut many an onion – I should be able to AFFORD someone to do it for me. My dear Ramana, I can barely afford myself. Never mind anyone else.
So, working on a rough average per day and taking the years into account, my mental arithmetic serving me well, I’d say so far over my lifetime I have diced, cubed, sliced, grated, quartered and generally battled and enjoyed doing so somewhere between 14,600 and 19,900 onions.