Bitch on the Blog

August 27, 2017

Exotic

Ramana mentioned pineapple in his last post. I am fond of pineapple. I even have a pineapple corer. One of those concoctions you screw down the center of a whole and fresh pineapple ┬áto come away, well, with the core. Come to think of it, so fond of fruit am I, I have a melon baller too. Employed about an hour ago. I am attached to both my serrated tomato knife and my curved grapefruit one. You may say, a knife for all occasions, not least the butcher’s one I managed to slice my finger tips off with. Don’t worry. It didn’t hurt. Yes, that sharp it was. I just bled like a pig. Unnoticed by me till my guests pointed out red running down my apron. Nothing that A&E can’t fix. In fact, in A&E, they prefer the stupidly unaware like me to the drunk unawares with broken jaws and stuff. During the early hours of Saturday and Sunday morning.

One of the questions Ramana’s questionnaire put which pain the worst you ever endured. I don’t know. ┬áTeeth spring to mind. Last time, can’t remember now exactly when, maybe two years ago, an abscess emerged from nowhere. One moment I was fine, the next morning the Angel told me I looked like “American Dad”. If you don’t know what American Dad looks like please don’t google him. He looks like a big man with a big chin. Still, his wife loves him.

Unlike my mother – who I believe uses the excuse of headaches to get herself out of scrapes – I never ever suffer headaches. There were two – a bit like migraine – in my early twenties, diagnosed as tension headaches. If tension is like finding your skull in a vice grip then, yes, they were definitely tension headaches. Sweethearts, you haven’t lived nor given birth to your first child till you have had a tension headache. Back in the motherland a colleague of mine, wired to the tune of perfection, had migraines, on and off. She’d sit at her desk, blinds down, room darkened, tears involuntarily running down her face. whilst battling on. Our boss would send her home habitually which, as her sidekick, used to put me into rather a spot.

Other than that, and back to pineapple, my first “real” boyfriend used to make his friends his one and only masterpiece (he was a painter among the rest of all the painters in our circle; one made it big, yes LSF – longest standing friend). T’s masterpiece? Hawaii Toast. Ham and pineapple. It was divine. Thomas killed himself in his early twenties. Pineapple didn’t feature. His father was a psychologist. His mother a little absent minded.

U

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