I’m currently freezing a shmallow. What happens when you freeze a shmallow? I don’t know, but I will tonight. I could probably google it, but Isaac Newton didn’t discover gravity by googling it… and that’s factually true - think about it. It’s a temporal thing, probably a bit beyond you. Certainly the coyote doesn’t think much of you.
…that it’s possible to sneeze so hard you stagger backwards?
I learned this yesterday. Most fun I’ve had in weeks. I seem to be on my fifth cold of the season, which makes me feel like this.
The snortlepig has learned to make personal remarks.
In a way, she has known how to do this for some. She mastered the generic insult long ago - “pesky wench”, “stinky”, &c. But then, a few weeks ago, she pointed to a Baby Of Colour in a book we were reading and said “Chocolate baby!”. And I was like, huh.
Then today we were at the fabric shop, buying fabric so I can make a dress to wear at practically my only sister’s wedding; and the pig caught sight of a somewhat sizeable employee, pointed and enthused “She’s very big!”. Fortunately, the very big lady did not hear us, and I gave the snortlepig a hurried explanation of why we do not make personal remarks about people’s looks, unless they are babies, in which case we may call them cute. Fortunately this took the pig’s mind off largeness, and she cooed “Awww, babies, very cute!” for a bit. She is a sweetcheeks.
Then we were served by another staff member, and the pig pointed once more and said loudly “He has ears!”. He did, in fact, have very large and sticky-out ones. I tried to blandly pass over it by saying “Yes he does, just like you”, but it was nerve-wracking. Worse still, the snortlepig referred to him moments later as “she”, which was innocently meant - her pronouns are on the fritz - but this particular staff member has a very high, squeaky voice which I suspect goes along with an interesting medical condition (similarly the ears, and he’s about eight feet tall - any guesses?), so he probably went away and shot himself after. A pity; he really knows his fabrics.
And then, sitting at the bus stop on the way home, the chappie next to us yawned and stretched his arms, revealing from beneath his T-shirt an impressive expanse of squish. With preternatural parental instincts I managed to catch the joyous shout of “NEKKID squish!” as it leaped from the pig’s synapses, and arrest it with a thorough tickling. It was close, though. Too close. I do not think he would have been amused.
Question: What should one do? Should I carry copies of Kate Harding essays in my bag at all times? Wilfully misunderstand her, possibly making the situation worse? Beam benignly at everyone and pretend the pig is a Belgian exchange student? I do not know. It’s a pity she enunciates so clearly. Maybe I should Novocaine her tongue before we leave the house.
Which Jane Austen husband would you rather marry?
This is a question that has been vexing me for some time. 4PM, anyway. One automatically thinks Darcy, because one automatically thinks of Pride and Prejudice when one thinks of Jane Austen, but then, vast quantities of dosh and a happily situated estate aside, there would be practical issues. I bet Lady Catherine would be a thorn in the flesh, as of course would Mr Collins; and people would be popping round all the time to see the house. Also, suddenly being the mistress of a vast estate would probably tax the nerves. The servants would probably titter at you for your carefree manner of address. And let’s not forget that he did, at one time, ruin the happiness of a most beloved sister.
Edmund, of course, is obtuse. I diskard him. I like Captain Wentworth, though. But then, being a sailor’s wife would be no picnic. Even if you travelled with him initially, as at least one film version implies Anne did, you’d have snortlepigs at some point and then you’d probably have to stay home. And that would be smeggy. Plus, though he writes a corking love letter, it might be difficult to refrain from bringing it up in a snarky fashion eight years down the track, when he was chortling with his sailor buddies over an ale while you struggled with a flailing toddler. You’d be tempted to cast a sardonic glance in his direction and say “I am half agony, half hope” in a sarcastic sort of way. Well, I might.
I’d like to think I had the qualities to be satisfied with Robert Martin, living a useful and pleasant life as a farmer’s wife, but - although he has a pleasing name - I suspect it wouldn’t work out. Mr Knightley, certainly not. And whatsisname from Northanger Abbey is not worth a mention. Edward Ferrars? Maybe, although there would be theological objections. Bingley is a bit of a wet, and he’d be wanting to have people over all the time in order to beam affably at them.
So you see, it is a vexing question. Here’s a turbot.
You know what amoose me? Cynical love songs. Some love songs are simply drippy, like that one by Josh Groban, “You’re Still You”, which I diskard. Then there are some which are overtly misgynistic, like most of Billy Joel’s oeuvre. I quite like Billy Joel, but he does have some rather insulting lyrics. Have you ever listened to “She’s Always a Woman” or “Just The Way You Are”? Well…. quite.
In the middle ground, however, there are some songs which indicate devotion without complete dog-eyed cessation of critical faculties. Like “God Only Knows”, by the Beatles. Life would still go on, believe me. As indeed it would. It’s nice to know. Best of all, though, is the supremely searing little ditty entitled “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”. Here it is. Bob Dylan; Peter, Paul and Mary. Superbness.
Tonight I watched Sleeping Beauty with the pig. I hadn’t seen it for a very long time, if ever, and was pleasantly surprised: especially when Merryweather, acting as the dressmaker’s dummy for a new dress for Briar Rose, said “It looks awful!” and Flora off-handedly replied “That’s because it’s on you, dear” without breaking stride. It amoosed me. What was even more amoosing, though, was when Briar Rose was weeping on the bed because she would never get to marry her true love, and the snortlepig said “Aww, sad. She needs food, feel better”. It’s good to know she has her priorities straight.