The house once more resonates to the monotonous sound of shell banging against plastic container. The graphs derived from the tortoise weighing spreadsheets are showing a cheering upward trend. Endive consumption is at a record high. The CFO, however, not content to bask in the warm glow of his successful tortoise husbandry, is fretting about parasites, and the shape of Tortank's beak.
"When you take Oscar to get his nails cut, will you take Tortank along too?"
"What, you want him to do some kind of two for one? Don't you think he'll be a little surprised if I pull a tortoise out of my pocket?"
"That beak needs looking at"
"'Bonjour Monsieur Vet, does this tortoise's upper lip looks ok to you?' I mean, what do you think he's going to do about it? You saw what he did with the penis.. He hardly has an unblemished record with our livestock"
I am thinking of happier things, like names. The CFO refused to name the baby tortoises until they had survived hibernation. Although we mainly ignored that directive, it does mean we now have two tortoises that need names.
is currently "number 4" (that's endive on its chin, not a growth), I had sort of tentatively thought of naming it Hadron Collider, but I'd be keen to hear any other suggestions.
"number 5", is entirely nameless.
I would offer prizes for the best names, but my current track record is chequered. Grit, who won the Advent Calendar STILL hasn't received it. The Belgian postal service is a bunch of thieving bastards. So, I will try and send the winner a prize, but with no guaranteees. Go! Name my torts!
Inspired by this saga of rebirth and reptile genitals, I had a bath this morning with my new Korres shower gel (discovered stocked in one of our recent pharmacy trails! Result!), and took a long hard look at myself in the mirror. The one at the end of the bed, not the bastard evil mirror in the bathroom. It wasn't that hard a look. I'm not a total masochist.
Good points: thin arms and shoulders. Abdominoplasty scar now almost totally healed. Yes, I had cosmetic surgery! Smite me with scorpions if you feel inclined. When I'm feeling coy, I say that I had an umbilical hernia repaired, which is true. Except they only found out about the umbilical hernia when they were doing the tummy tuck. It hurt like a bastard, but it was totally worth it, hence good point four: flat stomach.
Bad points: terrible, terrible arse, flat and saggy. Giving up Power Plate was perhaps not the greatest idea I have ever had. Stretch marks. Serious disproportion between top half and bottom half. General grey-blue, loose, tortoise-esque skin tone.
None of this distresses me greatly at the moment, I find. I think I've lost the intoxicating physical memory of how it felt to be really thin. It's a couple of years away now, and I don't miss it so much. When I play 'would you rather' with myself ('would you rather be ten percent thinner and ten percent stupider' or 'would you rather be ten percent prettier and ten percent fatter' or 'would you rather have your hair back but huge calves'), I seem to come out happy to be me (unless the bargains involve eyelashes. I'd give up a lot to have those back..). I often wonder whether I will be a wasted, bony elderly lady, or a plump one. I still can't tell. I hope I continue not to care.
Just, in the immortal words of Fuck You Penguin, MOISTURIZE, TORTOISE. Goes for me AND Big Mama.