Lies about reptiles and biscuits
Implausible statements made on the way home yesterday:
1. Lizards have three eyes, one of which gets covered in scales when they grow up.
Source: "mon livre sur les reptiles" (my book on reptiles)
2. The tyrannosaurus cannot run, but instead "hides behind trees and jumps out on its prey".
Source: "On a vu un film" (we saw a film)
3. Komodo dragons are venomous, like human flesh and can paralyse you with one bite.
Source: "il y a quelqu'un qui m'a dit à la garderie" (someone told me at gulag holidaycamp). Oh, I have just remembered this one was followed up with "elle avait de la chance, ta copine" (your friend was lucky), said sagely and soberly, with head shaking, referring to this.
4. Dinosaurs can crush stones with their teeth, verrrry slowly.
Source: "c'etait aussi dans le film". (that was in the film too).
5. English people cannot say "speculoos".
Source: none cited.
The €1 a day gulag did not seem to have been particularly terrible. I suppose when you spend your school days rote learning poems about leaves and writing out your eleven times table in painstaking copperplate, being allowed to huddle around a pile of sticks without any particular goal is a dizzying luxury. I should keep this in mind next time I am fretting about laying on holiday entertainment, and perhaps keep some poems on hand to wave menacingly when boredom is mentioned.
By The Hammy Big Collared Entertainment Divided
I got distracted this morning by a memory of this civil war drama that used to thrill me to the core of my geeky pre-teen being (I would have been 9). I remember being completely, utterly immersed in it, finding it terrifying and swashbucklingly wonderful all at once. Now, well. See for yourself.
It turns out to be laughably, spectacularly terrible, at least in this extract. Favourite lines:
"And didn't I cure your goitre?"
"Good Margaret help me compose myself. Is my gown straight?"
"Let us ride into the woods while they prattle .. we have a sorrel mare for you (scriptwriters obviously reading La Peste, existentialism and civil war drama being excellent bedfellows), a stout beast of speed and full of bottom, she will make a good mount".
I suppose The Tudors is just as terrible, but I find it amusing how period drama dates just as badly as other drama. I mean, how, exactly has the seventeenth century changed between 1983 and now? One would imagine not at all, and yet.
A list of stuff I have fucked up or broken in the last week:
Lovely enormous Ikea mug, destroyed by scales falling out of kitchen cupboard;
Measuring jug, filled with plaster of paris (part of an ordeal by craft, something the 17th century was probably very hot on), then forgotten for several days. I burnt myself trying to see if pouring boiling water on it, then jabbing at it with a knife would help. ASTONISHINGLY, it did not. My father, the king of all science, must once again be so proud.
Adored hot pink Skandium mixing bowl, again knocked off work surface by something falling out of kitchen cupboard.
Pretty white mug from wanky teashop the Tea Smith in Spitalfields (kitchen cupboard victim 3).
Bottle of Diptyque Philosykos scent destroyed by things falling out of the bathroom cupboards. On the upside, the bathroom smells nicer than usual.
(I do not even bother to include the usual catalogue of phone calls not made, invoices not despatched, bills not paid, dwindling reserves of money, no clean clothes and the fact that I am wearing nauseatingly ugly stripy socks of dubious provenance with black patent ballet pumps because of the no clean clothes thing. It is all too tediously predictable).
What conclusions can we draw here? Either I have too much stuff, or there is not enough storage space, or both. The kitchen in particular is a series of expensive accidents waiting to happen.
You are being very patient with the daily blog tedium, which I think is proving therapeutic. Here, have a loris holding a cocktail umbrella, as gifted to me by reader H, as a reward: