BACK TO WORK
I read the other day about the proliferation of blogs. It seems that the vast majority are of no interest to anyone except the author himself. Given the dearth of comments about my magnum opus in-the-making, I'm beginning to wonder whether mine might fall into the second category. But I shall carry on regardless.
I just got back from Isreal. Well, Eilat to be precise, a dusty, unplanned city on the country's Red Sea Coast that bears no resemblance to the rest of the Holy Land whatsoever.
I hooked up with a singles tour group. I used to think there were few things sadder than those desperados who travel abroad with the sole intention of finding a spouse. But now I realise I was wrong - sadder still are those people too disorganised to get on the trip in the first place, but who insist on following them around all the same, like an unwanted puppy.
Out of 160 people - split evenly between boys and girls - there was one gorgeous girl, about half a dozen passables, and a truck-load full of mingers.
My favourite was one of the so-so six. If not for her pot-belly and fluffy boots (in the desert) she could have been quite attractive. But then she opened her mouth. Someone, it seems, had made the mistake of talking about bananas. She has a phobia. Not just about eating the phalic fruit, mind. That, at least, could be understandable. This freak, though, feels queasy at the mere mention of the word - like a vertigo-sufferer throwing a wobbly when someone says "altitude".
"Is it the taste, the texture, the shape of them?" I asked.
"No, just the word," she replied.
"What about plantain," I asked.
"What's that?"
"It's like a giant savoury banana," I replied. "They cook with it in the Caribbean."
"Banoffee pie?" I continued.
"You're such a dick-head," she seethed, as she rushed to the back of the bus to distance herself from a hail of banana-fueled abuse.
What a fruit-cake!
I read the other day about the proliferation of blogs. It seems that the vast majority are of no interest to anyone except the author himself. Given the dearth of comments about my magnum opus in-the-making, I'm beginning to wonder whether mine might fall into the second category. But I shall carry on regardless.
I just got back from Isreal. Well, Eilat to be precise, a dusty, unplanned city on the country's Red Sea Coast that bears no resemblance to the rest of the Holy Land whatsoever.
I hooked up with a singles tour group. I used to think there were few things sadder than those desperados who travel abroad with the sole intention of finding a spouse. But now I realise I was wrong - sadder still are those people too disorganised to get on the trip in the first place, but who insist on following them around all the same, like an unwanted puppy.
Out of 160 people - split evenly between boys and girls - there was one gorgeous girl, about half a dozen passables, and a truck-load full of mingers.
My favourite was one of the so-so six. If not for her pot-belly and fluffy boots (in the desert) she could have been quite attractive. But then she opened her mouth. Someone, it seems, had made the mistake of talking about bananas. She has a phobia. Not just about eating the phalic fruit, mind. That, at least, could be understandable. This freak, though, feels queasy at the mere mention of the word - like a vertigo-sufferer throwing a wobbly when someone says "altitude".
"Is it the taste, the texture, the shape of them?" I asked.
"No, just the word," she replied.
"What about plantain," I asked.
"What's that?"
"It's like a giant savoury banana," I replied. "They cook with it in the Caribbean."
"Banoffee pie?" I continued.
"You're such a dick-head," she seethed, as she rushed to the back of the bus to distance herself from a hail of banana-fueled abuse.
What a fruit-cake!
posted by David Cohen at 4:11 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home