STUFFED
It's been almost eight hours since I gorged myself. And I'm still not hungry. Which isn't really like me. My days - unless unseemingly busy - are usually built around meal-times, rather than the other way around.
Today's festivities revolved around a bar-mitzvah. Coincidentally enough, it was the anniversary of mine - the one where Moses gets pulled out the water, grows up and, ignoring a speech impediment and modesty, tries to get the Jews freed from slavery. The highlight came in the post-service shindig.
It was like the good ol' days: jockeying for position around the fish balls (to paraphrase Marilyn Monroe, "the best part of the fish"); shoulder-barging people away from the smoked salmon; and generally satisfying all my glutinous urges in the space of a calorie-filled half hour. I ignored everyone, but then, everyone else was troughing too, so I don't think anyone noticed.
On the way home, the conversation drifted or, rather, degenerated into musings about sex and religion. When I was abroad, I recounted, there was a question and answer session with a rabbi. It was no-holds barred, so someone asked the grey-bearded Chasid if you had to wear your kippa , or yarmulke, during sex: "If it falls off, it falls off!" he replied, to much tittering.
Anyway, I only have about 10 minutes before Lisa (the one I met in Israel - not the one on the plane, the other one) comes over. In truth, I can't remember if that's her name. I mean, obviously I know her real name. I just can't recall what pseudonym I'd apportioned her for the purposes of this blog. Indeed, it's all getting rather confusing. In a bid to keep my identity hidden, I've changed my name and the names of all the people who pop in and out of my terribly exciting life. And now I fear I've forgotten half of them. Only Emms - and, of course, you, Kazza, - have their real names up in pixels here.
If memory serves, my Greek gal is Mariella. She wrote to me after last Sunday, when I told her that I didn't think we could be together. This is what she wrote...
Actually, come to think of it, I can't put it up here. I know she won't read it, but if ever she did, or someone who knows her did, I don't think she'd be too happy. Turning someone down for no apparent reason is one thing; exposing their personal feelings to public scrutiny is quite another. This may make for duller writing. But I think I can live with that.
It's been almost eight hours since I gorged myself. And I'm still not hungry. Which isn't really like me. My days - unless unseemingly busy - are usually built around meal-times, rather than the other way around.
Today's festivities revolved around a bar-mitzvah. Coincidentally enough, it was the anniversary of mine - the one where Moses gets pulled out the water, grows up and, ignoring a speech impediment and modesty, tries to get the Jews freed from slavery. The highlight came in the post-service shindig.
It was like the good ol' days: jockeying for position around the fish balls (to paraphrase Marilyn Monroe, "the best part of the fish"); shoulder-barging people away from the smoked salmon; and generally satisfying all my glutinous urges in the space of a calorie-filled half hour. I ignored everyone, but then, everyone else was troughing too, so I don't think anyone noticed.
On the way home, the conversation drifted or, rather, degenerated into musings about sex and religion. When I was abroad, I recounted, there was a question and answer session with a rabbi. It was no-holds barred, so someone asked the grey-bearded Chasid if you had to wear your kippa , or yarmulke, during sex: "If it falls off, it falls off!" he replied, to much tittering.
Anyway, I only have about 10 minutes before Lisa (the one I met in Israel - not the one on the plane, the other one) comes over. In truth, I can't remember if that's her name. I mean, obviously I know her real name. I just can't recall what pseudonym I'd apportioned her for the purposes of this blog. Indeed, it's all getting rather confusing. In a bid to keep my identity hidden, I've changed my name and the names of all the people who pop in and out of my terribly exciting life. And now I fear I've forgotten half of them. Only Emms - and, of course, you, Kazza, - have their real names up in pixels here.
If memory serves, my Greek gal is Mariella. She wrote to me after last Sunday, when I told her that I didn't think we could be together. This is what she wrote...
Actually, come to think of it, I can't put it up here. I know she won't read it, but if ever she did, or someone who knows her did, I don't think she'd be too happy. Turning someone down for no apparent reason is one thing; exposing their personal feelings to public scrutiny is quite another. This may make for duller writing. But I think I can live with that.
posted by David Cohen at 8:37 pm
1 Comments:
You are considerate. I'm still curious. Paraphrase?
Post a Comment
<< Home