I have been away for a while, often physically, mainly mentally. But I have decided to come back, at least interwebically.
My sister gave birth to her second sprout, a wee lass called Rosemary. She is not cute at all. She in fact looks much like the previous sprout (named Henry). The good news is that all my sibling’s kids have been complete uggos on entry to the world and then, magically, sometime later, they turn into these devastatingly cute urchins I quite like to show people pictures of (like it somehow reflects well on me).
Anyway, to commemorate this wonderful occasion I thought I’d relate a conversation I had with my sister, Cecil, a few years back in London. I wrote it down afterwards then forgot about it only to find it just the other day.
M: (upon returning from the bathroom) ‘What’s that triangle on a stick thing in your toothbrush jar?’
C: ‘A tongue-scraper.’
M: ‘When did you get a tongue-scraper?’
C: ‘I’ve always wanted a tongue-scraper. I went hardcore on my tongue with a toothbrush for years until I discovered how well a flannel worked so, understandably, the tongue-scraper was a complete revelation.’
M: ‘So now you just use the tongue-scraper?’
C: ‘Nah, all three. It works a treat.’
M: ‘Um, okay. Thorough. So, let me guess: the brush, followed by flannel, then the tongue-scraper.’
C: ‘Nope, after experimenting I’ve come to recognize the superiority of the scraper, flannel, brush regimen.’
M: ‘… I guess I can see the first two, but why finish with the brush? Kinda rough.’
C: ‘I see the brush, with toothpaste of course, as a kind of disinfectant or, yeah, a deodorizer. Fresh and minty. So it goes last. Logical, eh?’
M: ‘Right. Of course. And I imagine it gets the taste of flannel out of your mouth.’
C: ‘Actually, I’ve come to like the taste of flannel.’
I’m quite fond of that conversation; it captures something essential of my sister. Also, as an aside, I think ‘tasting flannel’ would be an excellent euphemism for lesbianism: ‘One might, if one were so inclined, taste flannel.’