Eat less Fruit.
Many years ago I found myself ensconced in a rather austere boarding school. There were old torn and dusty curtains on the windows and we slept in iron frame beds with flacky paint and piss stained horse hair mattresses. These mattresses were ancient, hard and were marked with multiple soilings that were reminiscent of tie-dye t-shirts but without the bright colours. It was in one of these beds that I badly twisted and tore a tendon when I fell asleep with my foot through the railings. That aside the beds were not that uncomfortable as generations of incontinent public school boys had made a permanent body print in the stiff horse hair and into which you could curl up.
*
Curiously I now find myself aghast at student and motel bed sheets. Ancient urine is one thing but multiple donor seminal fluid stains is of an entirely different magnitude and should be avoided. There was one hygiene show that used some special phosphorous light that showed splashes, dribbles and puddles of the stuff on the bed, the carpet, the curtains and all over the toilet. And yet people think poo throwing monkeys are dirty! But I digress...
*
Back at boarding school we had a plump lady who would come in once a week to wash our hair. Obviously we could not be trusted with such a simple task. Anyway after we were all scrubbed and towelled off, she would plop us all in front of the telly to watch Scooby Doo. She loved Scooby Doo! Here was a forty year plus woman who actually show surprise that the old caretaker et cetera was the ghost. But it was her words of homespun wisdom that stuck in my mind after all these decades; Eat less Fruit. Whenever a boy started crying, threw up or was stricken with the runs (sometimes all three at once) - she would nod sagely and tell them to eat less fruit. Words to live by...
*
Am I a Snob?
A long time ago, when I was still at school I decided to become a Communist. I read "Das Kapital" and although I did not understand it, I assumed its wisdom would be absorbed osmotically into my body. I carried the book around like a talisman and would place it before me when I talked to anyone. That was until one of my Fathers business colleagues totally took apart my revolutionary rhetoric and showed that I was bourgeois. Oh well, we're teenagers only for a short time.
What has that little biographic snippet have to do with the above graphic? Absolutely nothing. It comes from one of those "What sort of Goth type are you" quizzes that are totally fatuous and a fantastic waste of time. Yet, when I showed the above result - everyone agreed that was what I was.
<< Home