Jod and me went to a restaurant tonight. We walked there (the joys of living in the city centre) and on our way we passed outside an old people’s home. I am not sure which is the politically correct term for places like this, although I am only interested in political correctness as an expression of genuinely good manners — see Neil Smith’s piece called ‘PC’ in his ‘Language, Bananas and Bonobos’ book. Anyway. It is a gardenless place with curtainless windows, naked lightbulbs and warped colour schemes on the walls. It is called Renaissance. I peered through the glass pane (why has a place like that got picture windows?) at a ground floor room where a gentleman was watching TV sitting in his bed. On top of his wardrobe was a huge tweed patterned suitcase. Is he going anywhere?
After dinner, I told Jod about Sissoula’s testimony of defiled chickens, my reaction and her rejoinder.
“Chickens? How is this possible?”, I asked (I am slightly naive when it comes to contrived sexual practices).
“If an egg can come out…”
You can imagine what happened next.