Rouchswalwe, whose sole fault on this earth was to adopt a blogonym that Anglophones found too hard to pronounce (Hence Zu schwer = Too difficult), not only launches regularly into poetry but writes prose that teeters on the brink. Eg:
Once we've touched a thing that feels distinctive… the skin tingles. And if that something is not a thing I can touch with my fingertips?... Sort of like hadaka no tsukiai in a Japanese Onsen [a hot spring bath], where no textiles come between water and skin, making it possible to conversationally commune with any fellow bathers in a state of uniquely textured tensionlessness.
Can’t match that but I have my mini-moments. One of my jobs Chez Bonden is to take laundry downstairs, stick it in the washer, prime the washer appropriately and push buttons. No sweat. But what was once an unexceptional chore has a delicious side-effect. Previously detergent was poured into a plastic container and chucked into the drum. Now it comes in fat squelchy sachets that feel almost organic. I've always regarded detergents as one of the most wearisome subjects known to man, triggering some of the most wearisome TV commercials. Seems that the manufacturer (Ariel) thought the same. But there are limits.
DEAR AGONY VET Occasional Speeder has taken her convalescence to Kenya and we are dog-sitting Missie, the Cairn that cost as much as two cases of Montrachet. I take her on a lead to pick up The Guardian and she sniffs and sprays every two metres of the – fortunately – short walk. But suppose I become impatient and tow her past one of these smelly places: what damage am I inflicting on the inner dog?
Once we've touched a thing that feels distinctive… the skin tingles. And if that something is not a thing I can touch with my fingertips?... Sort of like hadaka no tsukiai in a Japanese Onsen [a hot spring bath], where no textiles come between water and skin, making it possible to conversationally commune with any fellow bathers in a state of uniquely textured tensionlessness.
Can’t match that but I have my mini-moments. One of my jobs Chez Bonden is to take laundry downstairs, stick it in the washer, prime the washer appropriately and push buttons. No sweat. But what was once an unexceptional chore has a delicious side-effect. Previously detergent was poured into a plastic container and chucked into the drum. Now it comes in fat squelchy sachets that feel almost organic. I've always regarded detergents as one of the most wearisome subjects known to man, triggering some of the most wearisome TV commercials. Seems that the manufacturer (Ariel) thought the same. But there are limits.
DEAR AGONY VET Occasional Speeder has taken her convalescence to Kenya and we are dog-sitting Missie, the Cairn that cost as much as two cases of Montrachet. I take her on a lead to pick up The Guardian and she sniffs and sprays every two metres of the – fortunately – short walk. But suppose I become impatient and tow her past one of these smelly places: what damage am I inflicting on the inner dog?
8 comments:
Well, I'm impressed - you do the laundry!! I must tell my other half. He already knows that Plutarch is a gourmet cook and gardener. Maybe I'll actually be able to retire from those duties when he retires and stays home, heh!
Hee hee, I liked the post before you "edited" it ... "fat squelchy sachets" indeed. Here the utility room pales in comparison. I'm doing laundry now and it is donkeywork.
I'm glad you liked my scribbles. We're snowed in here and all I can think about doing is cooking and writing and planning the next brew session. Almost as exciting as those blue squelchbags ... how do I get my hands on some of those???
M-L: I do the washing-up and the garbage too but all this is mere unthinking drudgery. Mrs BB does the stuff that matters. I think you said Fred seemed to be delaying the prospect of retirement; this delay seems likely to continue.
RW (zS): What sharp eyes you have. As is often the case, in straining for readership I sometimes convince myself I have overstepped the mark. About ten days ago I deleted a whole post that had only been posted for ten minutes; I bet you didn't catch that one.
Here's the problem. The majority of responders to my blog are women. I am pleased and proud about this (as well as finding it intensely instructive when I write fiction). But any compliment or even comment on this subject is horribly difficult to construct if I'm to avoid offending the wider principles of feminism which I fervently support.
Those fat squelchy sachets make me think of frogs. Frogs porn perhaps.
Agony vet replies. Learn to think like a dog. What he does is what you want for him. For the dog, every smell has a tale to tell. When it comes to dog walking there is only one way to do it. Go with the flow. And good luck.
Hattie: When I read your response earlier this morning I thought we were going to find ourselves on either side of the irony barrier, as Brits and Yanks often do. Alas, this no longer matters and any tiny concern I felt for the dog has now dissipated. Foolishly I had imagined I could always recognise the difference between a pause for a spray and a pause for the other thing. Fifteen minutes ago the dog fooled me and, lacking a supermarket bag, I had to hurry away from an accusatory pile, conscious of having railed frequently against unthinking dog-owners in the community magazine I used to publish. Rather than reversing the Darwinian process as you appear to suggest I am counting the days (three) before the dog is handed back and forgotten.
Revealed, BB likes'em fat and squelchy!
I have the impression that dog smells are akin to reading: being dragged away from one before getting to the final paragraph/punchline is evidently intensely frustrating. Car wheels are the dogs' internet. Mol and I have an understanding regarding smells and pointing the camera that each is to be tolerated to a point before tugging and pulling and other signs of impatience are brought into play.
Lucy: Now you mention it, I suddenly see myself as a variant of Captain Queeg, famous in The Caine Mutiny, who had a habit of rolling a couple of ball-bearings in the palm of his hand when things got stressful.
I accept that dog-sniffing is the canine equivalent of flipping through a telephone directory which includes character studies of those listed. But here's a question. If I allocate say twenty minutes to the dog's walk (Remember, I'm merely its gaoler not its loving owner) should this leisure-time activity be measured in linear terms (About a mile provided I yank continuously on the lead) or olfactorily (in which case we may not cover more than a hundred yards)?
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