Sunday, 24 January 2010

Day fiftyfive....

Smells Like Teen Spirit

A French man complaining of the stench of a cheese? It must have came from Liverpool.

NO CHEESE. Cheese, like oil, makes too much of itself. It wants the whole boat to itself. It goes through the hamper, and gives a cheesy flavour to everything else there. You can’t tell whether you are eating apple-pie or German sausage, or strawberries and cream. It all seems cheese. There is too much odour about cheese.

I remember a friend of mine, buying a couple of cheeses at Liverpool. Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and with a two hundred horse-power scent about them that might have been warranted to carry three miles, and knock a man over at two hundred yards. I was in Liverpool at the time, and my friend said that if I didn’t mind he would get me to take them back with me to London, as he should not be coming up for a day or two himself, and he did not think the cheeses ought to be kept much longer.

“Oh, with pleasure, dear boy,” I replied, “with pleasure.”

I called for the cheeses, and took them away in a cab. It was a ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knock-kneed, broken-winded somnambulist, which his owner, in a moment of enthusiasm, during conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the cheeses on the top, and we started off at a shamble that would have done credit to the swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all went merry as a funeral bell, until we turned the corner. There, the wind carried a whiff from the cheeses full on to our steed. It woke him up, and, with a snort of terror, he dashed off at three miles an hour. The wind still blew in his direction, and before we reached the end of the street he was laying himself out at the rate of nearly four miles an hour, leaving the cripples and stout old ladies simply nowhere.

The excerpt above comes from the beautiful Jerome K. Jermone book There Men in a Boat. As I lay in bed this morning watching the sky pass over head through my sky light, I was rudely awakened by a certain fiend of mine. She is quite the shy lady so I shall not reveal her identity. For the remainder of this entry I shall refer to here a G Cartin, no, no Gemma C. We she sent a text across the wave lengths "Chapter 4, cheese blog innit". These words inspired me and as I lay watching the clouds pass along thy window it felt as if i was on the boat with George, Montmorency, and William Samuel Harris. Ahhh sunday mornings....

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