Sunday, 7 January 2007

De-chox Program


Following yesterday's altercation with the East German Pedestrian Crossing Signal Man Chocolate Vegan Biscuit of Doom, I have been shanghaied (repeatedly, if that's possible) by the unscrupulous wiles of HMS Cocoa: to wit, by six chocolate-covered almonds left over after last night's house shindig, and foisted upon me by the totally unforeseeable circumstance of the seven of us all being in the kitchen at the same time, alone; by an unnameable quantity of fancy Parisian chocolates foisted upon me by Mrs Dog* when I popped by to welcome her home from France; and by the better part of a box of Lindt foisted upon me by my lady author friend last night and consumed this afternoon as I remembered fondly my days of yodeling and nanny goats in the Swiss Alps.**

While I am by no means ungrateful to the aforementioned foisters, who clearly know a thing or two about my proclivities, this simply cannot go on. One cannot subsist entirely on a diet of chocolate, not even if it's sourced from the diverse climes of Paris, Switzerland and the Norton St Coles. And as I am not one to achieve moderation in my passions, as, truth be told, it's all or nothing, I find myself staring in the face of total chocolate abstinence. You read it here first, citizens: Lexicon Harlot, and all her heirs and successors, will abstain from chocolate, in forms both solid and liquid and in the whole chromatic scale of whites and browns, FOR THE DURATION OF HER RESIDENCY IN SYDNEY. Which, just to set all in ordnung, is only for the next 34 days, or so. I know it can be done. Jesus, after all, survived forty days and forty nights wandering in the wilderness listening to Satan reading out Christmas cracker jokes. If Jesus could do that, then I can do this. But please, no foisting. The flesh is weak.

* So called because for several years I was in her employ as governess to a young fox terrier named Ollie. I superintended his calisthenics and piano practice and collected his poo in biodegradable bags provided by the local council.

** This is all one sentence. Henry James would be proud.

14 comments:

St John Nottlesby said...

...and as we all know (well, those of us who subscribe to my cousin, Walter Nottlesby's particular brand of Brimstone Baptist Preaching), Satan himself, after his initial successes in the desert, went to on to have a very successful (and lucrative) career writing the aforementioned Christmas Cracker Comedies - an All Singing, All Dancing, off-Broadway theatrical number. Starring, of course, B.L. Zeebub and his Parisian Courtesans.

TimT said...

Excellent, I'll set the hot cocoa a-bubbling on the stove now.

alexis said...

Satan, according to the leaflet I was recently handed in George St, is now living it up in the Vatican. If you add up all the Roman numerals in VICARIVS FILII DEI (which be Latin for "Vicar of the Son of God", and, so this leaflet claims, the Pope's title), you get 666, which, as we all know, is the Number of the Beast. I always thought there was something a bit shifty about those Swiss Guards.

St John Nottlesby said...

There's something decidedly shifty about old Ratzinger himself - ignoring, for the moment, his apparent aplomb at putting himself (and Mother Church) in water hotter than a Turkish bath by quoting obscure, ancient texts saying the Mohammedans are vile, nefarious &c - the man's eyes are too shifty. He hunches, and mutters in German, and generally looks like he's keeping a weather eye out for a wee baby to munch on if the sacramental wafers don't sate his boundless appetite. "Kinderwurstchen" are, I believe, his favourite party snacks.

An ad hominem argument if ever there was one, but the airconditioning has sapped my mojo this morning.

alexis said...

If he comes good and endorses latex prophylactics for use amongst consenting adults, I'll forgive him his cannibalism. Not, I suspect, that the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church is singlehandedly responsible for the transmission of HIV.

St John Nottlesby said...

Comes good?! I nearly choked on my midday brandy!

In re: transmission of nasties, I don't think anything much happens singlehandedly, I can assure you! You'd be hard pressed to find a doctor of any repute whatsoever who'd imply that hands have anything to do with the transmission of anything beyond a handshake and some laundered money.

alexis said...

Ahem. Yes. Perhaps not the most opportune turn-of-phrase for discussions of His Holiness and the issue at, er, hand. Further on hands, transmission of disease thereby, I must reiterate that This is A Family Blog and I would sully its good name were I to air all the puns that spring to mind. But sullyings aside: while hands are only peripherally relevant to the transmission of venereal disease, they do pass on a good wart now and then, and I understand that there's a reason why the medical fraternity are exhorted to wash early, wash often.

St John Nottlesby said...

Family Blog, indeed, indeed, quite so Doctor, quite so. Far be it from me to utter lewd, lascivious, and locker-room-only comments in earshot (eyeshot?) of Impressionable Youths. And I would counsel you to follow suit. But don't follow a suit - God knows where you'll wind up.

Fresh air. Please. Someone.

St John Nottlesby said...

It just occurred to me! Now would be the perfect time to quote Biggles. To wit: Chocks away, Ginger!

alexis said...

But when is it not the perfect time to quote Biggles?

St John Nottlesby said...

Indeed! The chap has a pithy aphorism for every occasion.

I am the proud owner (although I am yet to read it) of a copy of "Biggles Takes It Rough". I rather fancy I'd prefer to conjecture the contents rather than wade through them at my leisure.

alexis said...

One man's Biggles is another man's ... Quite.

St John Nottlesby said...

Ra-ther!

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