The man in the flat upstairs is playing a jaunty 6/8 polka version of "Flower of Scotland" on piano accordion. "F of S", for those who don't move in bagpiping circles, is the Scottish national anthem formerly known as a tear-sodden lament over the Battle of Culloden. Good work, man upstairs. It's time to reclaim the dirge. Sign me up for the polyphonic ringtone version of "When I am laid in earth".
While I'm in galloping curmudgeon mode, I may as well allude to the caprivorous lass beside whom I sat at dinner a couple of nights ago. Upon ordering the mixed goat platter (I kid you not), she turned to me, observed my offensive request for veg curry, and elucidated her contribution to the nation's biodiversity, to wit, personal consumption of as many different species as possible.
I am a vegetarian (and a deodorant-eschewing, sandal-wearing, beagle-fancying one at that). Sometimes I am an obstreperous vegetarian. It is not outside the realms of possibility that I might proselytise on behalf of my beastly brethren at the very moment of my unbeastly brethren's tucking into my beastly brethren at the dinner table. But on the occasion of this lass's tryst with the mixed goat platter, I was doing my best to subdue the inner obstreperist. There were other matters at stake, besides steak, and for once I was content to eat my fancy veg ragout while mixed goat gal ate her mixed goats.
She was not. Intent on converting me back to the paths of carnivorous righteousness, she told me An Hilarious Tale About A Goat, wherein a gentleman schoolfellow of hers was photographed, naked, astride an evidently distressed nanny, for Year 12 scavenger hunt purposes. Ha ha. Ha ha ha. And the RSPCA tried to press charges for buggery, whatever that is. Ha ha ha ha.
By the end of this delectable anecdote I was practically begging for a bowl of minced offal.