A constipated three year-old is not a happy person. There are few rules in this world obeyed by everyone (we do it just to annoy the Schäuble tendency) but being three and constipated, result – unhappiness.
A three year-old with constipation and a mouth ulcer, however, creates the sort of multivariate (and for the sufferer, inexplicable) pain that can barely be imagined. Worse still, the unwillingness to have soft fruit in the mouth – it hurts – means that the passage of waste materials becomes the process of giving birth to bricks – it hurts.
Thus the main topics of conversation here over the last three days have been events inside my granddaughter’s mouth, and another orifice much further down. At times it has resembled the eagerly awaited arrival of another royal baby, with only the bulletin on the railings missing.
The sufferer – Lyla – is not yet at an age where even the tiniest scintilla of reasoning is possible. The very concept of two connected facts – “eat fruit, have painless shit” – is greeted in the manner of a Soviet diplomat circa 1956. And so each day, she has adopted that uninhibited expression of strained effort and concentration, with other guests silently egging her on like so many people just begging the bloke with the stammer to get the word out….whereas of course what we’ve all wanted is for her to get a turd out.
At last, yesterday she awoke and accepted prune juice, the ulcer having abated. At 13.58 precisely, normal excretion returned. The venue was the swimming pool, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Yesterday, somebody pinned a tag to one of the Trafalgar Square lions that said “Je suis Cecil”. Quite amusing, but the subject of Cecil and the dentist worried me on two not entirely related levels. The first was the most obvious one – the fat-brained jerk mentality of an overpaid smiley-gob fixer somehow thinking his wealth entitled him to kill a rare beast and feel good about it.
The second train of thought surrounded the treatment meted out to Noel Edmonds, who dared to suggest that Cecil was of course a born-and-bred psychotic killer himself, and only a lion. This wasn’t death on a colossal scale as a by-product of human religious fanaticism, it was just another member of a doomed species gone: for the lion is, let’s face it, a doomed species whose time is fast running out. I don’t especially like that fact (and I’m a keen safari fan myself) but there’s a need for perspective here.
The sort of mob, media-orchestrated disapproval of killing a lion then went to work on Edmonds himself – partly on the Cecil issue, but equally because he is concerned about wifi and mobile phones disturbing natural human electro-magnetic fields. Human fields unquestionably exist, but because we know little or nothing about them, the Tabloids went into overdrive about it all being “wacky mad-as-cheese pseudo-science”. I’ve no opinion on whether our own fields are disturbed by technology because I don’t know. And you can be just as certain that the Newscorpers and their paedo-seeking mobs don’t know either. But they do like a witch to burn now and then.
I don’t like Noel Edmonds’ output: I find his game shows impenetrably daft, and Mr Blobby has to be the all-time unfunny creation. But he’s probably got more common sense in his left little toenail than those who went after him yesterday.
Meanwhile, research is going on in the US to try and work out how the Loch Ness Monster leapt into the air from Scotland and embedded himself in an Alaskan cliff-face. They’d also like to know how he managed to do it 29.5m years before Man ever had a chance to see him in the Loch .
The skeleton uncovered by Alaskan archaeologists was called an Elasmosaur. He had an extremely long neck, paddle-shaped limbs, and a tiny head. But not quite as tiny as the Nessie fans who pootle about in motor boats day and night trying to prove his existence.
As a kid, I desperately wanted the Loch Ness Monster to emerge as a real life dinosaur. But there just isn’t the food supply in the Loch to support him….or indeed anything like him.
See, what happened right, was, right, this dickhead of a dentist took a potshot with his sling at Mr Elasmosaur, an’ so ‘e fort sod this for a game of marbles an’ legged it over to Alaska. Straight up. Bloke darn the Dipolodocus & Swamp told me.