*It's St Patrick's Day. If a bunch of drunks in Chicago are Irish, whatever that means, so is this house.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Il sorpasso
OK, it's happened. Mlle Inkspot is taller than her mother, who's 5' 4" of wild colleen* ("and a half you bastard, you've been imperializing me and all the other Irish since 1190"). God help me when she gets a mouth like her mother's, at the moment it's just "go away Dad, you're embarrassing". Well of course I am, it's my job. And I know something that Mme Inkspot doesn't: there's more than one embarrassing parent involved here.
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19 comments:
Hurrah, I love a wild Colleen! Will Mlle Inkspot get a sip of Guinness with a Bushmills top tonight, just to start her on her way?
Inky, no more Oirish, I beg. I am still reeling from the debacle at Maroon's this weekend. And not in a good way.
Laters.
Gadj, she got a glass of pink champagne.
Proof, Mrs P, that it's hard to get someone off their high horse after they've climbed on it. And I don't mean Maroon.
Tellmeaboutit. But, really! Sanctimonious or what? And one of the protagonists has a link on his page to some fucking We-Heart-Hamas site, at which I could've taken some frum-lite offence, but didn't.
Hungover and heartbroken. Sorry. Will have the teensiest brandy in a sec and feel fab.
Before 9 am. The smallest brandy, no more than a pub measure, and some coffee, and follow it right away with a warm long kiss…
…exhale.
Now, doesn’t that feel better?
And that, Inkspot my friend, is why the French are the French and we are us.
Hmmm, hello Maroon, you turncoat. You never call, you never write. And yet you have time to act the flaneur on Inky's page. I am going to London with Scarlet tomorrow and we will have fun. So there.
A flâneur and dandy, Dr Maroon... actually I had to look flâneur up and I've always wanted to call someone a Dandy... it's the frilly shirts wot do it for me.
Sx
Scarlet, don't be mislead. Maroon is always in Hugo Boss, but held together by egg stains, or worse. There are no frills, and he stole my umbrella.
Why we are Irish, you mean Dr M? I expect references to Mrs P's Afro-British pug Damson next. And I go on about this because there cannot be too much sarcasm about the idea of national identity.
Scarlet, nice type-setting.
Mrs P, we were about to cross. Everyone looks elegant in Hugo Boss, he is the reason the Gestapo looked so good. But who in particular hasn't got any frills? Damson? I do hope so, it's so unfair to humiliate a dog that looks funny enough to start with.
Inky, you scoundrel! Damson is the dearest thing (£900 ferchrissakes) and I kiss him quite freely about his truncated snout. Maroon, on the other hand, is a cheap date, frill-free and biddable.
I didn't steal it Clarissa, it found its way into my possession. Ask anyone, umbrellas are the most mislaid item in the world. That and jars of mint jelly. Egg stains? That's rather unkind. Junket surely. In fact, they are stains of an indeterminate source, (probably drink) nothing more, I am quite sure of it.
Dry cleaners these days are a fucking disgrace.
Thanks Inky. Hugo Boss is the biz. Very skull and crossbones. It's a lovely suit and I was made for it. When they get rid of Merc taxis in Tel Aviv I'll burn the suit.
You grasped that umbrella in the taxi (Scotia Bar to Lyndoch Street) and didn't let go. That is how you stiffed me for the fare, by fumbling about for "change".
You say that Clarissa but who "found" my wallet (and Bulgari) in their handbag? Exactement! Pot and kettle, darling.
Now that I think of it, that was no umbrella I had a hold of, and you stiffed me for the fare with all that lady business with the sliding door
I was merely minding your valuables, as you know fine well. I was struggling with the door because I'd been recognised as Miss Gossard Cleavage 1975, and some old boggers were mobbing me.
And your definition of "bogger" is, Dr Maroon?
You know fine well what a bogger is Clarissa, one who is embarassingly ostentatious with his fabulous wealth.
Excuse me a second the shipping forecast is on. N Utsire, S Utsire, W Utsire, E Utsire, German Bight, Swiss roll, Forth, Cromarty
Is it only me and The Doctor who still get the shipping forecast read by Freddie Grisewood?
Qui trans marem currunt, Kevin, coelum mutant, non ipsos.
[Grisewood, schmisewood. it's still a nasty haar coming in.]
Mrs P, if you pay second-rate prices you get second-rate pugs. Sorry, the truth hurts, but false economies are false and this blog minces no words.
Dr M, it's not the dry-cleaners' fault, they're not allowed to use solvents that actually work. My advice is, save it up for your next trip to New York.
Mr Inkspot has posted a new post.
I'm good at calligraphy as well.
Sx
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