Monday, August 13, 2007

Get Inspired

Being urinated on by an Indian is the sort of thing I should embrace. It was dramatic, funny, symbolic, informative, and inspirational. If I had the time, I’d write it out as a short story send it to the New Yorker. Not that I believe that The New Yorker’s readership would know a good accidental micturition story if one leapt out from behind a bush outside Bangor railway station and sprayed their feet in wild and witty prose.

Which is a shame. Summer rarely inspires me. Friends go off on holiday and if I get any break, it’s never one of my own choosing. Reflecting on my five days in Grasmere, I think I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not suited to aimless relaxation. I’m happiest when left to do my own thing, occasionally naked, often oiled, but usually quiet and meditative. The episode with the man from Delhi went straight into my notebook. It was better than five days among the daffodils.


Glamourpuss said...

Some people would pay good money for that kind of experience. I used to work with one of them. Every year at the office Christmas part he would try to get me plastered then ask me to pee on him.


Big Chip Dale said...

[Fingers in ears]


No, seriously, how quaint. You make it sound like something by Dickens. Never being one of those men, I can't offer you any insight. It's never been something that appeals to me. I even hate getting my hair wet when it rains.

Ms Baroque said...

EW, now Chip, that is an image too far.

I'm very glad you got something for your notebook. Urine has all sorts of amazing properties, but being good for leather probably isn't one of them. I'd saddle soap the shoes. (Unless they're trainers? Straight into the machine!)

Anyway, the New Yorker should be so lucky.