May 16, 2012


My Very Silly Autobiography.
(Atishoo of Falsehoods)
Leviticus P. Simpleforth

Chapter 1. The First Weeks. Me -v- my Food Taster.

   I do not remember the rigours of the birth canal and my shrink says this is probably a good thing.  But I do remember being hungry and being unable to do anything about it except flail my arms and legs a bit, and wail.  Wailing was the nearest I could get to "I don't want that slop in the little tins that the fat person keeps tasting, cooing 'Yummy for ickle bitty baby Leviticoocoo. It's yummy choccy puddy.'  No it wasn't. It was pap. And I didn't like it coming at me on a spoon the size of a shovel with "Open the tunnel for the foodtrain to choo choo in, little Leviticoocoo." You wonder I aimed it all back at the person again? Neither did I want the bottles both fat persons kept offering me. My shrink says this has resulted in a disturbing fixation (*) which we will come to in Chapter 23, see below.  (Sorry! Sorry! Above! This is a blog, where the first post is always the last.) No. I wanted egg and bacon. I wanted spaggers bologgers with fine chopped chicken livers and a big glass of the red stuff that the big persons swigged out of even bigger glasses, that made them flail their arms and legs and sometimes fall over the furniture. But the penny never dropped. They both seemed determined I should end up a milksop and the infanticidal mush kept coming. I soon hit on a revenge strategy. By day I would accept their warm bottles and slobbery goo and bide my time until the tall hall clock where someone called Grandfather lived, chimed three. Then I would roar till the snoring stopped and the swearing began and the "Sooner that little brat . . " and "Now then, Dad. He's just a little baby." "He's just a little asshole, more like.  That's all babies are. A mouth one end and an asshole at the other."  In later life this idea interested me; that we are mere tubes through which all must pass until we pass away. Yes, interested me a good deal but worried my shrink even more. There's not much doesn't give my shrink pause, and quite frankly I think her problems far outweigh mine, but we'll come to that in Chapter 23, et seq  "Me -v- my Analyst"
   Folk don't go for long reads in blogs, so until next time . . .

   (*) For the shrink, not for me.  I'm quite happy with it.

Tess Kincaid at WIllow Manor prompted Simpleforth to write the above post, with this picture of 3 foodies.

Paul Gaugin The Meal 1891