I was watching a bit of the Winter Olympics while eating
dinner tonight (spaghetti Bolognese and a strawberry Cornetto – I know how to
live.) I came in at that strange bobbly-snow-and-somersaults event, and was
mortified to see the Japanese skier miss his footing and fail to finish the
course properly. It struck me that there was a time when his only honourable option
would have been the committing of hara-kiri. I do hope they’ve moved on a bit
these days.
We’d heard of hara-kiri when I was a kid, you know, only we
pronounced it Harry Carry (’Arry Carry, actually.)
‘’Ere, Jeff, who’s ’Arry Carry?’
‘Dunno. Some Japanese bloke, I expect.’
That’s a fair reflection of the state of my roots. It is.
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