On Being Vanilla Man.

I seem to have found the stirrings of a desire to start blogging again. It came about as a result of watching a video on YouTube which suggested that I should be mentoring indigo children in order to assist in the final destruction of the dark forces brought to expression by the likes of Trump, Assad, Netanyahu etc. Well there you go. My life has meaning after all. I count. I have a self (of sorts.) Hooray. Carry on blogging. OK.

So where should I start? Where I left off? Mmm… not so sure about that. Starting where you left off is a bit like leaving half your dinner to go cold and stand festering for three days, settling down for seventy two hours sleep, and then carrying on even though the fat has congealed on the cold plate and suspicious green bits have begun appearing on the edges of things. But where else? 

Right then, since it helps to walk for a while before you start running, let’s go for something non-taxing to get me back in the habit. Let’s start with the fact of discovering that I’m a vanilla type.

I came across it in a book I was reading on the search for the English eccentric. It was introduced by one of the declared eccentrics who was interviewed for the purpose of research. She was a high class dominatrix, and she explained that a vanilla type is anyone who is not into bondage, domination, anything which falls under the general banner of sado-masochism, or anyone not blessed with an addiction to any other extreme sexual fetishes. It derives from the fact that people who only like ice cream if it’s vanilla flavoured are irretrievably conventional and therefore terminally boring.

My heart sank when I read it. I only like ice cream if it’s vanilla flavoured, you see. It’s a cross I’ve borne all my life. I welcome all variations of taste as long as the flavour is vanilla. Vanilla defines ice cream, and ice cream which tastes of anything else is therefore tainted and inferior. I’m also thoroughly turned off by the thought of bondage, domination, or anything which falls under the general banner of sado-masochism. And such addictions as I have don’t include extreme sexual fetishes. Ergo, I’m as vanilla as vanilla can be.

But here’s the odd thing: When it comes to the fragrances available in such things as essential oils and scented candles, one of my least favourite smells is vanilla. I find it quite obnoxious, and admit to being strictly a frankincense and sandalwood man. So may I be excused, do you think, on the grounds that I am at least contrary?