Maybe she didn’t think of doctoring as a profession; maybe
she thought you just grew up to be one. I wouldn’t know, and in the end I didn’t
do either (not unless you regard being a deviant riding a rollercoaster as some
sort of profession, which I don’t suppose you do.)
And I would never have made the grade as a doctor anyway
because I really don’t like bodies very much. I read somewhere once that a body
is a thin membrane of skin containing a bag of filth, and that’s pretty much
how I see it. Especially when it comes to excretions. Oh my giddy aunt, the
excretions! Be they planned or unplanned, voluntary or involuntary, healthy or
unhealthy, any hint of excretions in the vicinity has my consciousness screaming
to escape the body it’s trapped in. Doctors deal in excretions. Not for me.
And that reminds me that the word ‘diarrhoea’ is the most
difficult word in the English language to remember how to spell. I haven’t got
there yet; I had to use the spell checker to write it in this post. Not that I
have much occasion to write it generally, of course, but writing fiction can
sometimes lead you to the sort of places you’d rather avoid. I remember the
word being used once in Satre’s novel The
Age of Reason. It’s my most abiding memory of the book. Descriptions of the
Parisian landscape and the man who was going to drown his cats in the Seine (but didn’t) take second place.
This evening I spent ages watching two moths feeding on the
sweet pea flowers. Wholesome fare. No excretions, just hints of Titania and her
entourage. It was twilight, of course…
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