Cheese Curtains

The mugwort didn't work the other night. Although the night after I ate loads of cheese (for the first time in ages as I was struck by a dairy aversion earlier this year. Or to be more specific an ovine-dairy aversion. Woke up one day and suddenly abhorred the idea of eating anything that came from a cow. Goats cheese/milk on the other hand I don't have a problem with. Goats are noble, beautiful beasts; they're resourceful, stubbornly proud, mountain climbing creatures. Whereas cows are these obese, plodding, crap-making factories. If I was stranded without supplies in some arid God forsaken place, a lack of liquid leaving me no choice, driven by desperation to sup from the teat of a wild animal - I'd pick the goat over the cow every time! I mean who in their right mind would put their lips round the swollen, sweaty mammaries of a heffa! Why put yourself through that? Especially when you could suckle on the petit, pink nipple of a well groomed goat? Maybe the caveman who heralded in the odd fashion of drinking cow's milk did so because the cow was one of the few animals slow & placid enough to allow the "experiment" to proceed...Otherwise I'm sure the caveman would of chosen a more glamorous target; some swift, agile, sabre-toothed, multicoloured, hornbacked pinnacle of predatory perfection...If Tesco's sold tiger milk I'd certainly give it ago).

Anyway, sorry, I tigress (ho,ho)- Yeah, so I ate cheese the other night at Old Boy's dinner party (jolly good bash it was too!). I didn't intend to but a cloud of wine and port rained down my throat and dissolved my dietary inhibitions. So I desecrated the dairy-fee temple of my body with cheddar, stilton and some gooey, creamy no-trust-me-it-tastes-better-cos-its-mouldy stuff I'd never normally touch. Cue the old wife's tale of cheese & nightmares being at least partly true...Nothing scary happened but I certainly had some very odd dreams.I won't bore you with the far too fragmented details, however there was one episode I'd like to recount:

I was walking along a beach, beneath a picturesque pier that could of been in Brighton or some such, when I happened to notice a bomb hiding in the shadows of the pier's wooden frame.
What struck me as odd was that it was the atypical ACME type bomb that you see in old cartoons - you know, the big round cannon-balls type with the protruding fuses; the kind the coyote constantly tries to kill the roadrunner with (why do kids find it so funny to watch the futile attempts of those with murderous intentions?...see also Tom & Jerry, etc, etc...Does it appeal to some innate sense of justice at watching the "killer" face his comeuppance or is there just something inherently funny about violence backfiring? If one of the world's nuclear powers took aim at a neighbouring country, cocked up their calculations, and the deadly missile U-turned mid-flight; would we all be chuckling as they got self-nuked?)
When I saw the animated bomb under the pier the fuse was lit, burning slowly down, yet I felt completely nonplussed. Walked on by thinking "none of my business". Then a short while later a gust of guilt hit me..."what if it blows up and hurts loads of people", so I turned back, picked it up and threw it in the sea. Then I strolled down the promenade; stepped on a large "speaking scales" machine's, was shocked to be told I'd put on 3 stones!
Woke up feeling bloated and slightly ashamed at my blasé attitude to the bomb.

In waking life I had a nasty scare the other night. But first a little back story:

Once upon a time my good lady and I moved into a new flat. It was small but cozy and boasted a fantastic view of that dirty little pool of life we call London. The place was pretty pristine and the previous occupant had hired a professional carpet cleaner to ensure the cream coloured fibres flawlessly greeted us upon our arrival. The furniture was sparse but as time passed the pagan God Ikea blessed and provided us with all our decor desires. The last such gift bestowed upon us were the living room curtains. Cream like the carpet; a simple design. The curtains were the crowning glory of the flat, the final jewel in the crown of co-habiting contentment. But I could take no credit, for my good lady had perceived their need whilst I had seen no urgency. Yet now they hung there, indispensable, softening the dawns sharp glare and barring warmth's departure.

Then one night, when all were sleeping, some mischievous gnome crept within and stole the light from our living room. For the following day I did discover that both bulbs in the living room lamp had mysteriously blown. The lady of the house then travelled north, to stay a long weekend. Left alone I undertook a heroic quest to acquire replacements, but the peculiar size and specification (R80 plug-in's) proved incredibly elusive. Selfridges, John Lewis's and Woolworth's let me down. Then, when hope was all but gone, I pried open the doors of my local Indian hardware emporium and found the pearly treasures. I took them home and plugged them in; the lamp besides the window. Sowing the seeds of my own disaster.

A rendezvous, the very next day, brought me to the Flask (a snug and tasteful Highgate pub) to find the Old Boy waiting. We spoke at length, of many things, converting beer to laughter, and soon were joined in revelling by Vicky and by Sarah. As time was called I rose and drunkenly declared "back to mine, we'll have more wine" and homeward we embarked. Back in the flat we sat and staggered, mumbling of hunger whilst pulling corks from new bought bottles. Hazy, confused conversations flowed; spoken louder than was needed. Occasionally a flash of sobriety would strike, prompting me to say "Be careful guys/ Don't spill that drink/Please try to keep the noise down" but little did I care. Then suddenly Sarah enquired "What's that smell? Like burning...?" We sniffed at once, eyes all darting, searching for the sulphurous culprit. "It's the curtains!" someone cried. There by the window those traitorous, arsonist, R80 bulbs were blatantly torching the curtains! "60 watt bastards!" I thought to myself. Somebody screamed; a female voice, but it may have been mine. "Water. Get Water!" I yelled, frozen to the spot. Old boy (no doubt still in hero mode from the method-acting of his latest film) rushed forwards with a wet towel and we soon all followed suit. With soaking kitchen cloths we killed the infant fire before it could grow into a fearsome giant. As we daubed the soldering embers of the curtain ash coughed and spluttered all over the room and a thick, throat-clenching smog swallowed the air. "Open all the windows; all the doors" we wheezed to each other, thankful to be alive.

Then, as the dust metaphorically settled and the ash literally did, I felt I had wandered into the kingdom of commercials and somehow wound up in a humorous Yellow-Pages-type advert and a manic panic sent in. "My girlfriend's back tomorrow! We only got those curtains last week! She's going to kill me!"...I turned on the lights to survey the damage...I almost wept. The curtain resembled a huge charred donut; more hole than fabric. The once cream carpet was now Dalmatian; a hundred and one ash smudges staining its skin. I got out the hoover, poured myself another glass of vino and wished I could just wake up.