A Taste of Africa

I was excited... On wednesday, i was informed that I didn't need to teach my classes. I would be supervising a field trip to the zoo. Having not been to a zoo since I was a child, I was quite pleased about this, and happily boarded the bus to Coulchester. I looked at my map and discovered that elephants get fed at around the same time as humans, 12.15. Can't miss that.


I raced into the elephant pavilion (yes i did say pavilion... it reminded me of the Ekka) to see four large elephants in a concrete, windowless warehouse (except for the glass pane separating me from them), where they seem to spend much of their time. I quickly forgot about this though, when they led Opal down a concrete path and allowed me to feed her.


I was quite astounded when they led two girraffes out of a seperate warehouse for their feeding show. After the show, the giraffes were allowed to roam around in their 'play area', typical of true african savanna, where the four rhinoceroses, many zebras, several gazelles, half a dozen zedonks, and a pair of ostridges all harmoniously resided.


After a while I began to see a trend in the hut sizes of the rest of the animals at the zoo. Small. In fact, I also got the impression that many of the animals were depressed. This spider monkey sure didn't look happy, the pigmy hippopotimus kept walking in and out of his hut door, the orang utang's started beating at the glass and the vultures had just enough space to streach their wings if they sat on the right branch. I'm not even going to mention the lions.


On Wednesday, I went to the zoo. On wednesday, I decided that I would not go to another conventional zoo again.

S

I eat in a cemetery

Is it "wrong" to eat in a cemetery?

Recently I've been working at a school in Bexley Heath. It's not a nice school - actually it's a horrible school; the kids are mostly chavs, and it decreases my faith in humanity (or at least British humanity) every time I go there.

So when lunchtime comes around I'm looking to skiddadle from there as soon as possible, and I just happened to find this delightful cemetery a few blocks from the school. It's really quiet, sunny and secluded, and it has memorial seats everywhere.

The only problem is I feel a little uncomfortable when people walk by. Be they mourners or gardeners, I feel the need to look at least a little sad or despondent, so I find myself frowning off into the distance, like I'm adding large numbers in my head.

I also feel the need to think up contingency stories in case anyone happens to berate me for my lack of respect (sometimes it's messy food), so I try to think up plausible connections with the headstones around me. It's pretty difficult sometimes, so that kind of helps with the despondent look I guess.

Maybe it is wrong.

1:3 Blarney Castle

I often find myself standing at the entrance to museums, castles, etc, contemplating the admission price:interest ratio. More often than not I decide the ratio is inverse and walk away. But seeing as everybody talks about Blarney Castle, and we had driven a long way to get there (even further than Tipperary), we decided to pay up and go in.

I was impressed. I would put Blarney Castle's admission price:interest ratio at 1:3, at least; and that's saying something, considering how much I dislike paying admission fees.


This castle is very, very good. Virtually nothing is cordoned off, and it has so many nooks and crannies that you could easily hide there overnight and make your ratio 1:6. I guess your money saved:hypothermia ratio might blow out a little.


Underneath the castle is a winding cave/tunnel that used to make up part of the dungeon. This tunnel goes on for 16 metres; it is completely unlit and cramped, but they still let you go in there. Unfortunately, we didn't bring a torch (it's pitch black in there) so I had to use Mum's camera to flash some light every few metres. I was feeling like quite the big man on campus; there was Shelley at the entrance to the cave, saying "Julian, Julian, come back, it's too dangerous, I love you so much", or something like that; me saying "No, no, I must push on". Then a tassel from my scarf brushed against my hand in the dark, and I went into the girliest flap I've ever done. This happened two more times, and I reacted in the same way both times. It was very dark.


Dad kissed the Blarney Stone, and ever since, he's been making incredibly eloquent speeches. Toasting this, toasting that; you can't stop him.

I bet they have CRAZY prices!

Remember, for all your beauty needs, visit Clear Complexions in Sneeb, Ireland; because it’s just not a beauty salon unless it has a lawn on the roof, and looks as if my brothers and I built it when I was 10.

By the way, I’m serious – this isn’t just some abandoned shack, they are still operating out of it.

Sausage anyone?

At dinner last night, Dad decided he couldn't quite finish that last Algerian sausage, so resolved to squirrel it away for the long winter of tomorrow. (When it comes to food, Dad is always preparing for the long winter of tomorrow, both in the amount he wants to eat, and in the amount he wants to store.) We did have cling wrap, but that didn't seem to have any appeal when there was a cupboard full of glass tumblers.

Now, in this instance (and a few others like it) Dad could be described as any number of things. The polite options are:

a) eccentric;
b) lazy;
c) eccentricly lazy; or
d) lazy in his eccentricity.

Actually, scratch d); he always seems to give 100% in that respect.