Note I said office and not orifice, I met a very high powered man called Mr Orifice once, I was carefully requested to pronounce it with an Italian accent, thus it became “orrafiche” .Me, I would have changed the Goddam name to Bottom which is quite respected, like the man who announced in the Times that he was changing his name from Roger Penis to Brian Penis. Accents are weird actually, the Sainted One changes his according to the company he is keeping. With Italians he becomes, well, Italian although he does not speak the language, with Americans he speaks transatlantic, and last night, in a rather continental gathering, he became like a mad German from an old war film. With me he doesn’t really talk, more like the odd grunt. However an ear for languages is very useful, yesterday a member of our party spent a lot of time on a mobile phone excusing this by telling moi that she was engaged in urgent business which was matter of life or death to the global economy. Rather surprisingly she spoke in French assuming that moi did not understand what she was saying. But oh yes I did, !!!!! I was semi raised by a Frenchman you see; it was all about parties and shopping and something she sure as hell would not like to have shared with genius blabber mouth here.
I think the woman, who incidentally, held her knife the wrong way and ate her pudding with a spoon clasped like one of those things in a relay race, thought I was common and ill educated but then in a her defence snotty Brits are hard to read. Well now, here is the thing, when your credentials are as wonderful as mine are you don’t give a rats arse. Lucky actually! The other night, having suffered medieval pain for two days, which I am used to now as part of the recovery from having a serpent removed from my innards, I lay on a sofa in the S.O’s study watching an Old Film about a woman saving one hundred children from the Japanese. Then began the two hour fart, I swear it was still going on at the end of the film. During this time the S.O did not refer to this, and when it became rather loud I blamed my dogs Beatrice and Mollie, but after a bit they slunk out of the room and I could not blame the cushions or the weather. Eventually the S.O left as well, silently with a sinister forward gait, and suddenly like a miracle I was pain free. I understand it is trapped wind, because they blow you up with gas the better to see what they are doing when they remove things from your insides.
Since this event I have noticed the S.O has started referring to his study (where he watches TV a lot and hastily flicks the programme when he hears me approaching), as his OFFICE I ask myself if this is because he does not want this area to be used for flatulence relief……? Well actually I think a lot of that does go on in there and elsewhere as well mostly to be fair of a verbal kind. The S.O upset a charming woman at dinner recently, when he expounded his theory on what he called “Hydrogen Fusion”, me , I do not know much, or anything about this. If he had only asked, he would have found out, before advancing his unrehearsed thesis, that the beautiful lady was a physicist who had been short listed for the Nobel Prize for her work in this field . Gas bags unite I say.