“Have you a queasy stomach this morning, Rosie?” The Bigot asked as soon as she had swept into the office yesterday morning.
From anyone else, I would suspect this to be a thinly-veiled reference to my is-she-isn’t-she pregnancy but The Bigot is different. She’s one of those people who revel in squeezing juicy spots and volcanic blackheads, who can sit avidly watching ‘Embarrassing Bodies’ whilst shovelling risotto into her mouth.
I eyed her, warily. “Why?”
“Do you want to see a picture of a cow’s prolapsed womb?” she asked, eyes shining eagerly.
Even if it hadn’t been a particularly drab Monday morning, even if I wasn’t feeling a wee bit bleary with a touch of red-wine-headache, even if I was at my most ebullient ten minutes before home time on a Friday afternoon before a Bank Holiday, I still couldn’t think of anything I’d rather view less.
I’m not a photograph taker. The glut of pointless pictures that are posted by the second on social media baffle me. When I flip through my mum’s photo albums, the pictures are relatively few and document birthday parties, Christmas morning, trips on donkeys at the seaside. By the time any child nowadays reaches the age of one, there must be millions of photos of them already, lying dormant and unviewed within smartphones and on laptops. And let’s face it, although cute, once you’ve seen one picture of a gummy kid being pushed on the swings at the park, you’ve seen ’em all.
BUT. To take a picture of a cow’s prolapsed uterus after it has given birth is barbaric. When would you ever think to look back fondly on such a monstrous sight? Would you invite friends over for tea and cake and cheerily fire up the nifty computerised slideshow you’ve curated of your favourite animal injuries? Would you print it off and frame it, placing it just so on your mantelpiece? Would you upload it to Instagram? The Bigot is admittedly into capturing strange moments on film – she was amazed that I hadn’t videoed our helicopter ride in New York. If she ever went to a gig, she’d be one of those cunts viewing the entire thing through her phone screen. I often wonder how often those mugs watch the footage back. I would guess at never.
Took the whippet for a nail clipping after work yesterday. The groomer is a blowsy, ruddy-cheeked redhead who dresses in the kind of garish but comfortable clothes you might find on stalls at Glastonbury. She warned me that the small area in the garage where she does her thing was ‘very hairy’ and advised me to stay outside because I looked ‘so smart’; she obviously hadn’t noticed the dog hairs on my black coat but I was grateful to stay out of the way. Watching the beloved whippet having his claws clipped was almost as unappealing as viewing a cow’s prolapsed uterus on an empty stomach. The ‘treatment room’ is dinky and smells pleasantly of lavender. The whippet is really well behaved; he doesn’t struggle or whine and Vicky goes about her business. I shudder at every clip, the shards of the whippet’s nails falling to the floor sound as heavy as pound coins. It costs a fiver for about three minutes work but it’s so worth it. The whippet is light on his feet when he emerges and I treat him to a pig’s ear when we return home which keeps him contentedly occupied for the best part of an hour.