In the Pink

All I can say is, if you swat a kitty on the nose, she will scratch. Possibly on purpose (not in this case) but always in self-defence.

There are simply lines one should not cross. 😜

Ahem.

So, yes -- I have returned from the land of the dead, my hectic life has returned to its usual frenetic pace and I have barely enough time to think, never mind blog.

I'm a bit blocked right now -- from writing, I mean. I'm not discussing the state of my gut and it's after-effects. I'm a smidge scatophobic and I wouldn't assume that my wider readership would be interested in a full-scale discussion of poo.

Of course, one should never assume about other peoples; fetishes. For those of you who are interested in scatophilia and would like a report on the state of my bowels at any given stage in the day (and I know precisely what's going on at specific times, I can assure you), do drop me a line and I'll send you an invitation to the next time I have dinner at my parent's place, where bowel movements, toilet visits and all things poo-related usually come up over the dinner table.

And I know I'm not alone in this. I believe it's a pan-Mosaic tradition -- I have heard similar tales from other friends from a wide variety of Jewish backgrounds -- and have questioned many non-Jewish people and heard nothing but shock, horror and amazment. ("Poo? As an after-dinner conversation? Euw." See, you can tell they weren't Jewish -- if they were, they'd have said "Feh.") Although, that said, they were almost all of them English, which might have been a factor. I don't know how certain echelons of American or Australian or Brazilian or even outer Mongolian people behave at the dinner table with regards to the de rigeur discussions of bowel movements.

In my family, it's the way it is. Yet here I am talking of lines not to cross -- I think I just crossed a couple.

Well, you can't say I didn't warn you.

😄