Nutmeg lesbian December 4, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
It was as multikulti as you could have hoped a dinner party to be. And as multisexi too, as all the permutations were represented. Hets (of both sexes), poofs, lezzers. It had the lot. And Europe was represented in all its colours. We had Belarusians. We had Poles. We had Russians. We had Moldovans. We had the Swiss. I did my best to not shame Her Majesty. Good god, there was even a German for good measure.
The party took its regular course. There was eating. There was boozing. There was smoking. There was – as is inevitable when folk of different nationalities get together – violence. No, not really. There was discussion of this and that. I was called upon, in one horrific moment, to give a lecture on Christmas pudding. And morris dancing. (Sorry, another fib.) The queens cackled. The hets beed as benevolently tolerant as could be. And, as time went on, the lesbian, in a minority of one, as it turned out, lectured.
This was dealt with at many levels. Some chose to make themselves absent. Some sought solace in youtube in the kitchen. Some drank themselves into oblivion. Some sniggered. And some lectured back.
The lectures ranged far and wide. God’s ears should have been burning. Any restrictions on immigration were madness. The world might easily end tomorrow. Adoption. And on. And on. And on…
Luckily, the Russian sat between me and the lecturing lesbian, buffeting me against the wind out of her sails. Of which there was no taking to be done. For decency’s sake, I might occasionally pop my head out from behind the bulk of the Russian, and nod approvingly or hum my agreement. Only then to have an opposing view coming from the other end of the table, at which point I would languidly twist my creaking neck and nod and hum in that direction too, all the while bemoaning Englishness and thinking this was perhaps a tactically good time for a sneaky ciggy.
My intake for the evening was perhaps not the ideal diet. But the party was in honour of winter, and we stocked up on spare calories like nobody’s business. There was cheesiness and fattiness galore and it was all heaven. Some of the contents were enumerated. Nutmeg reared its – I now know – lethal head. Once we’d had a quick round-table of nutmeg in the 900 languages we all spoke, the lesbian sat higher than she had in her saddle all evening and gave us a heart-rending and very serious lecture.
“Erm, yes, nutmeg,” the room resonated, sheepishly, and in a selection of Euro-tongues.
“And are you all aware how dangerous nutmeg is?”
Sharp intakes of breath.
“If a kiddy ate one whole nutmeg nut, he’d die. It’s that dangerous. Why oh why aren’t there campaigns about this? Is nutmeg labelled as poison in the supermarket? A kiddy playing around in the cupboards at home could find nutmeg, eat it and he’d be dead.”
I rifled through my pockets, looking for nutmeg, wondering all the while if its posh name was polonium. Alas, crumbs of nothing even vaguely poisonous-looking were all I could come up with, which I took as my cue to depart, making an extra-special effort not to exchange phone numbers.
We got out into Berlin’s boiling winter air. Once more, I wobbled between whether or not it was a good or bad thing that I have no convictions about anything whatsoever.