You know what one of my favourite things in the whole wide world is? Keeping my lunch down.
I eat to keep things down. I think it's better that way. But yesterday I found myself in a lunch-time situation that turned me a violent lime green at the gills and required me to exercise the greatest self-control.
You see, we (my fellow smoker colleagues and I) have been sitting in our murky Fish Bowl squinting through a guaze of smoke without the assistance of light for the longest time. So yesterday we got our light fixed. The Smokers are going to be seeing. Diarise this day.
(For the record, I like The Smoking Room. It is separate from other teacherly mundane conversation and the word 'fuck' is welcomed. Also we sometimes discuss things like sex and wine. And the two things mixed. It really is a nice way to spend one's lunch time.)
So electrician boy arrived. With a ladder. And I vocalised my excitement at having raw testosterone-driven energy within a metre of my being. In spite of Electrician Boy's ugliness, I was sweating all over. And not in a bad way.
That is, until, he bent down. And his plumber crack greeted me so rudely that I choked on my thai green curry.
I then turned to Fellow Smoker and mouthed, "Crack. Check. It. Out."
She shot an entire piece of tuna out of one nostril and onto the coffee table. And began to giggle. And I joined in. And within a minute or two, the entire colony of smokers were giggling at the steel-wool-type tuft that escaped top of Electrician Boy's crack. (It was not dissimilar, in shape, to that of Flopsy, Mopsy and Cotton-tail's little, um, cotton-tails. But the sheer pubic-ness of the hair looked like something you would use to scrub pots.)
So for the record: I'm not sure I can do hairy arse tuft. I don't care how good-looking you are.
Imagine the following scene. It's hypothetical. Stop your judging:
The Pant and random boy in a mutual state of disrobement:
Random Boy: Mmmmm ... mmmmm I'm feeling amorous.
The Pant: You're bound to. You are, after all, taking off your clothes with me.
(And then he drops his rods.)
TP: What's that?
TP: That thing. The fluffy thing, coming out of your crack.
RB: Oh this?
TP: Yes. That. What is it?
RB: Oh. It's arse hair. I'm hairy.
TP: And that, my friend, is the door. It'll be open imminently.
RB: What? Over arse hair?
TP: Yes. I don't do arse hair. Have you never heard of wax? This situation is easily avoidable if you could just have enough balls to walk into a random salon and say to the beautician, "Please may I have a back, sack and crack." And then, chum, you wouldn't be bonding with the exterior of my house.
RB: But you've got stretch marks.
TP: Fu*k off. Now.