Confoosister: August 2008

Sundays were Sundays. It was a day of rest and mass. Catholics, as we were, would trudge off to mass where a lone figure floundered sadly on a cross while we sat on well rounded bottoms with wet finger-tips from dipping them in the holy water.

The priest would drone on in a matter-of-fact tone and I would sit there, not in awe, but in terror. What of living forever and ever and ever? What would you do? Can you read books and sleep and play with dolls? I was not in fear of damnation, because I suspected that damnation was slightly less worrying than eternal life. Eternal life! It must be boring. How many lutes can you play? How many clouds can you count? I'm sure flying would be fun for the first 567 years but what after that? Question felling question.

And as I sat there participating in synchronised sitting, standing and kneeling, I ate the hymn books. Well, it started with the hymn sheets. Good roughage, I'm sure my grandmother would've approved, had she known. I never ate the staples, hunger does not equate to stupidity. And hungry and bored, I may have been, but I was never stupid.

But one day as I chomped through a hymn book, leaving out the slightly tatty red cover and rusty staples. I nibbled through Christening hymns, wedding hymns and funeral dirges. They were digested, whatever notes of wisdom or heart swelling tunes each page held my stomach was immune. My digestive tract was not interested in which notes should be played or who should be singing which part. Masticating reverantly, each chew was completed in silent, wonderment. An intestinal sack cloth.

But the wonderment did not belong to me alone. My sister spied my mastication at the point of the index.

Her eyebrows lifted and then narrowed and I knew. I didn't know what, but I knew that I was in line for some EST (elder sister torture). Internalising the hymn book, I returned my attention to the priest. He stood pumping up our guilt at our good fortune in light of the misfortune of small, very hungry children living on a far off, poverty stricken island. I suppressed an inky burp.

Sitting at the opposite end of the blue vinyl ocean of the Falcon seat, my sister sat smugly on Big Sister Island. My blue-eyed brother occupied his car seat in the front seat, as my mother was indulging in Geogette Heyer at home, under her candlewick bedspread. We didn't talk. We sat and listened.

Brrrmmmm... brmmmmm...

Stopping at the local bakery, my father bought our hot, crusty loaf.

Returning home, I didn't look at my sister. I didn't want to find out what her mental machinations were producing. I was much more intent on my rather full, round tummy which now housed 75 hymns.

But I very discovered what she'd harvested.

As I sat on the side of my bed waiting for Mum to call down. My sister came into the room. Her head was a perfect halo of curls. Her lips, cupid's buds.

'You'll die of ink poisoning,' she said.

'Really,' I said.

'Yes, die of ink poisoning,' she said.

'No, I won't,' I said.

'Yes, you will, ' she said. 'You'll be dead before lunchtime.'

My eyes widened. How could I die before we had lunch? I'd never be able to learn to fly or play a lute or eat Nana's crispy roast potatos.

I was going to die and miss lunch. How unfair, I love roast potatos.

'There is an antedote. A cure.'

My eyes wondered. Now I was going to have my potatos.

My sister procured a white loaf from behind her back. 'Eat this. If you eat this you'll be able to eat lunch.'

'How much do I have to eat?'

'The whole loaf,' said my sister, stroking the loaf as if it were a white rabbit.

Taking the loaf, which was about the quarter of my size, I started to eat it. Breaking through the crust, the crumbs soon snowed upon me. Crumbs after crumb was forced to reside with the displaced notes.

My tummy extended with each mouthful, my chewing slowed until my jaw ached. My eyes started to pop.

Just before my eyeballs fell onto the floor and rolled into the garden, Mum came into our room.

Her eyes narrowed, as she saw the storm of crumbs.

She spied my sister.

The last thing I remembered was falling back and burping - notes and crumbs made a fine covering over my orange, candlewick bedspread.

And I never ate hymn books ever again but I still eat toast.

Confoosister

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Sunday Roast

Stella Bella