In the theatre there is a tiny room tiled from floor to ceiling in (aquamarine blue) Egyptian faience. It is shaped like an egg so that if you are talking on one side of the room, the noise will carry up, round the curve of the ceiling and down to the other side to be heard with perfect clarity by the people there, as though you are standing right next to them, while the people in the middle of the room won’t hear a damned thing. The hexagonal tiles in this room were imported from Hollywood, where they were dug up out of the floor of a ballroom where Rudolph Valentino used to dance (when he was a gigolo), and so this little room is an especial point of interest for very, very old ladies who are the only ones who actually remember who Valentino was. All you need to know is that he was a bit sexy. Now, there are signs all around inside and outside this room indicating that food and drink are NOT permitted in here, and the reason for this is threefold: we are too lazy to clean, excessive cleaning will deteriorate the essence of Valentino, and the usual inhabitants of the room are ladies so old that the breeze of a butterfly flittering past can render them unconscious; they are also the people most likely to manage to slip on a single drop of moisture and break a dusty femur inside this beautifully tiled room.
Now I have taken to hiding in the alcoves under the Juliet box of the theatre and springing out at patrons in a Bela Lugosi fashion whenever they take their mobile phones out. Seriously people who use their phones in theatres are cunts, simply cunts. Well yesterday I was summoned from my usual position in the darkness by a loud banging, and ran into the foyer and into the blue tiled room to behold: an old mackintosh of a woman had reeled her fortified pram into the Valentino tiles; aqua-marine Egyptian faience and plaster were flaking from a crack in the wall. She was also cradling a hairless albino monkey in her arms and ramming a bottle of formula into his face, and the stuff was already dribbling in a thick cum-like stream from one corner of his mouth. This woman, I must add, was about forty five and had a conical beehive about five foot tall. I immediately reminded her that food and drink were not allowed in this room and she had only to step two metres out of the doorway and into the foyer where she could feed her spawn with absolution. Immediately the hag started shrieking, “I am allowed to feed my child,” she said.
“Well in here you can feed him whatever you like, except for food and drink,” said I.
“You couldn’t kick me out if I was breastfeeding,” she said.
“Well a breast is less likely to detach and spill shit on the floor,” said I. “But that is irrelevent since you are not breastfeeding, and vampires cannot produce breast milk in any case.”
“Blah blah blah blah,” said Vampira, becoming entitled and self-righteous like most new mothers, and trying to make a political issue out of a simple request. She went on like this for a while, during which time I took in the circumference of the curious beehive and the face of that hideous and giant child, who was probably old enough to go to kindergarten in any case. At the end I had to say, “My dear woman, the fact remains that food and drink are not allowed in this room, and milk qualifies as both a food and a drink, and so you are twice the felon. I should like to add that getting knocked up does not make you a better person than I. Childbirthing is neither a necessary or patriotic duty; you are doing nobody but yourself a favour by breeding in an already over-populated world; just because your life stopped and your tiny world began to revolve around your morbid cherub when you split a cervix does not mean the rest of the world stopped also and began to revolve around you. While we do make exceptions to the rules in the case of medical conditions, ‘stupidity’ is not a medical condition, tho it is something unfortunate you have to live with.”
Now, I would like to point out that I am not heartless, and not unmoved by the plight of mothers; I do of course have a mother myself, (I did not spring from the ether): that is Mrs Shitsville to you. She is of course only a Shitsville by marriage, but perfectly fits the type of woman the Shitsville men will always go for, courtesans, actressy types, moody frightening giants like the pre-Raphaelite women who are much too big for the frames they’ve been put in. Her stage name is Dame X- Y-, you may have heard of her, she is one of the great doyennes of Theatre, terribly beautiful, like myself, and can cut the balls out of a snot nosed pap with a single glance. This event with the beehive and the French girl made me think of my own dear mother, and in a sunshiney, rose-tinted bubble of homesickness I jumped in the Rolls after work and pursuing the “Spirit of Freedom” roared over to my mother’s big house in A- Park. I had not seen her for, oh, about five years I think.