I wouldn't tell a lie

I met with my Rotary Host counselor in person. I had spoken with him on the phone before I left – because he does not know how to use email – and this was the first time I actually met him face to face. I should clarify, when I say that I spoke with him earlier I mean that I spoke and he responded with a series of ambiguous grunts. I couldn’t understand a word that he said. It was so bad that I found myself unable to talk to him because I didn’t know what he was saying. I suggested that I just send him an email to spare us both the unpleasantness of speaking on the phone. I was worried that when I met him I would be unable to communicate with him, so I brought a notepad just incase.

He met me downstairs. He looked a bit like Pinocchio. I don’t mean to say that he was wearing a green vest and was made of wood - although he did have a vest and I think he would probably float – but that is not why I draw the comparison. You know how when Pinocchio tells a lie his nose grows and Jiminy Cricket stands on the tip? Yeah, he looked like that. I have never met a man who had more hair on the tip of his nose than Rosie O’Donnell has on her back; but there you go. Seriously, I didn’t know it was possible to grow hair on the outside of your nose. I know there are many men, and I’m sure some women too, who have issues with nose hair. Ward Elliott is an excellent example. I have often found myself distracted by the movement of his nasal hair as the wind slowly tussles through it; but even Welliott’s hair is contained in the charming chasm of his nose. This guy, however, has hair outside his nose and on the tip no less. It is a sad affliction.

The car ride over to his castle – yes, he appears to live in some kind of mini-castle – was parlous. As I am sure many of you know they drive on the other side of the road here in Olde Blighty. I knew this as well; but there is a difference between knowing something and understanding the full ramifications of that knowledge. For example, I know that drinking a gallon of milk will make me sick to my stomach; but it is a different kind of knowledge when I try to drink more milk than Charlie Mitchell in an hour and there is exorcist-style projectile vomit plastered against the walls. Keeping projectile vomit in mind, I will return us to the car where I was sitting in the passenger seat with my hands grasped tightly around my seatbelt. We were traveling about 70 kilometers an hour – which is about 143 miles per hour - and from my vantage point, we were doing so while careening down the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic with Pinoccio trying to talk to me whilst I was able to decipher every 8th word while clutching onto the sides of the car for dear life. Thankfully, we arrived at the castle in one piece; albeit a discombobulated piece.

Pinocchio took me inside to meet his wife, The Fairy with Turquoise Hair. We settled down for dinner where we ate some kind of food. I am not sure what the food was called exactly; but it looked a bit like penguin vomit. I felt a bit like a chick, eating partially digested food from my mother’s mouth except I was using a knife and fork and trying to make polite conversation. There was some kind of meat mixed in with the vomit and a fruit called a courgette. A courgette is a large green, penis shaped squash that was sliced, or circum-cut, into small squishy pieces. It was surprisingly delicious.

After dinner, Pinocchio drove me home and I learned that he the captain of not one but two curling teams. There will be more to follow on the curling front; just try not to double over in anticipation.

Later day,
E