Everyday flesheaters

It’s nice to hear a story that puts the matter of an undead person eating brains into some perspective.

Since I stay at home a lot (well, I have to – otherwise I would be hunted by shotgun-wielding red-necks), I find myself trying to listen to radio, in-between the tantrums and tears of Pittsburgh.  Today I was exposed to the often-hilarious (unintentionally so) occasionally touching, and always hysterical Liveline. This is an Irish radio programme that gives the ordinary citizen a chance to rant and rave about the issues of the day. Today, the issue was violence on the streets of Dublin.

The most memorable story aired this afternoon (http://www.rte.ie/radio1/liveline/2012-06-26.html) was that of Aoife whose father called the programme from St James’s Hospital, where his daughter was recovering from a vicious attack, which occurred over the weekend.

Aoife was in Dublin’s City Centre and got into an altercation with another woman, whom she did not know. The stranger attacked the 23-year-old. Suddenly there was blood everywhere and Aoife was missing a piece of her nose. Yes, you’ve guessed correctly: the other woman bit off a piece of it, and is now being sought by the gardai – and rightly so.

This proves that you don’t have to be a Zombie to let your teeth rip into someone else’s flesh: you just have to be less civilized.

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Pittsburgh shift

I am back on what I call ‘Pittsburgh shift’. I am the sole daytime carer of my daughter for the next five weekdays. The weekend, which is slap right in the middle of my shift, offers little or no relief since – despite my best efforts – I cannot get my daughter to stay in a box  for 48 hours. Even though (rather generously I think) I am willing to supply her with some water and stale bread.

If she would only be that little bit obliging, Barbara and I might have some kind of life together – even though I am technically dead.

The weekend is great for bringing a family together and giving them the opportunity to annoy the hell out of each other.

Our household is like a war zone because all the control I have exercised over my child  in the preceding days goes out the window, as she allies herself to the much more relaxed leadership of my wife. Forget the “peace in our time” bit of paper. If confronted by Hitler, Barbara would probably offer him a cup of tea. Even as his tanks rolled over her body.

Okay, I exaggerate. My daughter is not Hitler – merely the enigmatic head of a crackpot regime that we call our household.

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Would you like salad with your brains, sir?

My wife Barbara  is not a Zombie, which makes life a bit difficult – especially when it comes to mealtimes.

For instance, this morning she made up a packed lunch for herself and left me to my own devices. I had to confront her about this.

“Have I not got a mouth?” I said, in reference to the single lunch portion she had made up for herself. “I mean, anytime I make up a salad, I always make enough for two.”

“Yes, but I never eat it,” she retorted.

“Well, that’s just ’cause you’re fussy,” I shot back at her.

“Fussy? There’s mostly raw brains in your lunches.”

My mind drifts for a moment and I think “Mmm…lovely.”

“Well, I’m a Zombie, what do you expect me to eat? And in fairness, I do try to vary it a bit.”

“Yes, you offer a wide selection of raw brains: lamb, cow or pig’s. With a bit of spinach salad on the side.”

Now at this point, I’m salivating, imagining chewing on the frontal lobe of a sow. Yummy.

“So what are you saying?” she says, as she rushes out the door. “That I should make you up a tuna salad too?”

“Tuna salad,” I say, in horror. And the thought of it almost makes me vomit. “That’s disgusting!”

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