Recently I went with some friends to the Pink Pig for dinner. The oldest wine bar in Adelaide, it is somewhat sneered at by the Adelaide bourgeoisie, but it serves the best steaks in Adelaide and therefore Australia. I have said this to several people and upon eating there these people have yet to be contradict me. It also serves spectacular pork. One of our number had a thick port chop and another, the porchetta. Both raved about them.
A wonderful night for all but unfortunately I got Paged. A friend of mine, known as Mr. Page, seems to operate a time vortex when time literally evaporates. It is a bit like being in Dr. Who’s Tardis as next thing you know it is the early hours of the morning and sometimes not far off dawn.
Somehow Page and I ended up in a bar called Mississippi Slims or was it Memphis Slims? Anyway, it started with an M and finished in Slims. All I know is there was a lot of loud music, young people and whisky sours. In fact, far too many. I was also sitting next to a woman in yellow fishnet stockings. At least I think she was a woman. You can never tell these days. Ironically the last time I drank whisky sours in town I was sitting next to a man in drag and my other companion was a senior law lecturer.
My uber receipt says I got home at 1.47am so I felt a little dusty the next morning. Lying in bed I could hear this constant drone in the background, which I later realised was my wife talking to me. Next thing I know I am awoken by the cleaning lady coming into my bedroom. Not that this should have been a problem except I had thrown off the doona and was lying face-up and bollock naked on the bed. I tried to explain the situation was caused by the whisky sours and the yellow fishnet stockings. Needless to say, she ran screaming from the house. I then had to clean the house. Note to self: must get out more.
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Last week I was changing in the gym and the TV in the changing room was tuned to an advertising channel. I was subjected to an incredibly long advert on constipation and a remarkable product to alleviate it. Two young women, who looked like young mothers, rambled on for minutes without a smile or even a hint of irony, about how said product could cure not only constipation but also rumbling bowels and even terminal flatulence. I decided this must be the midday channel for people much older than myself. At least I have something to look forward to in future years.
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I recently commented on how my Asian students refer to me as ‘Professor’. My sole German student has taken the hint and now calls me ‘Herr Professor’. Meanwhile my sole Italian student Lucrezia, in her sultry tone, calls me ‘Dottore’ or doctor. At least she does not call me ‘Il Dottore’, which in the Italian Commedia dell’arte refers to a stock character often portrayed as a pompous ignoramus and a womaniser. I couldn’t possibly comment on the latter though the future grades of Lucrezia may well depend on her understanding the distinction.