“So...”
I, Piccalilli have been brave. I have come back after six long years to find Bloggiana. I have come to her new seat in the boondocks and I have knocked on the door and gone inside. And now I have uttered a word.
My "So..." drops into the atmos like a stink bomb. Bloggiana in proto Scots mode, her hand wrapped around a ‘Kith & Kin’ map, her lips sprinkled with what must surely be shortbread residue, glares at me. For a moment, I have the feeling I am dressed as a Rangers cheerleader and I have just walked slap bang into a Celtic supporter, on Sauchiehall Street, at closing time. At this point my knees in their wobble are joined by my pelvic floor in its. I make an involuntary downward movement.
“Where’ve the fuck you been, Piccalilli?”
Affection. I wonder if that is what I am hearing. I, Piccalilli go to smile back. I, Piccalilli go to unleash an answer to that question that will cover the past six years in a nanobyte, the rollercoaster of these missing days and months that has been my UCP (unique chutney privilege). I flash before my eyes the selfies I have taken up and down the chutney high road, me and my Hot Banana – in Bruges, in Brussels, in Strasbourg. How can I condense into a single jamjar of a sentence the sheer joy of the Euro gravy train, condense it here and now so that in one neat swoop, I can dispense with the hiatus in our friendship and make it seem as though I have Never Been Away? Hazily I gaze round Bloggiana’s (very small)(and jolly bright) front room looking for someone who might abet me, utter soothing homecoming moues, unlock all those jubilant sauce-based memories that are lurking just behind my teeth so that I can explain, to my one and only alter ego, explain just what it is to be an Exalted Euro Chutnista. And I am just on the verge of taking command, of rallying pelvic floor and pickle memories in a oner when the door bursts open and in storms Pussy-Riot-UK-Branch.
“Teener!”
I gasp. Last time I saw Teener, she was very small, in fact so small that the only way you could really tell she was in the room was the boom boom that rattled out of her headphones and made some part of your lower leg throb.
“Teener!”
I, Piccalilli feel a tear welling and I am about to go and hug the girl when I realise that she is not small any more, she is above eye level and that out of either side of the Carthorse of the Year apron she is sporting, her naked breasts are swaying in time to the rhythm that is emitting via a la-la-la-la-la from her parted lips.
“Teener!”
Cacophony breaks out. Barely have I had a chance to take in the metamorphosis of Bloggiana's daughter than I am blown to the back of the room by an influx of Pussy Riot’s 25 closest friends. That involuntary downward movement that I tried before suddenly becomes voluntary and I plop, as yet knowingly undervaped, onto the carpet. Floored.
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