His spaniel was up on its hind legs, paws on his master’s belly, where my paws happily had lately been.
He was my host, and I ate his food, while others there were still at it, too, and the plate set in front of me gave off a hopeful fragrance.
This man, not seated at the table – my host – stood cross-legged next to it, while balancing himself against a dining chair.
No, I was not done yet. There was more forking-up work for me.
Lucy Shovel, a woman with X-mas red lipstick on, waved to me from the far side of the table, and then she stuck her finger precisely on the corner seam of her mouth.
I learned later that she is very popular and often copied.
A splash of my drink, as I lifted my glass, jumped up onto my front as Shovel shouted at me: ‘What is your name?’
But I was too busy chewing to answer, for I had sliced my omelette into many parts moments earlier.
Amy Kilderbee! That’s my big fat name.
Good, fat, good and big.
And I delayed giving Shovel my name.
Soon I was pulling at the neck of my tunic. Did that until I was well into my baked tomatoes.
They were so soft and sweet.
And I have a big, sincere soft spot for myself.
And, no, I don’t know why I am in this shape. I am just in excellent shape.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.
