Fag-End-Up

As soon as I was born—like the aristocratic young lady I am—I introduced myself to everyone in the room, starting with the elders, pruny palm extended, I said, Hello, my apologies, have we met before? I am—and then, of course, came the existential horror which hasn’t really seemed to subside since:

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The homely nurses burp me awake as I profusely apologize for the mess—let’s attribute the indecency to a spell of jet lag—you’d cry too if you came into this world fag end up—give it to me straight and spare no detail: hot dog or hamburger?—and whaaat about that airplane food!—

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I’ve gotten the gist, you may cut the hawser! I am all of twenty second old, I am no naïf—do you even know who my father is? Yes, very well, me neither. Could you fetch me a pint before I develop any kind of scruples? Please, doctor, we haven’t much time!

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Well, I’ve conquered the monolith, so what else is there to be done? See the binmen sewing the spread-eagled slag back together. Such a pity—I was beginning to like that place. If they dare rearrange the curtains, I’ll simply have a fit.

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