Tuesday, September 23, 2008


In Nigeria, it seems they have a festival in which batchelors are ridiculed and bullied into getting married.

It sounds a bit like my extended family. Last weekend, I went to Sunday dinner in Dublin with a few third or fourth cousins (we take keeping in touch very serious in my clan). All but one of a huge family of siblings there is married.

The offending bachelor is in his 40s now, and - in his case - I'm pretty certain that there is no repressed gay subtext. Very far from it.

He spent the afternoon explaining how picky he is. It's just that he can't find a blonde woman with her own pub near to a racecourse, but when he does, she'll make him the happiest man alive. He says.

As we got more tipsy, we were talking about the women of our age that we grew up with (I spent a large part of my mid-teens in County Mayo). One got mixed reviews. She used to work in a chippy, and the smell of cooking oil was generally thought to be a minus-point for her with most of the brothers.

The bachelor was different.
"Some people would say that it was a very romantic aroma."

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Batchelor's make packet soup. You're thinking of *bachelors*.