Ships of the desert, sights of the night

Get this.

Amongst the exhibits in the Dublin Writer’s Museum are not one but two hairslides which are stated as having been owned (but not necessarily used by) Mary Levin.

Is that tenuous?

I thought so.

I stood in front of the exhibit for a few moments, screwing with my own head.

What, I wondered, might my left-overs be – when I’m long gone but almost remembered for the ground-breaking work captured by my difficult but brilliant second novel?

A used condom of the brand I once favoured? A box of a a certain brand of veggie sausages? An old, battered, almost-empty tube of KY jelly?

I shook those idle thoughts from my head and moved on to the next exhibit.

It tells me that Jonathan Swift Warning: this post contains a bad taste alert – but I’d like to reassure you that all rude words have been deleted for the faint-hearted

If Liverpool is the European Capital of Culture 2008, then Dublin is the European Capital of Camel-toe 2008.

The camel, to jog memory, is best known as the ship of the desert. On this trip to Dublin I have seen many, many camel-toes, but no desert. And no camels.

The clothing uniform for human girls women females here seems to be large, chunky sweaters, leather boots and denim jeans that must have been sprayed on (though how that is achieved with denim beats the hell out of me).

The resultant camel-toes leave nothing to the imagination. I know which girls women females have had a Brazilian, which a Hollywood and which have chosen to merely cultivate their pubic hair.

Several girls women females display camel-toes so minutely accentuated that they must regularly experience mild discomfort if not acute pain; others exhibit far more than the usual degree of care when they sit on high bar-stools.

Suddenly the word ‘stools’ has taken on a new, unbidden and not altogether pleasant dimension…

Anyway.

We were eating a fantastic meal whilst discussing the Dublin camel-toe phenomenon (and, for the sake of clarity, let me say that these girls women females weren’t exclusively Irish – a significant number were Scandinavian) our waitress walked towards our table.

The Lovely S (who isn’t quite as subtle at people watching as I) looked our approaching female waitress straight in the cunt groin.

What was peculiar about the waitress’s attire was (despite wearing trousers so tight that I could almost read the thong manufacturers labia label) she had no camel-toe, but her trousers did emphasise every detail of her bottom.

So my question is… Why?

Why so prevalent?

And why Dublin?

Answers on a form of electronic communication of your choice please.

B.(1667 – 1745) the author of Gulliver’s Travels, made his name as a ‘wit and conversationalist in the London coffee houses along with his friends who included the Irish playwright William Congreve’.

What, I wondered, is the 21st century equivalent of the 17th Century London coffee house?

Thoughts, gang?

B.