The flashing blue bar in the corner of my screen tells me I have an Instant Messenger conversation on the go. After trading the usual good natured insults, we get into the meat of the exchange:"I was walking to work this morning," my colleague 'Snit' Bolton tells me, "when I stumbled across a large quantity of grumble mags in a hedge."
I was impressed with his find, and offered him advice, what with being the king of finding abandoned smut.
"You ought to go back there and start digging. There's probably a porn mine down there. Whole seams of the stuff. Tits, arse, flange – the whole works."
He agreed, and arrangements were made to borrow a pickaxe and shovel from the gardeners' shed.
"What," I ask trying not to sound too involved in the whole sordid episode, "what genre did the jazz fall into?"
"It was brown and covered in slugs."
"Riiiight…."
"And there was also a Ukrainian dictionary."
There's no accounting for the tastes of other cultures.
"The kinky stuff, then. Meet you in ten minutes. Bring your wellies."
"I'll be right along. I've got to update my Facebook status first."
So I wait. And I wait. And press the 'Refresh' key:
'Snit Bolton is digging for Ukrainian slug porn.'
In for a penny: 'Duck (Scary) is examining gastropod art pamphlets for fun and profit'
I suppose – at this point – it is only fair to reach out to the original owner of this collection in case they want it back. So, if you're a Ukrainian speaker who has misplaced a vast quantity of cliterature of a specialist nature, it should still be where you left it for the next five minutes or so.
It's days like this, dear reader, when you never feel so alive.
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