Taking a break from my addiction to watching cat videos on YouTube, I thought I’d give BBC’s Frozen Planet a watch, just to see how those Antarctic creatures were doing (being trapped under ice and such). Because David Attenborough’s voice sounds like fairies toe-tipping on summer clouds I was listening intensely. I suddenly crashed into delusion as he explained that Narwhals – The unicorns of the Sea don’t have any use at all, for their huge horn which is bashed through their upper lip. Now, hold your horses, my mind irrupted. So these whales have a 2.7 meters long sword speared through their mouth flesh for nothing?!
Mind blowing as it was I look down my own body and my eyes drops at my bellybutton leaving me in a surprised state, similar to when Harry Potter figures out that Voldemort is in town. This weird looking spiral of belly flesh leaves us in the exact same situation as the Unicorn Whale! (Leaving out what happens after the string is detached with a sharp edged instrument at birth, of course) I’ve walk on this planet now for 22 years, and not once have I been like “Hold on, I’ll just get my belly button out to for this particular situation”. So I do wonder, if we don’t need our belly button after the birth procedures, why doesn’t it grow back together leaving no trace, just like when your body heals itself from your clumsy/drunk moments?
Instead we have this hole with a dead-end flesh wall, which consumes fluff like the Cookie Monster consumes cookies. Like the Bermuda Triangle, it sucks in storage, and no one knows how it got there. Look down your bellybutton now, there’s probably a fluffy surprise for you there, and it’s not one of the good ones (like when you tidy up your room and find twenty quid). I bet that we could live without our bellybutton. Maybe we need it for magic in the future. Who knows.
Whilst others were digging their toes in golden sand and smothering themselves like beached whales in the southern sun, I had the delightful pleasure of visiting Cambridge. My boyfriend and I were sightseeing around the “do-not-step-on-the-grass” area somewhere at Cambridge University and suddenly we ended up in front of a door the size of King Kong’s six-pack. Giving each other a childish glance we agreed to open the door expecting to enter a wizard’s house. (I assume they always have huge powerful doors) What turned out to be behind the door was as boring as their “do-not-step-on-the-grass” sign, and we found ourselves awkwardly standing in a church with the sound of King Kong’s six-pack smacking shut behind us. Extremely devastating when we have prepared ourselves for a sight of magic dust, spells and goblins.
A few tourists’ were looking at the art in the church, but there was this one man who was appreciating it a bit too much. He was a spitting image of what a typical librarian would look like, the only difference though, was that he had a lust for art (or the act of pressing his camera button) like Russell Brand has for women during a dry season. Every time he took a picture he panted loudly as if he peeked into a sexual release. The acoustics of the church surrounded us as he tried to out-stallion I-don’t- know-who. Flash after flash went off and we heard him breathe rapidly in short gasps, after exertion of taking a picture. I felt like I had opened the door to Narnia, but that goat man was replaced with some other interesting creature that gets off by taking pictures. WHO DOES THAT?