things are going well in the ‘lev tolstoi experience’.
the soups are authentic and the conversation revolves mainly about the good old days when a guy called stalin sorted everyone out, and miracles still happened at the local tuberculosis hospital.
but there was a disturbing development in the kitchen over the weekend.
basically, its a chicken. a sick chicken. its being incubated in the kitchen. natural place to isolate it from its dozen brethren, (sistren?) and warm it back to health. its put me right off sex. been there for two days. shits in its food, on the table. beaks the biscuits. have to push past it to get to the fridge.
considering the whole ‘bird flu paranoia’ thing, you’d think i’m joking. i’m not.
and if i said they culled a bunch of super-fluous (ha fucking ha. thankyou) chickens 20 km from here last year, after they were infected with the h5n1 strain by migrating fowl, you’d say ’you’re joking’. i’m not. (zhirinovski, leader of the right-wing LDPR, made a memorable speech in parliament about how every russian man should do his duty, be drafted into the army, sent to the western borders, issued with a kalishnikov and shoot migrating birds as they crossed the border to protect the motherland. zhirinovski regularly comes third in presidential polls.)
if i said i’ve spent a week losing kilograms to a particulalry vicious and doubtlessly, slavic strain of gastric flu you’d say ’you’re joking’. i’m not.
i understand that to open the door or the window is to invite escape, but not to means the temperature in here is pushing thirty and there’s been no fresh air for days. i’m not a biologist, or even a microbiologist, but i remember how those funny little trays of jelly they gave us at school not only tasted foul, but loved to sprout all kinds of wierd green shit when you kept them a bit warmer than normal.
so our kitchen has, potentially, every ingredient needed to create a new strain of human culling super-flu. is this where it startws? is this where it ends? i am typing now and the fucking thing is next to my feet. but baba tanya is just doing nothing unusual- she’s just doing what any babushka would do with a chilly clucker- and that begs the question, ‘how the fuck is this widely anticiapted mutant strain of bird flu not going to develop if chicken-friendly acts of this level of intimacy are going on all the time, possibly everywhere, and possibly at a more intimate level’.
isn’t it getting a bit of a chance that it doesn’t really need?