Friday, 12 June 2009

Venetian Matriarchs

Obviously this one was written at some point in the depths of winter...

I want to be a Venetian matriarch when I grow up. These women own the city in the wintertime, scattering the few tourists aside in their wake as they perambulate about the town. These women have probably birthed a tribe of gondoliers before lunch, their ancestors were possibly doges who ransacked Constantinople or sea captains who kicked Turkish arse at the Battle of Lepanto. The frenzy of battle is only breath away in these Amazons. A flock of American / Indian / Japanese tourists blocking a calle are like lambs in a paddock, suddenly aware their is a wolf somewhere in their midst and they better get out of the way, pronto. The waves of humanity thus part for the Matriarch, a primal sense of respect breaks through all cultural barriers.

The uniform of these women certainly helps. Two fingers up at all the pain and suffering of small and attractively furry animals; the Matriarchs would wear a coat of woolly mammoth if the things were still extant having killed the beast themselves with a particularly poisonous glare. Head to toe in fur of some sort, these formidable, carnivorous creatures could eat a carrot-bothering, alfalfa-munching, mink-snuggling PETA supporter for breakfast should the opportunity arise. Brilliant.

Oh, and they use their power for both good and evil. Don’t even both trying to queue when these women are around. I never though a rugby scrum could ever actually occur in the butcher’s / baker’s / post office, never mind with such elegance. The fur, literally, flies.

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