What Woman Would Not Be Excited?

It is early evening.

Back at Lauren's house, in Port Noarlunga, the pizza bases are already defrosting.

Surfing-With-Whales and Sweezus have been given tasks to do in the kitchen.

Sweezus is cutting up figs and onions.

Surfing-With-Whales is slicing prosciutto.

Is Lauren a Buddhist? asks Sweezus.

Nah, says Surfing-With-Whales. Mum eats anything. Why?

Prosciutto, says Sweezus.

That's Jews, says Surfing-With-Whales. Buddhists can eat pork, fish or chicken as long as it wasn't killed specially for them.

That's mental, says Sweezus.

Makes sense to me, says the Elegant Parrot, who is perched on the table. So it's not your fault if you get eaten.

Wrong end of the stick as usual, says Ageless lobster. This is all about the EATER.

That's your fig he's cutting up, says the Catcher.

Is it? says the Elegant Parrot, edging closer. Can I try it?

Not yet, says Sweezus. It's not ready.

Sensitive little fig, says the Elegant Parrot, poking its beak as close to the open-cut fig as is avianly possible.

Off! commands Sweezus.

And where are Lauren and Nietzsche?

They are in Lauren's room. He has taken off his trousers.

She is rubbing aloe vera on his surf rash (inner thigh), and wishing it was after dinner.

This is because of something he has said.

Having rejected Buddhism completely (thus differing from Schopenhauer), his eyes have been opened to the ideal of the most high-spirited, alive and world affirming human being who has learned to get along with whatever was and is, and who wants to have what was and is repeated into all eternity.

What woman would not be excited?

But damn it all, she still has to turn on the oven, and assemble the pizzas.