Mortification: Writers’ Stories of Their Public Shame Read Online Free PDF Page B

If they weren’t here the dogs would be sleeping. Everyone starts taking off their coats and still the barking goes on. The dogs come racing out of a distant room and launch another attack. They must be like real boxers and fight three-minute rounds. Bounding and yapping. Pissing and scraping. ‘Stop it! Jules! Jim!’ They are incredibly ugly creatures with their faces of black wrinkled skin and white bared teeth. I freeze when one lunges. Very slowly and deliberately, in as non-threatening a gesture as I can muster, I hand my coat over to the hostess.
    Eventually everyone gets into the living room and sits down, keeping very still. The dogs leap up on the furniture and their owners create more noise than the dogs. ‘Get down. Jules! Jim! On the floor.’
    ‘Don’t you dare!’ Both dogs jump up onto the sofa beside me. They give me an eyeful of their backsides before I can look away. Boxers have whorls, little whirlpools of hair on either side of their black leathery asshole. People don’t want to dwell on that kind of detail just before they eat but when it’s been there, close-up, the image can’t be erased.
    The hostess gets everyone to their feet and shepherds them into a dining room which looks out on a balcony. It seems she and her husband ate earlier for health reasons. They will come to the table but they will not eat. They are old and not at all healthy, despite having eaten earlier. Things can be heard in their chests. He is overweight and his lips have a disturbing bluish tinge. The curve of his belly is emphasized by one of those Fair-Isle golf sweaters. Even they realize that the dogs should be controlled in some way and the hostess puts them out onto the balcony. The creatures proceed to whine and scratch loudly against the balcony doors. They also snort and blow beneath them.
    Dishes are brought to the table by the hostess. Everyone eats as the mother and father-in-law smoke one cigarette after another. The soup tastes of something indefinable. Dog piss, maybe. It is not bad, but faint – a distant tinge of raven fat or bat droppings – like something never tasted before and not altogether appetizing. The dogs on the balcony are creating such a din of scratching and whingeing that one of the guests suggests letting them in. It would be quieter. The hostess gets up and opens the door. The dogs rush past her with delight. They run in and out, beneath the table, under our chairs. As they slaver and slabber, strings of white mucus hang from their jowls. I keep my knees together to prevent the dogs getting in there for a good sniff at my crotch. That stuff would look bad on your trousers: Every so often throughout the meal, my hand strays down and I immediately sense a wet engulfment. A dog’s nose is like a dish of cold snails.
    After the soup comes the main course. The hostess serves a dish of peas and ham. It has been cooked in the same raven fat or bat droppings which was used to such effect in the soup. The ham is maroon to black, thickly stratified with white. There is a not-fully-poached egg in the middle of the peas. I cut the egg and watch the yolk leak out into the green surroundings. Then the old man has a coughing fit. It sounds like he’s tumbling gravel deep in his chest or regurgitating lightly poached eggs. When it’s over and he is sufficiently recovered he lights another cigarette. There is a distinct splashing sound. Jules is taking a piss on the tiles of the hallway. The door-bell rings and the dogs go apeshit again.
    I put down my fork and glance down at my watch. There are several hours to go. The local red wine is excellent and seems the only refuge. I get tore in.

‘Of all the thirty-six alternatives, running away is best.’
Chinese proverb
Simon Armitage
    Literature offers endless opportunities for embarrassment and humiliation because it operates at that boundary where private thought meets its public response. Live literary events are the front-line, the human interface