Scrapping

I almost got my teeth knocked out last night in the West End. We emerged onto the street from a performance of Avenue Q, which was delightful despite the egregious choice not to cast Americans as Americans. They did workmanlike jobs with the accents, but it jars a little when they drop out of dialect. Of course, given that they were voicing puppets, perhaps it wasn't the biggest violation of the pure Aristotelian dramatic strictures on display.

Anyway, we emerged onto the street and I declared to my companions with my wonted post-show vigor that I wasn't seeing any more plays that didn't have fucking muppets. At the moment I voiced the phrase "fucking muppet," a quite hard looking bald gentleman elbowed past us and clearly thought I was addressing him. He spun on his heel and attempted glowering eye contact, so we circled the wagons a bit and talked amongst ourselves until he went away. Then we got the 176 bus toward Penge. "One Seven Six to Penge" will be the title of my autobiography, I think. No explanation or anything.

To penge: to throw up a little in one's mouth. From the French penger. Je penge, tu penges, ils pengent.