C*** and C*****

by Bob Jacobs

I never heard my mother say c***. She would say bloody, or bugger, or sod, but never c***. She died of c***** when she was fifty-three, and in her final days she withered and faded and looked a hundred and forty. I'm convinced that somehow the two words are related, that c*** and c***** were in cahoots and that her death from c***** was some kind of revenge. This morning I heard my ten-year-old daughter call her younger brother a c*** while they were playing in the garden. She looked up after she said it, our eyes met and she knew that I'd heard her, but I turned away, smiled, and said nothing.


Bob Jacobs, author of Eating Tomorrow's Dinner Today, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.


reginald said...

Sad, touching, confusing.

Quin said...

saying both words sets you free... i know from experience.

ionplayer said...

One of my favourites of yours Rob. Asterical.


Teresa said...

Nice Six. Reminding us of the power we give to words. Wasn't all that long ago when the word c***** was whispered.

Bob Jacobs said...

Many thanks.