It was a bit unusual that she was a woman, had a funny accent, n was not a Asian fellow, but it was not that weird n strange.
The world is full of foreign women.
"Are you a pair of perverts?" 1st question Pedros gets from a woman comin up to them on the Pong High Street, her face half hidden under a plastic see-thru umbrella. Bucketin down wi rain today. Brats all at school, so less chance of violence.
Gettin a glass of water, a plastic glass, holdin it up to her lips coz you have to drink water. White round her mouth. Like Africans in the desert.
Listen. You left home at 16. You joined the army at 16. You went to war at 17. You had not even had a drivin lesson, but you did know how to use a bullet-chucker.
About Doughboy ...
A doughboy is a spoiled child who eats lots and gets fat. Someone with a soft doughy look to them, someone who looks a bit like the Pilsbury Doughboy, the squishy giggly advertising icon from the days when they advertised pre-baked dough on the telly.
And of course, dough is slang for:
'Cash Money, a token or object that functions as exchange value that is socially and legally accepted in payment for goods and services.'
Thanks for that urbandictionary.com, you're a real help in an etymological crisis.
Of course dough is also pre-cooked bread or pizza. Let's not forget that. But the most unusual use of the phrase is this one from Wikipedia:
"Doughboy is an outdated slang term for an American infantryman, best known from its use in World War I, although it potentially dates back to the Mexican-American War of 1846-48... (It may) stem from the time of the Punitive Expedition against Pancho Villa in 1916, in which the infantry were constantly covered with dust from marching through the dry terrain of northern Mexico, giving them the appearance of unbaked dough."
That's my favourite. Soldiers dusted in sand, stuck in the desert, as hot as an oven, getting all brown and toasty, but not in a good way. Just like Reagan's dad out there in Arabland.
About Doughboy ...
It started being about my nephew getting his jaw smashed. 2006, in Tenerife, on holiday, outside a bar. Teeth knocked out, blood splattered, lying on the ground, losing consciousness. A Spanish hospital for emergency surgery, his mum flying out there, then flying back him home and straight to the hospital. Steel pegs drilled into his bones, his mouth wired shut for six weeks. Multiple operations, protein shakes, pain, loss of weight, unable to speak. If you hear the story he was just standing in the street minding his own business. Okay he'd been drinking, he was out with some mates, but he was only sixteen. He reckoned he was a bit of a geezer. Streetwise. But he was just a wee boy, as thin as a matchstick. You could snap him like a twig. He tells the story that it was a single punch, some scousers, clocked him just right, right angle, right velocity - crack - snapped his bones like they'd stuck his head in a giant nutcracker. Snap. Pick up the bits. But you just have to wonder what really happened. It makes you think. No one is that innocent; that unlucky. Are they?
It ended up being about not being Irish.
It ended up being about being in the army. Four of my family members have been in the army, including my Dad, who was probably happiest when he was a soldier. Well maybe. Family rumour has it that he was in the SAS. That is probably bollocks, but could be true.
It ended up being about living in Pongo.
It hasn't ended yet. I hope it will soon.