Aber Bottel Corner
"So, how do you spell it, Dad?"
"What?"
"Aber Bottel."
"You don't spell it at all. It's Yiddish. You don't write it down."
"But I want to write it down. How would I spell it if I did?"
"A - b - e -r - - "
"Good"
"B-o-t-t-l-e."
"Oh, come on, it can't be like that, it's Yiddish and that's like German. It must be with an e and then an l. Bottel. What's the literal meaning?"
"Sort of past it in an old-age-bonkers kind of way."
"Yes, I know that's what it means, but what does it mean, exactly?"
"Well, I suppose Aber is Uber, meaning over - - "
"Good - - "
"and Bottel means - - er - - well - - Bottle."
"Over the bottle? Admit it, you've no idea, have you?"
"No. But I know what it means."
Some people, including my father, think being over eighty is an excuse to be Aber Bottel. Talk to him about the activities of the Government of the USA and his mind is completely sharp. (In fact, do not try this: he knows more than you do, I promise you, and will argue you into a corner and it will take a very, very long time and you will regret it, possibly for ever.)
But on a familiar car journey he is in Aber Bottel Corner. He has three obsessions: pubs, nappies and back-seat driving of the most alarming kind.
The pubs are always the same:
"We had a meal here once. It was rubbish."
The nappies are always the same:
"This is where we stopped to change your nappy."
"Dad, what year was that, exactly?"
"Well, I'm just telling you."
Sometimes you can get exciting new combinations:
"This is the pub where we stopped to change your nappy. They didn't do food then. They do now, though. They've got a new sign up. No, don't look at it! THERE'S A CAR ON YOUR TAIL! THERE'S A CAR ON YOUR TAIL!"
But, this weekend, there was a whole new development.
"We stopped at this pub once. They sell stuffed bees."
"What?"
"Stuffed bees. You know. To eat."
"What?"
"Bees. You know. To eat. Stuffed."
"Dad, nobody eats stuffed bees."
"They do. And you can buy them here."
I never did get to the bottom of it. If you have any suggestions, I should welcome them.
"What?"
"Aber Bottel."
"You don't spell it at all. It's Yiddish. You don't write it down."
"But I want to write it down. How would I spell it if I did?"
"A - b - e -r - - "
"Good"
"B-o-t-t-l-e."
"Oh, come on, it can't be like that, it's Yiddish and that's like German. It must be with an e and then an l. Bottel. What's the literal meaning?"
"Sort of past it in an old-age-bonkers kind of way."
"Yes, I know that's what it means, but what does it mean, exactly?"
"Well, I suppose Aber is Uber, meaning over - - "
"Good - - "
"and Bottel means - - er - - well - - Bottle."
"Over the bottle? Admit it, you've no idea, have you?"
"No. But I know what it means."
Some people, including my father, think being over eighty is an excuse to be Aber Bottel. Talk to him about the activities of the Government of the USA and his mind is completely sharp. (In fact, do not try this: he knows more than you do, I promise you, and will argue you into a corner and it will take a very, very long time and you will regret it, possibly for ever.)
But on a familiar car journey he is in Aber Bottel Corner. He has three obsessions: pubs, nappies and back-seat driving of the most alarming kind.
The pubs are always the same:
"We had a meal here once. It was rubbish."
The nappies are always the same:
"This is where we stopped to change your nappy."
"Dad, what year was that, exactly?"
"Well, I'm just telling you."
Sometimes you can get exciting new combinations:
"This is the pub where we stopped to change your nappy. They didn't do food then. They do now, though. They've got a new sign up. No, don't look at it! THERE'S A CAR ON YOUR TAIL! THERE'S A CAR ON YOUR TAIL!"
But, this weekend, there was a whole new development.
"We stopped at this pub once. They sell stuffed bees."
"What?"
"Stuffed bees. You know. To eat."
"What?"
"Bees. You know. To eat. Stuffed."
"Dad, nobody eats stuffed bees."
"They do. And you can buy them here."
I never did get to the bottom of it. If you have any suggestions, I should welcome them.
posted by Daphne at 7:38 pm
2 Comments:
I have no ideas for stuffed bees - you are all a bunch of meshuganas.
Luckily that my grandad is computer-illiterate, too.
I have a story of my own. As all my relatives may know, my grandmother has some kind of aber bottel obsession with a certain type of French yoghurt pot.
The last time we were in France, she purloined over a hundred of these things and transported them home in the car (they are glass, so rattle musically). She now keeps things in them, and they are apparently necessary to her continual survival.
My family are sick of the things, and plot to destroy them all fairly regularly.
About half an hour ago, a large shelf in our kitchen cupboard came unstuck, and it and all its contents fell on my head. I am mildly concussed, bleeding and full of bits of glass. Much rather nice crockery is in pieces, and I am currently drinking out of a plastic Barbie mug, the sole survivor.
Apart from those damned glass pots. They are all intact. I fear the sight of them has pushed my father over the edge.
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