在中国，从小我知道这个冷饮叫‘和路雪’。　　在英国，卖冷饮的地方常常能看到撑着画了这颗心的遮阳伞，名字是Walls。　　　　可是在同样用字母的德国它却叫Langnese。。。　　　　跑了些国家后我发现和路雪这个牌子竟然在每个国家的名字都不一样，好多年前就产生了这个疑惑，可是每次都是在外面买冷饮的时候才想起来，所以一直没有上网查。终于今天我在电脑前想起了这个问题，所以我百度了。。。不知道这里有没有和我有过一样疑问的JMS。。。　　　　‘中文名字：和路雪，在不同的国家有不同的叫法，比如在英国和东南亚名为Walls 在澳大利亚名为Streets，在巴西是Kibon，在意大利是Algida，德国是Langnese，荷兰是Ola。’　　　　囧　　　　　　　　　　
楼主发言：1次 发图：0张
　　jms你们有没有发现和路雪这个牌子很神奇？？？
　　鸡冻地跑进来看是哪位好心人消灭了我的0回复。。。竟然= =||　　　　伤心鸟。。。
　　想太多了。。
　　lz很有八卦潜质，o(∩_∩)o...哈哈　　
　　哈哈，好吃就行
　　在国内，打的英文标也是Walls
　　呵呵，蛮有趣的　　我在东南亚也是看见叫WALL‘S 呵呵
　　我喜欢吃七彩旋～～～～也～～～
　　还有个更神奇的地方　　你看和路雪在欧洲各个国家的广告　　越往北模特穿得越少　　越往南穿得越多
　　我还以为是国产的呢　　　　哈哈　　
　　没研究过.
　　我以前也以为是国产的，后来才发现.....　　　　但不公平啊，为什么我觉得在北欧吃的要更稠一些？很像DQ
　　我妈妈非常喜欢吃　　夏天都会买上一小桶去孝敬她
　　作者：水至清则无猫　回复日期：　11:05:17　
　　　　还有个更神奇的地方　　　　你看和路雪在欧洲各个国家的广告　　　　越往北模特穿得越少　　　　越往南穿得越多　　---------------------------------------------　　ha~ha~~~　　真的么？呼唤强人贴图~~~~
　　我一直以为和路雪是北京的牌子，已经这么以为很多年了
　　太甜了!!!
　　我是无聊的楼主，LS的同学说的广告我很好奇啊.是真的吗？　　　　另外我刚又看到了WIKI上的unilever词条里更详细的名称列表。。好壮观，我知道没啥意义啦，不过本着对完整性的追求我还是贴过来吧～～呵呵,如果有TX想知道是咋来的可以去WIKI看一下～～。。广告图的话，我有空会去找一下大～所以如果LS的TX是耍我的我会伤心的。。。　　　　Algida - Greece, Hungary, Italy, Slovenia, Turkey, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Poland, Malta, Macedonia 　　Bresler - Chile 　　Cargills - Sri Lanka 　　Eskimo - Austria 　　Frigo - Spain, Serbia 　　Frisko - Denmark 　　GB Glace - Sweden, Finland 　　Glidat Strauss - Israel, USA 　　Good Humor - USA, Canada 　　HB - Ireland 　　Helados La Fuente - Colombia 　　Hertog Ola - Netherlands (selected products) 　　和路雪 - China, Hong Kong 　　Holanda - Mexico, Central America 　　Kibon - Brazil, Argentina 　　Kwality Walls - India 　　Langnese - Germany 　　Lusso - Switzerland 　　Miko - France 　　Ola - Belgium, Netherlands, South Africa 　　Olá - Portugal 　　Pingüino - Ecuador 　　Selecta - Philippines 　　Streets - Australia, New Zealand (slogan Nothing Beats Streets)[11] 　　Tio Rico - Venezuela 　　Walls - United Kingdom (Great Britain), Indonesia, Pakistan, and other parts of Asia 　　Walls HB - United Kingdom (Northern Ireland) 　　
　　我也一直以为是国产的，很喜欢她家的一个蛋筒冰淇淋的。
　　　　　　作者：完美人生的欺骗　回复日期：　11:15:02　
　　　　我还以为是国产的呢　　　　　　　　哈哈　　---------------------------------------------------　　我也一直以为是国产　　另外还有个美登高不会也是外国的牌子吧
　　囧　　　　偶系可爱多的忠实fan ^_^
　　作者：wings000　回复日期：　12:11:19　
　　　　作者：水至清则无猫　回复日期：　11:05:17　 　　　　　　还有个更神奇的地方　　　　　　你看和路雪在欧洲各个国家的广告　　　　　　越往北模特穿得越少　　　　　　越往南穿得越多　　　　---------------------------------------------　　　　ha~ha~~~　　　　真的么？呼唤强人贴图~~~~　　---------------------------------------------　　同呼唤。。。。。。
MS这牌子越来越神奇了。。。。。。
　　作者：bingyan1001　回复日期：　12:34:09　
　　　　　　　　　　　　作者：完美人生的欺骗　回复日期：　11:15:02　 　　　　　　我还以为是国产的呢　　　　　　　　　　　　哈哈　　　　---------------------------------------------------　　　　我也一直以为是国产　　　　另外还有个美登高不会也是外国的牌子吧　　==============================================　　美登高应该是广东的品牌吧？还有五羊也是。
　　哈哈~~~　　美登高　　好怀旧的名字呀，好多年没见到咯
　　恩，LZ的专业精神很值得鼓励。我也特别爱吃和路雪，咋就没发现呢。好像这个牌子在不同国家卖的品种也很不一样。比如我在国内很喜欢吃的什么千层雪呀之类的，在国外好像没有见过。
　　过年时买了一桶和路雪,把它抹在面包上或蛋糕上格外好吃.我也一直以为是国产的呢,真是孤陋寡闻。
　　是联合利华的........
　　和路雪是联合利华旗下的，飘走~~~~~~~~
　　　　有些好吃的品种现在都不生产了。。比如一个足球鞋上面粘着一个小足球 ，那个足球是一驼泡泡糖，那个很好吃，大概我初中时候有　　
　　我喜欢吃的　　我一直以为是上海的。。。
　　我还看到过good humor的，疑似和路雪。。。
　　= =。。。　　突然想吃雪糕了
　　90年代中在超市看到哈根达斯的小盒冰淇淋，30元，舍不得买（现在大概也舍不得），觉得和路雪挺好的　　　　昨天贪图便宜买了大盒香草，其实很久不吃了
　　感谢楼主，这个问题也困惑我好多年了
　　作者：lele的小马甲　回复日期：　16:11:39　
　　　　= =。。。　　　　突然想吃雪糕了　　===============================　　泪。。。。
　　我也好喜欢吃的。．．．．就是比其他的贵点点．
　　在德国的时侯经常买疑似和路雪，原来就是啊~~~~~~~~~~
　　作者：小猪快爬　回复日期：　17:44:56　
　　　　作者：lele的小马甲　回复日期：　16:11:39　 　　　　　　= =。。。　　　　　　突然想吃雪糕了　　　　===============================　　　　泪。。。。　　－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－　　同泪........　　
　　现在还有美登高吗?
　　小学时有一种青苹果+香草的雪糕常常吃，很喜欢，不过后来好像都不出了...　　　　是外面一层青苹果味的冰，里面是香草口味的雪糕....　　　　　　
　　DQ倒是在哪里都叫DQ嘿嘿～
　　平时就爱吃这个牌子的雪糕 从小到大都是它忠实的粉丝　　现在偶尔吃好一点就是吃DQ 超哈那个 芒果杏仁 口水ing 并且别人很健康!　　一直鄙视哈根 不能说难吃 但是真的不好吃 而且跑到中国来就死贵　　早些年的时候还以为这是多么让我们这些土包子瞻仰的一款
结果 不就那样嘛 ...
　　小时候很怕这个牌子　　　　因为谐音是：喝鹿血
　　和路雪的味道够纯正，醇厚绵软。我喜欢。
　　介绍几个好吃的和路雪的口味吧。。。！！！　　虽然我一年也吃不了2次
　　作者：sheeep　回复日期：　3:27:26　
　　　　小时候很怕这个牌子　　　　　　　　因为谐音是：喝鹿血　　　　=======================　　这位羊多e同学好好笑,怎么想到的?哈哈~~　　
　　我一直以为只有广州有
　　喜欢，也一直以为是国货，飘～～～　　
　　我也发现了，澳洲是Streets。我还正想今天百度一下呢，就发现天涯上有人在说了，真是神奇~~~
　　啊 一直以为是国产呢　　很喜欢这牌子得东东
　　原来不是国货…………只喜欢这家的冰淇淋
　　我也以为是国产。。汗
　　初中时夏天几乎每天来一根巧克力口味的百乐宝，超级好吃阿！　　　　早就发现在德国它不叫wall“s ,但是没想到它有那么多马甲。。。。。。。。。汗！！！
　　也？　　　　好多有心人咧。
　　果然很神奇的牌子~~~~
　　和路雪真的很好吃 从小就喜欢 比雀巢不是好一点半点~~~
　　果然很神奇
　　名字也忒多了吧？　　话说联合利华是不是该有“起名部”、再弄个“起名总监”啊？　　Chief Naming Operater, CNO～～多神气～～～
　　我也超级爱吃巧克力味的百乐宝~~~~　　不过我现在喜欢买一大桶八喜巧克力，一天挖一点出来吃
　　和路雪现在是联合利华集团下的，我个人觉得是最强大的雪糕牌子。　　　　它家的雪糕是我最常吃，虽然国产和路雪不如我在国外吃的好吃
　　和路雪,我的最爱啊!呵呵
　　　　　　作者：十狮逝世　回复日期：　3:00:14　
　　　　小学时有一种青苹果+香草的雪糕常常吃，很喜欢，不过后来好像都不出了...　　　　　　　　是外面一层青苹果味的冰，里面是香草口味的雪糕....　　　　　　-----------------------------------------　　握手啊~~~貌似这个是当时百乐宝系列中的一个口味
　　觉得这牌子有些腻，又不够香。。。。还是自己做的好吃，，嘻嘻
　　是吗,我觉得宏宝莱的也挺好吃的,去年买了很多,大红果的还有巧克力的都挺好吃　　　　我就不太爱吃奶油的,喜欢吃冰冰的那种,像冰葫之类的,吃着过瘾
　　超级爱吃和路雪的千层雪~~
　　一直都以为是国产的，我爱吃可爱多，2.5一个，真贵啊　　当时吃得我没钱吃正餐
　　　Good Humor - USA, Canada 　　　　在美国叫这个名字，看到同样的图标才想起来是国内的和路雪。。。
　　想起以前本科的时候每次都买 百乐宝 吃：）各种口味的，还积攒雪糕棒。。。吃那么多也没有集全过。。。　　　　
　　作者：83小优　回复日期：　1:37:12　
　　　　作者：小猪快爬　回复日期：　17:44:56　 　　　　　　作者：lele的小马甲　回复日期：　16:11:39　 　　　　　　　　= =。。。　　　　　　　　突然想吃雪糕了　　　　　　===============================　　　　　　泪。。。。　　　　－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－　　　　同泪........　　=================================================　　深更半夜看球肚子咕咕叫地泪....
　　在中国，是中文“和路雪”和英文“walls&（我不知道怎么打上撇号）一起用的。
　　和路雪的孟龙我最爱吃！
　　在法国貌似叫　　carte dor　　　　奇怪了。。。
　　作者：独行天涯一叶舟　回复日期：　23:59:32　
　　　　在德国的时侯经常买疑似和路雪，原来就是啊~~~~~~~~~~　　______________________________________________________　　　　那天bf跟我很兴奋地描述某个巧克力冰棒很好吃，叫什么Magnum　　　　我晕，不就是梦龙么！吃了这么多年，他还不知道Langnese就是和路雪!以为是个什么本土的牌子！　　　　看图标也看出来了啊！再说他家的冰激凌还挺有特点的　　　　
　　在澳洲叫sweet street,BF最喜欢梦龙，我最喜欢花生的花心筒．我们不喜欢买大桶的，吃不完还占地方．外国人太可怕了，他们每周一个３公斤左右的大桶冰淇淋，真的很神奇．　　　　外国的和路雪和国内不一样．甜是最大的感觉，不光和路雪，雀巢也是，还有其他牌子，比国内甜N倍，但不得不承认，味道比国内的浓些，还有很多奇怪的口味，比如巧克力薄荷味，反正我是吃不惯．但国外很少纯水果味道的冰棒，即使有，我也不喜欢吃．还是喜欢国内的山楂冰，菠萝冰，桔子冰，红小豆冰．带果肉的，哈哈，每次回国都去批发一箱吃到拉肚子啊．
　　曾经的曼登琳啊……
　　同意梦龙~好好吃啊！！　　不过好贵的说　　大学时为了吃梦龙，天天在食堂吃最便宜的炒土豆丝　　
　　好像这个牌子给雀巢收购过吧。北美的确很少看到，只在那种加油站或者那种小店里面有卖，标的是雀巢，但是包装各方面都和和路雪很相像啊。
　　超级喜欢可爱多啊~~~　　记得有次一天吃了4个~~~
　　作者：紫黑色　回复日期：　4:25:42　
　　　　作者：83小优　回复日期：　1:37:12　 　　　　　　作者：小猪快爬　回复日期：　17:44:56　 　　　　　　　　作者：lele的小马甲　回复日期：　16:11:39　 　　　　　　　　　　= =。。。　　　　　　　　　　突然想吃雪糕了　　　　　　　　===============================　　　　　　　　泪。。。。　　　　　　－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－　　　　　　同泪........　　　　=================================================　　　　深更半夜看球肚子咕咕叫地泪....　　　　---------------------------------------　　　　大中午的,刚刚吃过饭,好想吃雪糕的人同同泪..
　　贴图宣传最新春夏装，喜欢的美女可以加图片上的QQ，还有更多更漂亮的款式哦
　　我最喜欢初中时代的和路雪覆盆子口味甜筒。现在早没了……
　　回楼主，意大利是Carte DOr,我正在吃~
　　这不是扭曲的心灵牌么 　　　　★ 发自天涯专用iPhone软件-百读不倦
　　想起一个消失不见的名字：曼登琳
　　哈哈，还真没想过这个问题，天天淡定地路过食堂那个挂着大大的langnese标志的摊位。。。　　　　这样看来，是它家擅长搞localization啊，虽然早就知道它是uniliver家的，结果取一本土名字，不知道真的会以为是自家产的。。。　　　　hiahia，每周两大碗cremissimo的schokolade，人生多么美好。。。
　　我都是通过那个心形标志才判断出是和路雪的，看来名字都是浮云，商标图案才最深入人心。
　　长知识了
　　拥抱楼主！我也是无聊到觉得这牌子太可爱了，在欧洲玩的时候发现到处有他还都是不同的名字，于是就把走过的过家的和路雪的广告牌都拍了一张，就记得的ola，ALIGO什么的
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pencil box是什么意思
pencil box是什么意思
09-01-27 &匿名提问 发布
老师发神经了。COLOUR为英式英语的颜色的意思。别老觉得老师就一定对。
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铅笔盒啊！
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晕了，难道不是铅笔盒吗。；
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Pencil Box:    1. 铅笔盒
   埃及求购铅笔盒(Pencil Box) (爱尔兰求购铅笔和铅笔盒(pencil cases and pencils)
   
 2. 文具盒
   产品类别： 文具盒(pencil box) → 猫和老鼠
 3. 铅笔盒，文具盒
   小学英语分类词汇表 ...pencil铅笔 pencil-box铅笔盒，文具盒 pencil-case铅笔袋，笔袋
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During Ramzan, the month of fasting, we went to the movies as often as we could. After being shaken awake at five a.m. by my mother' after pre-dawn breakfasts of melon and sugared lime-water, and especially on Sunday mornings, the Brass Monkey and I took it in turns (or sometimes called out in unison) to remind Amina: 'The ten-thirty-in-the-morning show! It's Metro Cub Club day, Amma, pleeeese!' Then the drive in the Rover to the cinema where we would taste neither Coca-Cola nor potato crisps, neither Kwality ice-cream nor sam but at least there was air-conditioning, and Cub Club badges pinned to our clothes, and competitions, and birthday-announcements made by a compere with an
and finally, the film, after the trailers with their introductory titles, 'Next Attraction' and 'Coming Soon', and the cartoon ('In A Moment, The Big F But First ... !'): Quentin Durward, perhaps, or Scaramouche. 'Swashbuckling!' we'd say to one another afterwards,
and, 'A rumbustious, bawdy romp!' - although we were ignorant of swashbuckles and bawdiness. There was not much praying in our family (except on Eid-ul-Fitr, when my father took me to the Friday mosque to celebrate the holiday by tying a handkerchief around my head and pressing my forehead to the ground) ... but we were always willing to fast, because we liked the cinema.
Evie Burns and I agreed: the world's greatest movie star was Robert Taylor. I also liked Jay Silverheels as T but his kemo-sabay, Clayton Moore, was too fat for the Lone Ranger, in my view. Evelyn Lilith Burns arrived on New Year's Day, 1957, to take up residence with her widower father in an apartment in one of the two squat, ugly concrete blocks which had grown up, almost without pur noticing them, on the lower reaches of our hillock, and which were oddly segregated: Americans and other foreigners lived (like Evie) in Noor V arriviste Indian success-stories ended up in Laxmi Vilas. From the heights of Methwold's Estate, we looked down on them all, on w but nobody ever looked down on Evie Burns - except once. Only once did anyone get on top of her. Before I climbed into my first pair of long pants, I fell in love with E but love was a curious, chain-reactive thing that year. To save time, I shall place all of us in the same row at the M Robert Taylor is mirrored in our eyes as we sit in flickering trances -and also in symbolic sequence: Saleem Sinai is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with Evie Burns who is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with Sonny Ibrahim who is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with the Brass Monkey who is sitting next to the aisle and feeling starving hungry ... I loved Evie for perhaps s two years later, she was back in America, knifing an old woman and being sent to reform school. A brief expression of my gratitude is in order at this point: if Evie had not come to live amongst us, my story might never have progressed beyond tourism-in-a-clocktower and cheating in class ... and then there would have been no climax in a widows' hostel, no clear proof of my meaning, no coda in a fuming factory over which there presides the winking, saffron-and-green dancing figure of the neon goddess Mumbadevi. But Evie Burns (was she snake or ladder? The answer's obvious: both) did come, complete with the silver bicycle which enabled me not only to discover the midnight children, but also to ensure the partition of the state of Bombay. To begin at the beginning: her hair was made of scarecrow straw, her skin was peppered with freckles and her teeth lived in a metal cage. These teeth were, it seemed, the only things on earth over which she was powerless - they grew wild, in malicious crazy-paving overlaps, and stung her dreadfully when she ate ice-cream. (I permit myself this one generalization: Americans have mastered the universe, but have no domini whereas India is impotent, but her children tend to have excellent teeth.) Racked by toothaches, my Evie rose magnificently above the pain. Refusing to be ruled by bone and gums, she ate cake and drank Coke when and never complained. A tough kid, Evie Burns: her conquest of suffering confirmed her sovereignty over us all. It has been observed that all Americans need a frontier: pain was hers, and she was determined to push it out. Once, I shyly gave her a necklace of flowers (queen-of-the-night for my lily-of-the-eve), bought with my own pocket-money from a hawker-woman at Scandal Point. 'I don't wear flowers,' Evelyn Lilith said, and tossed the unwanted chain into the air, spearing it before it fell with a pellet from her unerring Daisy air-pistol. Destroying flowers with a Daisy, she served notice that she was not to be manacled, not even by a necklace: she was our capricious, whirligig Lill-of-the-Hill. And also Eve. The Adam's-apple of my eye. How she arrived: Sonny Ibrahim, Eyeslice and Hairoil Sabarmati, Cyrus Dubash, the Monkey and I were playing French cricket in the circus-ring between Methwold's four palaces. A New Year's Day game: Toxy clapping
even Bi-Appah was in good humour and not, for once, abusing us. Cricket - even French cricket, and even when played by children - is a quiet game: peace anointed in linseed oil. The kissing o the occasional cry - 'Shot! Shot, sir!' - 'Owzatt??' but Evie on her bicycle was having none of that. 'Hey, you! Alia you! Hey, whassamatter? You all deaf or what?' I was batting (elegantly as Ranji, powerfully as Vinoo Mankad) when she charged up the hill on her two-wheeler, straw hair flying, freckles ablaze, mouth-metal flashing semaphore messages in the sunlight, a scarecrow astride a silver bullet... 'Hey, you widda leaky nose! Stop watching the schoopid ball, ya crumb! I'll showya something worth watching!' Impossible to picture Evie Burns without also co and not just any two-wheeler, but one of the last of the great old-timers, an Arjuna Indiabike in mint condition, with drop-handlebars wrapped in masking tape and five gears and a seat made of reccine cheetah-skin. And a silver frame (the colour, I don't need to tell you, of the Lone Ranger's horse) ... slobby Eyeslice and neat Hairoil, Cyrus the genius and the Monkey, and Sonny Ibrahim and myself - the best of friends, the true sons of the Estate, its heirs by right of birth - Sonny with the slow innocence he had had ever since the forceps dented his brain and me with my dangerous secret knowledge - yes, all of us, future bullfighters and Navy chiefs and all, stood frozen in open-mouthed attitudes as Evie Burns began to ride her bike, fasterfasterfaster, around and around the edges of the circus-ring. 'Lookit me now: watch me go, ya dummies!' On and off the cheetah-seat, Evie performed. One foot on the seat, one leg stretched out behind her, s she built up speed and then did a headstand on the seat! She could straddle the front wheel, facing the rear, and work the pedals the wrong way round ... gravity was her slave, speed her element, and we knew that a power had come among us, a witch on wheels, and the flowers of the hedgerows threw her petals, the dust of the circus-ring stood up in clouds of ovation, because the circus-ring had found its mistress, too: it was the canvas beneath the brush of her whirling wheels. Now we noticed that our heroine packed a Daisy air-pistol on her right hip ... 'More to come, ya zeroes!' she yelled, and drew the weapon. Her pellets gave stone we threw annas into the air and she gunned them down, stone-dead. 'Targets! More targets!' - and Eyeslice surrendered his beloved pack of rummy cards without a murmur, so that she could shoot the heads off the kings. Annie Oakley in tooth-braces - nobody dared question her sharp-shooting, except once, and that was the end of her reign, during th and there were extenuating circumstances. Flushed, sweating, Evie Burns dismounted and announced: 'From now on, there's a new big chief around here. Okay, Indians? Any arguments?' N I knew then that I had fallen in love. At Juhu Beach with Evie: she won the camel-races, could drink more coconut milk than any of us, could open her eyes under the sharp salt water of the Arabian Sea. Did six months make such a difference? (Evie was half a year older than me.) Did it entitle you to talk to grown-ups as an equal? Evie was seen gossiping with old man Ibrahim I she claimed Lila Sabarmati was teaching her to put on make- she visited Homi Catrack to gossip about guns. (It was the tragic irony of Homi Catrack's life that he, at whom a gun would one day be pointed, was a true aficionado of firearms ... in Evie he found a fellow-creature, a motherless child who was, unlike his own Toxy, as sharp as a knife and as bright as a bottle. Incidentally, Evie Burns wasted no sympathy on poor Toxy Catrack. 'Wrong inna head,' she opined carelessly to us all, 'Oughta be put down like rats.' But Evie: rats are not weak! There was more that was rodent-like in your face than in the whole body of your despised Tox.) That was Evelyn L and within weeks of her arrival, I had set off the chain reaction from whose effects I would never fully recover. It began with Sonny Ibrahim, Sonny-next-door, Sonny of the forcep-hollows, who has been sitting patiently in the wings of my story, awaiting his cue. In those days, Sonny was a badly bruised fellow: more than forceps had dented him. To love the Brass Monkey (even in the nine-year-old sense of the word) was no easy thing to do. As I've said, my sister, born second and unheralded, had begun to react violently to any declarations of affection. Although she was believed to speak the languages of birds and cats, the soft words of lovers roused in her a but Sonny was too simple to be warned off. For months now, he had been pestering her with statements such as, 'Saleem's sister, you're a pretty solid type!' or, 'Listen, you want to be my girl? We could go to the pictures with your ayah, maybe ...' And for an equal number of months, she had been making him suffer for his love - telling pushing him into mud-puddles accidentally-on- once even assaulting him physically, leaving him with long raking claw-marks down his face and an expression of sad-do but he would not learn. And so, at last, she had planned her most terrible revenge. The Monkey attended Walsingham School for Girls on Nepean Sea R a school full of tall, superbly muscled Europeans, who swam like fish and dived like submarines. In their spare time, they could be seen from our bedroom window, cavorting in the map-shaped pool of the Breach Candy Club, from which we were, of course, barred ... and when I discovered that the Monkey had somehow attached herself to these segregated swimmers, as a sort of mascot, I felt genuinely aggrieved with her for perhaps the first time ... but there was she went her own way. Beefy fifteen-year-old white girls let her sit with them on the Walsingham school bus. Three such females would wait with her every morning at the same place where Sonny, Eyeslice, Hairoil, Cyrus-the-great and I awaited the bus from the Cathedral School. One morning, for some forgotten reason, Sonny and I were the only boys at the stop. Maybe there was a bug going round or something. The Monkey waited until Mary Pereira had left us alone, in the care o and then suddenly the truth of what she was planning flashed into my head as, for no particular reason, I tun and I yelled 'Hey!' - but too late. The Monkey screeched, 'You keep out of this!' and then she and the three beefy swimmers had jumped upon Sonny Ibrahim, street-sleepers and beggars and bicycling clerks were watching with open amusement, because they were ripping every scrap of clothing off his body ... 'Damn it man, are you going just to stand and watch?' -Sonny yelling for help, but I was immobilized, how could I take sides between my sister and my best friend, and he, 'I'll tell my daddy on you!', tearful now, while the Monkey, 'That'll teach you to talk shit - and that'll teach you', his shoes, his vest, dragged off by a high-board diver, 'And that'll teach you to write your sissy love letters', no socks now, and plenty of tears, and 'There!' yelled the M the Walsingham bus arrived and the assailants and my sister jumped in and sped away, 'Ta-ta-ba-ta, lover-boy!' they yelled, and Sonny was left in the street, on the pavement opposite Chimalker's and Reader's Paradise, naked as his forcep-hollows glistened like rock-pools, because Vaseline had dripped int and his eyes were wet as well, as he, 'Why's she do it, man? Why, when I only told her I liked ...' 'Search me,' I said, not knowing where to look, 'She does things, that's all.' Not knowing, either, that the time would come when she did something worse to me. But that was nine years later ... meanwhile, early in 1957, election campaigns had begun: the Jan Sangh was campaigning for rest homes
in Kerala, E. M. S. Namboodiripad was promising that Communism would give ev in Madras, the Anna-D.M.K. party of C. N. Annadurai fanned the f the Congress fought back with reforms such as the Hindu Succession Act, which gave Hindu women equal rights of inheritance ... in short, everybody was busy pl I, however, found myself tongue-tied in the face of Evie Burns, and approached Sonny Ibrahim to ask him to plead on my behalf. In India, we've always been vulnerable to Europeans ... Evie had only been with us a matter of weeks, and already I was being sucked into a grotesque mimicry of European literature. (We had done Cyrano, in a simplified version, I had also read the Classics Illustrated comic book.) Perhaps it would be fair to say that Europe repeats itself, in India, as farce ... Evie was American. Same thing. 'But hey, man, that's no-fair man, why don't you do it yourself?' 'Listen, Sonny,' I pleaded, 'you're my friend, right?' 'Yeah, but you didn't even help ...' 'That was my sister, Sonny, so how could I?' 'No, so you have to do your own dirty ...' 'Hey, Sonny, man, think. Think only. These girls need careful handling, man. Look how the Monkey flies off the handle! You've got the experience, yaar, you've been through it. You'll know how to go gently this time. What do I know, man? Maybe she doesn't like me even. You want me to have my clothes torn off, too? That would make you feel better?' And innocent, good-natured Sonny, '... Well, no ...' 'Okay, then. You go. Sing my praises a little. Say never mind about my nose. Character is what counts. You can do that?' '... Weeeelll ... I ... okay, but you talk to your sis also, yah?' Til talk, Sonny. What can I promise? You know what she's like. But I'll talk to her for sure.'
You can lay your strategies as carefully as you like, but women will undo them at a stroke. For every victorious election campaign, there are twice as many that fail ... from the verandah of Buckingham Villa, through the slats of the chick-blind, I spied on Sonny Ibrahim as he canvassed my chosen constituency ... and heard the voice of the electorate, the rising nasality of Evie Burns, splitting the air with scorn: 'Who? Him? Whynt'cha tell him to jus' go blow his nose? That sniffer? He can't even ride a bike!' Which was true. And the because now (although a chick-blind divided the scene into narrow slits) did I not see the expression on Evie's face begin to soften and change? - did Evie's hand (sliced lengthways by the chick) not reach out towards my electoral agent? -and weren't those Evie's fingers (the nails bitten down to the quick) touching Sonny's temple-hollows, the fingertips getting covered in dribbled Vaseline? - and did Evie say or did she not: 'Now you, Pr instance: you're cute'? Let me sadly affirm that I she did. Saleem Sinai loves Evie B Evie loves Sonny I Sonny is potty about the Brass M but what does the Monkey say? 'Don't make me sick, Allah,' my sister said when I tried - rather nobly, considering how he'd failed me - to argue Sonny's case. The voters had given the thumijs-down to us both. I wasn't giving in just yet. The siren temptations of Evie Burns - who never cared about me, I'm bound to admit - led me inexorably towards my fall. (But I hold because my fall led to a rise.) Privately, in my clocktower, I took time off my trans-subcontinental rambles to consider the wooing of my freckled Eve. 'Forget middlemen,' I advised myself, 'You'll have to do this personally.' Finally, I formed my scheme: I would have to share her interests, to make her passions mine ... guns have never appealed to me. I resolved to learn how to ride a bike. Evie, in those days, had given in to the many demands of the hillock-top children that she teach them her bicycle- so it was a simple matter for me to join the queue for lessons. We assembled in the circus- Evie, ring-mistress supreme, stood in the centre of five wobbly, furiously concentrating cyclists ... while I stood beside her, bikeless. Until Evie's coming I'd shown no interest in wheels, so I'd never been given any ... humbly, I suffered the lash of Evie's tongue. 'Where've you been living, fat nose? I suppose you wanna borrow mine?' 'No,' I lied penitently, and she relented. 'Okay, okay,' Evieshrugged, 'Get in the saddle and lessee whatchou're made of.' Let me reveal at once that, as I climbed on to the silver Arjuna Indiabike, I was filled wit that, as Evie walked roundandround, holding the bike by the handlebars, exclaiming, 'Gotcha balance yet? Mo? Geez, nobody's got all year!' - as Evie and I perambulated, I felt ... what's the word? ... happy. Roundandroundand ... Finally, to please her, I stammered, 'Okay ... I think I'm ... let me,' and instantly I was on my own, she had given me a farewell shove, and the silver creature flew gleaming and uncontrollable across the circus-ring ... I heard her shouting: 'The brake! Use the goddamn brake, ya dummy!' - but my hands couldn't move, I had gone rigid as a plank, and there LOOK OUT in front of me was the blue two-wheeler of Sonny Ibrahim, collision course, OUTA THE WAY YA CRAZY, Sonny in the saddle, trying to swerve and miss, but still blue streaked towards silver, Sonny swung right but I went the same way EEYAH MY BIKE and silver wheel touched blue, frame kissed frame, I was flying up and over handlebars towards Sonny who had embarked on an identical parabola towards me CRASH bicycles fell to earth beneath us, locked in an intimate embrace CRASH suspended in mid-air Sonny and I met each other, Sonny's head greeted mine ... Over nine years ago I had been born with bulging temples, and Sonny had been give everything is for a reason, it seems, because now my bulging temples found their way into Sonny's hollows. A perfect fit. Heads fitting together, we began our descent to earth, falling clear of the bikes, fortunately, WHUMMP and for a moment the world went away. Then Evie with her freckles on fire, 'O ya little creep, ya pile of snot, ya wrecked my ...' But I wasn't listening, because circus-ring accident had completed what washing-chest calamity had begun, and they were there in my head, in the front now, no longer a muffled background noise I'd never noticed, all of them, sending their here-I-am signals, from north south east west... the other children born during that midnight hour, calling 'I,' 'I,' T and 'I.' 'Hey! Hey, snothead! You okay? ... Hey, where's his mother?' Interruptions, nothing but interruptions! The different parts of my somewhat complicated life refuse, with a wholly unreasonable obstinacy, to stay neatly in their separate compartments. Voices spill out of their clocktower to invade the circus-ring, which is supposed to be Evie's domain ... and now, at the very moment when I should be describing the fabulous children of ticktock, I'm being whisked away by Frontier Mail - spirited off to the decaying world of my grandparents, so that Aadam Aziz is getting in the way of the natural unfolding of my tale. Ah well. What can't be cured must be endured. That January, during my convalescence from the severe concussion I received in my bicycling accident, my parents took us off to Agra for a family reunion that turned out worse than the notorious (and arguably fictional) Black Hole of Calcutta. For two weeks we were obliged to listen to Emerald and Zulfikar (who was now a Major-General and insisted on being called a General) dropping names, and also hints of their fabulous wealth, which had by now grown into the seventh largest private fortune in P their son Zafar tried (but only once!) to pull the Monkey's fading red pig-tails. And we were obliged to watch in silent horror while my Civil Servant uncle Mustapha and his half-Irani wife Sonia beat and bludgeoned their litter of nameless, genderless brats
and the bitter aroma of Alia's spinsterhood filled the air and my father would retire early to begin his secret nightly wa and worse, and worse, and worse. One night I awoke on the stroke of twelve to find my grandfather's dream inside my head, and was therefore unable to avoid seeing him as he saw himself - as a crumbling old man in whose centre, when the light was right, it was possible to discern a gigantic shadow. As the convictions which had given strength to his youth withered away under the combined influence of old age, Reverend Mother and the absence of like-minded friends, an old hole was reappearing in the middle of his body, turning him into just another shrivelled, empty old man, over whom the God (and other superstitions) against which he'd fought for so long was beginning to reassert His dominion ... meanwhile, Reverend Mother spent the entire fortnight finding little ways of insulting my uncle Hanif's despised film-actress wife. And that was also the time when I was cast as a ghost in a children's play, and found, in an old leather attache-case on top of my grandfather's almirah, a sheet which had been chewed by moths, but whose largest hole was man-made: for which discovery I was repaid (you will recall) in roars of grandparental rage. But there was one achievement. I was befriended by Rashid the rickshaw-wallah (the same fellow who had, in his youth, screamed silently in a cornfield and helped Nadir Khan into Aadam Aziz's toilet): taking me under his wing - and without telling my parents, who would have forbidden it so soon after my accident - he taught me how to ride a bicycle. By the time we left, I had this secret tucked away with all my others: only I didn't intend this one to stay secret for very long. ... And on the train home, there were voices hanging on to the outside of the compartment: 'Ohe, maharaj! Open up, great sir!' -fare-dodgers' voices fighting with the ones I wanted to listen to, the new ones inside my head - and then back to Bombay Central Station, and the drive home past racecourse and temple, and now Evelyn Lilith Burns is demanding that I finish her part first before concentrating on higher things. 'Home again!' the Monkey shouts. 'Hurray ... Back-to-Bom!' (She is in disgrace. In Agra, she incinerated the General's boots.) It is a matter of record that the States Reorganization Committee had submitted its report to Mr Nehru as long ago as October 1955; a year later, its recommendations had been implemented. India had been divided anew, into fourteen states and six centrally-administered 'territories'. But the boundaries of these states were not formed by rivers, or mountains, or any natural fea they were, instead, walls of words. Language divided us: Kerala was for speakers of Malayalam, the only palindromically-n in Karnataka you were supposed to speak K and the amputated state of Madras - known today as Tamil Nadu - enclosed the aficionados of Tamil. Owing to some oversight, however, nothing was done with the state of B and in the city of Mumbadevi, the language marches grew longer and noisier and finally metamorphosed into political parties, the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti ('United Maharashtra Party') which stood for the Marathi language and demanded the creation of the Deccan state of Maharashtra, and the Maha Gujarat Parishad ('Great Gujarat Party') which marched beneath the banner of the Gujarati language and dreamed of a state to the north of Bombay City, stretching all the way to the Kathiawar peninsula and the Rann of Kutch ... I am warming over all this cold history, these old dead struggles between the barren angularity of Marathi which was born in the arid heat of the Deccan and Gujarati's boggy, Kathiawari softness, to explain why, on the day in February 1957 immediately following our return from Agra, Methwold's Estate was cut off from the city by a stream of chanting humanity which flooded Warden Road more completely than monsoon water, a parade so long that it took two days to pass, and of which it was said that the statue of Sivaji had come to life to ride stonily at its head. The demonstrators many of them were s many were striking textile-workers from Mazagaon and M but on our hillock, we knew noth to us children, the endless ant-trail of language in Warden Road seemed as magnetically fascinating as a light-bulb to a moth. It was a demonstration so immense, so intense in its passions, that it made all previous marches vanish from the mind as if they had never occurred - and we had all been banned from going down the hill for even the tiniest of looks. So who was the boldest of us all? Who urged us to creep at least half-way down, to the point where the hillock-road swung round to face Warden Road in a steep U-bend? Who said, 'What's to be scared of? We're only going half-way for a peek'? ... Wide-eyed, disobedient Indians followed their freckled American chief. (They lulled Dr Narlikar - marchers did,' Hairoil warned us in a shivery voice. Evie spat on his shoes.) But I, Saleem Sinai, had other fish to fry. 'Evie,' I said with quiet offhandedness, 'how'd you like to see me bicycling?' No response. Evie was immersed in the-spectacle ... and was that her fingerprint in Sonny Ibrahim's left forcep-hollow, embedded in Vaseline for all the world to see? A second time, and with slightly more emphasis, I said, 'I can do it, Evie. I'll do it on the Monkey's cycle. You want to watch?' And now Evie, cruelly, 'I'm watching this. This is good. Why'd I wanna watch you? And me, a little snivelly now, 'But I learned, Evie, you've got to ...' Roars from Warden Road below us drown my words. H and Sonny's back, the backs of Eyeslice and Hairoil, the intellectual rear of Cyrus-the-great... my sister, who has seen the fingerprint too, and looks displeased, eggs me on: 'Go on. Go on, show her. Who's she think she is?' And up on her bike ... 'I'm doing it, Evie, look!' Bicycling in circles, round and round the little cluster of children, 'See? You see?' A
and then Evie, deflating impatient couldn't-care- 'Willya get outa my way, fer Petesake? I wanna see lhat!' Finger, chewed-off nail and all, jabs down in the direction o I am dismissed in favour of the parade of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti! And despite the Monkey, who loyally, 'That's not fair! He's doing it really good? - and in spite of the exhilaration of the thing-in-itself- something go and I'm riding round Evie, fasterfasterfaster, crying sniffing out of control, 'So what is it with you, anyway? What do I have to do to ...' And then something else takes over, because I realize I don't have to ask her, I can just get inside that freckled mouth-metalled head and find out, for once I can really get to know what's going on... and in I go, still bicycling, but the front of her mind is all full up with Marathi language-marchers, there are American pop songs stuck in the corners of her thoughts, but nothing I' and now, only now, now for the very first time, now driven on by the tears of unrequited love, I begin to probe ... I find myself pushing, diving, forcing my way behind her defences ... into the secret place where there's a picture of her mother who wears a pink smock and holds up a tiny fish by the tail, and I'm ferreting deeperdeeperdeeper, where is it, what makes her tick, when she gives a sort of jerk and swings round to stare at me as I bicycle roundandroundandround-androundand ... 'Get out!' screams Evie Burns. Hands lifted to forehead. I bicycling, wet-eyed, diving ininin: to where Evie stands in the doorway of a clapboard bedroom holding a, holding a something sharp and glinty with red dripping off it, in the doorway of a, my God and on the bed a woman, who, in a pink, my God, and Evie with the, and red staining the pink, and a man coming, my God, and no no no no no ... 'GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!' Bewildered children watch as Evie screams, language march forgotten, but suddenly remembered again, because Evie has grabbed the back of the Monkey's bike WHAT'RE YOU DOING EVIE as she pushes it THERE GET OUT YA BUM THERE GET OUT TO HELL!- She's pushed me hard-as-hard, and I losing control hurtling down the slope round the end of the U-bend downdown, MY GOD THE MARCH past Band Box laundry, past Noor Ville and Laxmi Vilas, AAAAA and down into the mouth of the march, heads feet bodies, the waves of the march parting as I arrive, yelling blue murder, crashing into history on a runaway, young-girl's bike. Hands grabbing handlebars as I slow down in the impassioned throng. Smiles filled with good teeth surround me. They are not friendly smiles. 'Look look, a little laad-sahib comes down to join us from the big rich hill!' In Marathi which I hardly understand, it's my worst subject at school, and the smiles asking, 'You want to join S.M.S., little princeling?' And I, just about knowing what's being said, but dazed into telling the truth, shake my head No. And the smiles, 'Oho! The young nawab does not like our tongue! What does he like?' And another smile, 'Maybe Gujarati! You speak Gujarati, my lord?' But my Gujarati was as bad as my M I only knew one thing in the marshy tongue of K and the smiles, urging, and the fingers, prodding, 'Speak, little master! Speak some Gujarati!' - so I told them what I knew, a rhyme I'd learned from Glandy Keith Colaco at school, which he used when he was bullying Gujarati boys, a rhyme designed to make fun of the speech rhythms of the language: Soo che? Saru che! Danda le ke maru che! How are you? - I am well! - 肐I take a stick and thrash you to hell! A nine words of emptiness... but when I'd retited them, the s and then voices near me and then further and further away began to take up my chant, HOW ARE YOU? I AM WELL!, and they lost interest in me, 'Go go with your bicycle, masterji,' they scoffed, I'LL TAKE A STICK AND THRASH YOU 蝾 HELL, I fled away up the hillock as my chant rushed forward and back, up to the front .and down to the back of the two-day-long procession, becoming, as it went, a song of war. That afternoon, the head of the procession of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti collided at Kemp's Corner, with the head of a Maha Gujarat Pa S.M.S. voices chanted 'Soo che? Saru che!' and M.G.P. throats under the posters of the Air-India rajah and of the Kolynos Kid, the two parties fell upon one another with no little zeal, and to the tune of my little rhyme the first of the language riots got under way, fifteen killed, over three hundred wounded. In this way I became directly responsible for triggering off the violence which ended with the partition of the state of Bombay, as a result of which the city became the capital of Maharashtra - so at least I was on the winning side. What was it in Evie's head? Crime or dream? I but I had learned something else: when you go deep inside someone's head, they can feel you in there. Evelyn Lilith Burns didn't want much to do wi but, strangely enough, I was cured of her. (Women have always been the ones to change my life: Mary Pereira, Evie Burns, Jamila Singer, Parvati-the-witch must answer for who I and the Widow, who I'm and after the end, Padma, my goddess of dung. Women have fixed me all right, but perhaps they were never central - perhaps the place which they should have filled, the hole in the centre of me which was my inheritance from my grandfather Aadam Aziz, was occupied for too long by my voices. Or perhaps -one must consider all possibilities - they always made me a little afraid.)
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就是铅笔盒呗。放笔的。各种笔都可以放里面铅笔盒　　一种自动铅笔盒，其特征在于：由外盒体和内盒体组成，在外盒体的一长侧空面内活动插入内盒体，外盒体另一长侧的上沿铰链连接盒盖，盒盖是由两个窄盒盖铰链连接的盒盖。外盒体的短侧外面有弹簧片，弹簧片穿过外盒盖到达内盒体短侧面上，在内盒体短侧面上有与弹簧片端部配合的多个凹槽。本发明效果是：本自动铅笔盒和体可变大变小，可适应放入的文具多少调整。方便实用。 　　铅笔盒学生用来装钢笔、铅笔、尺子、橡皮等文具的盒子。质地很多，一般有木质、铁质、塑料制品，形状各异，多为长方体形状。 　　铁质铅笔盒上面没有过于花哨的图案，相对于木制和塑料的文具盒来说，铁质的不容易变形、损坏，另外它是非常实用的，很适合小学生使用。　　塑料的铅笔盒色彩亮丽、图案丰富，但没有铁质的文具盒抗摔、抗变形。它在大众市场上很受中小学生的青睐，甚至大学生有时也会用。　　木制的铅笔盒现在非常少见，它上面刻着各种各样的图形，但中小学生往往不会去用它，原因是色彩过于单调，所以使现在的木质文具盒逐渐稀少。　　还有一种铅笔盒使用布做的，真名叫“笔袋”，是近几年中小学生的“文具盒新宠”。它携带方便、也很实用，很适合我们小朋友使用。
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pencil铅笔 pencil-box铅笔盒，文具盒 pencil-case铅笔袋，笔袋
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