A STRANGE tale comes this way of the consequences of taking a stranger
into the household. Those of us who have read NP van Wyk-Louw's epic
poem, Die Koms Van Raka, will find disturbing echoes. Here goes:
A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our
small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this
enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family.
The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.
As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young
mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary
instructors: Mum taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey.
But the stranger ... he was our storyteller. He would keep us
spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.
If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he
always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and
even seemed able to predict the future. He took my family to major
sports events. He made me laugh and he made me cry. The stranger never
stopped talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.
Sometimes Mum would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing
each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the
kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the
stranger to leave.)
Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the
stranger never felt obliged to honour them. Profanity, for example,
was not allowed in our home - not from us, our friends or any
visitors. Our long time visitor, however, got away with words that
burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush.
My Dad didn't permit the liberal use of alcohol but the stranger
encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look
cool, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much
too freely) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes
suggestive, and generally embarrassing.
I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced
strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my
parents, yet he was seldom rebuked ... and never asked to leave.
More than 50 years have passed since the stranger moved in with our
family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he
was at first. Still, if you walk into my parents' den today, you will
still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to
listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.
His name? We just call him TV.
Yep, the idiot box that rules our lives.
One pint?
THE HEALTH gurus have been telling us for some time that wine,
consumed moderately, is good for us. Red wine especially.
Now a study in America suggests that beer might have similar benefits.
Researchers from the American Dietetic Association say the risk of
heart disease drops by an average of 31 percent in people who drink
one pint of beer a day.
That is most encouraging. Except where do you find anyone who drinks
one pint of beer? One pint of beer leads on to two, three, four – then
maybe a taxi to that lively joint the other side of town. It's easier
to drink zero pints of beer than one.
I must have one at eleven.
It's a duty that has to be done.
For if I don't have one at eleven,
I must have eleven at one.
Leave it to me
HOW MANY company directors does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Just one. He holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.
Tailpiece
Angry wife (on telephone): "Where the hell are you?"
Husband: "Darling, you remember that jewellery shop where you saw the
diamond necklace and totally fell in love with it, and I didn't have money
that time, and I said: 'Baby, it'll be yours one day?'"
Wife (tremulously): "Yes, I remember that, my love."
Husband: "Well, I'm in the pub next door."
Last word
Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government
and business.
Tom Robbins
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