Remember, remember ...
WE GOT through Diwali. It was a lot like Paschendael. Tonight threatens to be more
like the Battle of the Somme. In my neck of the woods they celebrate the Great War
with gusto this time of year.
But one mellows. Tonight I shan't go out playfully lifting people's gates in the
neighbourhood. That's juvenile and passé; I gave it up two years ago. Tonight's a
night for restrained jollification at the Street Shelter for the Over-Forties, nothing
more lively than a ladycracker or two under the barmaids' skirts, just to keep ém
moving, heh, heh!
And a time to reflect with shame on some of those Guy Fawkes nights in the past.
Like that time on Town Hill, Maritzburg, when we tried to lob crackers down
the chimney of this house that stood way below street level. How we laughed as
somebody scored a direct hit and the lounge lit up with the blast.
And the unfortunate geography of the place. The way the driveway wound
unexpectedly to a spot further on where we would have to pass. And how an
athletically built fellow suddenly manifested himself running up the driveway,
wearing only underpants and yelling imprecations of great courseness, that should
not be uttered in the presence of impressionable schoolboys. How he chased us a long
way down the hill, stopping only when caught in a car's headlights and he realised his
attire was a little unconventional and embarrassing.
Tut, tut! One cringes at the recollection. That fellow in his Y-fronts. Ha, ha! Hee, hee,
hee! Hoo, hoo!
Oh dear.
Kissing
THIS column generally eschews such joyless topics as the ebola pandemic that is
ravaging West Africa. But when sound thinking comes in – and especially when it's
inspired by the contents of this column – there can be exceptions.
It's difficult to imagine a place more remote from the pandemic than Himeville, down
in the southern Drakensberg. Yet from this rural idyll come the ideas of Donough
McGillycuddy, who last week read here a couple of the Confucianisms on kissing,
that then sounded a gong for him.
Why not just ban kissing and hand-shaking in West Africa? That's how the disease is
spread, he says. Stop it in its tracks!
He's passed on the idea to his own doctor, who will presumably forward it to the
World Health Organisation. The Himeville Hypothesis – the village will very soon be
on the world map.
If I understand Donough correctly, he distinguishes (as I do) between the unavoidable
meaningful kiss – as Confucius put it, the shopping upstairs for the merchandise
downstairs – and the "Hello, dahlings!" social kiss bestowed on all and sundry at
cocktail parties and art gallery openings. Presumably that happens in West Africa as
well.
Yes, this social kissing is a totally unnecessary spreading of saliva and it's always
reminded me anyway of the way dogs sniff each others' bottoms when they meet. It's
not meaningful and would not be missed.
As Obama says, the world must pull together to fight this scourge. Himeville does not
shrink from its duty.
Russian doll?
A MIAMI vet gave a pet tortoise an X-ray when it was brought in to him, sluggish
and off its food.
The X-ray revealed that the tortoise had swallowed an item of jewellery, a
pendant that had perhaps been dropped on to the grass he was eating.
But the image that showed up on the X-ray gave vet Dr Don Harris quite a start.
The pendant was of a turtle.
Should nature fail to take its course, he will have to operate to remove the turtle.
Green ethics
OVERHEARD in the Street Shelter for the Over-Forties: "The smell of freshly cut
grass is actually a plant's distress call. We say so much about the suffering of
humans and animals, but who fights for the green of the planet? It's time we
all make a stand and make a difference. If my wife thinks I'm going to mow the
lawn, she can forget it."
Tailpiece
THE only man ever to enter parliament with good intentions was Guy Fawkes.
Last word
If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be
content to begin with doubts he shall end in certainties.
Sir Francis Bacon
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