That mystery tiger
THERE'S a big flap on in France as gendarmes, firefighters and the army search
the countryside not far from Paris for a tiger that's been prowling about.
He's been spotted at a petrol station and a supermarket. Somebody managed to
shoot a picture of him sitting in long grass on a hilltop, and giant paw prints have
been found. The authorities have told people to stay in their homes.
Oddly though, no local zoo is missing a tiger. Some people say it can't be a tiger,
but then what kind of big cat is it?
They need to join the dots. What was a tiger doing at a petrol station? Remember
the old Esso petrol advertising slogan: "Put a tiger in your tank"?
Here's a tiger that got tired of being just on the billboards, he wants the real thing.
He wants to curl up in somebody's petrol tank. And have his tail waving out at the
petrol cap, the way it did in the ads..
Giant cat
ALTERNATIVELY, the "tiger" could be a descendant of the cat I once knew, who
used to work with a poacher in Suffolk, England.
This cat was not a tiger but he did have stripes and was about three times the
size of a normal cat. My poacher friend used to send him down rabbit burrows to
fetch them out, which he did with gusto. I've never before nor since seen a cat
like him.
Swimming the English Channel would have been no problem for him or one of his
descendants.
Old Mouldy
ANOTHER missive from the southern Drakensberg. It comes from a fellow
named Mouldy Moulder, who is Old Bill of the Boot and Saddle MOTH
Shellhole in Underberg/Himeville.
Mouldy gently points out that last week's Remembrance Day activities about
the world marked 100 years after the outbreak of World War, not – as I
implied with my 11th
which was only four years later.
Mouldy is quite right, of course, though it's a bit confusing when they mark
100 years since the start with the armistice that ended the thing.
He must have been in some clued-up unit like the artillery, where they actually
use maths and trigonometrey. Not like we matelots who don't calculate much
beyond the next rum ration.
"Stay well, be happy and have fun!" says Mouldy.
I'll try, but it's a lot easier when you're living in Underberg/Himeville.
hour of the 11th
day of the 11th month stuff - its closure,
Nostalgia
A BLAST from the past. Forty-four years ago I was working in
England for a newspaper group called South Essex Recorders.
A colleague returns from a holiday there with a copy of the Ilford
Recorder.
It's still a neat tabloid, 64 pages (though we used to regularly hit
96). Familiar names leap out at you – Cranbrook Park, the county
cricket ground; the White Hart pub in Chigwell Road; the Hammers
(West Ham Football Club) ... Nostalgia can be acute.
But the paper is more sedate than it was. It's missing the
contributions of Wee Willie Shannon, my colleague and digsmate,
who used to enliven it with accounts such as of the night in a pub
called the British Queen when two fellows seized some ancient
swords off the wall and fought a full-on duel, standing on the table
tops.
That was his style. Wee Willie's colourful, offbeat pieces often
used to end up in the Fleet Street papers as well. But his personal
escapades went unrecorded.
When he bought new socks and underwear, it was a ceremonial
occasion. He would strip on the platform of Seven Kings railway
station, effect the changes and cast the old garments on to the
railway track with a ringing declamation. He was a noted poet.
Wee Willie went off to his native Scotland and was last heard of
living on a croft (a very small farm) and writing copious poetry. I
wonder if he's still around? The Recorder needs him - so they can
get back to 96 pages..
Tailpiece
IT'S a swish date. He takes her to the best Italian restaurant. He orders a superb bottle
of wine. They study the menu.
He says to the waiter: "We'll have the Giuseppe Spomdalucci."
Sorry, signor. Data da name of da owner."
Last word
I am a kind of paranoid in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to
make me happy.
J D Salinger
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