The poison dart frog has a many-hued coat That you really wouldn’t want to have stuck in your throat
It has always puzzled me why a tiny little frog should contain enough poison to kill ten fully grown adult humans. What on earth is nature trying to protect them against? A dinner party? Ten French people willing to munch five to a leg? I understand in nature that bright colours warn of toxicity, so why aren’t butterflies weaponised? Why do Black Widow Spiders carry enough venom to kill a human, when all they need to see off is a fly? What’s more, if you’re a spider a spider who has just killed a fly with sufficient venom to bring down a human, how do you then eat it without suffering the consequences? How did nature choose the venomous? Why did she miss politicians? Thank God she did…
BTW in case you ever wondered, a frog in the throat is a simple literal allusion to the fact that you sound croaky.
P.S. I do understand the difference between poisonous and venomous – although I’m not convinced that the frog does.
Last week was a particularly disappointing one for my blog1 with views well below even my own normal paltry highs. I would like to understand why this might have been because, quite frankly, I would like to try to do something about it. I have read through the week’s posts (and I can only apologise) but I can’t honestly find any particular reason for such a drop-off in readership: everything chugged along just as aimlessly as ever it did. Tuesday followed its normal eclectic2 path and last week I published a short sketch. In days of yore I wrote sketches by the dozen. There was a time when it appeared that people might be interested in them. Sketch comedy, it seems, no longer exists anywhere other than between my ears, but I like it, so you may get more. It doesn’t really matter; very few people read the blog on Tuesday. It is the only day that I currently approach with no semblance of a plan. Tuesday is me – a decrepit old mirrorball with half of the mirrors hanging off and a troubling amount of smoke coming from the motor that is supposed to make the whole thing turn – so that probably explains a lot.
Wednesday, as has become normal, was a little, nonsensical, vaguely zoological rhyme. I started these nine months ago and I decided that I could keep them going for a year without quite realising how long that year could be. Poetry is normally a ‘banker’ for WordPress views. Mostly it does very well, but not last week. Was it particularly poor? Well, it depends upon what you compare it with. Compared with anything that could even vaguely be described as ‘acceptable’, yes, it is poor, but compared with the rest of my own poetic output it ranks somewhere in the territory of not particularly worse than any of the rest of it, so again I am left without an explanation. Perhaps it was a little sombre for a nonsense rhyme… except, except, except, to know that, you’d have had to have read it and hardly anybody did. Perhaps, dear reader, you have just become bored of the whole concept. Maybe a year is just too big a stretch. I haven’t yet given a moment’s thought to what will come on Wednesday this week, but it will be a ‘zoo’ poem. Beyond that I’m not sure. I will see out the year because that is what I set out to do. After that I might bail out of Wednesdays altogether – so book your holidays now.
Thursday has become a regular ‘running diary’ although it is seldom, if ever, about actual running. It is about… well, if I’m honest, I don’t know what it is about, but whatever it is, it normally occurs to me whilst I am running. Now I haven’t been well for a week or two, so no running has taken place and perhaps the running diary has, consequently, lost a little relevance3. I hope to be back running this week and whining about it by Thursday. I cannot understand how my grindingly lachrymose recollections of a gasping trot through the village could possibly be anything less than entertaining.
And then comes Saturday and The Writer’s Circle. I really don’t know what I am going to do about Saturday. Last week’s little episode staggered through the weekend thumbing its nose at a readership that stubbornly remained in single figures. It is not entirely unusual for these little stories. Last week’s was a part two and as with all part two’s (except, perhaps, for Toy Story, Star Wars [although that, obviously, was actually part V] and The Godfather) it paid the price, but I have to recognise, I think, that I have created a bunch of people here – rather like the Shadow Cabinet – that absolutely nobody cares about. I think I might have been mixing up ‘interesting’ with ‘amusing’ and winding up with something that is neither one nor th’other: clearly interusing does not buy me readers.
I feel that I might have to find a way of giving myself a kick up the butt without falling flat on my arse4. It may not be quick and it may not be pretty, but I will try to find a way5. Until then, I can only ask you to bear with me and, if possible, try to read everything twice, just in case it should ever improve.
“…I realise that this doesn’t actually go anywhere: I wrote it as the start of a story that I haven’t even finished in my head yet. I suppose I’d better tell you, in case it’s not obvious, that the genre I drew was ‘Horror.’” Terry cast his eyes around the Circle and was relieved to find that he did not sense open hostility. He took a deep breath and tried to relax (it could be worse, think of a Thursday night in a Dewsbury Working Man’s Club) with the breathing exercises he had been taught one time by a sword swallower from Latvia. Truth be told, he felt as though he might well have a furball of his own down there right now. He focussed as hard on his neatly typed manuscript as his slightly misted varifocals allowed and he began to read.
“‘…In the end, the pain stopped as suddenly as it began, but between times it had ripped through him, engulfing him in waves of nausea and panic of ever-increasing intensity. When – how – it had begun he could not recall, all that he remembered for now was anguish. Time is not a physical thing. The actual moment of death can be an eternity: plenty of time in which to review the good and bad moments of life; the opportunity, perhaps, to actually experience the joy and pain for which you have been responsible, to weigh one against the other. Hell is a life made of pain. Few of us are destined to end our days in Heaven. It was his mother, he remembered, who had told him that there was no such place as Heaven or Hell, they were both, she assured him, just a state of mind – so stop moping and put the bin out. There can be no purpose for an afterlife when the last breath of your existence can stretch over an eternity. When your last moment, suspended between life and death – not fully in either – can occupy a million life-times, there is no time contemplate what is to come; it is merely what has already been, locked within a frozen present: two hours trapped in a lift with an insurance salesman. And the hope of every soul imprisoned within this eternal instant is redemption. The hope that when that ultimate moment at last arrives and the chips have all been counted, the final conscious recollection will be one of, on balance, a life well-lived: an existence that gave rather than took away. It is what every soul craves and it can be found, but not here. Here it is much too late. Here is only regret. Redemption comes at a price, but that price has already been paid. There are only ‘benefits’ that wait to be reaped…’” Terry looked down at his papers. There were many more pages like that, but he decided that he had read quite enough for now. He half folded them and looked around the Circle.
“If I’m honest,” he said, “that’s about as far as I have got. What I’d like to do is to somehow tell the tale of an ordinary man, trapped in this limbo, trying to come to grips with the ‘heaven and hell’ of his life. I want it to be clear that the two outcomes are not completely separate and I want it to be obvious that he is just an ordinary man, not a saint and not a monster, just a normal, fallible human being caught forever in this ‘reckoning’. That’s the ‘horror’ of the situation I think. I’d like him to gradually piece together the memories of his life and death and I’d like him, eventually to pass away, leaving the reader to decide where he has gone… but I’ve absolutely no idea how to go about it.”
Terry sat down to a silence that rang like a death-knell. He rolled and unrolled his papers.
“I really like the idea,” said Jane, the first to break the silence. To Terry’s amazement there was a general murmur of agreement. “It’s a great concept,” said Louise. “And I like the way you’ve started,” continued Jane. “It’s almost poetical,” added Penny. Jane looked at Terry and, despite her resolve to not get involved, found herself asking, “Are you really interested in pursuing it?” Terry nodded. “But I don’t have a clue how,” he said. “How to plot it, how to make it work…” “Well, I think that you can see that everybody thinks that you’ve got a good start. What about if you go back to the point of ‘death’ as it were, and build his story from there?” “But I…” Terry wanted to admit that he had never actually written anything in his life, that he really did not have a clue about how to proceed. “Are you serious about making it work?” asked Jane. “Yes,” he answered, uncertain still of how much he wanted to reveal. “Then I’d be happy to help you,” she said, “if you want me to.” “Yes,” he smiled, feeling like a Cheshire Cat, but determined not to grin. “So, remind me, what’s it called again?” “Redemption,” he said.
The most important thing I have to remember when I run is that I have to think about something – anything – else. Absolutely the worst thing I can do is to think about running. If I do, it takes only a couple of hundred yards before I become conscious of my knees – was that a twinge? Are they getting ready to collapse? – and by the time I reach the top corner my mind has moved onto my breathing – is it laboured? Is that my chest or has somebody just driven past me in a van with no exhaust? – half a kilometre thinking about running and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest like a clog dancer with no sense of rhythm.
Now, I am of an age – my body has been ravaged more often than Moll Flanders – and I see myself as the kind of bike that I used to ride as a youth: held together with string and sticky tape, and I am never certain which part is going to let me down first. It is only if I allow myself to become confident that a wheel falls off. The more I think about it, the closer disaster moves.
My mind tells me that I will not fall to pieces as long as I don’t think about falling to pieces, so I think about something else: how big are Bruce Banner’s pants that he can still wear them after he has become The Hulk? And why are they so tatty? The last time my pants looked like that I was sixteen and had just spent two weeks camping in the Lake District with all my worldly possessions in a plastic carrier bag. I used them for a bonfire on my last night and they burned for three weeks. It is not a good train of thought because it always leads to my current under-trolley arrangements and I become aware of the current direction of travel. Thinking about underwear is never a good idea whilst running and will always lead to discomfort. (And, by the way, as you get older you will begin to realise that shorts with ‘built in support’ are never up to the job*.) Far better to concentrate on the outer attire of other runners: those who have only recently decided to start running and have consequently thrown the cheque book at the local sports outfitters and those who have been running for years and realise that the tatty green number is by far the most comfortable top they have, that nothing chafes quite like an embroidered trade mark. There are those who perpetually run in sunglasses (I have worn sunglasses myself and it is only when the sun disappears that you realise that you have nowhere to put the bloody things) those who wear a cap to fasten down unruly hair and those who wear a cap to disguise the fact that the days of unruly hair are long behind them. Those who, like me, trudge along, elastic dressing on every conceivable joint, carrying the weight of the world on emaciated shoulders, and those who bound along like a youthful Bambi, full of the joys of Spring, unburdened by a care in the world but, I am sure, fully aware of my loathing as they wave a cheery greeting. There are those who acknowledge me and those who fear it might be catching. I think of them all and, before I know it, the run is over and I haven’t even noticed I’ve done it. All I have to work out then is how come I have arrived home such a breathless, sweating wreck…
*No matter how unpalatable, facts are facts: you may not wish to know them, but they are still facts…
Who’d want to be a chick or mouse Within the darkened reptile house Where neither rat, nor slug, nor louse Is born with greater cause to grouse.
Yes, cows and sheep share common fate But here’s the truth I must relate That neither beast, when comes the date, Goes live onto the dinner plate.
There is nothing in this world quite as disturbing as seeing chicks hopping around the terrariums in the reptile house, blithely unaware (I hope) that they are there just for one reason, to be eaten. They are alive only because the snakes will not take dead prey: they need to see it move. Keep still little chicken: don’t twitch little mouse! Sooner or later the snake will sleep. The best thing about going live to the dinner plate is that you might yet have the chance to hop off it.
A WHITE-TILED BUTCHERS SHOP WITH GLASS FRONTED COUNTER TO FRONT.
BEHIND THE COUNTER THE BUTCHER IS CHOPPING MEAT. A BELL RINGS AS A CUSTOMER ENTERS THE SHOP AND THE BUTCHER TURNS WITH A ‘TUT’ AND APPROACHES THE COUNTER. HE IS CARRYING A CLEAVER AND HIS WHITE SMOCK IS COVERED IN BLOOD.
BUTCHER: Ah, good morning sir. Can I be of service?
CUSTOMER: Yes. Do you have any hearts?
BUTCHER: Hearts? Just give me a moment and I’ll have a look.
THE BUTCHER SLIDES THE DOOR AT THE BACK OF THE COUNTER AND LIFTS OUT A CLIPBOARD WHICH HE SCANS DOWN WITH A BLOODIED FINGER.
BUTCHER: No, we’re right out of hearts I’m afraid. Not a single heart in the place. Who’s it for?
CUSTOMER: It’s for me.
BUTCHER: (Sharp intake of breath) Do you smoke?
CUSTOMER: No.
BUTCHER: Pity, I’ve got a cracking pair of lungs here. You’re certain it’s a heart you need are you?
CUSTOMER: Well, the doctor said…
BUTCHER: Only I’ve got the possibility of a kidney fairly soon.
CUSTOMER: No, it’s my heart.
BUTCHER: I could do you a nice lower leg.
CUSTOMER: No…
BUTCHER: Spleen?
CUSTOMER: No.
BUTCHER: What about a liver? Got a half-decent liver here. Go for the liver and I reckon we could have you sorted out before… well, before… Are you prone to coma at all?
CUSTOMER: I don’t think so. No, look, I’m sorry, but it’s definitely a heart I need.
BUTCHER: I could put you down on the list I suppose.
CUSTOMER: Could you?
BUTCHER: Of course. Now, how bad is it?
CUSTOMER: Doctor reckons six months.
THE BUTCHER RIPS THE PAPER FROM THE CLIPBOARD, SCREWS IT UP AND THROWS IT AWAY.
BUTCHER: We’ll not bother with the waiting list eh? I tell you what I’ll do; I’ll write your name on this raffle ticket and drop it into the drum with the others.
HE INDICATES A RAFFLE BARREL.
CUSTOMER: You mean it really is a lottery, whether I get a heart or not?
BUTCHER: Good grief, no! You’ve got no chance of getting a heart in six months. It’s a little draw we do. A sort of consolation prize. If we pull your ticket out, you can get your piles done within weeks.
CUSTOMER: I haven’t got piles.
BUTCHER: What are you moaning about then?
CUSTOMER: (Indignant) Look, I’m forty three, I’ve never smoked, I rarely drink, I’ve always kept fit and the doctor’s told me I’m going to be dead within six months if I don’t get a new heart…
THE BUTCHER PUTS HIS HAND ON THE CUSTOMER’S SHOULDER, LEADS FORWARD OVER THE COUNTER AND WHISPERS CONSPIRITORIALLY INTO HIS EAR.
BUTCHER: Look, I shouldn’t be suggesting this, but have you ever considered going private?
CUSTOMER: Will I get a heart if I go private?
BUTCHER: God no, but they will break the news to you in a more sympathetic manner.
CUSTOMER: But I’ll still die?
BUTCHER: The room will be much more comfortable…
CUSTOMER: Is there no hope at all?
BUTCHER: Do you want the truth or a bare-faced lie?
CUSTOMER: I think I’ll go for the lie.
BUTCHER: We’ll have a heart for you for the weekend.
CUSTOMER: Thanks.
CUSTOMER EXITS WHISTLING. BUTCHER RETURNS TO HIS CHOPPING BOARD.
Since the departure of Dick Hart, Terry Teasdale was perfectly aware that he stood alone as the least liked member of the Circle: not so much its bête noire as its own black dog. It was not a position that he had chosen to inhabit and he had been working slowly, but determinedly to become, if not exactly liked, then at least accepted by the other members. He had not missed a meeting in six months and those around him had slowly grown used to him being there: like a wart on the nose, he was not something with which one necessarily wished to be associated, but the truth was that the more often one looked into the mirror, the less jarring was the realisation that it was there. The transition from excrescence to birthmark was, never-the-less, not without its difficulties. He was trying to change his life – at least the parts of it that others might see. He began to recognise his own sharp corners, and he worked at chipping them away. He had attempted in his own way to soften his image, joining in conversations, being self-effacing, smiling in a way that he was aware did his face no favours. He tried to joke, although with the kind of success that was normally reserved for ‘bottom of the bill’ in an autumn end of the pier review. He wanted to become a bona fide member of the club. He wanted the others to miss him when he was not there. He had even started to write.
Phil’s ‘reverse genre’ game had given him his opportunity. They would all expect him to be inept, writing in a style to which he was not used. That he was not actually used to writing in any style would not occur to anyone. At first he thought that he might be able to ‘borrow’ the prose of others, but he knew it would be spotted: Deidre, Phil, Frankie, Louise, they were all plagiarism Ninjas. They could spot a misappropriated sentence at a thousand paces. He had, at least, the self-awareness to understand that if he chose a battle there he was destined to lose. And he didn’t want a battle. He’d had many. He’d lost them all.
The story he had told them when he had first joined the group had been the truth, but he had couched it in a hard-hearted manner that he believed would be comical. He believed that they would see it as some kind of grotesque ‘Carry On’, but what they saw in it was actually nearer to the truth than he would care to admit. If he had bridges to build, they were bridges that he had himself first burned. In fact, his much vaunted exposé had never made the papers. Any interest in the story he had to tell was lost when those much closer to the editors decided to spill the beans on Devine before Terry had even got his ghost writers into line. Devine’s goose was cooked and Terry had not even had time to put on his toque. It had proved to be a turning point. Terry Tease was no more, Devine had put paid to his career, although not in the way that he had intended. The intense heat of tabloid investigation had burned all of those who were in any way associated with the main target: those deemed to be ‘worth the effort’ were shamed and vilified; Terry was ignored and abandoned. There is no point in harbouring dreams of revenge, when it has already been wreaked by others. In the short time in which he had been a member of the Circle, Terry Tease had to all intents and purposes, ceased to be, and Terry Teasdale was just beginning to re-emerge, a semi-likeable never-was from the sloughed skin of a detestable has-been.
He had no need to work. If nothing else, Terry Tease had provided for his retirement. He was by no means rich, but he had plenty with which to retain his new-found anonymity. The man who used to be the warm-up man for a discredited star was recognised by no-one. The only time he was ever approached in public was by people who knew, but could not quite place, his face. They invariably believed they knew him from school and he was happy to let them. The person they did recognise had gone; he would rather be the person they thought they recognised.
He no longer craved fame or even notoriety; all that he desired was the acceptance of those with whom he now chose to share his life. He had taken his time; he had worked and re-worked his little story. He had honed it into a lean, professional-sounding piece of writing and then slowly, carefully, he had dissembled it; made it less of what he strove to be and more of what he wanted to be: imperfect but meliorated. What he really wanted to be was part of something. Not the Sun, not the Earth, not even the moon: he would be happy to be Pluto (the planet, rather than the Disney dog) even if it was no longer accepted as a full-blown planet – as long as they did nothing to actually kick it out of orbit, he would be happy. So he patiently waited his turn and he was ready to face the Circle, accepting that many of them were not yet ready to hear from him again; hoping that he could soften the reaction when they did. He rose to his feet as the eyes of all assembled fell upon him. He sensed that he might just have seen a fleeting smile of encouragement from Penny, but he couldn’t be sure: if such a thing had crossed her lips, it had done so swiftly and had long since departed. He was, none-the-less buoyed by the fact that nobody looked actively hostile towards him. Antipathy had, in the main, made way for apathy and that, for Terry Teasdale, was progress of a sort. And progress he could work with…
Once again I have been unable to run this week. I could, of course, have made up the running diary, but I did this instead. I can only apologise…
The word was all around Toytown. The streets were filled with excited chatter. Goldilocks, who had had just about as much as she could take of sleeping in a bed that smelled of bear, not to mention cold, lumpy porridge and the blatantly sexist remarks of Daddy Bear, was back in town and planning a post-lockdown party. Absolutely everyone was invited and not only from Toytown. Winnie the Pooh was coming! Winnie the Pooh, whose legend had spread before him like warm honey on a shag-pile. Winnie the Pooh, who knew more jokes than Noddy. Winnie the Pooh, who could drink Big Ears under the table. Winnie the Pooh, the only bear ever to defeat seventeen paternity suits by having his little thing carefully unpicked by Christopher Robin and stored in a bag until the day after the trial. Yes, Winnie the Pooh was going to be there, it was certainly a party not to be missed.
The Off Licence was completely sold out of cider. “Oh Gawd,” groaned Noddy. “What the hell am I going to do now? Pooh Bear is bound to turn up with a bottle of good stuff. Strongbow I shouldn’t wonder, Blackthorn Dry even. Tell you what, give us a bottle of Irn Bru, I’ll syphon it into an old cider bottle at Big Ears’, no-one will ever know.”
“Stone me,” said Big Ears some time later. “You’d better mark that bottle. I don’t want to end up drinking from it.” “Don’t blame me,” snapped Noddy. “How was I to know that the Irn Bru would only half fill the cider bottle. I had to top it up somehow.” “Well I should go and see the doctor in the morning,” replied Big Ears, “because judging from the look of what you’ve just done in there, you could well be pregnant.” “Ha-bloody-ha!” snapped Noddy. “Get in the car before I set fire to your trousers again.” And so they headed off to the party.
“I really love driving fast,” yelled Noddy, removing pieces of blackbird from his windscreen with the wipers. “Yeh, great,” said Big Ears, who was inhaling his own socks for kicks. “Halt!” yelled Mr. Plod, holding out one hand whilst simultaneously checking his speed gun. “Shit! It’s the fuzz,” exclaimed Noddy. “I’ve got clean underwear on,” said Big Ears. “I’m not talking about the rather questionable state of your nether garments, buffoon,” said Noddy. I’m talking about cops and government guidance on unnecessary travel.” And so saying, he accelerated hard, spreading Mr. Plod evenly over half a mile of single carriageway. “That’s the trouble with the Police Force in Toytown,” he said. “They’re stretched to the limit,” and laughed so much at his own joke that he inhaled the entire contents of his nasal cavity.
At Goldilocks’ place the party was already in full swing. Pooh Bear was telling some of the dirtiest stories you are ever likely to hear; Goldilocks was doing her famous party trick with the small squares of paper and a pair of electrically charged knickers, and Simple Simon was behind the settee with the Pie Man, paying off his bill.
Noddy sped on recklessly, along the lane to Goldilocks’ home, disembowelling Harry the Hedgehog who was out for his afternoon stroll. He screeched to halt outside the tidy cottage, scattering grit and hedgehog prickles in all directions. “Come on Big Ears!” he yelled. “Righto,” laughed Big Ears and fell straight from the car into a little pile that was left by Derek the Dog only moments before.
Noddy was already at the door, ringing the bell. “Hey Noddy,” said Billy Badger. “Come on in.” “Hullo,” said Noddy. “How’s the T.B.?” said Big Ears. “Hey,” said Noddy, sidling up to Rag Doll. “That’s a very small handbag you’re carrying. I wonder if it’s big enough to hold the keys to my Porsche.” “God, you’re corny,” she sighed. “Don’t you ever read the women’s pages in the newspaper? Don’t you realise that the modern woman is no longer content to be seen as a sex object? Have you never heard of #MeToo?” “Sorry?” “Oh never mind,” said Rag Doll who had an IQ of 180, but still had to wear high heels for work. “I think I’ll have a drink,” said Noddy. “Here, take your mask off, have one of my long herbal cigarettes,” offered Billy. ‘They’re legal now, you know… pretty much.’ “Thanks,” said Big Ears, lighting the proffered shag. “Wow!” Big Ears had once tried glue sniffing, but had succeeded only in fusing his acne to the polythene bag, since which he had stuck to much safer pastimes, like bleaching his hair with a blow lamp, travelling on public transport and swimming in the sea at Sizewell.
The evening ground on. The entire Tangerine Dream back catalogue had been exhausted on Spotify, the cider had long since been consumed, the guests were growing tired of pretending to be drunk. The unused condoms had been inflated and sellotaped to the walls, the toilets had been wiped down and somebody was chiselling vomit from the cat.
“Time to go,” said Goldilocks, aware that the bears would be home from the Bridge Club within the hour.
Big ears was one of the last to leave. He waved a fond goodbye to Goldilocks, took a long last draw on Billy Badger’s stogie and stepped straight into the path of Noddy’s speeding car, where his head remained as a grille ornament for several days. Goldilocks turned slowly away. “Isn’t this supposed to be a cautionary tale. Shouldn’t there be a moral to it or something?” she asked.
“Yeh,” said Pooh. “But you know what these Children’s Writers are like these days. Too drunk most of the time to make it to the toilet, let alone write a moral ending…
I have become very tired of the repeated attempts to make the past politically correct. It cannot be so. We cannot change it. I’m really not certain what an apology from a group of politicians who were not even born when the ‘crime’ was committed can even begin to achieve. We can only recognise that things were wrong, and we can’t do that if the past has been erased. We can only control today and plan tomorrow. I just hope we make a much better job of it.
In truth, I’m not certain that Noddy was ever quite so hedonisitic. I don’t think that Enid Blyton (on top of everything else) was a misogynist, but if she’d been a man I think she probably would have given it a go…
In the UK, at the start of Lockdown, ‘kindness’ was what we all espoused. Perhaps love really is all we need. That and the ability to see that everyone has value, that everyone has to be equal, that every voice has the right to be heard and, for God’s Sake, why do we still need to be fighting to make it happen? People are people and we all want the same things: to live in peace, to see our children grow up in safety and to have the opportunity to thrive in a just society. Sounds so easy…
Just be kind…
P.S. If this offends anyone, I am truly sorry. It is deliberately obnoxious. Hyperbole, I think. I would say exaggeration, but I’m not sure.
Anyone in the zoo can See the stately toucan. Anyone in the queue can, If you join them, you can.
I’m not a kangaroo fan But what I’d like to do, gran Is go and ask the zoo man If we can see the toucan.
I know the cockatoo can Achieve a proper view ‘nan, So if he can, then you can, And if one can, then two can.
I have very little to say about today’s little rhyme. The last few ‘zoo’ poems have become a little serious and over-considered, so I thought it was time to do something that is just silly: how the ‘zoo’ thread actually started. Childish silly nonsense. I should do it more often really.
It is difficult to envisage a happenstance that could be of lesser consequence to most of my readers, but today I served** Peter Levy and I mention it only because it highlights the general vacuousness of my day to day existence. This was not only the highlight of my day, but just possibly my month. When I was younger, I imagined a future when people would clamour for the opportunity to meet me: in my twenties I foresaw a time when people would be intrigued by the possibility of one day meeting me; in my thirties I still believed that there might be people out there who would be happy to meet me. These days, I am just pleased when people are simply not too dismayed by the prospect. At least nobody hears my name with feigned indifference – they are too preoccupied with real indifference.
I am like every other blog writer: I give away everything between the lines that I would not dream of disclosing on them. In every post I write, you get a little piece of me, and although it isn’t always where I expected it to be, or even what I expected it to be, it is always there, if you should choose to look for it. I would love to be able to think of a single reason why you would. I’m not certain that forensic psychologists actually exist, but if they do, and if they, in a manner that probably tells you more about them than it does about me, read this blog from beginning to end, I am confident that they will end up knowing more about me than I do. (Actually not as impressive as it sounds, because I am more or less completely in the dark.)
I have been a little under the weather for a few days (as somehow divined by Mr Underfelt) – don’t worry; it’s not that. You can put your PPE away. Whatever virus scanner you have on your laptop, it will find nothing here – but it has made me realise something about myself: I am not as sturdy as I thought I was. A properly determined virus would almost certainly be capable of seeing me off. It has been a revelation: I am not indestructible – even though I am pretty certain that I used to be. (Just so that you are aware, this was not a near-death experience, but actually more of a ‘close by insurance salesman’ experience. A mild, sadly not even debilitating illness: definitely in no way life threatening, just not pleasant and almost certainly infectious…)
Suddenly the fragility of life clashes with the inconsequentiality of it and all bets are off. Anyone present at a dawn of time (logic tells you that there must be more than one, otherwise what caused this one?) would almost certainly bump into somebody else who would predict that two spontaneously occurring atoms could just possibly attempt to occupy the same infinitesimally minute portion of this infinite vacuum at the same time (which then didn’t even exist) following which ‘Kerboom’ would occur. Almost certainly they would have had two-bob each way on the consequences of that. Almost certainly the bookies would have found some way to return the stake and cancel the bet. The whole universe is following a trajectory that is careering between oblivion and oblivion. It started as nothing and it will eventually end as nothing and yet, for some reason, we find it necessary to try and leave a mark on it. I am aware of the futility of it all and yet I really did hope that my own ‘mark in the sand’ might add up to more than being in the same place and time as a BBC Local TV Presenter.
But that’s what marks in the sand are like, isn’t it? One tiny ebb of tide and they’re gone. You think you’ve built the very best sandcastle only to find that it dissolves around your feet. Ah, what the hell, you just build the next one higher…
*”…But in my dreams/I slew the dragon.” Waiting for my Real Life to Begin – (the wonderful) Colin Hay
** No, no, no! Go and wash your mind out with soap. I work in a shop.
N.B. This is, in case he is reading – and if he is not, then why not? – not a comment upon the inestimable Mr Levy in any way. He was utterly charming. Such a shame, I so wanted to not like him…
PS Please don’t ask me: I have no idea what it is all about. Chocolate hopefully…
Getting On 