At the very moment Gaius wakes up on a beach towel and immediately identifies the Growling Grass Frog in the Coorong.....
Margaret is on the Comedy Pub Crawl with Raelene and Darren, drinking beer and listening to jokes.
Darren is feeling much better, laughing and whooping.
Margaret and Raelene have discovered a mutual interest.
Oh really? says Margaret. Me too.
(What is this mutual interest? Don't know. Wasn't listening. The comedian is too loud and funny).
Comedian: Archaeologists are fickle. They're always dating other people!
Audience (except Raelene and Margaret): HA! HA! HA! Woohoo!
Margaret: What? I missed that.
Raelene: Me too.
Darren: Ha ha! It was heaps funny. Why are archaeologists fickle?
Margaret: Oh NO!
Darren: Because they...
Margaret (interrupting): Gaius! I've left him behind in the Coorong! He'll never forgive me! And my car is outside the bakery in Kingston!
All this is true. And she has only just remembered. Archaeology was the trigger. Any number of other ologies would have done, as Gaius is a polymath.
I must go! cries Margaret.
No, you're in a state, says Raelene. Let me see you home.
No no, says Margaret. Take me to Gluttony. Katherine will be attending the first night of Candide. I must see Katherine. I've got her shorts, too.
Okay, says Raelene.
Luckily it's just across the road. Darren can stay where he is, until the Crawl recommences.
Raelene and Margaret cross the road and enter the Guttony garden.
There's a queue for Candide. Katherine is in it.
Margaret! cries Katherine. You're back.
Yes, says Margaret. And here are your red shorts, dear. You left them behind in the sand hills.
Is Gaius with you? asks Katherine. I have a couple of extra tickets, in case Arthur and Sweezus turn up. The scallywags. They ought to be here.
No, says Margaret. I had an accident in the bakery at Kingston. This is Raelene, she drove me back to Adelaide. But Gaius is still in the Coorong with no transport.
I'm sure he'll survive, says Katherine. He thrives on hardship.
This makes Margaret feel better.
As Arthur and Sweezus have still not turned up, she and Raelene get the spare tickets.
Raelene is excited to be seeing Candide, which sounds intellectual.
She texts Darren to stay on the Comedy Pub Crawl without her.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
Growling Grass Frog
Early evening. Saint Roley is prowling in the low coastal vegetation of the Coorong.
He is starving. The number of things he has eaten is small.
Several half molluscs, a slice of potato, an apple, those wild turnips....
He looks down from the top of a sand dune.
Gaius is sleeping below on a beach towel.
Grawaark!
That will be Gaius's stomach.
But it isn't. The growl is rising from the other side of the sand hill.
Grawaaark! Boing! Grawaark! The growl is moving.
Saint Roley slides down to see where.
He reaches a body of water, not the ocean.
Boing!
A thing lands before him.
Ding-ding!
To cut a long story short, it's a Southern Bell Frog.
Hello, says Saint Roley. Do not be afraid unless you are a worm, insect or small crustacean.
And what if I am a ....... ? The Bell Frog has a slow imagination.
Saint Roley has a fast one.
A muffin? says Saint Roley. That would be an ideal situation. You need not be afraid, as a muffin.
Why not? asks the Bell Frog.
Because you would just be a muffin, says Saint Roley. I know that much. But the best thing about you being a muffin would be that both I and Gaius could eat you. Cut you. Half each.
I'm not a muffin, says the Bell Frog. Who is Gaius?
A natural historian, asleep at present, says Saint Roley. If you stop growling...
I have, says the Bell Frog.
Then while you are quiet, says Saint Roley, you may hear him growling.
Is he a half man, half muffin? asks the Bell Frog.
You don't mean that, says Saint Roley. You mean half man, half frog. And he isn't. He's hungry.
We are all hungry, says the Bell Frog.
Yes, says Saint Roley. We were expecting sandwiches but they have not appeared.
Do they, sometimes? asks the Bell Frog hopefully.
Yes, says Saint Roley. But something must have happened.
Or not happened, says the Bell Frog.
Saint Roley nods.
They are on the same wavelength.
Come with me, says Saint Roley.
They tiptoe up the sand hill and down the other side of the sand hill to Gaius.
Gaius wakes up.
Plshshshfttt! Blows the sand from his nostrils.
Jumping Jupiter! cries Gaius. A Growling Grass Frog!
Saint Roley looks again at the Bell Frog.
So that is his name.
He is starving. The number of things he has eaten is small.
Several half molluscs, a slice of potato, an apple, those wild turnips....
He looks down from the top of a sand dune.
Gaius is sleeping below on a beach towel.
Grawaark!
That will be Gaius's stomach.
But it isn't. The growl is rising from the other side of the sand hill.
Grawaaark! Boing! Grawaark! The growl is moving.
Saint Roley slides down to see where.
He reaches a body of water, not the ocean.
Boing!
A thing lands before him.
Ding-ding!
To cut a long story short, it's a Southern Bell Frog.
Hello, says Saint Roley. Do not be afraid unless you are a worm, insect or small crustacean.
And what if I am a ....... ? The Bell Frog has a slow imagination.
Saint Roley has a fast one.
A muffin? says Saint Roley. That would be an ideal situation. You need not be afraid, as a muffin.
Why not? asks the Bell Frog.
Because you would just be a muffin, says Saint Roley. I know that much. But the best thing about you being a muffin would be that both I and Gaius could eat you. Cut you. Half each.
I'm not a muffin, says the Bell Frog. Who is Gaius?
A natural historian, asleep at present, says Saint Roley. If you stop growling...
I have, says the Bell Frog.
Then while you are quiet, says Saint Roley, you may hear him growling.
Is he a half man, half muffin? asks the Bell Frog.
You don't mean that, says Saint Roley. You mean half man, half frog. And he isn't. He's hungry.
We are all hungry, says the Bell Frog.
Yes, says Saint Roley. We were expecting sandwiches but they have not appeared.
Do they, sometimes? asks the Bell Frog hopefully.
Yes, says Saint Roley. But something must have happened.
Or not happened, says the Bell Frog.
Saint Roley nods.
They are on the same wavelength.
Come with me, says Saint Roley.
They tiptoe up the sand hill and down the other side of the sand hill to Gaius.
Gaius wakes up.
Plshshshfttt! Blows the sand from his nostrils.
Jumping Jupiter! cries Gaius. A Growling Grass Frog!
Saint Roley looks again at the Bell Frog.
So that is his name.
Monday, February 26, 2018
Behind The Blue Curtain
Raelene has driven Darren and Margaret to the Kingston Soldiers' Memorial Hospital.
Lucky there is one.
They wait to be seen.
I do apologise, says Margaret.
So do I, says Raelene. When I saw you punch Darren my tiger instincts kicked in.
Wuuuh! says Darren.
By which we can see that Margaret has come out of it better than Darren.
She only has a bruised ankle.
Darren! says a nurse.
Darren stands up, and is led behind a blue curtain.
Ooh....prrp....eee!... says, (presumably), Darren, from behind the curtain.
Poor Darren, says Raelene. And poor you. You won't be able to drive with that ankle. Were you heading to Adelaide?
Yes, says Margaret. I was on my way to deliver a pair of red shorts to my friend,
After hearing this, perhaps we should revise our earlier judgement. Can she have forgotten the sandwiches, and Gaius?
Let's see.
I'll drive you back in the Toyota, says Raelene. Darren and me, we were heading to Adelaide for the Womad, the Fringe and the Clipsal.
How nice, says Margaret. I like the Womad. But it's so expensive. The Fringe is much cheaper.
True, says Raelene.
Margaret! calls the nurse.
Darren staggers out, and Margaret hobbles through the blue curtains.
Ooo-eeek!, says, (presumably), Margaret, as the nurse pokes her ankle.
Soon it is bandaged, and Raelene leads Darren and Margaret out to the Toyota.
Darren lies on the back seat. He still feels woozy.
Margaret sits in the front. Raelene drives right past Margaret's car, still parked near the bakery.
Margaret doesn't see it.
She is talking about the bad luck she had, booking Fringe tickets for Circus Abyssinia.
Cancelled, says Margaret. And you wouldn't believe it. I chose another date and they cancelled that one as well.
That's dreadful, says Raelene. I hope our show's not cancelled.
What is it? asks Margaret.
Comedy Pub Crawl says Raelene. It's supposed to be good.
Comedy Pub Crawl! Raelene and Darren go down in Margaret's estimation.
But really, thinks Margaret to herself, perhaps I'm being precious.
The scenery changes from coastal.
The Toyota moves fast.
No going back now, and anyway, why would they?
........
The sky darkens. A sea breeze gets up.
Gaius has long given up on the sandwiches.
He and Saint Roley have eaten the tiny wild turnips.
They have even considered the filamentous green algae.
Something must have happened to Margaret, says Gaius.
Yes, says Saint Roley. Perhaps she's been abducted.
Perhaps, says Gaius. I should try and call her.
What! He has only just thought that he should try and call her?
Well, that proves something.
And now it turns out he doesn't have Margaret's number.
It would be good if a seagull should come by right now. Seagulls know pretty much everything. Grandpa Marx in particular.
He would know for example that Margaret is heading back to Adelaide in a Toyota.
He may even know why.
But it hardly matters if he does or he doesn't.
Because Grandpa Marx is in Robe this evening, attending a fish and chip scattering behind a café.
Gaius is screwed.
Lucky there is one.
They wait to be seen.
I do apologise, says Margaret.
So do I, says Raelene. When I saw you punch Darren my tiger instincts kicked in.
Wuuuh! says Darren.
By which we can see that Margaret has come out of it better than Darren.
She only has a bruised ankle.
Darren! says a nurse.
Darren stands up, and is led behind a blue curtain.
Ooh....prrp....eee!... says, (presumably), Darren, from behind the curtain.
Poor Darren, says Raelene. And poor you. You won't be able to drive with that ankle. Were you heading to Adelaide?
Yes, says Margaret. I was on my way to deliver a pair of red shorts to my friend,
After hearing this, perhaps we should revise our earlier judgement. Can she have forgotten the sandwiches, and Gaius?
Let's see.
I'll drive you back in the Toyota, says Raelene. Darren and me, we were heading to Adelaide for the Womad, the Fringe and the Clipsal.
How nice, says Margaret. I like the Womad. But it's so expensive. The Fringe is much cheaper.
True, says Raelene.
Margaret! calls the nurse.
Darren staggers out, and Margaret hobbles through the blue curtains.
Ooo-eeek!, says, (presumably), Margaret, as the nurse pokes her ankle.
Soon it is bandaged, and Raelene leads Darren and Margaret out to the Toyota.
Darren lies on the back seat. He still feels woozy.
Margaret sits in the front. Raelene drives right past Margaret's car, still parked near the bakery.
Margaret doesn't see it.
She is talking about the bad luck she had, booking Fringe tickets for Circus Abyssinia.
Cancelled, says Margaret. And you wouldn't believe it. I chose another date and they cancelled that one as well.
That's dreadful, says Raelene. I hope our show's not cancelled.
What is it? asks Margaret.
Comedy Pub Crawl says Raelene. It's supposed to be good.
Comedy Pub Crawl! Raelene and Darren go down in Margaret's estimation.
But really, thinks Margaret to herself, perhaps I'm being precious.
The scenery changes from coastal.
The Toyota moves fast.
No going back now, and anyway, why would they?
........
The sky darkens. A sea breeze gets up.
Gaius has long given up on the sandwiches.
He and Saint Roley have eaten the tiny wild turnips.
They have even considered the filamentous green algae.
Something must have happened to Margaret, says Gaius.
Yes, says Saint Roley. Perhaps she's been abducted.
Perhaps, says Gaius. I should try and call her.
What! He has only just thought that he should try and call her?
Well, that proves something.
And now it turns out he doesn't have Margaret's number.
It would be good if a seagull should come by right now. Seagulls know pretty much everything. Grandpa Marx in particular.
He would know for example that Margaret is heading back to Adelaide in a Toyota.
He may even know why.
But it hardly matters if he does or he doesn't.
Because Grandpa Marx is in Robe this evening, attending a fish and chip scattering behind a café.
Gaius is screwed.
Sunday, February 25, 2018
Coming To Terms With Impermanence
Gaius has run out of apples.
Margaret has driven into Kingston to buy sandwiches.
I'd have preferred a meat pie, says Gaius.
It would have been cold by the time she got back, says the Ranger.
You're right. I should look on the bright side, says Gaius. While she's away, we can continue our conversation.
I should like to, says the Ranger. What was that about pool salt?
The latest discovery, says Gaius. It seems, from research done at the University of Newcastle, a little pool salt in the water increases the Golden Bell Frogs' chances of survival. It may well be true for other frog species.
What does it do? asks the Ranger.
Blocks the rate of transmission of the chytridiomycosis fungus, says Gaius.
Fascinating, says the Ranger. Well, I suppose I should be getting on with my ranging. Enjoy your sandwiches.
I shall, assuming they don't contain traces of tomato, says Gaius.
Not fond of tomatoes? asks the Ranger.
Not fond of poison! says Gaius.
Nyuh! says the Ranger. The only possible response in the circumstances. He likes tomatoes.
The Ranger goes off.
Saint Roley comes back with several tiny wild turnips.
Best I can do, says Saint Roley.
I have been thinking , says Gaius. We are not getting far, here in the Coorong.
Especially now, says Saint Roley.
True, says Gaius. Katherine has left us. Terence has left us.
The red potato has left us, says Saint Roley. I wonder how the red potato is faring?
As we all must, says Gaius.
What do you mean? asks Saint Roley.
Coming to terms with impermanence, says Gaius.
Saint Roley likes this answer.
What to do in the meantime? says Saint Roley.
Continual reinvention, says Gaius. I find myself turning my attention to the plight of the world's vanishing frogs. How would you like to go to Newcastle?
I'm flattered to be asked, says Saint Roley. But first, I must ask this: Do oystercatchers ever eat frogs? I don't wish to become a liability.
I think not, says Gaius. Worms, yes. Frogs, not likely. And surely you could restrain yourself?
I suppose so, says Saint Roley. It's just that, I am constantly hungry.
I'm feeling peckish myself, says Gaius. Margaret will be back soon, bearing sandwiches.
But Margaret will not be, due to a series of unfortunate events:
Standing in a lunchtime queue in a bakery in Kingston, she has seen a dish of broken scones on the counter. She dearly likes scones. These ones contain plump sultanas. Mm. Why not try one? She reaches forward to take one just as the person in front of her (Darren) is turning to see if his partner (Raelene) has arrived after parking their Toyota. Margaret's fist strikes the moving face of Darren. Darren falls to the floor of the bakery hitting his head on the lino. Raelene sees Margaret punch Darren. She rushes forward and makes a karate move on Margaret. The move is Osoto Gari, which brings Margaret down. Margaret and Darren both need medical attention.
Margaret has driven into Kingston to buy sandwiches.
I'd have preferred a meat pie, says Gaius.
It would have been cold by the time she got back, says the Ranger.
You're right. I should look on the bright side, says Gaius. While she's away, we can continue our conversation.
I should like to, says the Ranger. What was that about pool salt?
The latest discovery, says Gaius. It seems, from research done at the University of Newcastle, a little pool salt in the water increases the Golden Bell Frogs' chances of survival. It may well be true for other frog species.
What does it do? asks the Ranger.
Blocks the rate of transmission of the chytridiomycosis fungus, says Gaius.
Fascinating, says the Ranger. Well, I suppose I should be getting on with my ranging. Enjoy your sandwiches.
I shall, assuming they don't contain traces of tomato, says Gaius.
Not fond of tomatoes? asks the Ranger.
Not fond of poison! says Gaius.
Nyuh! says the Ranger. The only possible response in the circumstances. He likes tomatoes.
The Ranger goes off.
Saint Roley comes back with several tiny wild turnips.
Best I can do, says Saint Roley.
I have been thinking , says Gaius. We are not getting far, here in the Coorong.
Especially now, says Saint Roley.
True, says Gaius. Katherine has left us. Terence has left us.
The red potato has left us, says Saint Roley. I wonder how the red potato is faring?
As we all must, says Gaius.
What do you mean? asks Saint Roley.
Coming to terms with impermanence, says Gaius.
Saint Roley likes this answer.
What to do in the meantime? says Saint Roley.
Continual reinvention, says Gaius. I find myself turning my attention to the plight of the world's vanishing frogs. How would you like to go to Newcastle?
I'm flattered to be asked, says Saint Roley. But first, I must ask this: Do oystercatchers ever eat frogs? I don't wish to become a liability.
I think not, says Gaius. Worms, yes. Frogs, not likely. And surely you could restrain yourself?
I suppose so, says Saint Roley. It's just that, I am constantly hungry.
I'm feeling peckish myself, says Gaius. Margaret will be back soon, bearing sandwiches.
But Margaret will not be, due to a series of unfortunate events:
Standing in a lunchtime queue in a bakery in Kingston, she has seen a dish of broken scones on the counter. She dearly likes scones. These ones contain plump sultanas. Mm. Why not try one? She reaches forward to take one just as the person in front of her (Darren) is turning to see if his partner (Raelene) has arrived after parking their Toyota. Margaret's fist strikes the moving face of Darren. Darren falls to the floor of the bakery hitting his head on the lino. Raelene sees Margaret punch Darren. She rushes forward and makes a karate move on Margaret. The move is Osoto Gari, which brings Margaret down. Margaret and Darren both need medical attention.
Saturday, February 24, 2018
Short Red Interruption
Margaret is searching the campsite.
What are you doing? says Gaius.
Looking for Katherine's red shorts, says Margaret.
Tried the sand dunes? says Saint Roley.
Why would they be in the sand dunes? says Margaret.
Who knows? says Saint Roley. But it seems they're not here.
Margaret stomps off into the sand dunes, scanning the nooks and crannies in the native vegetation for Katherine's red shorts.
Peace at last, says Gaius. Although I fear it will be short lived.
Depends, says Saint Roley.
Crunch crunch. It's the shoes of the Ranger. And the Ranger is in them.
Just dropping these seeds off, says the Ranger. Where's that young boy?
Gone back to Adelaide to perform in a play, says Gaius. What seeds?
Red parrot pea seeds, says the Ranger. Tell him if he plants them he'll see red parrot pea flowers in October.
Very kind of you, says Gaius.
What's all this? says the Ranger. Filamentous green algae?
For my collection, says Gaius.
Keep collecting, says the Ranger. You might look out for other potential threats while you're about it.
Potential threats? says Gaius. Would you mind listing them? I have a geology pencil.
Do you? asks the Ranger. That sounds like a good pencil. I suppose it's waterproof and fade resistant?
Indeed, says Gaius. But I must admit, it's not my own pencil.
You found it? asks the Ranger.
No, says Gaius. I was lent it by a lady geologist.
Not that one who I met...?
Very probably.
Is she here now?
She's looking for a pair of shorts in the sand dunes.
Perhaps I should assist her?
No, she is perfectly competent. Sit down. Give me the list.
Shall I make a copy? asks Saint Roley.
What with? asks Gaius.
The oily twig, says Saint Roley.
Might as well, says Gaius.
The Ranger clears his throat.
Potential threats: red-eared slider, black-spined toad, oriental weather loach, cabomba, didymo...
How do you spell didymo? asks Saint Roley.
Just write rock snot, says the Ranger. Same thing.
Saint Roley writes: ^^
It doesn't look right.
Does rock snot have a hyphen?
Dear me, says Gaius. What a list, and I suppose that's not even the half of it.
We do our best, sighs the Ranger. Danger is everywhere. Even the common Southern Bell Frog is mysteriously disappearing.
Chytridiomycosis? Have you tried pool salt? asks Gaius.
No, is that something......?
Yoo hoo! I've found them! cries Margaret, interrupting this delightful scientific exchange of ideas with her loud voice and her unnecessarily energetic waving of a pair of Women's Vintage Red Regatta Basic Shorts.
What are you doing? says Gaius.
Looking for Katherine's red shorts, says Margaret.
Tried the sand dunes? says Saint Roley.
Why would they be in the sand dunes? says Margaret.
Who knows? says Saint Roley. But it seems they're not here.
Margaret stomps off into the sand dunes, scanning the nooks and crannies in the native vegetation for Katherine's red shorts.
Peace at last, says Gaius. Although I fear it will be short lived.
Depends, says Saint Roley.
Crunch crunch. It's the shoes of the Ranger. And the Ranger is in them.
Just dropping these seeds off, says the Ranger. Where's that young boy?
Gone back to Adelaide to perform in a play, says Gaius. What seeds?
Red parrot pea seeds, says the Ranger. Tell him if he plants them he'll see red parrot pea flowers in October.
Very kind of you, says Gaius.
What's all this? says the Ranger. Filamentous green algae?
For my collection, says Gaius.
Keep collecting, says the Ranger. You might look out for other potential threats while you're about it.
Potential threats? says Gaius. Would you mind listing them? I have a geology pencil.
Do you? asks the Ranger. That sounds like a good pencil. I suppose it's waterproof and fade resistant?
Indeed, says Gaius. But I must admit, it's not my own pencil.
You found it? asks the Ranger.
No, says Gaius. I was lent it by a lady geologist.
Not that one who I met...?
Very probably.
Is she here now?
She's looking for a pair of shorts in the sand dunes.
Perhaps I should assist her?
No, she is perfectly competent. Sit down. Give me the list.
Shall I make a copy? asks Saint Roley.
What with? asks Gaius.
The oily twig, says Saint Roley.
Might as well, says Gaius.
The Ranger clears his throat.
Potential threats: red-eared slider, black-spined toad, oriental weather loach, cabomba, didymo...
How do you spell didymo? asks Saint Roley.
Just write rock snot, says the Ranger. Same thing.
Saint Roley writes: ^^
It doesn't look right.
Does rock snot have a hyphen?
Dear me, says Gaius. What a list, and I suppose that's not even the half of it.
We do our best, sighs the Ranger. Danger is everywhere. Even the common Southern Bell Frog is mysteriously disappearing.
Chytridiomycosis? Have you tried pool salt? asks Gaius.
No, is that something......?
Yoo hoo! I've found them! cries Margaret, interrupting this delightful scientific exchange of ideas with her loud voice and her unnecessarily energetic waving of a pair of Women's Vintage Red Regatta Basic Shorts.
Friday, February 23, 2018
Sad Maths Story
Now what? asks Terence.
Your part's over, says Vello. The red sheep has been rescued. Give Belle the stick.
Is my potato's part over? asks Terence.
Virtually, says David. At the end of the voyage to France it goes to the Academy.
To do maths, says Terence.
No, to be the subject of an essay on why it is red, says Vello.
I know why it's red, says Terence. But I don't know why it can do maths.
It can't, says Vello unkindly.
Ninety nine, says the potato.
Belle unties the string from the potato.
Ninety nine's not the answer to everything, says Belle.
Ninety eight, says the red parrot potato.
See, says Terence. Tie him up again. And let me have a costume.
What did Terence wear last time? asks Vello.
A sleeve, says Belle. But we got rid of it.
Anyone? says Vello.
Katherine had a pair of red shorts, says Wittgenstein.
I'm not wearing her shorts, says Terence.
Of course not, says Belle. I'll find you something.
She opens a cupboard, and pulls out a purple silk shirt.
Why AM I red? asks the potato.
You know, says Terence. Red feathers.
I mean my CHARACTER, says the potato. Why is the sheep red? Were the other hundred red?
Ah! cries Vello. So you agree there were another hundred, and not ninety nine.
Leave him alone, says Belle. Just tell him the answer.
Yes, says Vello. Happy? Now stop wasting time.
Terence is trying on the purple silk shirt. It's too long, but otherwise it looks amazing.
Who can I be in this? asks Terence.
King Theodore, says Belle.
Don't encourage him, says Vello.
Does King Theodore have a potato? asks Terence.
No, he has a sad story, says Vello.
Terence looks at his potato. It looks kind of sad, having gone off maths completely.
Want to be my Sad Story? asks Terence.
Okay, nods the potato.
Should we allow this? asks David.
Let's work it, says Terence. Talk, Sad Story.
My name is King Theodore, says the potato. I lived in a bag of potatoes, with my subjects. Then I was accidentally cooked in a campfire. I was wrinkled beyond recognition. A young nobleman took pity on me and disguised me as a red parrot, with red feathers donated by Marxist sympathisers. I was for a while, splendid. I learned mathematics. But I got one sum wrong! And that marked the beginning of my second fall....
This is gold! says Belle.
Your part's over, says Vello. The red sheep has been rescued. Give Belle the stick.
Is my potato's part over? asks Terence.
Virtually, says David. At the end of the voyage to France it goes to the Academy.
To do maths, says Terence.
No, to be the subject of an essay on why it is red, says Vello.
I know why it's red, says Terence. But I don't know why it can do maths.
It can't, says Vello unkindly.
Ninety nine, says the potato.
Belle unties the string from the potato.
Ninety nine's not the answer to everything, says Belle.
Ninety eight, says the red parrot potato.
See, says Terence. Tie him up again. And let me have a costume.
What did Terence wear last time? asks Vello.
A sleeve, says Belle. But we got rid of it.
Anyone? says Vello.
Katherine had a pair of red shorts, says Wittgenstein.
I'm not wearing her shorts, says Terence.
Of course not, says Belle. I'll find you something.
She opens a cupboard, and pulls out a purple silk shirt.
Why AM I red? asks the potato.
You know, says Terence. Red feathers.
I mean my CHARACTER, says the potato. Why is the sheep red? Were the other hundred red?
Ah! cries Vello. So you agree there were another hundred, and not ninety nine.
Leave him alone, says Belle. Just tell him the answer.
Yes, says Vello. Happy? Now stop wasting time.
Terence is trying on the purple silk shirt. It's too long, but otherwise it looks amazing.
Who can I be in this? asks Terence.
King Theodore, says Belle.
Don't encourage him, says Vello.
Does King Theodore have a potato? asks Terence.
No, he has a sad story, says Vello.
Terence looks at his potato. It looks kind of sad, having gone off maths completely.
Want to be my Sad Story? asks Terence.
Okay, nods the potato.
Should we allow this? asks David.
Let's work it, says Terence. Talk, Sad Story.
My name is King Theodore, says the potato. I lived in a bag of potatoes, with my subjects. Then I was accidentally cooked in a campfire. I was wrinkled beyond recognition. A young nobleman took pity on me and disguised me as a red parrot, with red feathers donated by Marxist sympathisers. I was for a while, splendid. I learned mathematics. But I got one sum wrong! And that marked the beginning of my second fall....
This is gold! says Belle.
Thursday, February 22, 2018
Becoming A Crack-up
I'm off, says Katherine. See you on opening night. When is it?
Tonight, says Vello. This is our one and only rehearsal.
Typical, says Katherine.
Now, says David, how's that string-and-stick device going?
It's going quite well. Wittgenstein has tied one end of the string to the stick and the other end to the potato.
Terence is holding the stick.
He raises and lowers the potato in the bowl of cold water..
The feathers drip when the potato goes up.
Are you crying? asks Terence.
The potato had not thought of crying.
He is trying to remember his lines.
Baa! Saave mee!
Right, says Vello. Cue Candide. That's me.
Candide (Vello): My sheep! I feel more joy at recovering you than all the grief I suffered at losing the other hundred.
That's not fair, says Terence.
Hush, says Belle. He has to say that.
Candide (Vello): No, that's all right. I like a bit of improv. Yes, my sheep, it does not seem fair. No doubt Martin will agree with you.
Martin (David): Yes. All is not for the best after all. What sort of god saves one sheep but drowns a hundred?
Red Sheep (Potato): Ninety nine!
Candide (Vello): Astonishing! My sheep attempts maths. This alone proves that god has his reasons.
Martin (David): How do we know the other hundred couldn't?
Candide (Vello): Perhaps you are right. But what was the world created for?
Martin (David): To drive us mad.
Wittgenstein: Ha ha!
Vello: You found that funny?
Wittgenstein: Wasn't I supposed to?
Belle: It was funny. And we should give most of the credit to Terence's potato. When he said ninety nine. What a crack-up!
The potato grows in his own estimation.
All he did was a simple subtraction. And now he's a crack-up
Tonight, says Vello. This is our one and only rehearsal.
Typical, says Katherine.
Now, says David, how's that string-and-stick device going?
It's going quite well. Wittgenstein has tied one end of the string to the stick and the other end to the potato.
Terence is holding the stick.
He raises and lowers the potato in the bowl of cold water..
The feathers drip when the potato goes up.
Are you crying? asks Terence.
The potato had not thought of crying.
He is trying to remember his lines.
Baa! Saave mee!
Right, says Vello. Cue Candide. That's me.
Candide (Vello): My sheep! I feel more joy at recovering you than all the grief I suffered at losing the other hundred.
That's not fair, says Terence.
Hush, says Belle. He has to say that.
Candide (Vello): No, that's all right. I like a bit of improv. Yes, my sheep, it does not seem fair. No doubt Martin will agree with you.
Martin (David): Yes. All is not for the best after all. What sort of god saves one sheep but drowns a hundred?
Red Sheep (Potato): Ninety nine!
Candide (Vello): Astonishing! My sheep attempts maths. This alone proves that god has his reasons.
Martin (David): How do we know the other hundred couldn't?
Candide (Vello): Perhaps you are right. But what was the world created for?
Martin (David): To drive us mad.
Wittgenstein: Ha ha!
Vello: You found that funny?
Wittgenstein: Wasn't I supposed to?
Belle: It was funny. And we should give most of the credit to Terence's potato. When he said ninety nine. What a crack-up!
The potato grows in his own estimation.
All he did was a simple subtraction. And now he's a crack-up
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
A Genius!
You've drowned my potato, says Terence.
We thought it could swim, says Vello.
So did the potato, says Terence.
He lifts his red parrot potato tenderly out of the bowl of cold water.
What's wrong?
The potato has no means of saying.
It certainly is a fine looking potato, says Vello. What are these things?
Peduncles, says Katherine. And these are red feathers.
We can see that, says David.
He pulls out a feather.
Baa! Saaave mee!
Did you hear that? says Wittgenstein. The potato spoke. I'm sure of it.
Was it you, Terence? asks Belle.
No, says Terence. My potato can talk! Yippee!
I won't believe it unless I hear it say something else, says David.
He leans in. Hearing nothing, he tickles the potato with its own feather.
The potato finds his speaking voice again.
Baa! Saave mee!
Wah! says Terence. Where's your voice coming from?
The feather hole, says Wittgenstein, an interested observer.
Good heavens! says Vello. What would happen if we pulled out another one?
Try it, says David.
Vello pulls out another one.
Baa! Saave mee!
Remarkable, says Vello. We must use him. What a pity he can't swim.
He can, says Terence. He just doesn't want to. He only does surfing.
He could swim in the sea, says Katherine. But you can't reproduce the ocean in a cheap Fringe show.
Cheap! says Vello. Do you know how much we've shelled out so far!
All you need is a stick and a string, says Belle. Tie the string round the potato, attach the string to the stick, Terence can hold it over a bowl of cold water and raise and lower the stick to give the impression the potato is swimming. The potato can shout Baa! Saave mee! each time it comes to the surface. Terence won't need to learn any lines. That's a good thing because he'd be sure to forget them. But Terence will be happy because he gets to work the potato.
Yes! cries Terence.
Belle, you're a genius! cries Vello. What would we do without you? Are there any more fruit buns?
Another whole packet, says Belle.
She goes out to get them.
Is there any paper? asks Wittgenstein.
Here, says David. Need a pencil?
Of course he needs a pencil.
He starts drawing up stick-and-string plans.
These are good, says David looking over his shoulder, dropping fruit bun crumbs.
Wittgenstein thinks he means the plans.
I do have an engineering background, he murmurs.
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
God Has Abandoned Me
Katherine parks her car outside the Velosophy office.
Let me out, quick, says Terence.
She opens the back door. Terence jumps out with his red parrot potato and runs up the stairs.
Vello and David are deep in discussion.
David: I still feel the play is too heavy.
Vello: Heavy! It's light hearted humour.
Terence bursts in.
Terence: Guess what!
Vello: You've got a new parrot.
David: It doesn't look like a parrot.
Terence: It's a potato! It's going to be the Bright Red Object and I'm doing the voices. I have to train it.
Katherine and Wittgenstein enter.
David: Hello, mother! You got here quickly.
Katherine: I see you've met Terence's potato. What do you think of it?
Vello: Fine, fine. Let's see what it can do.
Terence: Baa! Saaave-meee!
David: Very nice. But the potato didn't do anything.
Wittgenstein: It has learned how to swim.
Vello: Has it? Let's see it swimming. Belle! Bring us a bowl of cold water!
Belle comes in.
Belle: Katherine! Ludwig! Terence! How lovely to see you. Can I get you a coffee? And red cordial for Terence? Some fruit buns?
Vello: First, a bowl of cold water.
Belle: Whatever for?
David: The potato. An audition.
Belle: Okay.
She goes out and returns with a bowl of cold water.
Terence drops the red parrot potato in.
The potato tries to remember everything Grandpa Marx taught him.
But there are no waves in the bowl and nor is it salty. He sinks to the bottom.
I have nothing to hope for! thinks the potato. I am forced to the conclusion that god has abandoned me to some mischievous power. If I could speak, I should ask to have done to me what is normally done to potatoes. As it is, I'll just lie here.
He just lies there.
Belle goes out and comes back with coffee, red cordial and buns.
Let me out, quick, says Terence.
She opens the back door. Terence jumps out with his red parrot potato and runs up the stairs.
Vello and David are deep in discussion.
David: I still feel the play is too heavy.
Vello: Heavy! It's light hearted humour.
Terence bursts in.
Terence: Guess what!
Vello: You've got a new parrot.
David: It doesn't look like a parrot.
Terence: It's a potato! It's going to be the Bright Red Object and I'm doing the voices. I have to train it.
Katherine and Wittgenstein enter.
David: Hello, mother! You got here quickly.
Katherine: I see you've met Terence's potato. What do you think of it?
Vello: Fine, fine. Let's see what it can do.
Terence: Baa! Saaave-meee!
David: Very nice. But the potato didn't do anything.
Wittgenstein: It has learned how to swim.
Vello: Has it? Let's see it swimming. Belle! Bring us a bowl of cold water!
Belle comes in.
Belle: Katherine! Ludwig! Terence! How lovely to see you. Can I get you a coffee? And red cordial for Terence? Some fruit buns?
Vello: First, a bowl of cold water.
Belle: Whatever for?
David: The potato. An audition.
Belle: Okay.
She goes out and returns with a bowl of cold water.
Terence drops the red parrot potato in.
The potato tries to remember everything Grandpa Marx taught him.
But there are no waves in the bowl and nor is it salty. He sinks to the bottom.
I have nothing to hope for! thinks the potato. I am forced to the conclusion that god has abandoned me to some mischievous power. If I could speak, I should ask to have done to me what is normally done to potatoes. As it is, I'll just lie here.
He just lies there.
Belle goes out and comes back with coffee, red cordial and buns.
Monday, February 19, 2018
Interfering Geologist
Katherine messages Margaret: Please pick up my things when you see Gaius.
Margaret replies: What things?
Katherine answers: Red shorts etc.
Margaret: I'm on my way now.
Katherine: On your way NOW?
Gaius won't be too happy, says Katherine. Margaret's on her way now.
Wittgenstein is glad he's escaped this encounter.
Katherine puts her phone away, and continues driving.
In the back, Terence tries out a new sheep voice: Baaa! Baaa! Saaave-meee!
The red parrot potato tries unsuccessfully to mime it.
.....
Gaius is down on the sand, picking at filamentous green algae.
Every so often he looks up and down the beach, hoping to spot the odd shorebird.
Saint Roley has an oily twig in his beak. He is writing down what Gaius says in his notebook.
It looks like this so far:
1. ^
2. ^
3. ^
Gaius hasn't seen it.
Krvee! says Saint Roley. Someone's coming
It'll be the Ranger, says Gaius.
It isn't.
Margaret! says Gaius.
Saint Roley writes:
4. ...^
He surveys his handiwork.
With an oily twig, it's the best he can do.
Gaius! says Margaret. Circumstances have resulted in me being your only means of returning to Adelaide. But we don't have to go yet.
Gaius is thunderstruck.
Margaret is already poking her nose into his campsite. Straightening his towel. Moving his collection of filamentous green algae out of the sun.
That's better, says Margaret. Where's your tent? Don't you have one?
I don't need one, says Gaius. Nor do I need a permit. The Ranger....
But Margaret is looking at Saint Roley's list of recently spotted shorebirds.
What are these marks? asks Margaret.
Saint Roley is only too happy to explain them.
^ is a grebe, ^ is an egret, ^ is a masked lapwing and ... ^ is you.
And what is the difference? asks Margaret.
You are a lady, says Saint Roley.
But your list doesn't reflect that, says Margaret. Nor does it distinguish between different bird species. Gaius, have you seen this?
No, says Gaius . Is there a problem?
Just look, says Margaret. What do you understand by these marks?
Grebe, egret, masked lapwing, interfering geologist, says Gaius.
This is the closest Gaius has approached to a joke in quite a long time.
Margaret ignores it.
Your amanuensis should use a proper pencil, says Margaret. But of course you have forgotten to bring one.
On this occasion, you are right, says Gaius. I usually pack one.
You never do, says Margaret. Lucky I'm here.
She pulls out a geology pencil, which is waterproof and fade resistant.
She would have one.
Margaret replies: What things?
Katherine answers: Red shorts etc.
Margaret: I'm on my way now.
Katherine: On your way NOW?
Gaius won't be too happy, says Katherine. Margaret's on her way now.
Wittgenstein is glad he's escaped this encounter.
Katherine puts her phone away, and continues driving.
In the back, Terence tries out a new sheep voice: Baaa! Baaa! Saaave-meee!
The red parrot potato tries unsuccessfully to mime it.
.....
Gaius is down on the sand, picking at filamentous green algae.
Every so often he looks up and down the beach, hoping to spot the odd shorebird.
Saint Roley has an oily twig in his beak. He is writing down what Gaius says in his notebook.
It looks like this so far:
1. ^
2. ^
3. ^
Gaius hasn't seen it.
Krvee! says Saint Roley. Someone's coming
It'll be the Ranger, says Gaius.
It isn't.
Margaret! says Gaius.
Saint Roley writes:
4. ...^
He surveys his handiwork.
With an oily twig, it's the best he can do.
Gaius! says Margaret. Circumstances have resulted in me being your only means of returning to Adelaide. But we don't have to go yet.
Gaius is thunderstruck.
Margaret is already poking her nose into his campsite. Straightening his towel. Moving his collection of filamentous green algae out of the sun.
That's better, says Margaret. Where's your tent? Don't you have one?
I don't need one, says Gaius. Nor do I need a permit. The Ranger....
But Margaret is looking at Saint Roley's list of recently spotted shorebirds.
What are these marks? asks Margaret.
Saint Roley is only too happy to explain them.
^ is a grebe, ^ is an egret, ^ is a masked lapwing and ... ^ is you.
And what is the difference? asks Margaret.
You are a lady, says Saint Roley.
But your list doesn't reflect that, says Margaret. Nor does it distinguish between different bird species. Gaius, have you seen this?
No, says Gaius . Is there a problem?
Just look, says Margaret. What do you understand by these marks?
Grebe, egret, masked lapwing, interfering geologist, says Gaius.
This is the closest Gaius has approached to a joke in quite a long time.
Margaret ignores it.
Your amanuensis should use a proper pencil, says Margaret. But of course you have forgotten to bring one.
On this occasion, you are right, says Gaius. I usually pack one.
You never do, says Margaret. Lucky I'm here.
She pulls out a geology pencil, which is waterproof and fade resistant.
She would have one.
Sunday, February 18, 2018
Save Me Ray Moon
Katherine is driving. Wittgenstein is in the passenger seat
Terence is in the back with the red parrot potato.
I ought to stop off at the campsite to pick up my belongings, says Katherine. Pity.
I thought you had them, says Wittgenstein. The novel, the bag of Carisma potatoes.
My sensible clothes, says Katherine.
Are they red? asks Terence.
One pair of shorts, says Katherine.
You could ask Margaret to pick them up on her way through, says Wittgenstein.
I could, says Katherine. Good idea, Ludwig.
But we need them, says Terence.
I have plenty of shorts back in Adelaide, says Katherine. And I don't wear the red ones.
Why did you bring them? asks Wittgenstein.
He is genuinely interested.
In case I became lost in the sand hills, says Katherine. I could be more easily spotted.
WE NEED THEM, says Terence.
Why? asks Katherine.
For a costume, says Terence.
Vello will give you a costume, says Katherine.
Terence won't need a costume, says Wittgenstein. He's only providing the voice. The potato already has a costume.
The red parrot potato is glad this has been pointed out. He has suffered a great deal for his costume. Imagine if Terence should shroud him in old lady's shorts.
People will see me, says Terence.
You'll be voices off, says Wittgenstein.
He knows all about voices off. He quite likes the theatre.
I'm having a costume, says Terence. And I'm having a voice costume.
There's no such thing, says Katherine.
Yus thur is! says Terence deeply.
Well you don't need my red shorts today, says Katherine. We can't see you anyway. Go ahead and practise.
Okay.
Terence thinks about the Bright Red Object (a sheep swimming) and what it was last year that he had to say.
NOTHING!
Wah! says Terence. I've got nothing to do.
I'm sure Vello with give you a line or two, says Katherine. Let's workshop it.
What does that mean? asks Terence.
Make something up and see if it works, says Katherine. Tell your potato to start swimming.
The potato, who was confident about swimming, faces a difficulty.
The back seat is dry.
He's trying, says Terence. But he's not moving.
Doesn't matter, says Wittgenstein. It's the voice costume we're working on now.
So, Terence, try and imagine what the Bright Red Object might be saying, says Katherine.
This is rubbish, says Terence.
Meaning what he might be saying? asks Katherine.
Both, says Terence.
Try something else, suggests Wittgenstein.
Terence thinks. He's a red sheep belonging to Sweezus. Not Sweezus, Candide. Sweezus was playing Candide. No wait, Sweezus went surfing. Ray Moon played Candide last year.
Save me, Ray Moon, says Terence.
What was that? asks Katherine.
SAVE ME RAY MOON, says Terence.
How to puzzle everyone, says Katherine.
Terence is in the back with the red parrot potato.
I ought to stop off at the campsite to pick up my belongings, says Katherine. Pity.
I thought you had them, says Wittgenstein. The novel, the bag of Carisma potatoes.
My sensible clothes, says Katherine.
Are they red? asks Terence.
One pair of shorts, says Katherine.
You could ask Margaret to pick them up on her way through, says Wittgenstein.
I could, says Katherine. Good idea, Ludwig.
But we need them, says Terence.
I have plenty of shorts back in Adelaide, says Katherine. And I don't wear the red ones.
Why did you bring them? asks Wittgenstein.
He is genuinely interested.
In case I became lost in the sand hills, says Katherine. I could be more easily spotted.
WE NEED THEM, says Terence.
Why? asks Katherine.
For a costume, says Terence.
Vello will give you a costume, says Katherine.
Terence won't need a costume, says Wittgenstein. He's only providing the voice. The potato already has a costume.
The red parrot potato is glad this has been pointed out. He has suffered a great deal for his costume. Imagine if Terence should shroud him in old lady's shorts.
People will see me, says Terence.
You'll be voices off, says Wittgenstein.
He knows all about voices off. He quite likes the theatre.
I'm having a costume, says Terence. And I'm having a voice costume.
There's no such thing, says Katherine.
Yus thur is! says Terence deeply.
Well you don't need my red shorts today, says Katherine. We can't see you anyway. Go ahead and practise.
Okay.
Terence thinks about the Bright Red Object (a sheep swimming) and what it was last year that he had to say.
NOTHING!
Wah! says Terence. I've got nothing to do.
I'm sure Vello with give you a line or two, says Katherine. Let's workshop it.
What does that mean? asks Terence.
Make something up and see if it works, says Katherine. Tell your potato to start swimming.
The potato, who was confident about swimming, faces a difficulty.
The back seat is dry.
He's trying, says Terence. But he's not moving.
Doesn't matter, says Wittgenstein. It's the voice costume we're working on now.
So, Terence, try and imagine what the Bright Red Object might be saying, says Katherine.
This is rubbish, says Terence.
Meaning what he might be saying? asks Katherine.
Both, says Terence.
Try something else, suggests Wittgenstein.
Terence thinks. He's a red sheep belonging to Sweezus. Not Sweezus, Candide. Sweezus was playing Candide. No wait, Sweezus went surfing. Ray Moon played Candide last year.
Save me, Ray Moon, says Terence.
What was that? asks Katherine.
SAVE ME RAY MOON, says Terence.
How to puzzle everyone, says Katherine.
Saturday, February 17, 2018
How Hard Is Swimming?
The red parrot potato dreams of stardom.
How to inhabit the part?
All he knows is that the Bright Red Object is a sheep, swimming.....
And that Terence doesn't want the part because of the swimming.
But Terence is made of cement, while he is a potato.
It's sure to be fine.
Katherine speaks: I think Terence and I should head back to Adelaide right away.
Yay! says Terence.
Gaius won't like that, says Margaret. Ludwig and I are staying a bit longer. He could ride back with us.
That's very kind of you, says Katherine. I'll give him a buzz.
No, don't do that yet, says Margaret. We'll surprise him.
All right, says Katherine. But he's twenty k's down the coast. You might not find him.
We'll find him, says Margaret.
Is that Gaius Plinius Secundus? asks Grandpa Marx. I know where he is.
Of course, says Margaret. You seagulls know everything.
For Wittgenstein, this is the last straw.
He can't just storm off though.
He considers his options.
Storm off.
No, he has already discarded that option.
Go back with Katherine to Adelaide, leaving Margaret to do whatever it is she is planning to do with Gaius?
A better option.
I have just remembered an important engagement, says Wittgenstein.
He hopes the ladies won't think he has no social skills.
Come back with me then, says Katherine. I assume it's in Adelaide.
Um, yes, says Wittgenstein.
I shall be sorry to see you go, Ludwig, says Margaret. But perhaps it's all for the best.
THAT'S WHAT I HAD TO SAY! cries Terence.
Not when you played the Bright Red Object, says Katherine. That was when you played Doctor Pangloss. Doctor Pangloss believes everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
Outrageous! says Wittgenstein.
It's meant to be, says Katherine.
I was in a sleeve, says Terence. My costume was too big.
Yes, you were swimming in it, says Katherine. You said you were an otter.
Did I? asks Terence.
He doesn't remember.
The red parrot potato is feeling confused. Is he a playing a sheep or an otter?
And how hard is swimming?
Grandpa Marx is still inhabiting his wise Marxist persona.
He sees the confusion on the wrinkled face of the red parrot potato.
You're worried about swimming, comrade? Nothing could be easier. Come, I'll show you.
Grandpa Marx picks up the red parrot potato and whisks him down to the sea where the waves are foaming and crashing.
Floshhhhh! Shurrrr!
I'll stay with you, says Grandpa Marx. Just let yourself go. That's it. Easy.
The red parrot potato floats easily. Up, down, up, down, his feathers and peduncles wafting.
Crashh! A wave breaks behind him.
He and Grandpa Marx surf gently onto the shore.
The potato is confident now that he can play anything.
Even, if necessary, Doctor Pangloss.
How to inhabit the part?
All he knows is that the Bright Red Object is a sheep, swimming.....
And that Terence doesn't want the part because of the swimming.
But Terence is made of cement, while he is a potato.
It's sure to be fine.
Katherine speaks: I think Terence and I should head back to Adelaide right away.
Yay! says Terence.
Gaius won't like that, says Margaret. Ludwig and I are staying a bit longer. He could ride back with us.
That's very kind of you, says Katherine. I'll give him a buzz.
No, don't do that yet, says Margaret. We'll surprise him.
All right, says Katherine. But he's twenty k's down the coast. You might not find him.
We'll find him, says Margaret.
Is that Gaius Plinius Secundus? asks Grandpa Marx. I know where he is.
Of course, says Margaret. You seagulls know everything.
For Wittgenstein, this is the last straw.
He can't just storm off though.
He considers his options.
Storm off.
No, he has already discarded that option.
Go back with Katherine to Adelaide, leaving Margaret to do whatever it is she is planning to do with Gaius?
A better option.
I have just remembered an important engagement, says Wittgenstein.
He hopes the ladies won't think he has no social skills.
Come back with me then, says Katherine. I assume it's in Adelaide.
Um, yes, says Wittgenstein.
I shall be sorry to see you go, Ludwig, says Margaret. But perhaps it's all for the best.
THAT'S WHAT I HAD TO SAY! cries Terence.
Not when you played the Bright Red Object, says Katherine. That was when you played Doctor Pangloss. Doctor Pangloss believes everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
Outrageous! says Wittgenstein.
It's meant to be, says Katherine.
I was in a sleeve, says Terence. My costume was too big.
Yes, you were swimming in it, says Katherine. You said you were an otter.
Did I? asks Terence.
He doesn't remember.
The red parrot potato is feeling confused. Is he a playing a sheep or an otter?
And how hard is swimming?
Grandpa Marx is still inhabiting his wise Marxist persona.
He sees the confusion on the wrinkled face of the red parrot potato.
You're worried about swimming, comrade? Nothing could be easier. Come, I'll show you.
Grandpa Marx picks up the red parrot potato and whisks him down to the sea where the waves are foaming and crashing.
Floshhhhh! Shurrrr!
I'll stay with you, says Grandpa Marx. Just let yourself go. That's it. Easy.
The red parrot potato floats easily. Up, down, up, down, his feathers and peduncles wafting.
Crashh! A wave breaks behind him.
He and Grandpa Marx surf gently onto the shore.
The potato is confident now that he can play anything.
Even, if necessary, Doctor Pangloss.
Friday, February 16, 2018
Sporting Red Feathers
Here's your hammer, says Wittgenstein.
Thank you, says Margaret. Where's Terence?
Talking to a seagull, says Wittgenstein. He thinks it's his grandpa.
How sweet, says Katherine. Perhaps he'll forget about this silly potato.
She picks up the red parrot potato and throws it into a patch of sand fescue.
He'll see it there, says Margaret.
The red parrot potato hopes so. It has become fond of Terence, and was looking forward to sporting red feathers.....
Here comes Terence now.
The red parrot potato peers through the fescue. Terence does not appear to have acquired any red feathers.
Look up, red parrot potato!
Grandpa Marx alights on the towel, spitting out red feathers.
Get off ! cries Margaret.
NO! cries Terence. Look what we've got!
Red feathers, says Katherine. That's nice.
It would be nicer if you hadn't thrown away his potato, says Wittgenstein.
Where is it? shouts Terence.
Over there in the fescue, says Grandpa Marx. I spotted it immediately.
He hops over and pierces the wrinkled skin of the potato with his beak. He hops back to the towel.
That was awkward, says Grandpa Marx. How about we remove these peduncles, now we have all these red feathers.
No, says Terence. Peduncles AND feathers. It's red parrot pea parrot potato.
Wittgenstein lets out a cry of pure anguish.
Aieee! A red parrot pea parrot potato!
Just stick the feathers in, and be silent!
Okay. Terence begins sticking.
Katherine's phone rings.
Hello? Oh, David. Yes it's lovely. Very relaxing. I've been to-ing and fro-ing between Gaius and Margaret. Oh ha ha, no, don't be naughty. Yes Terence is with me. I don't know. Why on earth? Can't you put it on without him? What? What? Drat! David! You've dropped out.
What did he say about me and Gaius? asks Margaret.
Nothing, says Katherine.
What did he say about me? asks Terence.
The Fringe has started. He and Vello need you to act in their play, says Katherine. Remember, you were in it last year? You played the Bright Red Object.
YES! says Terence. I had a costume.
Would you like to be in it again? asks Katherine.
Maybe, says Terence. But only if they change it.
They always change it, says Katherine. What would you like to be different?
Not to be swimming, says Terence.
What's this Bright Red Object? asks Margaret.
Oh... a large sheep, says Katherine. One of Candide's.
Why is it red? asks Wittgenstein.
You'll have to ask Vello, says Katherine.
And why is it swimming?
For goodness sake, says Katherine. It's a PLAY!
I didn't like the swimming, says Terence. That's why I won't be in it unless there's no swimming.
Grandpa Marx has been thinking about how to resolve this to everyone's satisfaction.
What if Terence spoke the words and the potato played the swimming Bright Red Object? says Grandpa Marx.
Terence finishes sticking feathers into the potato.
What does everyone think?
They think the potato looks like an actor.
Thank you, says Margaret. Where's Terence?
Talking to a seagull, says Wittgenstein. He thinks it's his grandpa.
How sweet, says Katherine. Perhaps he'll forget about this silly potato.
She picks up the red parrot potato and throws it into a patch of sand fescue.
He'll see it there, says Margaret.
The red parrot potato hopes so. It has become fond of Terence, and was looking forward to sporting red feathers.....
Here comes Terence now.
The red parrot potato peers through the fescue. Terence does not appear to have acquired any red feathers.
Look up, red parrot potato!
Grandpa Marx alights on the towel, spitting out red feathers.
Get off ! cries Margaret.
NO! cries Terence. Look what we've got!
Red feathers, says Katherine. That's nice.
It would be nicer if you hadn't thrown away his potato, says Wittgenstein.
Where is it? shouts Terence.
Over there in the fescue, says Grandpa Marx. I spotted it immediately.
He hops over and pierces the wrinkled skin of the potato with his beak. He hops back to the towel.
That was awkward, says Grandpa Marx. How about we remove these peduncles, now we have all these red feathers.
No, says Terence. Peduncles AND feathers. It's red parrot pea parrot potato.
Wittgenstein lets out a cry of pure anguish.
Aieee! A red parrot pea parrot potato!
Just stick the feathers in, and be silent!
Okay. Terence begins sticking.
Katherine's phone rings.
Hello? Oh, David. Yes it's lovely. Very relaxing. I've been to-ing and fro-ing between Gaius and Margaret. Oh ha ha, no, don't be naughty. Yes Terence is with me. I don't know. Why on earth? Can't you put it on without him? What? What? Drat! David! You've dropped out.
What did he say about me and Gaius? asks Margaret.
Nothing, says Katherine.
What did he say about me? asks Terence.
The Fringe has started. He and Vello need you to act in their play, says Katherine. Remember, you were in it last year? You played the Bright Red Object.
YES! says Terence. I had a costume.
Would you like to be in it again? asks Katherine.
Maybe, says Terence. But only if they change it.
They always change it, says Katherine. What would you like to be different?
Not to be swimming, says Terence.
What's this Bright Red Object? asks Margaret.
Oh... a large sheep, says Katherine. One of Candide's.
Why is it red? asks Wittgenstein.
You'll have to ask Vello, says Katherine.
And why is it swimming?
For goodness sake, says Katherine. It's a PLAY!
I didn't like the swimming, says Terence. That's why I won't be in it unless there's no swimming.
Grandpa Marx has been thinking about how to resolve this to everyone's satisfaction.
What if Terence spoke the words and the potato played the swimming Bright Red Object? says Grandpa Marx.
Terence finishes sticking feathers into the potato.
What does everyone think?
They think the potato looks like an actor.
Thursday, February 15, 2018
Who Benefits?
Come, says Wittgenstein.
Wait, says Terence. I want to talk to grandpa.
Meaning me? asks the seagull.
Go back up, says Terence.
What? says the seagull.
Up there, says Terence.
A seagull would not normally obey Terence.
But he is intrigued.
He flutters upwards and hovers.
Higher, says Terence. No come back down. No, not there. Up more. STOP!
The seagull is level with Wittgenstein's shoulder.
How's this? asks the seagull.
Deeper, says Terence.
I give up, says the seagull.
If Wittgenstein was a different sort of person, more empathetic, he might help here.
But he is not, and does not.
Terence tries another tack, in desperation.
Do you know my grandpa?
No, says the seagull. Is he famous?
He knows everything, says Terence.
Wittgenstein is offended by this sweeping statement.
No one knows everything, says Wittgenstein.
Grandpa would know where to get red feathers, says Terence.
I know where to get red feathers, says the seagull.
See, says Terence.
I don't, says Wittgenstein.
Don't know or don't see? asks the seagull.
Don't play language games with me, grandpa, snaps Wittgenstein.
He storms off. He comes back. Picks up the hammer. Storms off again.
Better not lose Margaret's hammer.
Woop! says Terence. He called you grandpa. Okay, where are my feathers?
Give me ten minutes, says grandpa.
Terence loves this. The seagull is like Grandpa Marx.
Grandpa Marx flies off to where he is certain to find a supply of red feathers.
Terence waits. He wishes Wittgenstein had left him the hammer, but he hasn't.
He draws potatoes in the sand with his toes.
Grandpa Marx flies until he sees two red necked avocets. He lands in front of them.
Guys! says Grandpa Marx. Just a moment of your time. I'm here raising awareness.
Yeah, right! says one avocet.
Collecting for charity, says Grandpa Marx.
Pull the other one! scoffs the other.
Every red feather counts, says Grandpa Marx.
Prrt! says the first.
Cui bono? asks the second.
Glad you asked, says Grandpa Marx. It's for the upcoming Marxism conference in Melbourne. Everyone gets a red feather, to show solidarity.
The avocets look at one another.
Solidarity? Well, in that case.....
They each donate five red feathers.
Thank you brothers, says Grandpa Marx, as he is plucking the feathers.
He flies back to Terence, his mouth full of feathers and his head full of self-congratulation.
Who would have thought, this morning, that he would be someone's famous grandpa?
And that he would be so quick-witted?
Ha ha. Is there really a Marxism conference coming up in Melbourne?
Who cares!
He drops down beside Terence.
Ten red feathers for my grandson.
Yippee! cries Terence.
Wait, says Terence. I want to talk to grandpa.
Meaning me? asks the seagull.
Go back up, says Terence.
What? says the seagull.
Up there, says Terence.
A seagull would not normally obey Terence.
But he is intrigued.
He flutters upwards and hovers.
Higher, says Terence. No come back down. No, not there. Up more. STOP!
The seagull is level with Wittgenstein's shoulder.
How's this? asks the seagull.
Deeper, says Terence.
I give up, says the seagull.
If Wittgenstein was a different sort of person, more empathetic, he might help here.
But he is not, and does not.
Terence tries another tack, in desperation.
Do you know my grandpa?
No, says the seagull. Is he famous?
He knows everything, says Terence.
Wittgenstein is offended by this sweeping statement.
No one knows everything, says Wittgenstein.
Grandpa would know where to get red feathers, says Terence.
I know where to get red feathers, says the seagull.
See, says Terence.
I don't, says Wittgenstein.
Don't know or don't see? asks the seagull.
Don't play language games with me, grandpa, snaps Wittgenstein.
He storms off. He comes back. Picks up the hammer. Storms off again.
Better not lose Margaret's hammer.
Woop! says Terence. He called you grandpa. Okay, where are my feathers?
Give me ten minutes, says grandpa.
Terence loves this. The seagull is like Grandpa Marx.
Grandpa Marx flies off to where he is certain to find a supply of red feathers.
Terence waits. He wishes Wittgenstein had left him the hammer, but he hasn't.
He draws potatoes in the sand with his toes.
Grandpa Marx flies until he sees two red necked avocets. He lands in front of them.
Guys! says Grandpa Marx. Just a moment of your time. I'm here raising awareness.
Yeah, right! says one avocet.
Collecting for charity, says Grandpa Marx.
Pull the other one! scoffs the other.
Every red feather counts, says Grandpa Marx.
Prrt! says the first.
Cui bono? asks the second.
Glad you asked, says Grandpa Marx. It's for the upcoming Marxism conference in Melbourne. Everyone gets a red feather, to show solidarity.
The avocets look at one another.
Solidarity? Well, in that case.....
They each donate five red feathers.
Thank you brothers, says Grandpa Marx, as he is plucking the feathers.
He flies back to Terence, his mouth full of feathers and his head full of self-congratulation.
Who would have thought, this morning, that he would be someone's famous grandpa?
And that he would be so quick-witted?
Ha ha. Is there really a Marxism conference coming up in Melbourne?
Who cares!
He drops down beside Terence.
Ten red feathers for my grandson.
Yippee! cries Terence.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Why We Work Backwards
The common greenshanks and the curlew sandpipers freeze. A hammer!
Answer! say Terence.
But they won't answer.
What do we do now? asks Terence.
Wittgenstein feels obliged to turn his attention to this question.
He decides to work backwards.
Luckily a seagull is hovering.
Squark! says the seagull.
Terence looks up.
Put the hammer down, says the seagull.
Terence puts the hammer down.
Put the hammer down, says Wittgenstein.
I did, says Terence.
We appear to have reached the same conclusion, says Wittgenstein. Did you work backwards?
Why would I? says Terence.
In order to resolve the situation, says Wittgenstein. The birds were not frozen before. Therefore...
I obeyed the seagull, says Terence. He sounded like grandpa.
Did I? asks the seagull. I'll take that as a compliment. By the way, the greenshanks and sandpipers have also worked backwards.
So they have. They have melted away.
Terence picks up the hammer.
Stupid hammer.
It was USELESS.
........
Margaret has arrived at the campsite, expecting to see Gaius.
Katherine is sitting in the narrow shade of the tent, reading her novel.
Katherine! says Margaret. Where's Gaius?
Back where I left him, says Katherine. I asked if he wanted to come but he was adamant.
Hum, says Margaret. I've just seen Terence. He said Gaius brought him.
Perhaps you put the question in an ambiguous manner, says Katherine.
Tch! says Margaret. I am never ambiguous.
No, says Katherine. You probably aren't. What's that you're clutching?
Oh this. A blood cockle fossil, says Margaret. Ludwig's so interested. He's still back there, chipping. I shouldn't have left him.
But you thought Gaius was here. Really, Margaret.
I know, says Margaret. Gaius annoys me.
And you annoy him, says Katherine.
I just want him to show a little interest, says Margaret.
He's interested in fossils, says Katherine. Is that one rare?
Not that rare, says Margaret.
She and Katherine glare at the blood cockle fossil.
The blood cockle fossil remains stony-faced.
It's not its fault.
Answer! say Terence.
But they won't answer.
What do we do now? asks Terence.
Wittgenstein feels obliged to turn his attention to this question.
He decides to work backwards.
Luckily a seagull is hovering.
Squark! says the seagull.
Terence looks up.
Put the hammer down, says the seagull.
Terence puts the hammer down.
Put the hammer down, says Wittgenstein.
I did, says Terence.
We appear to have reached the same conclusion, says Wittgenstein. Did you work backwards?
Why would I? says Terence.
In order to resolve the situation, says Wittgenstein. The birds were not frozen before. Therefore...
I obeyed the seagull, says Terence. He sounded like grandpa.
Did I? asks the seagull. I'll take that as a compliment. By the way, the greenshanks and sandpipers have also worked backwards.
So they have. They have melted away.
Terence picks up the hammer.
Stupid hammer.
It was USELESS.
........
Margaret has arrived at the campsite, expecting to see Gaius.
Katherine is sitting in the narrow shade of the tent, reading her novel.
Katherine! says Margaret. Where's Gaius?
Back where I left him, says Katherine. I asked if he wanted to come but he was adamant.
Hum, says Margaret. I've just seen Terence. He said Gaius brought him.
Perhaps you put the question in an ambiguous manner, says Katherine.
Tch! says Margaret. I am never ambiguous.
No, says Katherine. You probably aren't. What's that you're clutching?
Oh this. A blood cockle fossil, says Margaret. Ludwig's so interested. He's still back there, chipping. I shouldn't have left him.
But you thought Gaius was here. Really, Margaret.
I know, says Margaret. Gaius annoys me.
And you annoy him, says Katherine.
I just want him to show a little interest, says Margaret.
He's interested in fossils, says Katherine. Is that one rare?
Not that rare, says Margaret.
She and Katherine glare at the blood cockle fossil.
The blood cockle fossil remains stony-faced.
It's not its fault.
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
The Glinting Seascape
Let's see! says Terence.
Margaret turns.
Terence!
The rare cockle, says Terence.
Here, says Wittgenstein, I'm just chipping it out.
The rare cockle fossil drops to the sand and Margaret retrieves it.
Anadaria trapezia, says Margaret. They no longer populate southern Australian waters. See, Terence. Once this was the home of a living creature. A blood cockle.
Terence looks.
How did it get out, the blood cockle?
How did it get in, for that matter? And where is it now?
He is about to ask these three questions when he remembers what Gaius once said about Margaret.
A waffler.
So Terence thinks he will skip these three questions and ask about feathers.
Have you seen....? begins Terence.
But Margaret has put two and two together.
If Terence is here, so is Gaius.
Did Gaius bring you? asks Margaret.
Yes, says Terence. But...
Good, says Margaret, heading back to the campsite.
She took your cockle, says Terence.
It was never my cockle, says Wittgenstein.
You can get another one, says Terence. You've still got the hammer.
My heart is not in it, says Wittgenstein.
I'll do it, says Terence.
Wittgenstein is not used to young people, even cement ones. He hands Terence the hammer.
Terrence whacks at the limestone.
Steady, says Wittgenstein.
Bash-bash-fush, out drops a fossil. What is it?
Looks like a Pintada carchariarum, or pearl oyster.
Bash-bash-fumm! Out drops a gastropod, a Euplica bidentata
Crack! Flup. A large benthic foraminifer, or Marginofora vertebratis.
These are rubbish, says Terence.
Wittgenstein isn't so sure they are rubbish. But Margaret has run off on the expectation of seeing Gaius. Just RUN OFF! It's insupportable. What does he do with the hammer? And the infant!
He sits down in the sand.
Ow. He shifts slightly, having sat on a broken fossil.
Have you seen a red neck avocet? asks Terence.
Ha ha, laughs Wittgenstein. It wouldn't be red now, would it? What colour was the blood cockle? What colour is every damn thing in this limestone?
Cream, says Terence. But that's because we're not looking.
Not looking! cries Wittgenstein.
For birds, says Terence. Let's do that now. Birds with red feathers.
Why do you wish to find birds with red feathers? asks Wittgenstein.
For my potato, says Terence.
Wittgenstein looks at Terence. He looks at the sand. He looks at the glinting seascape. Perhaps he has sunstroke. He should have worn a hat.
Come on. I'll bring the hammer, says Terence.
He plods down to the water's edge, where several shorebirds are foraging.
Wittgenstein follows.
The shorebirds are common greenshanks and curlew sandpipers.
Crunch crunch.
They look up.
WHERE ARE THE REDNECK AVOCETS? shouts Terence. I'M SICK OF THIS!
The shorebirds are unimpressed.
Until they see the hammer.
Margaret turns.
Terence!
The rare cockle, says Terence.
Here, says Wittgenstein, I'm just chipping it out.
The rare cockle fossil drops to the sand and Margaret retrieves it.
Anadaria trapezia, says Margaret. They no longer populate southern Australian waters. See, Terence. Once this was the home of a living creature. A blood cockle.
Terence looks.
How did it get out, the blood cockle?
How did it get in, for that matter? And where is it now?
He is about to ask these three questions when he remembers what Gaius once said about Margaret.
A waffler.
So Terence thinks he will skip these three questions and ask about feathers.
Have you seen....? begins Terence.
But Margaret has put two and two together.
If Terence is here, so is Gaius.
Did Gaius bring you? asks Margaret.
Yes, says Terence. But...
Good, says Margaret, heading back to the campsite.
She took your cockle, says Terence.
It was never my cockle, says Wittgenstein.
You can get another one, says Terence. You've still got the hammer.
My heart is not in it, says Wittgenstein.
I'll do it, says Terence.
Wittgenstein is not used to young people, even cement ones. He hands Terence the hammer.
Terrence whacks at the limestone.
Steady, says Wittgenstein.
Bash-bash-fush, out drops a fossil. What is it?
Looks like a Pintada carchariarum, or pearl oyster.
Bash-bash-fumm! Out drops a gastropod, a Euplica bidentata
Crack! Flup. A large benthic foraminifer, or Marginofora vertebratis.
These are rubbish, says Terence.
Wittgenstein isn't so sure they are rubbish. But Margaret has run off on the expectation of seeing Gaius. Just RUN OFF! It's insupportable. What does he do with the hammer? And the infant!
He sits down in the sand.
Ow. He shifts slightly, having sat on a broken fossil.
Have you seen a red neck avocet? asks Terence.
Ha ha, laughs Wittgenstein. It wouldn't be red now, would it? What colour was the blood cockle? What colour is every damn thing in this limestone?
Cream, says Terence. But that's because we're not looking.
Not looking! cries Wittgenstein.
For birds, says Terence. Let's do that now. Birds with red feathers.
Why do you wish to find birds with red feathers? asks Wittgenstein.
For my potato, says Terence.
Wittgenstein looks at Terence. He looks at the sand. He looks at the glinting seascape. Perhaps he has sunstroke. He should have worn a hat.
Come on. I'll bring the hammer, says Terence.
He plods down to the water's edge, where several shorebirds are foraging.
Wittgenstein follows.
The shorebirds are common greenshanks and curlew sandpipers.
Crunch crunch.
They look up.
WHERE ARE THE REDNECK AVOCETS? shouts Terence. I'M SICK OF THIS!
The shorebirds are unimpressed.
Until they see the hammer.
Monday, February 12, 2018
Evolutionary Difference
Are you sure you don't want to come with me? says Katherine.
Very sure, says Gaius. When will you be back?
Later, says Katherine. Come on, Terence. Got your potato?
Yes, says Terence.
She helps Terence into the back of her car.
The potato sits on the seat beside him.
Off we go, says Katherine.
A seagull watches them go.
........
Two rednecked avocets are searching for aquatic insects.
The seagull drops down.
He's gone, says the seagull.
Thanks for the heads up, says one.
Swaaw! laughs the seagull. More like, Beaks up!
The avocets snort. Their beaks curve upwards. It's a joke they are used to.
.......
What a beautiful morning, says Katherine. The Coorong looks so serene. The lagoons, the dunes, the low vegetation, the birds, the long beach. Did you know, Terence, this is Australia's longest beach.
Terence is looking at his potato.
Did you know that, potato?
The potato mouths: O.
And yet, continues Katherine, paradoxically it has no official name.
Do I have an official name? asks Terence.
Good question, says Katherine. But what is an official name anyway?
Does my potato? asks Terence.
Carisma, says Katherine.
.......
At last they arrive at Margaret and Ludwig's campsite.
The tent is there, and the cool bag, and Katherine's novel.
Also the bag of Carisma potatoes, somewhat depleted.
But not Margaret and Ludwig.
Terence sits down on a towel.
They must have gone off to do some geology, says Katherine. I'll just sit here and read in the shade. Have they left us some water? O yes, good. We have everything we need.
Terence idly empties the bag of potatoes onto the beach towel.
He places his red parrot potato in the middle.
These are your friends, says Terence.
But they are not his friends.
There is a huge evolutionary difference between him and a bunch of uncooked Carisma potatoes.
They don't interact, and it's BORING.
Terence wanders off to look for red necked avocets.
Don't go too far! says Katherine.
Terence remembers the Ranger and his smartness.
Follow the footprints.
There are two sets of footprints.
He follows them.
After ages and ages he comes across Margaret and Wittgenstein.
Wittgenstein is chipping at limestone.
Their backs are to him. They are talking.
Margaret is saying: Ludwig! That's a rare cockle!
Very sure, says Gaius. When will you be back?
Later, says Katherine. Come on, Terence. Got your potato?
Yes, says Terence.
She helps Terence into the back of her car.
The potato sits on the seat beside him.
Off we go, says Katherine.
A seagull watches them go.
........
Two rednecked avocets are searching for aquatic insects.
The seagull drops down.
He's gone, says the seagull.
Thanks for the heads up, says one.
Swaaw! laughs the seagull. More like, Beaks up!
The avocets snort. Their beaks curve upwards. It's a joke they are used to.
.......
What a beautiful morning, says Katherine. The Coorong looks so serene. The lagoons, the dunes, the low vegetation, the birds, the long beach. Did you know, Terence, this is Australia's longest beach.
Terence is looking at his potato.
Did you know that, potato?
The potato mouths: O.
And yet, continues Katherine, paradoxically it has no official name.
Do I have an official name? asks Terence.
Good question, says Katherine. But what is an official name anyway?
Does my potato? asks Terence.
Carisma, says Katherine.
.......
At last they arrive at Margaret and Ludwig's campsite.
The tent is there, and the cool bag, and Katherine's novel.
Also the bag of Carisma potatoes, somewhat depleted.
But not Margaret and Ludwig.
Terence sits down on a towel.
They must have gone off to do some geology, says Katherine. I'll just sit here and read in the shade. Have they left us some water? O yes, good. We have everything we need.
Terence idly empties the bag of potatoes onto the beach towel.
He places his red parrot potato in the middle.
These are your friends, says Terence.
But they are not his friends.
There is a huge evolutionary difference between him and a bunch of uncooked Carisma potatoes.
They don't interact, and it's BORING.
Terence wanders off to look for red necked avocets.
Don't go too far! says Katherine.
Terence remembers the Ranger and his smartness.
Follow the footprints.
There are two sets of footprints.
He follows them.
After ages and ages he comes across Margaret and Wittgenstein.
Wittgenstein is chipping at limestone.
Their backs are to him. They are talking.
Margaret is saying: Ludwig! That's a rare cockle!
Sunday, February 11, 2018
I Haven't Found One Yet
Will Terence meet a rednecked avocet on the beach in the short time allotted?
We don't know yet.
And why is a short time allotted?
Because Katherine is coming up behind him.
Terence! says Katherine. Come back!
Terence turns around and sees Katherine.
What?
I'm going for a short drive up the coast. Would you like to come with me?
No, says Terence.
I'm looking for a rednecked avocet.
I haven't found one yet.
I'm upset.
O Terence, says Katherine, what a lovely poem. But... where is your potato?
Buried in the sand, says Terence. Somewhere back there.
That seems risky, says Katherine. Anything might happen.
Nothing might happen, says Terence.
Then you may as well come with me, says Katherine. I'm driving up the coast to see Margaret and Ludwig. I left my book there last night. We can ask them if they've spotted any avocets.
Okay, says Terence.
He follows Katherine back to the campsite.
On the way they pass the red parrot potato.
Saint Roley and the sandpipers have left it there, half buried.
Isn't that your potato? asks Katherine.
No, says Terence.
He continues walking with Katherine back to the campsite.
Gaius is there with Saint Roley.
We must get a move on, says Gaius. Collect as much filamentous green algae as you can.
Righto! says Saint Roley. O, hello Terence. Did you find a rednecked avocet?
No. Where's my red parrot potato? asks Terence.
Back there where you left it, says Saint Roley.
You were supposed to look after it, says Terence.
I did, says Saint Roley. It didn't need anything. It looked happy. I told it you were coming.
Now I have to go back, says Terence.
He heads back to find his potato.
Hurry up, says Katherine. I want to leave in a minute.
Where are you off to? asks Gaius.
I told you, says Katherine. I'm going to pick up my novel from Margaret's campsite. I left it there last night.
Yes, yes, says Gaius. You told me. Did you leave it on purpose?
Of course not, says Katherine.
Terence has reached his potato.
The potato stirs in the sand.
Its peduncles are drooping.
Its wrinkled potato face has cracked. A mouth has formed.
The mouth is silent but anyone can see that the mouth is saying NO.
Okay, says Terence. I'm sorry.
The mouth softens.
Terence picks up the potato. It is wet on the bottom, and the damp peduncles are not drooping.
A few have fallen out and remain stuck in the sand.
It was because I couldn't find any feathers, says Terence. So you didn't have any feathers, so you didn't look like you. So I said you weren't my red parrot potato.
Terence kisses his red parrot potato. Pwsoosch!
He has learned a lesson.
So has the potato.
We don't know yet.
And why is a short time allotted?
Because Katherine is coming up behind him.
Terence! says Katherine. Come back!
Terence turns around and sees Katherine.
What?
I'm going for a short drive up the coast. Would you like to come with me?
No, says Terence.
I'm looking for a rednecked avocet.
I haven't found one yet.
I'm upset.
O Terence, says Katherine, what a lovely poem. But... where is your potato?
Buried in the sand, says Terence. Somewhere back there.
That seems risky, says Katherine. Anything might happen.
Nothing might happen, says Terence.
Then you may as well come with me, says Katherine. I'm driving up the coast to see Margaret and Ludwig. I left my book there last night. We can ask them if they've spotted any avocets.
Okay, says Terence.
He follows Katherine back to the campsite.
On the way they pass the red parrot potato.
Saint Roley and the sandpipers have left it there, half buried.
Isn't that your potato? asks Katherine.
No, says Terence.
He continues walking with Katherine back to the campsite.
Gaius is there with Saint Roley.
We must get a move on, says Gaius. Collect as much filamentous green algae as you can.
Righto! says Saint Roley. O, hello Terence. Did you find a rednecked avocet?
No. Where's my red parrot potato? asks Terence.
Back there where you left it, says Saint Roley.
You were supposed to look after it, says Terence.
I did, says Saint Roley. It didn't need anything. It looked happy. I told it you were coming.
Now I have to go back, says Terence.
He heads back to find his potato.
Hurry up, says Katherine. I want to leave in a minute.
Where are you off to? asks Gaius.
I told you, says Katherine. I'm going to pick up my novel from Margaret's campsite. I left it there last night.
Yes, yes, says Gaius. You told me. Did you leave it on purpose?
Of course not, says Katherine.
Terence has reached his potato.
The potato stirs in the sand.
Its peduncles are drooping.
Its wrinkled potato face has cracked. A mouth has formed.
The mouth is silent but anyone can see that the mouth is saying NO.
Okay, says Terence. I'm sorry.
The mouth softens.
Terence picks up the potato. It is wet on the bottom, and the damp peduncles are not drooping.
A few have fallen out and remain stuck in the sand.
It was because I couldn't find any feathers, says Terence. So you didn't have any feathers, so you didn't look like you. So I said you weren't my red parrot potato.
Terence kisses his red parrot potato. Pwsoosch!
He has learned a lesson.
So has the potato.
Saturday, February 10, 2018
What About Gratitude?
Twenty kilometres up the coast, Margaret and Wittgenstein are eating a nutty seedy breakfast from white bowls with UHT milk added.
Wittgenstein does not marvel.
He believes that the world is what it is.
A collection of facts.
He says so.
Margaret is less than pleased.
What about gratitude? She has gone to a great deal of trouble to pack bowls and spoons, and keep the milk cool, not to mention thoughtfully choosing Crunchy Clusters.
Wittgenstein apologises. He is not good with women. He has lived alone mostly. To date, all the facts have been his.
It's all right, Ludwig, says Margaret. You can wipe the bowls. Here's a paper towel.
Wittgenstein attempts to do as requested.
I see what you mean though, says Margaret. The world is what it is. It's glaringly obvious.
To you perhaps, says Wittgenstein. But I have spent a great deal of time on it. Words mean different things to different people. And the same word can have different meanings. Take the word is, for example.
Is? says Margaret. Surely is means ...um.. what something is.
Water is clear, says Wittgenstein. Water is H20. Is in the first statement is not the same is as the is in the second.
I see, says Margaret. No, it isn't. One is is ... one thing and the other is .. isn't.
You are not concentrating, says Wittgenstein.
Nor are you. Fold it, says Margaret.
Uh? says Wittgenstein.
The paper towel. Scrunching is hopeless. You'll miss bits, says Margaret
I see, says Wittgenstein. Hopeless.
Never mind, says Margaret. We have a lovely morning ahead of us. You shall have my geology hammer.
I have been wondering, says Wittgenstein, why one needs a geology hammer in sand dunes.
The sand dunes display a variety of forms, says Margaret. It depends on their origins. Many are parts of extensive aeolian sand sheets and are migrating landward. Others relate to beach ridge formation, on the seaward side of the barrier. We shall examine the older cemented dunes of the Late Pleistocene age, which are formed of dune limestone or aeolianite. Are you with me?
He is. It sounds utterly fascinating.
........
Meanwhile Terence has wandered a very long way up the beach.
He is looking for avocets. Rednecked ones. He knows they are forty six centimetres high.
There's a bird! No, it's a seagull. May as well ask it.
Hello, says Terence, have you seen a redneck avocet?
What do they look like, apart from the obvious? asks the seagull.
Red necks, says Terence.
That was the obvious, says the seagull.
So, you have? says Terence.
No, says the seagull. It flies off.
Luckily the next bird Terence sees is taller.
Are you a rednecked avocet? asks Terence.
Bah! Stuck up types, sniffs the bird. No, I'm not one.
Where are they stuck? asks Terence.
Up, says the bird (a banded stilt, thirty six centimetres).
Terence looks up.
You stupid? says the banded stilt. Their BEAKS are stuck up.
From then on she ignores him, and resumes poking for molluscs.
But Terence now has another identifier.
Be strong, dear red parrot potato. Do not despair. Terence will find a tall rednecked stuck-up beaked avocet and ask it for feathers. Lots of red feathers. At least ten.
Wittgenstein does not marvel.
He believes that the world is what it is.
A collection of facts.
He says so.
Margaret is less than pleased.
What about gratitude? She has gone to a great deal of trouble to pack bowls and spoons, and keep the milk cool, not to mention thoughtfully choosing Crunchy Clusters.
Wittgenstein apologises. He is not good with women. He has lived alone mostly. To date, all the facts have been his.
It's all right, Ludwig, says Margaret. You can wipe the bowls. Here's a paper towel.
Wittgenstein attempts to do as requested.
I see what you mean though, says Margaret. The world is what it is. It's glaringly obvious.
To you perhaps, says Wittgenstein. But I have spent a great deal of time on it. Words mean different things to different people. And the same word can have different meanings. Take the word is, for example.
Is? says Margaret. Surely is means ...um.. what something is.
Water is clear, says Wittgenstein. Water is H20. Is in the first statement is not the same is as the is in the second.
I see, says Margaret. No, it isn't. One is is ... one thing and the other is .. isn't.
You are not concentrating, says Wittgenstein.
Nor are you. Fold it, says Margaret.
Uh? says Wittgenstein.
The paper towel. Scrunching is hopeless. You'll miss bits, says Margaret
I see, says Wittgenstein. Hopeless.
Never mind, says Margaret. We have a lovely morning ahead of us. You shall have my geology hammer.
I have been wondering, says Wittgenstein, why one needs a geology hammer in sand dunes.
The sand dunes display a variety of forms, says Margaret. It depends on their origins. Many are parts of extensive aeolian sand sheets and are migrating landward. Others relate to beach ridge formation, on the seaward side of the barrier. We shall examine the older cemented dunes of the Late Pleistocene age, which are formed of dune limestone or aeolianite. Are you with me?
He is. It sounds utterly fascinating.
........
Meanwhile Terence has wandered a very long way up the beach.
He is looking for avocets. Rednecked ones. He knows they are forty six centimetres high.
There's a bird! No, it's a seagull. May as well ask it.
Hello, says Terence, have you seen a redneck avocet?
What do they look like, apart from the obvious? asks the seagull.
Red necks, says Terence.
That was the obvious, says the seagull.
So, you have? says Terence.
No, says the seagull. It flies off.
Luckily the next bird Terence sees is taller.
Are you a rednecked avocet? asks Terence.
Bah! Stuck up types, sniffs the bird. No, I'm not one.
Where are they stuck? asks Terence.
Up, says the bird (a banded stilt, thirty six centimetres).
Terence looks up.
You stupid? says the banded stilt. Their BEAKS are stuck up.
From then on she ignores him, and resumes poking for molluscs.
But Terence now has another identifier.
Be strong, dear red parrot potato. Do not despair. Terence will find a tall rednecked stuck-up beaked avocet and ask it for feathers. Lots of red feathers. At least ten.
Friday, February 9, 2018
Sophisticated Thinking
Terence goes down to the seashore to look for Saint Roley.
With him goes the fearsome potato.
Beneath the spiky peduncles the potato looks slightly less happy.
It is afraid of the future.
Saint Roley is easy to find. He is standing in a crowd of sharptailed sandpipers.
They are discussing the importance of Ramsar, the global migratory bird habitat maintenance agreement.
Correction: they have already discussed it.
Thank goodness for that.
Terence tiptoes up, hoping to see a bird with red feathers.
No luck here.
Terence, says Saint Roley. What's that you're holding?
My red parrot potato, says Terence.
The sandpipers laugh.
It's not red, says Saint Roley. Is there a reason?
Yes, says Terence.
Wrong colour feathers, says a sandpiper. You should get a different potato.
No way, says Terence.
The sandpipers and Saint Roley confer.
Rednecked stints, suggests sandpiper. Aren't you blood brothers?
Not exactly, says Saint Roley. And they only have red necks when they're breeding.
Rednecked avocets, says another sandpiper.
Too tall, says a third. Forty six centimetres.
Krvee! says Saint Roley.
Terence doesn't think that's too tall.
He heads off to look for some avocets.
The potato is a burden.
Terence returns.
Look after my potato.
Sure, says Saint Roley.
He digs a shallow hole in the sand and drops the red parrot potato into it.
Sand fills the red parrot potato's wrinkles.
His lower peduncles jab into his soft white potato flesh.
Is this the future?
He is in need of a mentor.
But sometimes you have to be your own mentor.
The world is what it is.
This is sophisticated thinking for a potato.
Basically it's what Wittgenstein took years to come up with.
With him goes the fearsome potato.
Beneath the spiky peduncles the potato looks slightly less happy.
It is afraid of the future.
Saint Roley is easy to find. He is standing in a crowd of sharptailed sandpipers.
They are discussing the importance of Ramsar, the global migratory bird habitat maintenance agreement.
Correction: they have already discussed it.
Thank goodness for that.
Terence tiptoes up, hoping to see a bird with red feathers.
No luck here.
Terence, says Saint Roley. What's that you're holding?
My red parrot potato, says Terence.
The sandpipers laugh.
It's not red, says Saint Roley. Is there a reason?
Yes, says Terence.
Wrong colour feathers, says a sandpiper. You should get a different potato.
No way, says Terence.
The sandpipers and Saint Roley confer.
Rednecked stints, suggests sandpiper. Aren't you blood brothers?
Not exactly, says Saint Roley. And they only have red necks when they're breeding.
Rednecked avocets, says another sandpiper.
Too tall, says a third. Forty six centimetres.
Krvee! says Saint Roley.
Terence doesn't think that's too tall.
He heads off to look for some avocets.
The potato is a burden.
Terence returns.
Look after my potato.
Sure, says Saint Roley.
He digs a shallow hole in the sand and drops the red parrot potato into it.
Sand fills the red parrot potato's wrinkles.
His lower peduncles jab into his soft white potato flesh.
Is this the future?
He is in need of a mentor.
But sometimes you have to be your own mentor.
The world is what it is.
This is sophisticated thinking for a potato.
Basically it's what Wittgenstein took years to come up with.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Observe The Long Peduncles
Terence follows the Ranger, with his potato.
It's heartening to meet a young person with an interest in native vegetation, says the Ranger.
It's not a young person, says Terence. It's a parrot-potato.
I mean you, says the Ranger. We have a re-vegetation program going on here in the Coorong. Over five million plants are being planted.
That's quite a lot.
Are we there yet? asks Terence.
Yes, says the Ranger, stopping at a low shrub. This is a red parrot-pea. Not flowering at the moment, but September to November, you'd see the red flowers. Wings spatulate, red to crimson, keel acuminate, beaked, usually protruding from wings.
You know big words, says Terence.
I know my plants, says the Ranger. These are the leaves I was mentioning. Observe the long peduncles.
My potato doesn't like peduncles, says Terence. Wait, what are they?
Stalks, says the Ranger. And these are the stiff spreading hairs.
The stiff spreading hairs are disappointingly short, but the peduncles are long and impressive.
Terence holds up his potato.
The potato looks happy.
Can I pick some peduncles? asks Terence.
Go ahead. Not too many, says the Ranger.
Terence strips the leaves off a whole glabrous (free from hair) stem.
Woah! says the Ranger. A good Ranger would never do that. A good Ranger would take one or two peduncles from different locations.
Too late now though. Terence has a handful of red parrot-pea peduncles and may as well use them.
He sticks them into his potato.
Now the potato looks fearsome.
Be nice if you had the red flowers, says the Ranger. It would be a REAL red parrot-pea potato. Let's look for some seeds. You could plant them and then, next September......
He starts looking, but Terence is satisfied with his fearsome potato.
He trudges back to show Gaius.
Well done, says Gaius. It looks like a parrot, just not a red one.
It needs red feathers, says Katherine. Why don't you ask Saint Roley. He was talking to some red necked stints yesterday evening.
Cool! Sometimes grownups have good ideas when they concentrate on what's important.
It's heartening to meet a young person with an interest in native vegetation, says the Ranger.
It's not a young person, says Terence. It's a parrot-potato.
I mean you, says the Ranger. We have a re-vegetation program going on here in the Coorong. Over five million plants are being planted.
That's quite a lot.
Are we there yet? asks Terence.
Yes, says the Ranger, stopping at a low shrub. This is a red parrot-pea. Not flowering at the moment, but September to November, you'd see the red flowers. Wings spatulate, red to crimson, keel acuminate, beaked, usually protruding from wings.
You know big words, says Terence.
I know my plants, says the Ranger. These are the leaves I was mentioning. Observe the long peduncles.
My potato doesn't like peduncles, says Terence. Wait, what are they?
Stalks, says the Ranger. And these are the stiff spreading hairs.
The stiff spreading hairs are disappointingly short, but the peduncles are long and impressive.
Terence holds up his potato.
The potato looks happy.
Can I pick some peduncles? asks Terence.
Go ahead. Not too many, says the Ranger.
Terence strips the leaves off a whole glabrous (free from hair) stem.
Woah! says the Ranger. A good Ranger would never do that. A good Ranger would take one or two peduncles from different locations.
Too late now though. Terence has a handful of red parrot-pea peduncles and may as well use them.
He sticks them into his potato.
Now the potato looks fearsome.
Be nice if you had the red flowers, says the Ranger. It would be a REAL red parrot-pea potato. Let's look for some seeds. You could plant them and then, next September......
He starts looking, but Terence is satisfied with his fearsome potato.
He trudges back to show Gaius.
Well done, says Gaius. It looks like a parrot, just not a red one.
It needs red feathers, says Katherine. Why don't you ask Saint Roley. He was talking to some red necked stints yesterday evening.
Cool! Sometimes grownups have good ideas when they concentrate on what's important.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
I'll Never Eat You
In the dawn light, Terence's potato looks like a small wrinkled head.
It is smiling.
At least Terence thinks so.
Gaius is still sleeping. Katherine has gone behind a sand dune.
Saint Roley is poking about in the shallows for molluscs.
Soon the Ranger will be returning, to check on their permit.
Terence smiles at his potato.
The potato smiles back.
Potato, says Terence, I'll never eat you.
The potato looks happy.
But Gaius might, says Terence. Would you like a disguise?
The potato looks even happier.
How to disguise a potato?
Use what's available. Sand.... shells.... filamentous green algae.... native vegetation?
Native vegetation. This reminds Terence of the red parrot-pea that he is not getting.
Yay! A brain wave!
He looks for something to use as a beak.
When the Ranger arrives, Katherine is back from the sand dune.
Saint Roley is still down at the water's edge, poking.
Gaius is awake.
Ah, Ranger, says Gaius. About that permit.
Never mind, says the Ranger. Perhaps I was being pedantic. You didn't have a campfire. Or a tent. Only apples. I'll let you off this time.
Very kind, says Gaius. Did you come back just to say that?
Of course not, says the Ranger. I came back to see whether you'd found Terence, and I see that you have. Hello, young man. What's that you've got there? Not a campfire-cooked potato?
NO! says Terence.
Sorry to have to tell you this, says the Ranger. But it's a cooked potato. So you did have a camp fire.
We didn't, says Katherine. The potato was brought in from elsewhere.
I suppose I should believe you, says the Ranger.
It's a red parrot-potato, says Terence. A real one. It's lost its beak. And its colour.
His little fantasy, laughs Gaius. But that reminds me, will you show him a red parrot-pea?
They are not flowering at present, says the Ranger. All he will see is stems, almost glabrous, and leaves, linear to filiform, crowded and tuberculate, with stiff spreading hairs. But if he would like to....
Stiff spreading hairs! He would like to! And he would like to bring his red parrot-potato, which needs them.
Great! Things are looking up for the potato.
It is smiling.
At least Terence thinks so.
Gaius is still sleeping. Katherine has gone behind a sand dune.
Saint Roley is poking about in the shallows for molluscs.
Soon the Ranger will be returning, to check on their permit.
Terence smiles at his potato.
The potato smiles back.
Potato, says Terence, I'll never eat you.
The potato looks happy.
But Gaius might, says Terence. Would you like a disguise?
The potato looks even happier.
How to disguise a potato?
Use what's available. Sand.... shells.... filamentous green algae.... native vegetation?
Native vegetation. This reminds Terence of the red parrot-pea that he is not getting.
Yay! A brain wave!
He looks for something to use as a beak.
When the Ranger arrives, Katherine is back from the sand dune.
Saint Roley is still down at the water's edge, poking.
Gaius is awake.
Ah, Ranger, says Gaius. About that permit.
Never mind, says the Ranger. Perhaps I was being pedantic. You didn't have a campfire. Or a tent. Only apples. I'll let you off this time.
Very kind, says Gaius. Did you come back just to say that?
Of course not, says the Ranger. I came back to see whether you'd found Terence, and I see that you have. Hello, young man. What's that you've got there? Not a campfire-cooked potato?
NO! says Terence.
Sorry to have to tell you this, says the Ranger. But it's a cooked potato. So you did have a camp fire.
We didn't, says Katherine. The potato was brought in from elsewhere.
I suppose I should believe you, says the Ranger.
It's a red parrot-potato, says Terence. A real one. It's lost its beak. And its colour.
His little fantasy, laughs Gaius. But that reminds me, will you show him a red parrot-pea?
They are not flowering at present, says the Ranger. All he will see is stems, almost glabrous, and leaves, linear to filiform, crowded and tuberculate, with stiff spreading hairs. But if he would like to....
Stiff spreading hairs! He would like to! And he would like to bring his red parrot-potato, which needs them.
Great! Things are looking up for the potato.
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
Wrinkles At Night
Deepest night in the Coorong.
The sky emu beams darkly down.
Something craarks in the scrub nettle.
Gaius is sleeping.
Terence is making plans to find a red parrot-pea in the morning.
A horrid thought strikes him.
He pokes Gaius. Gaius snorts and rolls over.
Terence whispers his question.
Is it a pea or a parrot?
Gaius rumbles.
Terence waits.
Nothing happens.
He could go down to the water and wake up Saint Roley.
Saint Roley is a bird, he'll know if a red parrot-pea is a parrot.
Terence gets up quietly, and tiptoes down to the shore.
Saint Roley is standing on his thin legs in the shallows, facing outwards.
Terence pulls at a feather. Saint Roley squeaks, krvee!
Krvee yourself, says Terence. Wake up, something bad's happened.
You may as well tell me, says Saint Roley. I was feeling sad about my brother. Something bad might distract me.
Okay, says Terence. Gaius told me a list.
And? says Saint Roley.
And, says Terence, the third one was a red parrot.
That's good, says Saint Roley.
IT WAS! says Terence. But what if it's not a parrot?
It must be a parrot, says Saint Roley.
It might be a pea! says Terence. Red parrot-pea.
You didn't say pea the first time, says Saint Roley. That makes all the difference. It will be a pea.
He sees Terence's face crumpling.
Or a P, he adds helpfully.
Gaius appears behind them, having woken up when he heard the far-off sound of an engine.
What's this about a pee? says Gaius. Never mind, don't tell me.
Is a red parrot-pea a parrot or a pea? asks Terence.
It's a common coastal flowering bush, says Gaius. We'll ask the ranger to show you one in the morning.
Terence stomps back to the campsite with Gaius.
It's a BUSH. The worst answer.
It would be the worst night ever, except for what else has just happened.
Katherine has returned, with three still-hot potatoes.
What a welcome surprise, says Gaius, wolfing two hot potatoes down quickly.
Terence is given the third one.
He places it carefully on the sand.
He lies in the sand on his tummy, and watches his potato.
All night, as it slowly wrinkles....
The sky emu beams darkly down.
Something craarks in the scrub nettle.
Gaius is sleeping.
Terence is making plans to find a red parrot-pea in the morning.
A horrid thought strikes him.
He pokes Gaius. Gaius snorts and rolls over.
Terence whispers his question.
Is it a pea or a parrot?
Gaius rumbles.
Terence waits.
Nothing happens.
He could go down to the water and wake up Saint Roley.
Saint Roley is a bird, he'll know if a red parrot-pea is a parrot.
Terence gets up quietly, and tiptoes down to the shore.
Saint Roley is standing on his thin legs in the shallows, facing outwards.
Terence pulls at a feather. Saint Roley squeaks, krvee!
Krvee yourself, says Terence. Wake up, something bad's happened.
You may as well tell me, says Saint Roley. I was feeling sad about my brother. Something bad might distract me.
Okay, says Terence. Gaius told me a list.
And? says Saint Roley.
And, says Terence, the third one was a red parrot.
That's good, says Saint Roley.
IT WAS! says Terence. But what if it's not a parrot?
It must be a parrot, says Saint Roley.
It might be a pea! says Terence. Red parrot-pea.
You didn't say pea the first time, says Saint Roley. That makes all the difference. It will be a pea.
He sees Terence's face crumpling.
Or a P, he adds helpfully.
Gaius appears behind them, having woken up when he heard the far-off sound of an engine.
What's this about a pee? says Gaius. Never mind, don't tell me.
Is a red parrot-pea a parrot or a pea? asks Terence.
It's a common coastal flowering bush, says Gaius. We'll ask the ranger to show you one in the morning.
Terence stomps back to the campsite with Gaius.
It's a BUSH. The worst answer.
It would be the worst night ever, except for what else has just happened.
Katherine has returned, with three still-hot potatoes.
What a welcome surprise, says Gaius, wolfing two hot potatoes down quickly.
Terence is given the third one.
He places it carefully on the sand.
He lies in the sand on his tummy, and watches his potato.
All night, as it slowly wrinkles....
Monday, February 5, 2018
The Importance Of Silence
Terence can't sleep. He never can.
But it's worse in the Coorong.
Things buzz past his ears.
What are you DOING? asks Saint Roley.
Listening, says Terence.
Go to sleep, says Saint Roley.
My eyes don't shut, says Terence. Let's play a game.
Be quiet, says Gaius. We'll be woken up early in the morning.
A game, says Terence. Or a story.
I'll tell you a story, says Saint Roley. It was night time in the Coorong. Saint Roley, the oystercatcher from Saint Malo, whose brother had floated away, leaving him an orphan, wanted to sleep, but he couldn't. That was because there was a buzzing sound in his ears. He thought he was dreaming about the Breton monks, Maclou and Méen, who wore woollen beanies over their haloes.
Yes! says Terence. I remember. What was the buzzing sound?
We never knew, says Saint Roley, but it gave me the power of speech. Now that I have it I realise the importance of silence.
What's the importance of silence? asks Terence.
I makes you smarter, says Saint Roley.
Indeed it does, agrees Gaius. Are we all agreed?
NO! says Terence. All right, YES! And that shows you're all stupid.
Why so? asks Gaius.
Because it's always noisy, says Terence. The sea is noisy. The air is noisy. The plants are noisy.
Gaius slaps a mosquito.
Saint Roley listens. He picks up the sound of the sea.
I'll just wander down to the shoreline, says Saint Roley. We shorebirds like to sleep with our feet in the water.
Are you sure? asks Gaius.
O yes, says Saint Roley.
He goes down to the water. He listens. He believes he can hear the sound of his brother's makeshift cardboard vessel, flapping and flurping.......
It calms him. He sleeps.
That was a good story, says Terence. Tell me another.
Not a story, says Gaius. A list. Hopefully it will lull you into sleep-mode. It's a list of native vegetation found in the Coorong. Of course it's by no means exhaustive.
A list. Terence yawns. It's already exhaustive.
Sea spurge, billy buttons, says Gaius, dwarf sea lavender, red parrot-pea, twiggy stinkweed, native sorrel, apple of sodom, austral seablite, scrub wattle, sand fescue, biddy biddy, sea box, native celery, onion weed, wild turnip......these are their common names......are you asleep yet?
No, but Terence has fallen into a red parrot-pea reverie which is just as effective.
But it's worse in the Coorong.
Things buzz past his ears.
What are you DOING? asks Saint Roley.
Listening, says Terence.
Go to sleep, says Saint Roley.
My eyes don't shut, says Terence. Let's play a game.
Be quiet, says Gaius. We'll be woken up early in the morning.
A game, says Terence. Or a story.
I'll tell you a story, says Saint Roley. It was night time in the Coorong. Saint Roley, the oystercatcher from Saint Malo, whose brother had floated away, leaving him an orphan, wanted to sleep, but he couldn't. That was because there was a buzzing sound in his ears. He thought he was dreaming about the Breton monks, Maclou and Méen, who wore woollen beanies over their haloes.
Yes! says Terence. I remember. What was the buzzing sound?
We never knew, says Saint Roley, but it gave me the power of speech. Now that I have it I realise the importance of silence.
What's the importance of silence? asks Terence.
I makes you smarter, says Saint Roley.
Indeed it does, agrees Gaius. Are we all agreed?
NO! says Terence. All right, YES! And that shows you're all stupid.
Why so? asks Gaius.
Because it's always noisy, says Terence. The sea is noisy. The air is noisy. The plants are noisy.
Gaius slaps a mosquito.
Saint Roley listens. He picks up the sound of the sea.
I'll just wander down to the shoreline, says Saint Roley. We shorebirds like to sleep with our feet in the water.
Are you sure? asks Gaius.
O yes, says Saint Roley.
He goes down to the water. He listens. He believes he can hear the sound of his brother's makeshift cardboard vessel, flapping and flurping.......
It calms him. He sleeps.
That was a good story, says Terence. Tell me another.
Not a story, says Gaius. A list. Hopefully it will lull you into sleep-mode. It's a list of native vegetation found in the Coorong. Of course it's by no means exhaustive.
A list. Terence yawns. It's already exhaustive.
Sea spurge, billy buttons, says Gaius, dwarf sea lavender, red parrot-pea, twiggy stinkweed, native sorrel, apple of sodom, austral seablite, scrub wattle, sand fescue, biddy biddy, sea box, native celery, onion weed, wild turnip......these are their common names......are you asleep yet?
No, but Terence has fallen into a red parrot-pea reverie which is just as effective.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Fish Door Knobs Emu Butter
Margaret hands Ludwig a knife. He cuts off a large chunk of fish.
The flesh comes off easily.
Cut some more, says Margaret. Here's a plate. I'll find the forks
You've thought of everything, says Katherine.
Only two forks, says Margaret. We'll take turns.
This is delicious, says Katherine.
Potatoes to come, says Margaret. Shall I crack open another bottle?
Ludwig's mouth is full of fish.
Margaret opens a bottle of red wine. The camp fire crackles.
Night in the Coorong.
The sounds of heavy waves crashing..... shuurrrr....
Ludwig was telling me all about door knobs, says Margaret.
Oh was he? thinks Katherine. Is this some kind of code?
She raises her eyebrows at Margaret.
Margaret looks meaningfully at Ludwig.
Speak, Ludwig.
Ludwig swallows his mouthful.
It was before I returned to Cambridge, says Ludwig. I had turned to architecture, and my sister was building a house. I designed the door handles. They weren't actual knobs.
Fascinating, says Katherine.
That's what I said, says Margaret.
What more can one say? says Katherine. Have you brought a tent with you, Margaret?
I have a small two-man tent, says Margaret. I haven't put it up yet. I thought Ludwig might prefer to sleep under the stars.
Oh yes, says Katherine. They say the Milky Way looks much brighter out here in the Coorong.
There's supposed to be an emu, says Margaret. The indigenous people know of it. Ludwig, look up. Can you see it?
Ludwig looks up. He spots the emu straight away.
I can't see it, says Katherine.
The dark area with no stars, says Ludwig. It's in the shape of an emu.
That's it! says Margaret. It's there but not there. You can see why he's a philosopher.
I can't see why anyone is a philosopher, sighs Katherine. Take my son David.
What's wrong with him? asks Margaret.
Always proving that he can't really know anything, says Katherine. Yet acting like a great know-all. And he eats too much. It's not good for him....
I believe the potatoes might be ready, says Ludwig. They're black on the outside.
Poke them with this, says Margaret.
She hands him a skewer.
What a marvel is Margaret, who came camping without any potatoes, and yet brought a skewer!
No, the potatoes are still hard on the inside.
Poor Gaius only has apples, says Katherine. I mustn't leave him alone the whole night.
Wait until the potatoes are ready, says Margaret. Then wrap some in newspaper, and drive back with them.
Take butter, says Ludwig.
Margaret and Katherine look at one another.
They both make that face that you make when you've forgotten the butter.
The flesh comes off easily.
Cut some more, says Margaret. Here's a plate. I'll find the forks
You've thought of everything, says Katherine.
Only two forks, says Margaret. We'll take turns.
This is delicious, says Katherine.
Potatoes to come, says Margaret. Shall I crack open another bottle?
Ludwig's mouth is full of fish.
Margaret opens a bottle of red wine. The camp fire crackles.
Night in the Coorong.
The sounds of heavy waves crashing..... shuurrrr....
Ludwig was telling me all about door knobs, says Margaret.
Oh was he? thinks Katherine. Is this some kind of code?
She raises her eyebrows at Margaret.
Margaret looks meaningfully at Ludwig.
Speak, Ludwig.
Ludwig swallows his mouthful.
It was before I returned to Cambridge, says Ludwig. I had turned to architecture, and my sister was building a house. I designed the door handles. They weren't actual knobs.
Fascinating, says Katherine.
That's what I said, says Margaret.
What more can one say? says Katherine. Have you brought a tent with you, Margaret?
I have a small two-man tent, says Margaret. I haven't put it up yet. I thought Ludwig might prefer to sleep under the stars.
Oh yes, says Katherine. They say the Milky Way looks much brighter out here in the Coorong.
There's supposed to be an emu, says Margaret. The indigenous people know of it. Ludwig, look up. Can you see it?
Ludwig looks up. He spots the emu straight away.
I can't see it, says Katherine.
The dark area with no stars, says Ludwig. It's in the shape of an emu.
That's it! says Margaret. It's there but not there. You can see why he's a philosopher.
I can't see why anyone is a philosopher, sighs Katherine. Take my son David.
What's wrong with him? asks Margaret.
Always proving that he can't really know anything, says Katherine. Yet acting like a great know-all. And he eats too much. It's not good for him....
I believe the potatoes might be ready, says Ludwig. They're black on the outside.
Poke them with this, says Margaret.
She hands him a skewer.
What a marvel is Margaret, who came camping without any potatoes, and yet brought a skewer!
No, the potatoes are still hard on the inside.
Poor Gaius only has apples, says Katherine. I mustn't leave him alone the whole night.
Wait until the potatoes are ready, says Margaret. Then wrap some in newspaper, and drive back with them.
Take butter, says Ludwig.
Margaret and Katherine look at one another.
They both make that face that you make when you've forgotten the butter.
Saturday, February 3, 2018
White In The Eye
Where's Katherine? asks Terence.
She's gone up the coast for a while, says Gaius. She has succumbed to the lure of luxurious comforts.
Is she bringing some back? asks Terence.
I trust not, says Gaius. Now be quiet while I try and obtain this deuced online permit.
Permit, says Saint Roley. What for?
Camping, can you believe it? says Gaius. Here we sit, with a bag of apples and a notebook, and not much else, not even binoculars, because I have forgotten to pack them.
What a shame, says Saint Roley
And they call it camping, says Gaius. For which one must have a permit. But can you obtain one, by paying the Ranger? No. You must go through a rigmarole on line.
That's probably simpler, says Saint Roley.
It may be, says Gaius, with decent coverage. But I keep dropping out. And the Ranger will be back in the morning.
Yay! says Terence. I like the Ranger. He's smart.
We could move on, says Saint Roley. Find Katherine.
No, says Gaius. Principles first.
He continues trying to get onto the National Parks website.
Saint Roley pulls out a few loose blood feathers.
Terence digs a hole. The sand is soft and the hole keeps on filling up again.
...........
Katherine drives south in the gathering gloom.
She passes several campfires, which are not of interest.
At twenty kilometres, she starts seriously looking.
Bingo. A campfire on the beach. She stops the car and gets out.
She hears whistling, she smells fish cooking.
She tramps down the track towards the camp fire.
Yoo hoo! cries Katherine. It's me, Katherine.
Katherine Hume! yelps Margaret. I don't believe it! What are you doing here? Come and join us. Ludwig's cooking a fish.
Katherine joins them.
Is it too late for potatoes?
Not at all, says Wittgenstein. Drop them into the embers.
How pleasant. This is how life should be. Cooking potatoes in a campfire. How long will it take? They are quite large potatoes.
He pokes at the mulloway.
It is already sizzling and white in the eye.
You know Ludwig, don't you, says Margaret. Ludwig, you know Katherine, David Hume's mother.
She would have been cheering you on from the sidelines on Willunga Hill.
I wasn't, says Katherine. It was too hot. But I watched one of the earlier races. You were lagging behind. Gaius dropped back to encourage you.
Gaius! sniffs Margaret.
Gaius and I are camping with Terence and his pet oystercatcher, twenty k's back that way, says Katherine. We heard you were here from the Ranger. Gaius wouldn't come.
I'm not surprised, says Margaret. How does he seem?
Seem? says Katherine. Same old Gaius. Testy.
Jealous? suggests Margaret.
Katherine considers
Wittgenstein pokes the fish.
The fish is ready, but not the potatoes.
She's gone up the coast for a while, says Gaius. She has succumbed to the lure of luxurious comforts.
Is she bringing some back? asks Terence.
I trust not, says Gaius. Now be quiet while I try and obtain this deuced online permit.
Permit, says Saint Roley. What for?
Camping, can you believe it? says Gaius. Here we sit, with a bag of apples and a notebook, and not much else, not even binoculars, because I have forgotten to pack them.
What a shame, says Saint Roley
And they call it camping, says Gaius. For which one must have a permit. But can you obtain one, by paying the Ranger? No. You must go through a rigmarole on line.
That's probably simpler, says Saint Roley.
It may be, says Gaius, with decent coverage. But I keep dropping out. And the Ranger will be back in the morning.
Yay! says Terence. I like the Ranger. He's smart.
We could move on, says Saint Roley. Find Katherine.
No, says Gaius. Principles first.
He continues trying to get onto the National Parks website.
Saint Roley pulls out a few loose blood feathers.
Terence digs a hole. The sand is soft and the hole keeps on filling up again.
...........
Katherine drives south in the gathering gloom.
She passes several campfires, which are not of interest.
At twenty kilometres, she starts seriously looking.
Bingo. A campfire on the beach. She stops the car and gets out.
She hears whistling, she smells fish cooking.
She tramps down the track towards the camp fire.
Yoo hoo! cries Katherine. It's me, Katherine.
Katherine Hume! yelps Margaret. I don't believe it! What are you doing here? Come and join us. Ludwig's cooking a fish.
Katherine joins them.
Is it too late for potatoes?
Not at all, says Wittgenstein. Drop them into the embers.
How pleasant. This is how life should be. Cooking potatoes in a campfire. How long will it take? They are quite large potatoes.
He pokes at the mulloway.
It is already sizzling and white in the eye.
You know Ludwig, don't you, says Margaret. Ludwig, you know Katherine, David Hume's mother.
She would have been cheering you on from the sidelines on Willunga Hill.
I wasn't, says Katherine. It was too hot. But I watched one of the earlier races. You were lagging behind. Gaius dropped back to encourage you.
Gaius! sniffs Margaret.
Gaius and I are camping with Terence and his pet oystercatcher, twenty k's back that way, says Katherine. We heard you were here from the Ranger. Gaius wouldn't come.
I'm not surprised, says Margaret. How does he seem?
Seem? says Katherine. Same old Gaius. Testy.
Jealous? suggests Margaret.
Katherine considers
Wittgenstein pokes the fish.
The fish is ready, but not the potatoes.
Friday, February 2, 2018
Pointless Flying
Blood spots.
No more parrot footprints.
This is no good.
Terence is about to turn back and tell Gaius what has happened.
But he doesn't know what has happened.
He scoops up a blood spot. It crumbles. The red particles drift away.
Perhaps it was the blood of Saint Roley.
Terence hears a flutter. And a phoom!
It's Saint Roley, landing in front of him, his orange beak glowing in the late slanting afternoon sun.
Did you win? asks Terence.
I wasn't fighting, says Saint Roley. Well I was, then I wasn't. Sit down and I'll tell you.
Terence sits down in the sand.
I was strolling with the red necked stints, says Saint Roley. Soon we were joined by a common greenshank and a black winged stilt. We continued to speak of our travels, for the red necked stints had come from Siberia via China, and I had come from northern France, so we had tales to tell one another.
The greenshank and the stilt began to mock us. Why go to all that trouble, ha ha, why not stay here, it's nice in the Coorong. We told them it was less nice than they think, and at least we had the means of comparison.
They became squabbly. We have more energy, they told us. You lose yours through all that pointless flying back and forth for no good reason.
I said, (and I realise I should have kept quiet), actually, guys, I travelled by plane, on a free Parrot Passport.
They all looked aghast, and began pecking me, until I said loudly, Any bird can obtain a Parrot Passport. There is this man in Saint Malo.....
They became interested, even the greenshank and the stilt. They asked if they could apply.
I said yes of course, and gave them the details. They flew off, to spread the good news, I suppose.
So you did win, says Terence. You're the BEST parrot. Was that your blood?
O, you noticed, says Saint Roley. I'm still bleeding. Help me back to the camp site.
Retracing his own footprints, Terence helps Saint Roley back to the camp site.
Only Gaius is there with the apples.
What has happened! cries Gaius. You're bleeding.
Nothing much, says Saint Roley. No need to panic. The red necked stints and I got on so well we exchanged blood feathers on parting.
A noble touch, says Gaius. Sit down and rest now. Have an apple core.
Terence looks at Saint Roley with renewed admiration.
He's so good at lying.
No more parrot footprints.
This is no good.
Terence is about to turn back and tell Gaius what has happened.
But he doesn't know what has happened.
He scoops up a blood spot. It crumbles. The red particles drift away.
Perhaps it was the blood of Saint Roley.
Terence hears a flutter. And a phoom!
It's Saint Roley, landing in front of him, his orange beak glowing in the late slanting afternoon sun.
Did you win? asks Terence.
I wasn't fighting, says Saint Roley. Well I was, then I wasn't. Sit down and I'll tell you.
Terence sits down in the sand.
I was strolling with the red necked stints, says Saint Roley. Soon we were joined by a common greenshank and a black winged stilt. We continued to speak of our travels, for the red necked stints had come from Siberia via China, and I had come from northern France, so we had tales to tell one another.
The greenshank and the stilt began to mock us. Why go to all that trouble, ha ha, why not stay here, it's nice in the Coorong. We told them it was less nice than they think, and at least we had the means of comparison.
They became squabbly. We have more energy, they told us. You lose yours through all that pointless flying back and forth for no good reason.
I said, (and I realise I should have kept quiet), actually, guys, I travelled by plane, on a free Parrot Passport.
They all looked aghast, and began pecking me, until I said loudly, Any bird can obtain a Parrot Passport. There is this man in Saint Malo.....
They became interested, even the greenshank and the stilt. They asked if they could apply.
I said yes of course, and gave them the details. They flew off, to spread the good news, I suppose.
So you did win, says Terence. You're the BEST parrot. Was that your blood?
O, you noticed, says Saint Roley. I'm still bleeding. Help me back to the camp site.
Retracing his own footprints, Terence helps Saint Roley back to the camp site.
Only Gaius is there with the apples.
What has happened! cries Gaius. You're bleeding.
Nothing much, says Saint Roley. No need to panic. The red necked stints and I got on so well we exchanged blood feathers on parting.
A noble touch, says Gaius. Sit down and rest now. Have an apple core.
Terence looks at Saint Roley with renewed admiration.
He's so good at lying.
Thursday, February 1, 2018
Blood Spots In The Sand
That will be Margaret, says Gaius. Trust her to bring her own firewood.
Margaret! says Katherine. What makes you think that it's her?
Probably brought a tent, and a lunch box full of tomato sandwiches, mutters Gaius.
If it's your Margaret, says the Ranger, she has caught a fine mulloway. They'll be cooking it on their legally fuelled campfire for their dinner. By the way....
Mulloway! says Katherine. Lucky her. Lucky whistler.
I had no idea Ludwig was a competent whistler, says Gaius. He rises in my estimation.
Very fine, says the Ranger. He whistled two Brahms Hungarian Dances right through to the end, with no errors.
So she's with Wittgenstein, says Katherine. How delightful! And they're only twenty kilometres up the coast. Shall we up sticks, and join them?
Certainly not! snaps Gaius.
Well I shall, says Katherine. You may do as you choose. But surely you are tempted by mulloway, and a campfire?
Gaius casts around for a reason to remain with the apples.
Thank Jove! Terence is missing.
Terence appears to have left us, says Gaius. I shall have to stay here.
He went that way, says the Ranger. See his footprints. He'll be looking for a parrot. Even though I told him there are no parrots.
He calls most birds parrots, says Gaius. Bristlebirds, storks, even true parrots. Once I recall, in Holland, he owned a parrot balloon. It burst shortly after....
Katherine is packing her potatoes and novel, and getting ready to leave.
Goodbye, Gaius. I'll return later. Enjoy your apples and I hope you find Terence.
Deserted! says Gaius.
So I see, says the Ranger. Would you like me to keep an eye out for Terence?
Very kind, says Gaius. No need for haste though. I'll be here all night and all day tomorrow,
That reminds me, says the Ranger. Do you have a camping permit?
Jupiter! says Gaius. Do I need one?
.........
Terence is tracking the parrots.
The parrots have gone a long way.
The parrots have met other parrots and poked holes in the sand, in their company.
Then they have squabbled.
The sand is awry. Tracks lead out in every direction.
Then the tracks vanish.
What can have happened?
The parrots have all flown away.
On the white sand, Terence thinks he sees blood spots.
Margaret! says Katherine. What makes you think that it's her?
Probably brought a tent, and a lunch box full of tomato sandwiches, mutters Gaius.
If it's your Margaret, says the Ranger, she has caught a fine mulloway. They'll be cooking it on their legally fuelled campfire for their dinner. By the way....
Mulloway! says Katherine. Lucky her. Lucky whistler.
I had no idea Ludwig was a competent whistler, says Gaius. He rises in my estimation.
Very fine, says the Ranger. He whistled two Brahms Hungarian Dances right through to the end, with no errors.
So she's with Wittgenstein, says Katherine. How delightful! And they're only twenty kilometres up the coast. Shall we up sticks, and join them?
Certainly not! snaps Gaius.
Well I shall, says Katherine. You may do as you choose. But surely you are tempted by mulloway, and a campfire?
Gaius casts around for a reason to remain with the apples.
Thank Jove! Terence is missing.
Terence appears to have left us, says Gaius. I shall have to stay here.
He went that way, says the Ranger. See his footprints. He'll be looking for a parrot. Even though I told him there are no parrots.
He calls most birds parrots, says Gaius. Bristlebirds, storks, even true parrots. Once I recall, in Holland, he owned a parrot balloon. It burst shortly after....
Katherine is packing her potatoes and novel, and getting ready to leave.
Goodbye, Gaius. I'll return later. Enjoy your apples and I hope you find Terence.
Deserted! says Gaius.
So I see, says the Ranger. Would you like me to keep an eye out for Terence?
Very kind, says Gaius. No need for haste though. I'll be here all night and all day tomorrow,
That reminds me, says the Ranger. Do you have a camping permit?
Jupiter! says Gaius. Do I need one?
.........
Terence is tracking the parrots.
The parrots have gone a long way.
The parrots have met other parrots and poked holes in the sand, in their company.
Then they have squabbled.
The sand is awry. Tracks lead out in every direction.
Then the tracks vanish.
What can have happened?
The parrots have all flown away.
On the white sand, Terence thinks he sees blood spots.
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