Rude Gesture

Would you care to give us the gist of your story? asked Le Bon David.

He said it was short, said Saint Nicholas. Perhaps he might tell us the whole thing.

I will, said Wittgenstein. With pleasure. This is my story. I am in Cambridge, crossing a road. A cyclist makes at me a rude gesture.

What is the nature of the rude gesture? asked Le Bon David.

It is a V sign, said Wittgenstein. A gesture of contempt. I immediately decide that I must kill myself. I go and see my friend Bertrand Russell, and tell him so. He asks me if I am not over- reacting. I say I don't think so, because this gesture proves that I have wasted my entire life up to this point.

I say! said Le Bon David. And do you explain why you believe this to be so?

I do, said Wittgenstein. You see, it is a gesture that has no logical structure. A philosopher spends his life trying to discover the essence of meaning. There IS no essence of meaning. Only the stupid things we do in everyday life. It seems everyone knows this but me. That is why I may as well kill myself.

It's a good story, said Saint Nicholas. Is that the end? I assume you do not kill yourself. May we know why not?

Wittgenstein shrugged. Why not? he said. Bertrand asks me if I would like a glass of champagne first. This brings me back to considering a different aspect of life altogether. I tell him that I would love a cup of tea.

What a wonderful story, said Belle et Bonne. So philosophical.

So you, said Saint Nicholas.

What do you mean? asked Wittgenstein. So me?

I don't mean anything, said Saint Nicholas. As you purport to know.

They glared at one another again.

Would anyone like a cup of tea? asked Belle et Bonne. I'm just about to put the kettle on.

Hallam's Walk

Hallam walked along Tennyson Beach. He liked to do it, every decade or so. Today he was in a red top and cut-off jeans. More comfortable than my Governor General outfit, he thought.

He looked out towards the horizon. Astonishingly, there was no horizon, today. The sea was one with the clouds which were pearly and gelatinous, all heaving gently. My dad would write a poem about this he thought, sourly. Or a saga, more like.

The sky above was a brilliant blue and the sun was warm. He felt sweaty even in his summer top. And he needed his cap, because the sun was at a low afternoon angle.

He sniffed the air. Pooh, he thought, iodine. Or is it ozone? No, ozone doesnt have a smell. It'll be this seaweed. He stared at the heaps of brown seaweed, sculpted into hillocks, cliffs and troll-like creatures by the tide.

The sea slopped up to the seaweed, warmly. Seagulls bobbed in the shallows facing away from the sun. They didn't appear to be doing anything other than bobbing. He wondered why they had chosen to bob there.

He didn't know much about seagulls. He saw a pelican flying low over the water, into the sun.
He didn't know much about pelicans either. I bet my dad did, he thought. I wish I'd been allowed to finish at Cambridge, instead of having to give up my studies to be his secretary. He sighed.

Still it was a nice day, and he had done pretty well for himself really. Governor of South Australia and then Governor General of Australia for a year after that. He decided to treat himself to a Farmers Union Iced Coffee at Noonies.