Who is The Middle-Aged Lobster?

The middle-aged lobster stopped. He glanced back at Baby Pierre and Frog.

It's closing time, boys, he said. Didn't you know?

Oh, said Baby Pierre, disappointed. We were hoping to look in a mirror.

Were you indeed? said the lobster. May I ask why?

My friend wants to monitor the progress of his ...umm... Baby Pierre trailed off.

Advancing decrepitude, said Frog. May as well say it.

You look like a perfectly ripe tomato to me, said the lobster. I wouldn't worry about it. Now boys, I'm going to an event across town. It's at the Royal Science Institution. There will be a discussion on the topic of Synthetic Biology, food, drink and best of all, clicker pads. Would you like to come along?

We don't have tickets, said Baby Pierre.

You can come in with me. You are both small. I could secrete you under my hat, said the middle aged lobster. And once inside, we can share the same seat.

What sort of hat is it? asked Baby Pierre, with mounting suspicion.

A red one, said the lobster.

And is your name Ageless? asked Baby Pierre.

I go by that name, admitted the lobster.

Wow! said Frog.

Recycling

Anything else? asked Beckett.

Yes, said Simone. The broken tooth. Anyone who sees through the orange hat will recognise it as mine. I propose you make a major alteration to the text.

Any suggestion as to what that might be?

Perhaps, said Simone, instead of knocking me off my bicycle and breaking my tooth, you could run over my little dog Teddy. The crowd would gather, angrily. And I ( who am not I, but the woman in the orange hat) would say, in your defence, This man has done me a favour, as I just happened to be taking Teddy to the vet to have him put down.

Oh, that's very good, said Belle et Bonne. I like that even better.

Thank you said Simone.

Thank me, said Samuel Beckett. That's straight out of my novel Molloy.

As to that, said Simone, the story of the broken tooth is straight out of my novel The Mandarins!

And she fixed Beckett with a glare.

Is this a stalemate? asked The VeloDrone. Where do we go from here?

I think we need a new story, said Belle et Bonne.

What's It All About?

The phone rang. Belle et Bonne answered. It was Samuel Beckett.

Have you received the second part of my story? he asked.

Yes, said Belle et Bonne, but I must tell you that someone here is not pleased with it.

Your papa? asked Samuel Beckett, sounding surprised.

No, our friend Simone, said Belle et Bonne.

How can that be? It isn't published, is it?

It is, at least the first half is, and she has read the second. Would you like to speak to her?

No. I'll be there in five minutes! said Beckett.

Five minutes later he popped his head round the door.

Simone! he cried. I am sorry!

Samuel, said Simone, it's just too bad of you.

How can I make amends? asked Beckett.

You can re-write the second part, said Simone firmly. I strongly object to several things in it.
The first one being that I am readily identifiable by the description of my hat.

I shall change the hat, said Samuel. How would you like me to describe it?

I should like you not to describe it at all, said Simone, crossly.

The hat remains, for literary reasons, said Beckett. But I am willing to change its colour, and its shape.

Simone looked perplexed.

I know! said Belle et Bonne. You could make the hat orange. I always thought it would be nicer orange, she added.

Good gracious, why? asked Simone.

Because you wore it on the cover of The Mandarins, said Belle et Bonne.

That's good, said Samuel Beckett.

You are not thinking of describing it in terms of the fruit, I hope, said Simone.

What does it matter, if it is not your hat? asked Beckett.

Yes, chimed in The VeloDrone. Don't forget that it's no longer your hat.

If it's not mine, said Simone, then what is this all about?

Two and a Half Stars

It's your turn tonight, said the VeloDrone, bunny-hopping to a stop in front of his friend.

My turn for what? asked Le Bon David.

To go to a show and write the review, said the VeloDrone, grinning.

Why are you grinning like that? said Le Bon David sharply.

Because I'm glad that it's you and not me.

What is it? asked Le Bon David, shuffling through his handful of free tickets. Aha. "I've Been Watching You Australians - But Not in a Creepy Way." Good gracious! How will I know if it's funny?

You'll just have to watch the audience, David, but not in a creepy way.

Oh, it'll be fine, said Le Bon David. I can write a review with my eyes shut. Have you seen this review of our show, by the way?

He waved a newspaper in front of The VeloDrone's face. The VeloDrone grabbed it and began to read:

This somewhat eclectic show, performed by two of the most famous philosophers of the Enlightenment, seems to have been put together in a hurry. They attempt some very difficult tricks on their bicycles and occasionally topple over. This is a mixed blessing for the audience, who have as much trouble keeping up with the philosophical patter as they have keeping up with the bicycles. The impressions are the highlight of the show. David Hume's portly frame makes him an ideal Lou Costello and and even more believable Oliver Hardy. Voltaire needs to work harder on his Bud Abbott and Stan Laurel to overcome the fact that he looks nothing like either of them. Two and a half stars.

Two and a half stars! spluttered The VeloDrone. Outrageous! And they liked you better than me, simply because you are fat!

Steady on, my friend! said Le Bon David. They didn't like either of us very much. It seems we need to work harder on our act.

True, agreed The VeloDrone. We are philosophers, after all. We should take this with our usual equanimity. We must practice harder. I shall buy myself a Stan Laurel hat in order to look more like him.

Well said, smiled Le Bon David. And I shall earn us the money for the hat by writing the next review.

The Existential Bicycle

Bonjour cycling philos! Welcome to my new column, The VeloDrone, in which I hope to examine cycling from the bottom up, so to speak.

"If the bicycle did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it." Thus spoke yours truly, many years before the bicycle was in fact invented. In those days I used to go by the name Voltaire. Why don't you get on your bicycle, Voltaire? my jealous and ignorant enemies would jeer. Just you wait, I would reply.

Yes, today, my friends, the bicycle exists. And for what purpose? You may answer that the bicycle exists for getting from A to B. But I ask you then to consider the case of a woman who keeps a bicycle in her dining room.

I know such a woman. In her dining room she keeps a green bicycle leaning against the wall. She never rides the bicycle. Occasionally she moves it outside for the day ( in the summer) and props it against a wall. Or she wheels it into the living room ( in the winter) where it rests against a wooden cabinet topped with books, and prevents access to them. This is done when there are visitors expected and there will not be room for everyone at the table if the bicycle remains where it is. She hopes ( in the winter) that none of her guests will need to refer to a book.

The woman likes the bicycle, which belongs to her daughter who left it behind when she went to live in London. Sometimes when she moves it she notices the tyres have gone down. The first time she noticed that the tyres had gone down she asked her son to pump them up. The second time she decided to let them be until her daughter came home for a holiday.

Once, her daughter had fallen off the green bicycle, and injured her finger. Head down in a strong wind she had ridden into the back of a parked car. This was almost exactly the same thing that had happened to the woman once, when she was a schoolgirl, trying not to lose her hat. The woman likes to think about this coincidence.

And so, my friends, what if we should ask of this bicycle, Why do you exist? I suggest the answer would be forthcoming: I exist to be.

Perhaps you have enjoyed thinking about these simple things. If so please join me and my good friend Le Bon David for next week's edition of The Velosopher!

Need a Body Cry

That wasn't the end of our conversation.

Ye noo, said Bela, tha's no a bad wee song. Wha's the rest o' it?

Robert Burns wrote it, I said. It goes O Jenny's a' weet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry: She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin thro the Rye.

Hoo, hoo! he laughed. Aye, 'tis as ah thocht, 'tis aboot a wikit wee lassie.

You may think so, I said tartly, but may I say that's a very male point of view. It seems to me poor Jenny is a victim of abuse. Need a body cry, indeed!

Och, sorry lassie, said Bela. Ah wasn'y thinkin'. Anyhoo, changin' the subject, how did the folks at yer concert like ma Rhapsody?

Oh they loved it I replied. Even my mother, who generally detests you, said that it wasn't bad. And now that I recall, the man next to me had reserved a seat especially for his hat.

Ye doan't say?

I do say. And the hat seemed to like it as much as anyone.

Pliny's Mum's Birthday.

Today is Pliny's mum's birthday. Pliny is busy making a Chocolate Cake for her mum. The Chocolate Cake has passed the first hurdle, which is Pliny's ad hoc throwing together of ingredients. The Cake is out of the oven, cooling down. As usual Pliny has failed to do the thing which prevents a Chocolate Cake from cracking on the top. If she knew what the thing was, she would do it.

She knows however, how to hide a crack, from long practice. She fills the crack with extra Chocolate Icing. In all the years that Pliny has been making crack-topped Chocolate Cakes, no one has ever complained about this.

Except for one time....... The crack was so deep that when she cut the cake in half in order to fill it with whipped cream and jam, the top half broke irreversibly into two separate pieces, and though Pliny stuck the two pieces together as best she could, the iced cake suffered from slippage and looked, as everyone must have noted, like a jaunty Chocolate Beret.

That will not happen today. The cracks are passable.

Disappearances

One of Pliny the Elder's famous cures for a headache was to wear a woman's breast band round his head. It is quite amusing to think of the stern old Roman doing this, and at the same time intriguing to wonder what made him think it would work.

Anyway, this morning I woke up with a headache and decided to try Pliny's cure for myself, rather than take a pill. I chose an azure blue sports bra with fluoro pink straps and put it on my head, then lay down on my bed and began to read my novel, The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell . Immediately I began to wonder what I must look like. I got up at once and went to look in the bathroom mirror. Charming. The sports bra was sitting on my head like a floppy beret, with only the bright pink straps giving it away as not being a real hat.

I lay down and recommenced reading. Nothing was happening on the headache front. Perhaps my headgear was not tight enough. I folded it behind my head and pressed into the pillow so I could feel just the slightest pressure on my brow. A cool breeze blew in through the transparent curtains. I got up and closed the window, almost. Then I started reading again, the famous duck shooting scene at the end of which Justine goes missing. At least I suppose it is famous.

Soon I had finished part 3 and it was lunch time. I stood up, removed the blue and pink women's breast band and voila! my headache was gone.

Now why did that work? and do I dare broach the subject with Pliny ?