No, That's Not It

Is it a sunflower? I asked.

Sunflowers don't have legs, said Pliny.

But it's the sort of thing you say in a riddle, I said. Nutella jars don't have hats.

That's what I thought, said Pliny. That was why I couldn't guess the answer.

So it's not a sunflower then. Don't tell me it's a race of people that stand on one leg?

You're getting close, said Pliny.

And they stare all day at the sun? I said.

Yes, said Pliny.

And they never spit, or get a headache?

Yes, said Pliny.

You haven't learnt, have you, I said. You've just listed their attributes without any riddling. Who are these people?

They are the Indian Gymnosophists, said Pliny. Perhaps you have heard of them. They live in India. They are over seven feet high. They never spit, or get a headache, or a toothache, or a pain in the eyes, or any other part. They are hardened by the heat of the sun. They are called Gymnosophists, or naked philosophers, and they remain standing from sunrise to sunset while looking fixedly at the sun, resting first on one foot, then the other.

Philosophers? I said, surprised. What kind of philosophy is that?

The philosophy of needing nothing, said Pliny. It is a philosophy that I admire. As you know I do not hold with luxury.

Except the luxury of relying on secondary sources, I said, unkindly.

That's It

So, said Pliny the Elder. It is a jar of Nutella. But a jar of Nutella unlike any jar of Nutella I have ever seen.

It was a particular jar, I admitted.

Indeed, said Pliny. Pray tell me about the icons and runes depicting heroism and despair.

It was a long time ago, I said. But I think that on one side of the glass Homer Simpson was about to swing his club heroically at the golf ball. On the other side he was grimacing because he had taken out a chunk of dirt instead.

I see, said Pliny. That can happen. But what was the hat of white?

The lid of the jar, I said.

And the paper coat of many colours?

A removable label.

I see, said Pliny.

He thought for a while.

I think I am ready to try another riddle, he said.

I don't have one, I said.

No, I have one, he said. See if you can guess it:

I stand upon one leg,
And stare all day at the sun
I never spit
Or get a headache
That's it
What am I ?

An Ethiopian? I guessed.

Why do we always think the answer to a riddle might be an Ethiopian? asked Pliny.

I don't know, I said. Is it the answer?

No, said Pliny. It never is.

Mortality

Hah! said Pliny the Elder. I always knew you were a woolly thinker.

That's rich coming from you, I said. Who is the person that thinks wearing a woman's breastband around his head will cure him of a headache?

I no longer hold that view, said Pliny huffily. Nowadays I prefer to rely on aspirin. And in any case it is not the same thing. You claim you believed something you knew to be false.

Up until I discovered what it was, I said. Now I no longer believe in the unilateral genderisation of dogs and cats. But if you had been a little more sympathetic I would have told you of another set of incompatible beliefs I've discovered that I hold. As it is, I don't really feel like telling you.

Then do not tell me, said Pliny, picking up a book and pretending to read.

You are just pretending to read, Pliny. You really want me to tell you, don't you.

No, said Pliny. Oh alright, yes. Tell me.

This is a very deep set of incompatible beliefs, Pliny. One morning, ten years ago, I was opening a wardrobe, to get out some clothes. It was a beautiful spring morning, and the sun was shining.
I was thinking about going on a holiday, at some undetermined time in the future. But just for a second I caught myself thinking, that at this undetermined time in the future, when I would be going on a holiday, and perhaps getting some clothes out of the wardrobe in order to pack, I would still be me, but I would be younger. And I realised that at some sub-conscious level I believed this to be true.

That you are getting younger? asked Pliny.

Not exactly, no. That I will be younger again at some time in the future.

Fascinating, said Pliny. And to some extent pathetic. But then, he added kindly, no doubt it is a form of hidden optimism, without which one might be subject to despair.

That's just what I think, Pliny. That's why I haven't tried to root it out.

But you do know you are mortal?

Of course I do. Do you?

I did. I was. But now, I'm not so sure.

Nest of Scorpions

Here's a story for you, I said to Pliny the Elder. A gentleman of Siena was so taken with the scent of basil that he sniffed it all the time, taking it as snuff. Not long after he went mad and died. When his doctors cut open his head they found a nest of scorpions.

Great Jupiter! exclaimed Pliny, who had just been sniffing at a bunch of basil, preliminary to making a batch of pesto. Who told you that?

It's recorded in the writings of Joseph Pitton de Tournefort, the famous 17th century botanist, I said. And there's a similar story in Nicolas Culpeper's Complete Herbal , only he claims it was a Frenchman who was brainscorpioned.

Nonsense, said Pliny, these are foolish tales. Basil is a royal herb, its name comes from the Greek basileus meaning king. It is good for treating a number of ailments including stomach cramps, catarrh, vomiting, constipation, depression, whooping cough, indigestion, headache, fevers, colds, flu, warts, worms and insect bites. It also repels flies and mosquitoes. I myself find it very effective in relieving flatulence.

As to that, I said politely, I hadn't noticed, and I must admit, I don't think basil has ever cured me of anything, but I do think it is brilliant with fresh tomatoes.

Tomatoes! squawked Pliny. Do you not know that they are poisonous?

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 ?