Dog and Lunch

The philosophers are in the bar at the Worldsend Hotel, having just seen a performance of Berkoff in Two Acts, featuring two of Berkoff's pieces, Dog, and Lunch.

The VeloDrone: Hmmm.

Le Bon David: I agree. Hmmm. Berkoff.

Marie: I understood Dog. But not Lunch.

Belle et Bonne: I understood Lunch. But not Dog.

Le Bon David: I didn't understand either of them. Explain Dog, Marie.

Marie: The man played both the man and the dog. The man was scary and so was the dog. But the man loved the dog and fed it cellophane-wrapped pies.

Le Bon David: Oh, I understand that. People do love their dogs. Why only the other day I was having lunch in Glenelg and I overheard two ladies having a heated debate about whether dogs should be allowed on the bus.

The VeloDrone: What did they say?

Le Bon David: The older one said dogs should be allowed on the bus, just like people. The younger one said that was outrageous and she was glad they weren't. The older one got quite cross, it was clear she loved dogs. The younger one said that the older one had no right to an opinion because she never travelled by bus.

The VeloDrone: Ha ha! So the younger one won.

Le Bon David: She looked rather flushed. She probably knew I was listening.

The VeloDrone: That's funny, David. And now, Belle et Bonne, explain Lunch.

Belle et Bonne: A man and a woman meet by chance on a park bench overlooking the sea. They get on well at first but soon we're watching their relationship go horribly wrong.

The VeloDrone: It didn't seem very realistic.

Le Bon David: I don't know about that.......

Pliny's Riddle

Next morning when I opened my copy of Natural History, a piece of paper fell out.

There was something written on it, in pencil, and it looked like Pliny's writing.

Here is a riddle just for you
Hair of gold and eyes of blue
Where's my lunch?

That didn't seem like much of a riddle. I'd been busy all day yesterday and hadn't had time to leave him any lunch, but there was plenty of bread and ham. Lazy old Roman.

I went looking for him.

Pliny, I said. Couldn't you have made your own lunch?

I did, said Pliny. What are you talking about?

The riddle, I replied.

Oh, the riddle, said Pliny. It wasn't finished. I was distracted by having to construct a sandwich. It isn't easy to do.

A riddle or a sandwich? I asked.

Both, he answered. But I meant the sandwich.

What about the riddle? I asked. Have you finished it yet?

Yes, he said, but it's probably too late now. Have you read page 68?

No, not yet. So what's the riddle?

Pliny recited:

Here is a riddle just for you
Hair of gold and eyes of blue....

He stopped. What do you think of the rhyme? he asked. We ancient Romans aren't used to rhyming.

You and blue? I said. An excellent rhyme, but do go on.

Taller than the average height
Generally keeping out of sight
A harsh voice too
Who am I?

I don't know, I said. Swedish people?

No! Pliny laughed, in a manner that seemed a bit forced.

It's a comical riddle, he explained. So the answer is what you would least expect.

Chinese people? I asked.

Pliny looked disappointed.

Pastiche

Just give me a few minutes, said Belle et Bonne.

A few minutes! said Beckett. Is that all you think it takes to come up with a piece of highbrow art?

I am young, said Belle et Bonne. I write whatever comes into my head. Don't worry.

Done! she pronounced, after three minutes of solid typing. Would you all like to hear it?

And she began to read:

Part Two- A Romance.

Stop right there! said Beckett. A Romance! What the devil? I don't write Romance!

You do, said Belle and Bonne, and she went on reading:

It struck me suddenly that I had a choice. I was careering down a county lane on my bicycle not slowing although I knew there was a corner coming up. What if, I thought, although I am not the sort of person who generally thinks what if. What if, to speed up the story, I slow down? This may be the very action that prevents me from colliding with a woman who is riding her own bicycle on a trajectory towards me. It could be that, in the circumstances, we might stop, and greet one another. I might say, what might I say, what might I not say? I can be very charming when I like. And so can she. How beautiful she is. She is not of course wearing a hat. Her long brown hair will be escaping delightfully in curling tendrils, from a bun. We may then decide to change direction and travel togther to the nearest village, to have some lunch. She will smile and show me her white unbroken teeth.

Well, what do you think?

Oh bravo! cried Simone. I love it! What do you think, Samuel?

Not bad, said Beckett, not bad at all, young Belle et Bonne. I have no objection to a well-made pastiche.

Nor I, said The VeloDrone. Let's all go out to lunch.

Yes, said Beckett, and I'll pay, he added, looking at Simone.

IKEA

What's IKEA? I repeated. Pliny, don't you know?

No, I don't, said Pliny. What is it ?

It's a place, a huge, vast, enormous place, where you go with your mum to look at furniture and furnishings and knicknacks, and, as you tend to fall into a sort of trance there, the time goes by until you realise you are going to be obliged to buy some lunch.

That sounds good, said Pliny. Lunch.

Little you know, I replied, remembering the greenish layers on the salmon chunks, and how they had disagreed with my mother afterwards.

In any case, it doesn't matter, said Pliny. I don't suppose I will ever go there.

No, I'm sure you won't, I said. Were there any other questions?

Yes, said Pliny. What was that about placing a rubber band around your mother's curtain rod, and a subsequent debate?

Oh, that's a funny story, I said. I made her some nice blue curtains with the stuff we bought at IKEA, and took them round on Saturday. The curtain rod was too long and needed to be cut, so we measured it and marked it with a rubber band, so that the handyman would know where to saw it off on Tuesday.

That's not very funny, said Pliny.

Wait, I said, it becomes funny. Then mum said, perhaps we should mark it with a marking pen.

We marked it with the rubber band, I said.

What if it moves? she said.

Why would it move? I said.

Someone might move it, she said.

Why would they? I said.

I don't know, she said.

I'm sure no one will move it, I said.

Alright, she said. But it's risky!

Well, mark it, I said.

But she didn't.

Dear me, said Pliny, not laughing. I can't help thinking that one of you was being deliberately obtuse.

Adelaide Street Circuit

Who wants to do the Adelaide Street Circuit anyway? sighed Jean Paul Sartre, swallowing the last piece of the snapper which The VeloDrone had cycled into Willunga earlier to buy. It's so pleasant and peaceful here.

Is it? snapped The VeloDrone. Tell me again, Jean Paul, why is it that an existentialist always carries string?

Ah! dear fellow, an existentialist is the practical type, pragmatic, always ready to change tack at the drop of a hat. Unlike your own philosophy, which is that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

The VeloDrone looked like thunder. What? he cried, you have misunderstood my book Candide! That is the foolish philosophy of Docter Pangloss! My own philosophy is that everyone should stay at home and mind his own business!

Advice you fail to take, evidently, interjected Freud, with a snapper-rich smirk.

Ingrates! shouted the VeloDrone. Who was it cycled all the way into Willunga this morning so you could have fish for breakfast?

Yes, calm down, gentlemen, please, said Le Bon David. We all have reason to be grateful to The VeloDrone. And perhaps we would have all been better off to have remained at home. But I for one am pleased to have come to the Tour Down Under. In spite of everything, I feel I have learned a lot. For example, about the limited usefulness of string.

I can think of a good use for it, muttered The VeloDrone. But, of course, we ought to count our blessings. In Willunga this morning I discovered a most excellent cheese shop called The Blessed Cheese.

Oh I don't suppose you brought any back with you? asked Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Because has anybody thought what we are going to do for lunch?

Strikes of the Negative Gardener

The Negative Gardener has just been outside, eating her lunch.

While eating she faced, due to the orientation of the seating, the lavender bush she had recently got at with the snippers, because she thought it was too big.

Of course, she had seen it immediately after completing her depredations, but that did not count, for she was temporarily on a lavender high.

Just now though, she has looked at it critically. It looks, she realised, like a troll. The stubby wizened legs exposed, the stiff green and purple hair defying gravity, and attracting a bee.

At least the bee likes it, she thought, as she turned to go inside. This involved a change of orientation, directing her attention to the Happy Plant, which was no longer living up to its name. It was dead in its pot under the pittosporum tree.

The Happy Plant had been happy for four years, in the kitchen. Her daughter had left it behind. The Negative Gardener had recently decided that it ought to go outside, when someone had given her a cyclamen in a pot, as a well-intentioned gift.

Poor Happy Plant! The Negative Gardener quite likes to watch plants die, but only if it can't be helped.

And the cyclamen is on its way out as well.

Myxolydian Mode

I had a headache this morning so Pliny the Elder went to the Lunch Hour concert in my place. When he got home he told me all about it.

I had a very nice lunch with your mother, he said, at the Blue Lemon Baguette Bar. Then we proceeded across the road to the Elder Hall. There we were given a programme to read while we waited for the music to begin. The theme was African Music. I was excited because as you know I served in Gaul, Africa and Spain, and of the music of those countries I thought African the most exotic.

And did you enjoy it? I asked.

No I did not. The music did not sound like African music at all. It was played in a mode that they called Jazz. If anything it sounded a bit like the Myxolydian mode. It was a kind of cacophony of sounds, everyone playing different instruments in different rhythms at different speeds, or so it seemed to me. Every now and then one of the players would stop playing and the audience would clap. I had no desire to do so myself.

Didn't you like any of it? I asked.

There was one piece I thought I was going to like, he answered. That was called Beauty of Sunrise. It began with the bellowing of elephants, played on the trumpet, very realistic. But then instead of evoking the beauty of the sunrise it degenerated into a sort of warlike Phrygian dance.

Oh well, I said, bad luck you. And how did you get on with my mum?

Very well indeed, he replied. But I'm not sure she knew who I was.

Maise the Looc

The sand is fine and hard at Sellick's Beach. You can drive your car on to it. Happily not many people had. It was Friday lunchtime and Pliny and Nostradamus had stopped at Sellick's for lunch and a look around. Let us say, it wasn't quite lunchtime. They left their car at the clifftop and walked across the road, over a new bridge built over a new wetland pond and followed the new bicycle path along the clifftop, past the new grandiose houses built on dusty, stony, treeless land. They grumbled to each other about the folly of human greed.

Returning by way of the beach they were captivated by the view of the cliffs they were now walking towards. They bought a pie and a pasty at the post office/deli, and ate their lunch under a wooden shelter overlooking the beach. From there the beach was so compellingly beautiful they decided to go for a longer walk south towards the reef and the fantastical cliffs.

They walked down the car ramp and across the hard sand to the edge of the sea. The sea was flat, transparent, warm. Tiny waves dumped waterfalls of bubbles that spread like lace over the clean hard sand. Pliny and Nostradamus dragged their feet in the shallows for a while then diverged to avoid the fishing lines of a man sitting in his car.

The cliffs to their right were eggy yellow, and sculpted by the wind and tides into statues and hollowed out caves where people had etched their names, Tobias, Amy, Pat and Maise the Looc.
Further on, the cliffs opened up into a wide ravine with steep sides of orange, purple and brown,
guarded by two gigantic aloes, their elegant yellow flowers emerging like delicate pine trees out of massive spiky cacti.

Now they are level with the reef. They decide to walk upon it, after all they are wearing the proper sort of shoes. The reef is largely uncovered and flattened seaweeds lie spread out on the rocks. Little rock pools exemplify how they will look when the tide comes in. Crabs click their claws somewhere out of sight, warning other crabs. There is another sound, of glistening.

Here on the reef Pliny and Nostradmus sit and look at the cliffs. which are still quarter of an hour's walk away. The colours are muted due to an uncharacteristic haze in the air, possibly from the bushfires in Victoria. If anything this makes them even more beautiful. They are ironstone red, violet, cream and yellow, divided by lines of amazing intricacy into triangles, graphs and curves, layered, broken and rejoined. You could look at them all afternoon.

But they don't. On the way back they figure out the true meaning of Maise the Looc.
It is somewhat eroded but it once read Praise the Lord. They laugh.