Red! said Frog. I'm going red? I knew I felt funny.
Calm down, said Baby Pierre. You're only a pale shade of orange. And you're still green on top.
It's this sunshine, said Frog. I'm going under a tree. And by the way, did I hear you say Sweezus just now?
Yes you did, said Baby Pierre. I was surprised when I saw you'd changed colour.
But I thought you were an atheist and free thinker, said Frog.
So? said Baby Pierre.
Nothing, said Frog. I was just surprised that's all.
Being an atheist and free thinker, said Baby Pierre, does not preclude one from using euphemistic non-blasphemous exclamations.
Yes it does, said Frog.
Not if you can't help it, said Baby Pierre. Some things just slip out.
I know, said Frog. But why do they slip out?
Oh it's just the zeitgeist, said Baby Pierre dismissively. Now, what are we going to do about you? Are you going to sit under that tree or are you coming with me to find the library?
We may as well push on, said Frog. How do I look now?
You look like a toad, said Baby Pierre unkindly.
Showing posts with label orange. Show all posts
Showing posts with label orange. Show all posts
Monday, April 4, 2011
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Minus Fifth Day of Christmas
I was on Hutt Street last week, said Pliny the Elder, waiting to cross over at the lights, when I happened to look at a tree I was standing next to. It had a length of red plastic net fixed round the trunk, the sort they use for oranges.
Really, I said, surprised. Was it an orange tree?
No, said Pliny. It was a plane tree. On further inspection I noticed that I was in fact looking at the back end of a large red Christmas bow.
What do you mean, the back end?
I mean that the bow was on the other side of the tree, visible only to the oncoming traffic.
How peculiar. Oncoming traffic does not need to be distracted by a Christmas bow.
Indeed. It was then I became aware that every tree on Hutt Street sported a similar bow. And that the ones on the opposite side were also angled to face the oncoming traffic.
Are you sure, Pliny? They were angled towards the road? And therefore away from the gaze of pedestrians, such as yourself?
Yes, said Pliny. I'm glad to see you agree with me that it is quite outrageous.
Really, I said, surprised. Was it an orange tree?
No, said Pliny. It was a plane tree. On further inspection I noticed that I was in fact looking at the back end of a large red Christmas bow.
What do you mean, the back end?
I mean that the bow was on the other side of the tree, visible only to the oncoming traffic.
How peculiar. Oncoming traffic does not need to be distracted by a Christmas bow.
Indeed. It was then I became aware that every tree on Hutt Street sported a similar bow. And that the ones on the opposite side were also angled to face the oncoming traffic.
Are you sure, Pliny? They were angled towards the road? And therefore away from the gaze of pedestrians, such as yourself?
Yes, said Pliny. I'm glad to see you agree with me that it is quite outrageous.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Mullets
Woke up with a headache. Must not drink port after wine. Ate breakfast.
Later.
Walked in to the city down Magill Road. Remembered why I don't normally. Dog turds. Pear cores. Dandelions. A rose petal that turned out to be a shred of balloon.
Met my mum. Had lunch in a new venue. The Adelaide University Staff Club. We don't look like staff, but nor did anyone else, except for some extremely old men who might have been. Had soup and so didn't qualify for the free coffee.
Went to the Lunch Hour Concert in the Elder Hall. Miwako Abe was wearing a bright pink filmy sequinned top. She played Greig, Szymanowski, Bartok. I was surprised to discover Bartok was Scottish.
Concert over.
We went shopping. My mum was looking for an orange top to brighten up something that was grey. She was looking also for some grey pants. So it didn't really matter what she got. In the end she couldn't find anything orange that didn't make her look fat, in her opinion. Or grey.
Then.
Then it was raining. I borrowed her umbrella. Walked to the Central Market. Got wet feet. Met Nostradamus who had providently turned up with the car. Bought apples, bananas, pineapple, mandarins, strawberries, brussels sprouts, zucchini, choy sum, potatoes, 4 cleaned and headed mullets.
Now.
Gotta cook the mullets. But how?
Later.
Walked in to the city down Magill Road. Remembered why I don't normally. Dog turds. Pear cores. Dandelions. A rose petal that turned out to be a shred of balloon.
Met my mum. Had lunch in a new venue. The Adelaide University Staff Club. We don't look like staff, but nor did anyone else, except for some extremely old men who might have been. Had soup and so didn't qualify for the free coffee.
Went to the Lunch Hour Concert in the Elder Hall. Miwako Abe was wearing a bright pink filmy sequinned top. She played Greig, Szymanowski, Bartok. I was surprised to discover Bartok was Scottish.
Concert over.
We went shopping. My mum was looking for an orange top to brighten up something that was grey. She was looking also for some grey pants. So it didn't really matter what she got. In the end she couldn't find anything orange that didn't make her look fat, in her opinion. Or grey.
Then.
Then it was raining. I borrowed her umbrella. Walked to the Central Market. Got wet feet. Met Nostradamus who had providently turned up with the car. Bought apples, bananas, pineapple, mandarins, strawberries, brussels sprouts, zucchini, choy sum, potatoes, 4 cleaned and headed mullets.
Now.
Gotta cook the mullets. But how?
Monday, April 13, 2009
Easter Story 6
What is the colour of that sky? wondered Pliny, standing aft on the Dolphin Princess looking across the darkening Port River towards the red horizon and the black outline of the mangroves.
But it wasn't red. It was orange. No, it wasn't orange. And it definitely wasn't mandarin. That she knew because she had just eaten a warm chicken salad garnished with mandarin segments from a tin.
The breeze was not quite warm and mild. There were collections of black sticks floating on the gleaming water. They may have been seagulls. They were seagulls. Once the Dolphin Princess had passed them they turned white against the black water. A sunset trick.
The colour of the sky was, she realised, the colour of fire. And the colour of fire was the colour that the sky was, just then. So it should be, she thought. The sun is a ball of fire. She was glad she had thought that.
Now she could go back inside.
But it wasn't red. It was orange. No, it wasn't orange. And it definitely wasn't mandarin. That she knew because she had just eaten a warm chicken salad garnished with mandarin segments from a tin.
The breeze was not quite warm and mild. There were collections of black sticks floating on the gleaming water. They may have been seagulls. They were seagulls. Once the Dolphin Princess had passed them they turned white against the black water. A sunset trick.
The colour of the sky was, she realised, the colour of fire. And the colour of fire was the colour that the sky was, just then. So it should be, she thought. The sun is a ball of fire. She was glad she had thought that.
Now she could go back inside.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Graph paper
Pliny the Elder, in an effort to discredit my Moon Gadget, has been keeping a record of the percentages of full since Thursday the 13th of November when the moon was 100% of full.
I can see his pathetic little list right now. It's all out of order because he started near the bottom of the page, listing downwards, 94% Sat am; 89% Sun am; 81% Mon am; then he's made a red tick inside a square, followed by the words 'woolly pod', and 'grain legume'.
Next he's written 'bitter vetch' and 'toasted barley- a drench'.
And that's when he's realised he's got to the bottom of the page. So he's written his next recording of the moon's fullness above 89% full, and continued listing upwards from there, in red pen.
66% Tues pm; 57% Wed pm; 50% Thur am; 39% Fri am; 36% Fri pm.
Now we have another interruption. It seems to be a code and password for looking at an Orange photo someone sent him. Then above that, the words ' equally amphibious with the beaver'.
Oh, you've got to love him.
Onwards and upwards. 26% Sat pm; 20% Sun am; 16% Sun pm; 13% Mon am.
And that's his record, so far.
This morning he obviously thought he would commence drawing up a graph. But has Pliny heard of graph paper? No. He drew up his graph with a fish-topped lead pencil and a ruler. But he only used the ruler to draw the straight lines and not to measure the spaces between the lines.
He's sure to be pretty cross right now because even with his dodgy grid you can see that by plotting % of full against the days of the week for the last 13 days he's got himself a STRAIGHT LINE!
I can see his pathetic little list right now. It's all out of order because he started near the bottom of the page, listing downwards, 94% Sat am; 89% Sun am; 81% Mon am; then he's made a red tick inside a square, followed by the words 'woolly pod', and 'grain legume'.
Next he's written 'bitter vetch' and 'toasted barley- a drench'.
And that's when he's realised he's got to the bottom of the page. So he's written his next recording of the moon's fullness above 89% full, and continued listing upwards from there, in red pen.
66% Tues pm; 57% Wed pm; 50% Thur am; 39% Fri am; 36% Fri pm.
Now we have another interruption. It seems to be a code and password for looking at an Orange photo someone sent him. Then above that, the words ' equally amphibious with the beaver'.
Oh, you've got to love him.
Onwards and upwards. 26% Sat pm; 20% Sun am; 16% Sun pm; 13% Mon am.
And that's his record, so far.
This morning he obviously thought he would commence drawing up a graph. But has Pliny heard of graph paper? No. He drew up his graph with a fish-topped lead pencil and a ruler. But he only used the ruler to draw the straight lines and not to measure the spaces between the lines.
He's sure to be pretty cross right now because even with his dodgy grid you can see that by plotting % of full against the days of the week for the last 13 days he's got himself a STRAIGHT LINE!
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