By the way said Pliny the Elder companionably, did you ever find out what happened to the unidentified baby bird that fell out of the unidentified tree?
Well, yes and no, I said. We were out to dinner last night with Sean and Belinda and she started telling us the story. It seems that when Sean got home the baby bird was chirping loudly in the wash basin. Is it alright? I asked. No, it's dead, she said.
I asked her what happened and she replied darkly, You don't want to know, especially as we're eating. She looked pointedly at Sean. Whatever did you do? I asked him warily. I'm in trouble over this, he said. I wish I'd never seen the dratted bird.
It was obvious that something unspeakable had occurred. I changed tack by recounting my Gwendolen/Bob death saga to Belinda but at this she only laughed and said I should have flushed it down the toilet.
Very curious indeed, remarked Pliny the Elder. So whatever happened to the nestling must have been very much worse than the well-meaning boiling of a sickly fish. In my day of course we did not agonise over such things, but I realise today people are more sensitive.
Yes, I agreed. It's too late now but I have found out the correct procedure to be followed should one discover a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. If the mother bird is somewhere around, you should either replace the baby in the nest, or, if it's too high, make an artificial nest out of a margarine container, making a few drainage holes in the bottom, and lining it with soft paper; place the baby bird in it, then tack it to the tree a bit lower down. If only I had known that on Friday morning!
You might have saved your own son from a roasting, nodded Pliny.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Fish to Fry
Here comes Pliny the Elder with a very red face. What's up Pliny? Where have you been?
Pliny the Elder: I do not know. You have been excluding me for the last few days for reasons that are unknown to me.
Me: It's been very hot, and I've had other fish to fry.
Pliny the Elder: O that is most amusing. Were they perchance named Gwendolen, or Bob?
Me: Are you angry or are you hot?
Pliny the Elder: I am irate.
Me: Why?
Pliny the Elder: I have been reading your excuses for blogs and have come to the conclusion that you are too content to be vague, and that you do not do enough research for the subjects that you choose. For example, what species of tiny bird was it that fell out of what species of tree at your son's house yesterday? And surely you could have resolved whether the fish in question was Gwendolen or a Bob by the expedient of checking your diary.
Me: Pliny, my vagueness is part of my charm. As for you, you are my counterbalance, for you do enough research for the 2 of us in my opinion.
Pliny the Elder: A delightful answer. Yes, I do feel rather hot. Let us have some of your home brewed lager.
Pliny the Elder: I do not know. You have been excluding me for the last few days for reasons that are unknown to me.
Me: It's been very hot, and I've had other fish to fry.
Pliny the Elder: O that is most amusing. Were they perchance named Gwendolen, or Bob?
Me: Are you angry or are you hot?
Pliny the Elder: I am irate.
Me: Why?
Pliny the Elder: I have been reading your excuses for blogs and have come to the conclusion that you are too content to be vague, and that you do not do enough research for the subjects that you choose. For example, what species of tiny bird was it that fell out of what species of tree at your son's house yesterday? And surely you could have resolved whether the fish in question was Gwendolen or a Bob by the expedient of checking your diary.
Me: Pliny, my vagueness is part of my charm. As for you, you are my counterbalance, for you do enough research for the 2 of us in my opinion.
Pliny the Elder: A delightful answer. Yes, I do feel rather hot. Let us have some of your home brewed lager.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Reason
This morning when Sean took his 2 dogs outside to pee they ran over to the concrete edging instead of their usual peeing spot on the grass. He went over to see what they were interested in. It was a tiny bird just alive and half hatched out of its egg, which had fallen out of a tree. The mother bird was up in the tree. Sean picked up the little bird and took it inside, not knowing what to do. He thought it would probably die soon. Belinda asked him if he had time to take it to the vet. No, he said, I don't have time to take it to the vet. They left it in the sink, with some water, I think that's what he said. And left for work.
I had a dilemma like that once with poor Gwendolen, or the last of the Bobs, it was so long ago I don't remember now. He, or she, was dying and had been, for over a week, just lying there with an opening and shutting mouth, not otherwise moving. An agonising death for it and for me, the surrogate carer. One day I decided that the kindest thing to do was to end the life of Gwendolen, or Bob. I usually kill living things by stepping on them or whacking them with a newspaper. But how do you kill a fish? I knew they killed lobsters by dropping them in boiling water so...
Placing Gwendolen, or Bob, in a shallow bowl I boiled a kettle and poured the boiling water on to
the gasping victim. My heart raced and I felt like the killer I was. She or he, spasmed and turned instantly white, cooked. It took me some time to get over it.
I had a dilemma like that once with poor Gwendolen, or the last of the Bobs, it was so long ago I don't remember now. He, or she, was dying and had been, for over a week, just lying there with an opening and shutting mouth, not otherwise moving. An agonising death for it and for me, the surrogate carer. One day I decided that the kindest thing to do was to end the life of Gwendolen, or Bob. I usually kill living things by stepping on them or whacking them with a newspaper. But how do you kill a fish? I knew they killed lobsters by dropping them in boiling water so...
Placing Gwendolen, or Bob, in a shallow bowl I boiled a kettle and poured the boiling water on to
the gasping victim. My heart raced and I felt like the killer I was. She or he, spasmed and turned instantly white, cooked. It took me some time to get over it.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
More Hot Spots
It was 45 degrees yesterday. That is seriously hot. Sean gave us a lift to the shops in his car. Just as I was walking out of Foodland into the mall the power went off in Foodland. Everyone went ooooooooh, the way people do when watching fireworks.
In the evening we braved the heat to go to the theatre in the city because we had tickets. The car still wasn't fixed but it got us to Wakefield Street. We walked the rest of the way. It was 7.30 but it was still over 40 degrees. It is a strange sensation walking in heat like that in the evening. Like a muffin walking through an oven. The play was The Importance of Being Earnest. At first our ears didn't work properly, then they came good.
Today there was a letter in the newspaper suggesting that, since the sheep and cattle are cooking in the paddocks, farmers should consider cutting out the middle men and selling cooked meat straight from the farm.
We caught a bus to town this morning. It was still about 40 degrees. The bus was meant to be airconditioned but blowing hot air was a better description. On the way home we had a better bus, that really was airconditioned. A garrulous man got on and tried to start up a conversation with the driver. The driver must have liked the man, because he gave him a bottle of cold spring water to drink.
Our car is at the garage, up on a hoist. There was a power failure when we went to pick it up so it's still there.
In the evening we braved the heat to go to the theatre in the city because we had tickets. The car still wasn't fixed but it got us to Wakefield Street. We walked the rest of the way. It was 7.30 but it was still over 40 degrees. It is a strange sensation walking in heat like that in the evening. Like a muffin walking through an oven. The play was The Importance of Being Earnest. At first our ears didn't work properly, then they came good.
Today there was a letter in the newspaper suggesting that, since the sheep and cattle are cooking in the paddocks, farmers should consider cutting out the middle men and selling cooked meat straight from the farm.
We caught a bus to town this morning. It was still about 40 degrees. The bus was meant to be airconditioned but blowing hot air was a better description. On the way home we had a better bus, that really was airconditioned. A garrulous man got on and tried to start up a conversation with the driver. The driver must have liked the man, because he gave him a bottle of cold spring water to drink.
Our car is at the garage, up on a hoist. There was a power failure when we went to pick it up so it's still there.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Hot Spot
Yesterday in 43 degree heat, our aircon and thermostat broke down as we were driving home from Mount Barker and we had to call the RAA.
We rolled down to a tiny bit of shade where the few straggly gum trees were closer to the the road. We got out and stood in the shade, on a dirt slope which was home to ants and stones and curled up crisps of bark. We had nothing to drink.
We sat down on the concrete edge of the road next to the car. It was hot enough to burn your bottom. Our clothes were damp with sweat, flapping them didn't help. Ants crawled over our feet. The heat was overwhelming. We felt regretful of all the things that had led us to this spot.
The RAA man arrived after half an hour of this. Can't see anything wrong with it, he said.
We got going again and the car overheated almost at once. We made it to Stirling and bought ourselves a drink of water. The best 78 cents we ever spent. It was nearly all down hill to home from there.
We rolled down to a tiny bit of shade where the few straggly gum trees were closer to the the road. We got out and stood in the shade, on a dirt slope which was home to ants and stones and curled up crisps of bark. We had nothing to drink.
We sat down on the concrete edge of the road next to the car. It was hot enough to burn your bottom. Our clothes were damp with sweat, flapping them didn't help. Ants crawled over our feet. The heat was overwhelming. We felt regretful of all the things that had led us to this spot.
The RAA man arrived after half an hour of this. Can't see anything wrong with it, he said.
We got going again and the car overheated almost at once. We made it to Stirling and bought ourselves a drink of water. The best 78 cents we ever spent. It was nearly all down hill to home from there.
Australia Day
It was Australia Day on the 26th of January. Pliny and Nostradamus went to an Australia Day BYO picnic at Alex's dad and mum's place in Aldgate in the Adelaide Hills.
They didn't really know anyone except Alex, who must have forgotten that he had never invited them to one of these picnics before. The picnics are an institution, Alex had said.
It was hot and everyone was sitting under large umbrellas under the trees. The very old people who were the greatest in number, sat talking of who knows what.
Children ran around and got dirty feet and and hid behind delightful trees and in garden crevices, where there were fairies.
The mums and dads sat under different umbrellas eating melons and talking of who knows what, probably finances.
The rest of the people were makers of porn movies and films of violence, or editors of adult comics. Pliny and Nostradamus had to sit with them. The conversation was interesting enough but Pliny and Nostradmus had little to contribute, not knowing much about any of those things nor even who was up for this year's Oscars.
They were glad of the diversion when the entertainment began. This consisted of the old persons one after another getting up on to a chicken coop to recite a poem or sing a good old Aussie anthem, or just have a rant about the drought. There was much applause, particularly for Alex's dad who had written his own piece and was wearing a hat with corks around the brim.
They didn't really know anyone except Alex, who must have forgotten that he had never invited them to one of these picnics before. The picnics are an institution, Alex had said.
It was hot and everyone was sitting under large umbrellas under the trees. The very old people who were the greatest in number, sat talking of who knows what.
Children ran around and got dirty feet and and hid behind delightful trees and in garden crevices, where there were fairies.
The mums and dads sat under different umbrellas eating melons and talking of who knows what, probably finances.
The rest of the people were makers of porn movies and films of violence, or editors of adult comics. Pliny and Nostradamus had to sit with them. The conversation was interesting enough but Pliny and Nostradmus had little to contribute, not knowing much about any of those things nor even who was up for this year's Oscars.
They were glad of the diversion when the entertainment began. This consisted of the old persons one after another getting up on to a chicken coop to recite a poem or sing a good old Aussie anthem, or just have a rant about the drought. There was much applause, particularly for Alex's dad who had written his own piece and was wearing a hat with corks around the brim.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Hard Words
What is the English word for the feeling you experience when someone is going on about something of no possible interest to anyone but themselves? asked Pliny the Elder.
Tedium, I replied, falling into his trap.
That is a Latin word, he replied. I am not surprised there is no English word for it. May I now continue with my exposition of the magpie?
Is that it? I asked. I must say that was admirably succinct.
Tedium, I replied, falling into his trap.
That is a Latin word, he replied. I am not surprised there is no English word for it. May I now continue with my exposition of the magpie?
Please do, I said.
The magpie, he began, is unremarkable in looks, but remarkable in this, that certain of them can be taught to speak most distinctly. These are said to be magpies that feed on acorns, and have five toes upon each foot. They show a great affinity for words and love to utter them. If a word is not repeated their memory fails, and when they hear the word again they exhibit great joy. If they find themselves unable to master a hard word, however, they will die of grief.Is that it? I asked. I must say that was admirably succinct.
No, he said, avoiding my trap. There is more.
Go on, I urged. I'm sure it cannot possibly be tedious.
Indeed, he went on. This too is something most remarkable. It is the way they move their eggs if they think someone is watching their nest. They place a twig across 2 of their eggs and attach it with glue from their stomach. Then they put their neck under the twig and carry the eggs away, balancing them on either side.
Pliny, I said, what is the Latin word for when someone seems to be pulling your leg?
There isn't one, he said severely.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Making Pliny Wait
Pliny has caught a bus and a tram to Glenelg on a day that is windy but fine. She wonders if she will be late. Just as we are about to find out we are interrupted by Pliny the Elder who wants to talk about magpies. He is persuaded to wait until the story is finished.
Pliny is 5 minutes late. This is negligible, when you have caught a bus and a tram. In fact it is quite good. She sees her mum waiting on a seat, dressed in blue. They sit together on the seat in the shade watching children run in and out of the water spouts under the palm trees, It is windy but no windier than it was in the city. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, there are red and white petunias in flower beds either side of the Governor Hindmarsh monument beyond which they can see the jetty, a sage green sea and a jumping machine that has been erected for the children during the summer holidays, which are drawing to a close. There are people everywhere. It is exceedingly gay.
Telescoping some events, it is now time for Pliny to catch the tram home. She gets on at quarter to 3 . She knows she will need to purchase a new ticket, but she is happy because she has until 3 o'clock before the ticket price goes up. She looks around; the tram is full. There is one vacant seat next to a really scary looking man, but like everyone else she elects to stand up. But where is the conductor? The tram moves off. It is 10 to 3. Then she remembers that travel is free along Jetty Road. Curses, she thinks, that means the conductor will probably get on at Brighton Road and I will have to pay peak rates for a ticket. She feels anxious, as her watch ticks towards 3, faster than the tram is moving.
It is 3 o'clock. No conductor has materialised. The woman in the blue shirt sitting near the front was not a conductor, nor was the uniformed man riding in the cabin with the driver. Pliny is resigned now to paying an extra $1.50 for her ticket. So what? she thinks , it is only $1.50, although for that I would have liked a seat.
There are 17 stops to the edge of the city square. They are now at stop 11. Pliny is wondering if she will ever see a conductor. Is it possible, she asks herself, that there will not be a conductor on this tram at any stage of the journey? Is it possible that the only people on this tram that have paid are the ones who had a prepaid ticket, or a ticket that is less than 2 hours old? Pliny is now feeling ambivalent. She really wants to purchase a ticket, because she believes in public transport. On the other hand, she really likes the idea of getting a free ride, especially now that she is nearly there. If she pays now, (they are passing stop 6), she will be paying the full price for a very short journey indeed.
The tram reaches the edge of the city square. All tram travel is now free. Pliny and an unspecified number of people on the tram have had a free ride. Pliny wonders how often this happens, and feels outraged. She fantasises about sending the fare by post to Adelaide Metro, with a covering note.
Pliny gets off the tram in Victoria Square. The wind is blowing in mighty gusts towards the Central Market which is where she wants to go. She waits at the lights for the tram to move off. The wind nearly blows her into its path.
Pliny is 5 minutes late. This is negligible, when you have caught a bus and a tram. In fact it is quite good. She sees her mum waiting on a seat, dressed in blue. They sit together on the seat in the shade watching children run in and out of the water spouts under the palm trees, It is windy but no windier than it was in the city. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, there are red and white petunias in flower beds either side of the Governor Hindmarsh monument beyond which they can see the jetty, a sage green sea and a jumping machine that has been erected for the children during the summer holidays, which are drawing to a close. There are people everywhere. It is exceedingly gay.
Telescoping some events, it is now time for Pliny to catch the tram home. She gets on at quarter to 3 . She knows she will need to purchase a new ticket, but she is happy because she has until 3 o'clock before the ticket price goes up. She looks around; the tram is full. There is one vacant seat next to a really scary looking man, but like everyone else she elects to stand up. But where is the conductor? The tram moves off. It is 10 to 3. Then she remembers that travel is free along Jetty Road. Curses, she thinks, that means the conductor will probably get on at Brighton Road and I will have to pay peak rates for a ticket. She feels anxious, as her watch ticks towards 3, faster than the tram is moving.
It is 3 o'clock. No conductor has materialised. The woman in the blue shirt sitting near the front was not a conductor, nor was the uniformed man riding in the cabin with the driver. Pliny is resigned now to paying an extra $1.50 for her ticket. So what? she thinks , it is only $1.50, although for that I would have liked a seat.
There are 17 stops to the edge of the city square. They are now at stop 11. Pliny is wondering if she will ever see a conductor. Is it possible, she asks herself, that there will not be a conductor on this tram at any stage of the journey? Is it possible that the only people on this tram that have paid are the ones who had a prepaid ticket, or a ticket that is less than 2 hours old? Pliny is now feeling ambivalent. She really wants to purchase a ticket, because she believes in public transport. On the other hand, she really likes the idea of getting a free ride, especially now that she is nearly there. If she pays now, (they are passing stop 6), she will be paying the full price for a very short journey indeed.
The tram reaches the edge of the city square. All tram travel is now free. Pliny and an unspecified number of people on the tram have had a free ride. Pliny wonders how often this happens, and feels outraged. She fantasises about sending the fare by post to Adelaide Metro, with a covering note.
Pliny gets off the tram in Victoria Square. The wind is blowing in mighty gusts towards the Central Market which is where she wants to go. She waits at the lights for the tram to move off. The wind nearly blows her into its path.
Various Interruptions
That makes no sense, said Pliny the Elder. If 2 standing people get off a tram how does that allow you to sit down?
A lot of other people got off as well, I replied, because we had reached Victoria Square. That is called a telescoping of events.
It is called careless writing, said Pliny. And surely you are jesting when you say the story is to be continued?
I am not jesting, I said. I want to tell this story.
But, said Pliny the Elder, I must protest. I had not finished my dissertation on the magpie.
It seems we have interrupted one another, I said graciously, and for my part I am sorry. I shall allow you to finish your magpie story just as soon as I have finished with my tram journey, including the return trip.
Including the return trip! he choked. May I ask is there a point to it?
No, it is a post modern type of story, and does not need a point. Nor does it need an end. But since you are in a hurry I will end it at the point when I get off the tram after my return journey, and not continue to the Central Market which is where I went next to meet Nostradamus and buy a pineapple, and a rainbow trout.
Pray continue, said the Elder. You shall hear no further interruption from me.
A lot of other people got off as well, I replied, because we had reached Victoria Square. That is called a telescoping of events.
It is called careless writing, said Pliny. And surely you are jesting when you say the story is to be continued?
I am not jesting, I said. I want to tell this story.
But, said Pliny the Elder, I must protest. I had not finished my dissertation on the magpie.
It seems we have interrupted one another, I said graciously, and for my part I am sorry. I shall allow you to finish your magpie story just as soon as I have finished with my tram journey, including the return trip.
Including the return trip! he choked. May I ask is there a point to it?
No, it is a post modern type of story, and does not need a point. Nor does it need an end. But since you are in a hurry I will end it at the point when I get off the tram after my return journey, and not continue to the Central Market which is where I went next to meet Nostradamus and buy a pineapple, and a rainbow trout.
Pray continue, said the Elder. You shall hear no further interruption from me.
The Fine Day
Fine days are coming to an end. The Bureau of Meteorology is planning to drop the word fine because most people do not understand it, erroneously thinking that it means nice. The Bureau use it to mean not raining. But not not extremely windy.
Today was extremely windy. Pliny caught the bus to the city. Through the windows of the bus she could see the red prayer flags fluttering. There were white letters on them which said SALE. There was a wind even on the bus, in the region of the floor. Pliny watched as an obese man ate an entire jar of chocolate covered almonds, nodding his head and rocking.
In the city she stood in the middle of King William Street waiting for a tram. The tall buildings blocked out the sun. It was a wind tunnel and there was nothing to shelter behind but a post 10 cm wide, and a small boy with a purple bucket and magenta spade, and his family.
On the tram 2 people who hadn't used deodorant were standing right next to the door. Luckily this was because they were getting off at the next stop. Pliny was then able to sit down. She hoped she wouldn't be late getting to Moseley Square.
(to be continued).
Today was extremely windy. Pliny caught the bus to the city. Through the windows of the bus she could see the red prayer flags fluttering. There were white letters on them which said SALE. There was a wind even on the bus, in the region of the floor. Pliny watched as an obese man ate an entire jar of chocolate covered almonds, nodding his head and rocking.
In the city she stood in the middle of King William Street waiting for a tram. The tall buildings blocked out the sun. It was a wind tunnel and there was nothing to shelter behind but a post 10 cm wide, and a small boy with a purple bucket and magenta spade, and his family.
On the tram 2 people who hadn't used deodorant were standing right next to the door. Luckily this was because they were getting off at the next stop. Pliny was then able to sit down. She hoped she wouldn't be late getting to Moseley Square.
(to be continued).
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Now the Magpie
Pliny the Elder is giving me a lecture on the subject of talking birds. I am only half listening.
The parrot, he intones, is a green bird with a red circlet round its neck, and comes from India. It can be taught to greet its master and repeat words. Its head and beak are very hard. While being taught to speak it must be beaten on the head with an iron bar. Its head is so hard that it will feel nothing less. Its feet are weak, so it alights on its beak, in order to support itself .........
Suddenly a scratchy voice pipes up: Tch tch tch! That's right ! Hit the birds! Hit the birds!
It sounds like, could it be ......Victor the deceased talking budgie? He seems rather cross.
It's cruel ! That's what it is, cruel ! he squawks.
Victor! I cry. Is it you? Are you not deceased?
Are you not ? Are you not? he twitters.
No I'm not, but Pliny here has been, I answer.
Well! He should know!! Tch tch tch! He stares at Pliny aggressively. Pliny the Elder shrugs.
I decide a tactful change of subject is required. Lately, I say, there has been a great deal written in the newspapers blaming birds for various disasters which I myself do not think is entirely fair, and I am sure Pliny agrees with me.
Victor cocks his head on one side.
Yes, I continue, the recent plane that crashed into the Hudson River is said to have gone down due to hitting a flock of birds. And closer to home the terrible fires in Port Lincoln last week were blamed by a farmer on a pelican flying into electricity wires. The farmer said it happens quite a lot. The pelican ignites and all the flaming pieces float down into the dry grass and start a fire.
Victor emits a terrible screech of horror, and disappears like a phoenix in a firestorm, leaving only a smoking feather behind.
Well, said Pliny, I suppose I must thank you for that. Now the magpie.........
The parrot, he intones, is a green bird with a red circlet round its neck, and comes from India. It can be taught to greet its master and repeat words. Its head and beak are very hard. While being taught to speak it must be beaten on the head with an iron bar. Its head is so hard that it will feel nothing less. Its feet are weak, so it alights on its beak, in order to support itself .........
Suddenly a scratchy voice pipes up: Tch tch tch! That's right ! Hit the birds! Hit the birds!
It sounds like, could it be ......Victor the deceased talking budgie? He seems rather cross.
It's cruel ! That's what it is, cruel ! he squawks.
Victor! I cry. Is it you? Are you not deceased?
Are you not ? Are you not? he twitters.
No I'm not, but Pliny here has been, I answer.
Well! He should know!! Tch tch tch! He stares at Pliny aggressively. Pliny the Elder shrugs.
I decide a tactful change of subject is required. Lately, I say, there has been a great deal written in the newspapers blaming birds for various disasters which I myself do not think is entirely fair, and I am sure Pliny agrees with me.
Victor cocks his head on one side.
Yes, I continue, the recent plane that crashed into the Hudson River is said to have gone down due to hitting a flock of birds. And closer to home the terrible fires in Port Lincoln last week were blamed by a farmer on a pelican flying into electricity wires. The farmer said it happens quite a lot. The pelican ignites and all the flaming pieces float down into the dry grass and start a fire.
Victor emits a terrible screech of horror, and disappears like a phoenix in a firestorm, leaving only a smoking feather behind.
Well, said Pliny, I suppose I must thank you for that. Now the magpie.........
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Bluebirds of Happiness and Unhappiness
Pliny the Elder must have liked The Bluebird of Happiness. He hums it all the time. Just remember this, Life is no abyss da de da de dee etceteraah! Why do you like it so much? I asked him.
Because, he replied, the bluebird represents love and joy, all that is cheerful, happy and good.
Ah Pliny, I said, I cannot share your delight in these things. The song drives me nuts and the words are too banal. And there is something else....
Tell me, said Pliny in an unusually kindly voice.
Well, I said, when my sisters and I were young we went on a family holiday with our parents to Lorne on the coast of Victoria. I was about 14 at the time, and Wendy was 7 and Susan was just a baby. It was a long drive, and we had been travelling all morning and half the afternoon. We girls were sitting in the back seat. Wendy was playing with her favourite toy of the moment, a tiny blue plastic swan from a breakfast cereal packet. She called it Swanny River, and she was talking to it and pretending it was talking back.
Whether I was trying to read a book I don't remember, but she was getting on my nerves. I kept telling her to shut up. She wouldn't. Mum and dad weren't paying any attention. Suddenly I did a most uncharacteristic thing. I opened the window, grabbed Swanny River and threw him a far as I could into the scrubby bushes at the side of the road. Shock and horror! No one could believe I had done it including me. I had thrown away my little sister's blue bird of happiness. Dad stopped the car and went back but of course we never found it.
Alas! said Pliny. And did you apologise to your sister?
No, I said, but I intend to one day.
Pliny looked wise. Just remember this, he began, and started to hum his favourite song.
Because, he replied, the bluebird represents love and joy, all that is cheerful, happy and good.
Ah Pliny, I said, I cannot share your delight in these things. The song drives me nuts and the words are too banal. And there is something else....
Tell me, said Pliny in an unusually kindly voice.
Well, I said, when my sisters and I were young we went on a family holiday with our parents to Lorne on the coast of Victoria. I was about 14 at the time, and Wendy was 7 and Susan was just a baby. It was a long drive, and we had been travelling all morning and half the afternoon. We girls were sitting in the back seat. Wendy was playing with her favourite toy of the moment, a tiny blue plastic swan from a breakfast cereal packet. She called it Swanny River, and she was talking to it and pretending it was talking back.
Whether I was trying to read a book I don't remember, but she was getting on my nerves. I kept telling her to shut up. She wouldn't. Mum and dad weren't paying any attention. Suddenly I did a most uncharacteristic thing. I opened the window, grabbed Swanny River and threw him a far as I could into the scrubby bushes at the side of the road. Shock and horror! No one could believe I had done it including me. I had thrown away my little sister's blue bird of happiness. Dad stopped the car and went back but of course we never found it.
Alas! said Pliny. And did you apologise to your sister?
No, I said, but I intend to one day.
Pliny looked wise. Just remember this, he began, and started to hum his favourite song.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Communications of Birds 3
Have you noticed that the birds have been making a lot of noise lately? said Pliny's mum last Sunday as she and Pliny were walking along the Brighton esplanade, looking more at the houses than at the bouncing blue sea. There were no birds in sight, but 2 people were kiteboarding, subliminally. Yes, said Pliny. I have.
I was watching a program just before you arrived, continued Pliny's mum. It was about pigeons and how they do what they do. What do they do? asked Pliny.
O you know, how they travel all those long distances. In the daytime they do it by the angle of the sun and in the nighttime they use a magnet inside their head. It is amazing, isn't it. Yes it is, said Pliny.
And, her mum continued, they used them such a lot in the war, they used them all the time. Was that for sending messages? Pliny asked. Yes, for sending messages, her mum replied, in the desert, over the sea, and everywhere. They helped to win the war.
A large red kiteboarder's kite threw a temporary shadow on the rocks nearby. It makes you wonder, said Pliny's mum, how they know when it's time to go. You know, when they all go off at once. Yes, said Pliny, it's fascinating how birds communicate and strange that we don't understand it.
What a coincidence, Pliny was thinking. I've been blogging for the last 2 days about the communications of birds. But if I told her that, she wouldn't understand it.
I was watching a program just before you arrived, continued Pliny's mum. It was about pigeons and how they do what they do. What do they do? asked Pliny.
O you know, how they travel all those long distances. In the daytime they do it by the angle of the sun and in the nighttime they use a magnet inside their head. It is amazing, isn't it. Yes it is, said Pliny.
And, her mum continued, they used them such a lot in the war, they used them all the time. Was that for sending messages? Pliny asked. Yes, for sending messages, her mum replied, in the desert, over the sea, and everywhere. They helped to win the war.
A large red kiteboarder's kite threw a temporary shadow on the rocks nearby. It makes you wonder, said Pliny's mum, how they know when it's time to go. You know, when they all go off at once. Yes, said Pliny, it's fascinating how birds communicate and strange that we don't understand it.
What a coincidence, Pliny was thinking. I've been blogging for the last 2 days about the communications of birds. But if I told her that, she wouldn't understand it.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Communications of Birds 2
The parrots, if they were parrots, in the tree, if they were in the tree, on Saturday morning were probably talking, very fast.
I know this now because I have visited the site of Ryan B Reynolds, Parrot Intelligence Researcher, called A Journey into the Mind of a Talking Parrot.
Ryan, who has studied his talking budgies for years, has recorded some of his conversations with Victor, and Betty, his best talkers. Victor ( now sadly deceased) in particular was a legend. He made jokes, he complained about stale bird seed, and he worried about making people feel sad.
And Victor believed in God.
The recordings have been slowed down a bit because parrots talk very fast says Ryan and this is because they live life at a faster rate than humans. Victor sounds in the recordings a little like Ryan talking in a funny voice but I suppose that is only natural.
I know this now because I have visited the site of Ryan B Reynolds, Parrot Intelligence Researcher, called A Journey into the Mind of a Talking Parrot.
Ryan, who has studied his talking budgies for years, has recorded some of his conversations with Victor, and Betty, his best talkers. Victor ( now sadly deceased) in particular was a legend. He made jokes, he complained about stale bird seed, and he worried about making people feel sad.
And Victor believed in God.
The recordings have been slowed down a bit because parrots talk very fast says Ryan and this is because they live life at a faster rate than humans. Victor sounds in the recordings a little like Ryan talking in a funny voice but I suppose that is only natural.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Communications of Birds
Those birds we couldn't see the other night, and their spooky night sounds. I was thinking of them.
When I woke up yesterday morning, there was a cacophony of birdsound coming from the tree out the front. Parrots probably. They were squawking a 6.45am chorus, but the significance eluded me. They stopped and the pigeons began their croo-crooing. Simple, but I didn't get that either.
I turned on the radio. A very old song was playing on the ABC- The Bluebird of Happiness.
" Just remember this, life is no abyss, somewhere there's a Bluebird of Happiness."
Can you believe it? It isn't just bird song I don't understand.
When I woke up yesterday morning, there was a cacophony of birdsound coming from the tree out the front. Parrots probably. They were squawking a 6.45am chorus, but the significance eluded me. They stopped and the pigeons began their croo-crooing. Simple, but I didn't get that either.
I turned on the radio. A very old song was playing on the ABC- The Bluebird of Happiness.
" Just remember this, life is no abyss, somewhere there's a Bluebird of Happiness."
Can you believe it? It isn't just bird song I don't understand.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Pliny's Home Brew
This is our recipe for a great Lager Home Brew.
1. Be given a Cooper's 30 litre Microbrew Kit.
2. Make the Home Brew according to the instructions.
Couldn't be easier. Or could it?
Yes, it was even easier for me, because Nostradamus was given the home brewing kit, so I had to do nothing at all, other than listen to the brown mixture burbling away behind me for a few days, wait one more week, and sample it! It tastes like proper beer, with a lemony finish.
Pliny the Elder doesn't like it of course. He recently discovered that someone in California had named a beer after him and he was hopping mad. He sent them a complaining letter. Alas, he wrote, what a wonderful ingenuity vice possesses! Man has even discovered how to make water intoxicating! I would ask that my name not be associated with your enterprise were it not that we both know I am out of copyright.
1. Be given a Cooper's 30 litre Microbrew Kit.
2. Make the Home Brew according to the instructions.
Couldn't be easier. Or could it?
Yes, it was even easier for me, because Nostradamus was given the home brewing kit, so I had to do nothing at all, other than listen to the brown mixture burbling away behind me for a few days, wait one more week, and sample it! It tastes like proper beer, with a lemony finish.
Pliny the Elder doesn't like it of course. He recently discovered that someone in California had named a beer after him and he was hopping mad. He sent them a complaining letter. Alas, he wrote, what a wonderful ingenuity vice possesses! Man has even discovered how to make water intoxicating! I would ask that my name not be associated with your enterprise were it not that we both know I am out of copyright.
Gryllus sub Luna
Pliny has given me a litte poem. It's called:
GRYLLUS SUB LUNA
Gryllus sub luna cantat
Consistat luna in cursa ut audiat
O luna cur consistas gryllus rogat
Simili mihi multi alii supra collem
Luna : possum agere sicut cupio
Supra collem similis mihi est nemo.
Let me have a go at translating it.
THE CRICKET UNDER THE MOON
The cricket sings under the moon
The moon stops in her course to listen.
Why do you stop O moon asks the cricket
There are many others like me over the hill.
The moon says: I can do as I wish
There is no one over the hill like me.
That's delightful! But was Pliny is being awfully clever or does he really know nothing about cricket?
GRYLLUS SUB LUNA
Gryllus sub luna cantat
Consistat luna in cursa ut audiat
O luna cur consistas gryllus rogat
Simili mihi multi alii supra collem
Luna : possum agere sicut cupio
Supra collem similis mihi est nemo.
Let me have a go at translating it.
THE CRICKET UNDER THE MOON
The cricket sings under the moon
The moon stops in her course to listen.
Why do you stop O moon asks the cricket
There are many others like me over the hill.
The moon says: I can do as I wish
There is no one over the hill like me.
That's delightful! But was Pliny is being awfully clever or does he really know nothing about cricket?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Mood of Inquiry
Unsatisfactory, sniffed Pliny the Elder. Everything about your moon story is unsatisfactory. Had I been writing it I should have taken a very different tone.
Pliny you weren't there, I reminded him. And I was trying to evoke a mood.
There is only one mood when writing, he said firmly, and that is the mood of inquiry. Had I written it I would have addressed these issues:
1. Why had the electrifications failed? If, as I suspect, it was because too many people had turned on their airconditioners at the same time, I would have allowed myself a digression:
1a. People nowadays think only of their comfort, and fail to demonstrate the fortitude of their forbears. (I would have written at length about this, a hobbyhorse of mine. )
2. Why was the moon visible at the cricket so long before it rose over your neighbours' roof? I would have explained that the cricket was being played in Sydney, in a different time zone; that the cameras there may well have been placed on a high tower; and that the height of your neighbours' roof and its proximity would have further delayed your seeing the moonrise.
3. What is the true name of the Saucepan? It is Orion's Belt. I would have explained that it is not called Orion's Belt in the Antipodes because the sword appears to hang upwards from the belt rather than down, thus reminding Antipodeans of a saucepan with a handle.
4. What was tapping in the apricot tree? Surely you went to have a look?
5. What are these so-called invisible birds? are they owls, or daytime birds emboldened by the moonlight?
6. How is your home brewed lager made? I would have included a recipe, and recipes from other lands, particularly ones with outlandish ingredients, and listed their medicinal qualities.
7. Finally, you do not end your story. Did you sleep outside? If not, when did you decide to go in? At what time did the electrifications resume? And had you remembered to switch off the fan?
Thankyou Pliny, I said, through faintly smiling teeth. Next time I try writing something subjective like that I will consult you first. Together we could electrify the literary world.
That will be most gratifying, he replied.
Pliny you weren't there, I reminded him. And I was trying to evoke a mood.
There is only one mood when writing, he said firmly, and that is the mood of inquiry. Had I written it I would have addressed these issues:
1. Why had the electrifications failed? If, as I suspect, it was because too many people had turned on their airconditioners at the same time, I would have allowed myself a digression:
1a. People nowadays think only of their comfort, and fail to demonstrate the fortitude of their forbears. (I would have written at length about this, a hobbyhorse of mine. )
2. Why was the moon visible at the cricket so long before it rose over your neighbours' roof? I would have explained that the cricket was being played in Sydney, in a different time zone; that the cameras there may well have been placed on a high tower; and that the height of your neighbours' roof and its proximity would have further delayed your seeing the moonrise.
3. What is the true name of the Saucepan? It is Orion's Belt. I would have explained that it is not called Orion's Belt in the Antipodes because the sword appears to hang upwards from the belt rather than down, thus reminding Antipodeans of a saucepan with a handle.
4. What was tapping in the apricot tree? Surely you went to have a look?
5. What are these so-called invisible birds? are they owls, or daytime birds emboldened by the moonlight?
6. How is your home brewed lager made? I would have included a recipe, and recipes from other lands, particularly ones with outlandish ingredients, and listed their medicinal qualities.
7. Finally, you do not end your story. Did you sleep outside? If not, when did you decide to go in? At what time did the electrifications resume? And had you remembered to switch off the fan?
Thankyou Pliny, I said, through faintly smiling teeth. Next time I try writing something subjective like that I will consult you first. Together we could electrify the literary world.
That will be most gratifying, he replied.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Moon Waiting
Last night at half past nine the power went off. Ffffff. The cricket, the lights, the fan. We were left sitting in a hot dark room. That was no fun. Especially without the fan. It was still 38 degrees inside.
We decided to sit out in the back garden, it was cooler out there, and the moon would be coming up soon. I knew that because I had seen it on the cricket when they focussed the camera on the moon.
We sat in the middle of our square of semi-dried grass, looking up at the starry sky. The Saucepan was above us and the Southern Cross behind. The moon would be rising soon over the back neighbours' roofline. The sky was already lighter there.
We heard footsteps and a tinkle, over a side fence. A door closed. A dog far away went woooh, sadly. Some young people far away went woooh, in a tone more suggestive of fun. Tap, tap, tap, came from the apricot tree in the corner. A hot gust blew down from over the fence. Invisible birds made a spirit sound impossible to reproduce. The moon glow was brightening but the moon was nowhere in sight.
A single candle flickered on the wooden table behind the pencil pine. We drank some home brewed lager. We spoke of playing outside at night as children, and of spiders and mosquito nets, and the possibility of sleeping out of doors. We spoke to the moon. Where are you and how could you have been at the cricket over an hour ago and not be rising over the neighbours' roof by now?
The stars had moved. The Southern Cross was now much higher in the sky. The roofline was awash with light. I shall see the moon first, I said. Even now if I sit up straight I can see the topmost wedge. It was eleven o'clock. The moon, delayed by cricket, rose into view, dazzlingly bright.
This story has a beginning and a middle, but no end..........
We decided to sit out in the back garden, it was cooler out there, and the moon would be coming up soon. I knew that because I had seen it on the cricket when they focussed the camera on the moon.
We sat in the middle of our square of semi-dried grass, looking up at the starry sky. The Saucepan was above us and the Southern Cross behind. The moon would be rising soon over the back neighbours' roofline. The sky was already lighter there.
We heard footsteps and a tinkle, over a side fence. A door closed. A dog far away went woooh, sadly. Some young people far away went woooh, in a tone more suggestive of fun. Tap, tap, tap, came from the apricot tree in the corner. A hot gust blew down from over the fence. Invisible birds made a spirit sound impossible to reproduce. The moon glow was brightening but the moon was nowhere in sight.
A single candle flickered on the wooden table behind the pencil pine. We drank some home brewed lager. We spoke of playing outside at night as children, and of spiders and mosquito nets, and the possibility of sleeping out of doors. We spoke to the moon. Where are you and how could you have been at the cricket over an hour ago and not be rising over the neighbours' roof by now?
The stars had moved. The Southern Cross was now much higher in the sky. The roofline was awash with light. I shall see the moon first, I said. Even now if I sit up straight I can see the topmost wedge. It was eleven o'clock. The moon, delayed by cricket, rose into view, dazzlingly bright.
This story has a beginning and a middle, but no end..........
Monday, January 12, 2009
Not the Seleucis Avis
Pliny the Elder is banned from writing about kites. I have just had a look at his notes. First of all he has misremembered the name, which is milvus lineatus, not seleucis avis. Secondly he was going to write this:
Kites are of the same genus as hawks but are smaller. They are rapacious birds that feed on carrion. Though they are always hungry they do not steal food at funerals or when it is offered to the gods. Kites do not normally drink and it is a direful augury if one does so.
I was sceptical. Pliny, I said, do you mean to say that these birds can tell the difference beween an offering and the leavings from a picnic? Do you think that they have some sort of religious sensibility or what? And surely it stretches the bounds of credibility that a bird would not normally drink?
Indeed these things seem very strange, he agreed, and I do not even know that they are true. I merely record reports of wonders that come to my attention.
Do you? I said. And where did these ones come from?
Mmmm.... he mumbled. A Medieval Bestiary, I think.
But Pliny, that must have been well after your time!
Well after! he huffed, but naturally they were quoting me.
Kites are of the same genus as hawks but are smaller. They are rapacious birds that feed on carrion. Though they are always hungry they do not steal food at funerals or when it is offered to the gods. Kites do not normally drink and it is a direful augury if one does so.
I was sceptical. Pliny, I said, do you mean to say that these birds can tell the difference beween an offering and the leavings from a picnic? Do you think that they have some sort of religious sensibility or what? And surely it stretches the bounds of credibility that a bird would not normally drink?
Indeed these things seem very strange, he agreed, and I do not even know that they are true. I merely record reports of wonders that come to my attention.
Do you? I said. And where did these ones come from?
Mmmm.... he mumbled. A Medieval Bestiary, I think.
But Pliny, that must have been well after your time!
Well after! he huffed, but naturally they were quoting me.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Kites
Kites! said Pliny the Elder. Did someone mention kites? And then not invite me to have my say? I know a few things about the seleucis avis.
Sorry Pliny, I replied, but they were not that sort of kite.
What sort were they? he asked sharply.
They were the sort that people make out of paper or plastic and fly in the wind from a piece of string.
Oh yes, the Chinese people used to do that. I mention them in my writings. They were called the Seres people in those days. They had red hair and blue eyes. They used kites when fishing, attaching a hook to the kite, enabling them to drop it far from their boat and thus deceive the fish.
Pliny! You don't know that!
I have read that it was so. You can look it up yourself in the History of Kites. The Chinese made their kites in the shape of birds, most commonly the kite. That is how the paper kite got its name in English. Would you like me to tell you what I know about the seleucis avis ?
No Pliny, let us reserve that treat for tomorrow.
Sorry Pliny, I replied, but they were not that sort of kite.
What sort were they? he asked sharply.
They were the sort that people make out of paper or plastic and fly in the wind from a piece of string.
Oh yes, the Chinese people used to do that. I mention them in my writings. They were called the Seres people in those days. They had red hair and blue eyes. They used kites when fishing, attaching a hook to the kite, enabling them to drop it far from their boat and thus deceive the fish.
Pliny! You don't know that!
I have read that it was so. You can look it up yourself in the History of Kites. The Chinese made their kites in the shape of birds, most commonly the kite. That is how the paper kite got its name in English. Would you like me to tell you what I know about the seleucis avis ?
No Pliny, let us reserve that treat for tomorrow.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
S.S. Orca
Yesterday Pliny and Nostradamus went to a beach they rarely visit due to the difficulty of finding a road to it. A windy beach it was, with a great deal of sky. In the sky flew a whale, trailing an inflatable orange bucket, with black writing on it. Above the whale, a black green and white box jellyfish with long purple and white stingers. Below these creatures there were 2 people holding string.
Pliny and Nostradamus stumbled through the soft sand with their eyes fixed upon on the giant kites, particularly the whale. Nostradamus thought it might be constructed as a tube. He therefore was looking for a hole at each end which would confirm this hypothesis. Pliny was trying to read the words on the orange bucket. The letters she could see were S S, but there were several more that kept revolving out of sight. Due to the nature of the letter S she could not be sure whether these were the first or the last 2 letters of the word.
Pliny and Nostradamus were walking on the hard sand now and still looking up at the whale and the jellyfish. It was some time before they passed the stringholders and were finally released from the need to stare at fixed objects in the sky while walking.
Outrageous really. Perhaps it should not even be allowed.
Pliny and Nostradamus stumbled through the soft sand with their eyes fixed upon on the giant kites, particularly the whale. Nostradamus thought it might be constructed as a tube. He therefore was looking for a hole at each end which would confirm this hypothesis. Pliny was trying to read the words on the orange bucket. The letters she could see were S S, but there were several more that kept revolving out of sight. Due to the nature of the letter S she could not be sure whether these were the first or the last 2 letters of the word.
Pliny and Nostradamus were walking on the hard sand now and still looking up at the whale and the jellyfish. It was some time before they passed the stringholders and were finally released from the need to stare at fixed objects in the sky while walking.
Outrageous really. Perhaps it should not even be allowed.
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Meaning of Life
Pliny is pleased with the enigmatic ending to her previous blog. She wonders whether she might be able to use it more than once. Perhaps, she thinks, it is a universal truth that if there is any meaning to life it could be represented by a randomly chosen fact.
She tries out a few facts.
This morning, she writes, we threw away the old green plastic bucket that we keep in the shower for the purpose of recycling water because it was split in several places.
It seems at this point that it is not a universal truth she has invented, but she perseveres.
At the supermarket, she continues, Nostradamus chose a new plastic bucket, powder blue in colour. Pliny was entranced by the colour of the new bucket.
Pliny feels that she is approaching something meaningful and she goes on.
At home, in the bathroom, she contemplates the new powder blue bucket in the shower recess.
I did not realise, she thinks, how little I liked that old green bucket, until we got this new one. If life has any meaning, it might well be represented by this fact.
She tries out a few facts.
This morning, she writes, we threw away the old green plastic bucket that we keep in the shower for the purpose of recycling water because it was split in several places.
It seems at this point that it is not a universal truth she has invented, but she perseveres.
At the supermarket, she continues, Nostradamus chose a new plastic bucket, powder blue in colour. Pliny was entranced by the colour of the new bucket.
Pliny feels that she is approaching something meaningful and she goes on.
At home, in the bathroom, she contemplates the new powder blue bucket in the shower recess.
I did not realise, she thinks, how little I liked that old green bucket, until we got this new one. If life has any meaning, it might well be represented by this fact.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Unbearable Lightness of Shopping
We have four birthdays coming up ! said Pliny's mum. We'd better do some shopping. So Pliny and her mum went to town today to do just that. What are we doing first? said Pliny's mum, when they met in David Jones, having lunch? Yes, said Pliny, so they had lunch.
Now, said Pliny's mum what are we doing next? Well, said Pliny, whose birthday is first? Michael's. So his present should be bought first. Right, said Pliny's mum. I wondered if he might like a Parker pen? That is if I can't get him those fluffy thongs. Good idea, said Pliny, let's have a quick look for fluffy thongs and then go and buy a Parker pen if we can't find any. Shall we look in here? Yes, said Pliny's mum. Unfortunately they had both forgotten that David Jones do not stock those fluffy thongs, did not last year and did not the year before. But they do sell Parker pens.
Now who is next? said Pliny's mum. Allan. Yes, said Pliny, but Lucy's present has to be posted by the 20th, so really she should be next. Right, said Pliny's mum. So they went to the children's department which by good fortune was on the same floor as the pens were and the thongs were not.
We are doing well, said Pliny's mum. Now what did Chris say, she has too many clothes so send toys? No, said Pliny, he said she has too many toys so send clothes.
Now in case Lucy's mum reads this before the present arrives I shall not reveal any details of the delightful red and blue size one garment that was subsequently bought by Pliny's mum.
I shall also resort to using dots in the next paragraph for similar reasons.
Now Allan, said Pliny's mum. I have no idea. Would he like a .......? He might, said Pliny. Let's look at .........s in Myers. The .........s in Myers were all too .......y, so they looked in ............ There Pliny's mum found a ........ that suited her criteria for a ........ Pliny was not too sure that it would suit Allan's criteria, but she agreed it was a nice one. That was only $....., said Pliny's mum, what else can I get him? You could always get him some ........s sighed Pliny, but we'll have to go back to Myers. So they did. Pliny's mum was particularly pleased with the ........s they found in Myers. Not only were they an up market brand but there was 30% off the marked price as well.
Now what about Sean? said Pliny's mum. Have you asked him what he wants? No, Pliny said, but I will. Men are so difficult to buy for, said Pliny's mum. Women are so easy. What did I get him for Xmas? I can't remember said Pliny. Neither can I, said Pliny's mum. Anyway we've done really well. Lets have a coffee and call that it.
Pliny looked down at her empty hands. The four birthdays were coming up for her as well. She thought that if life had any meaning it could be represented by that fact.
Now, said Pliny's mum what are we doing next? Well, said Pliny, whose birthday is first? Michael's. So his present should be bought first. Right, said Pliny's mum. I wondered if he might like a Parker pen? That is if I can't get him those fluffy thongs. Good idea, said Pliny, let's have a quick look for fluffy thongs and then go and buy a Parker pen if we can't find any. Shall we look in here? Yes, said Pliny's mum. Unfortunately they had both forgotten that David Jones do not stock those fluffy thongs, did not last year and did not the year before. But they do sell Parker pens.
Now who is next? said Pliny's mum. Allan. Yes, said Pliny, but Lucy's present has to be posted by the 20th, so really she should be next. Right, said Pliny's mum. So they went to the children's department which by good fortune was on the same floor as the pens were and the thongs were not.
We are doing well, said Pliny's mum. Now what did Chris say, she has too many clothes so send toys? No, said Pliny, he said she has too many toys so send clothes.
Now in case Lucy's mum reads this before the present arrives I shall not reveal any details of the delightful red and blue size one garment that was subsequently bought by Pliny's mum.
I shall also resort to using dots in the next paragraph for similar reasons.
Now Allan, said Pliny's mum. I have no idea. Would he like a .......? He might, said Pliny. Let's look at .........s in Myers. The .........s in Myers were all too .......y, so they looked in ............ There Pliny's mum found a ........ that suited her criteria for a ........ Pliny was not too sure that it would suit Allan's criteria, but she agreed it was a nice one. That was only $....., said Pliny's mum, what else can I get him? You could always get him some ........s sighed Pliny, but we'll have to go back to Myers. So they did. Pliny's mum was particularly pleased with the ........s they found in Myers. Not only were they an up market brand but there was 30% off the marked price as well.
Now what about Sean? said Pliny's mum. Have you asked him what he wants? No, Pliny said, but I will. Men are so difficult to buy for, said Pliny's mum. Women are so easy. What did I get him for Xmas? I can't remember said Pliny. Neither can I, said Pliny's mum. Anyway we've done really well. Lets have a coffee and call that it.
Pliny looked down at her empty hands. The four birthdays were coming up for her as well. She thought that if life had any meaning it could be represented by that fact.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Appearances
Pliny, do you know an effective cure for a common headache?
Indeed, I know of several. A herb found growing on the head of a statue gathered and bound up in some part of one's garment with a red thread will presently allay a headache. Tying around one's head a piece of rope by which a man has been hanged is also most effective. My contemporary Scribonius swore by the use of an electric fish, or ray, which is also called a Torpedo. He would place the fish across the brow of the sufferer, and allow it to discharge.
I'll bet that worked!
Let us say that nobody complained of a headache afterwards.
But Pliny, what do you yourself do if you have a headache?
I tie a woman's breast band round my head.
And how does that work exactly?
A powerful female magic exudes from the garment and all care is banished.
Do you think it would work for me, if, say, I used my own garment?
Of course, but many people nowadays prefer to take paracetamol, as they do not wish to look foolish.
Indeed, I know of several. A herb found growing on the head of a statue gathered and bound up in some part of one's garment with a red thread will presently allay a headache. Tying around one's head a piece of rope by which a man has been hanged is also most effective. My contemporary Scribonius swore by the use of an electric fish, or ray, which is also called a Torpedo. He would place the fish across the brow of the sufferer, and allow it to discharge.
I'll bet that worked!
Let us say that nobody complained of a headache afterwards.
But Pliny, what do you yourself do if you have a headache?
I tie a woman's breast band round my head.
And how does that work exactly?
A powerful female magic exudes from the garment and all care is banished.
Do you think it would work for me, if, say, I used my own garment?
Of course, but many people nowadays prefer to take paracetamol, as they do not wish to look foolish.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
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 ?
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 ?
Monday, January 5, 2009
Snap
If, said Pliny the Elder, you had taken the trouble to google the word bacteria, you would no doubt have been more impressed with me than I was with you.
Almost every site mentions my name. It was I who described many new diseases, such as lichen, which only grows on the faces of noble men, carbunculus, nowadays known as anthrax, gemursa, which is not known today, elephantiasis, which is leprosy, and colum which is also unknown these days.
It was I who recommended the use of terra silligata, a sacred earth found only on the Greek island of Lemnos, for use against complaints of the spleen and kidneys, copious menstruation, poisons and wounds caused by serpents.
Again it was I who recommended fermented milk to treat stomach infections, and the use of garlic against bad water and food, and I believe I mentioned the properties of a certain blue cheese .......
An interesting phenomenon, of which I gave many examples, is now known as bioluminescence. I noted luminous wood in olive groves, and glowing jellyfish and shining fish heads in the waters near my home. I famously mentioned that a walking stick rubbed with the pulmo marinus will light the way like a torch.
Gosh Pliny, I said admiringly, you astound me. The only thing you didn't know was what you were actually talking about.
Almost every site mentions my name. It was I who described many new diseases, such as lichen, which only grows on the faces of noble men, carbunculus, nowadays known as anthrax, gemursa, which is not known today, elephantiasis, which is leprosy, and colum which is also unknown these days.
It was I who recommended the use of terra silligata, a sacred earth found only on the Greek island of Lemnos, for use against complaints of the spleen and kidneys, copious menstruation, poisons and wounds caused by serpents.
Again it was I who recommended fermented milk to treat stomach infections, and the use of garlic against bad water and food, and I believe I mentioned the properties of a certain blue cheese .......
An interesting phenomenon, of which I gave many examples, is now known as bioluminescence. I noted luminous wood in olive groves, and glowing jellyfish and shining fish heads in the waters near my home. I famously mentioned that a walking stick rubbed with the pulmo marinus will light the way like a torch.
Gosh Pliny, I said admiringly, you astound me. The only thing you didn't know was what you were actually talking about.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Superbugs
That Pliny the Elder. I feel obliged to write about Bacteria now, even though I've gone right off the idea.
Every Saturday in the Advertiser Review, on page 2, there is a thrilling science column called 'Can You Believe It?', written in such a way as to get people like me to read it. Sometimes I read it, and sometimes I don't. In the worst case scenario I read half of it. That means I really tried to read it but the professor or PhD student who wrote it was a bad communicator. Last Saturday I read all about Superbugs, and learned this interesting fact.
Bacteria are evolving ways to resist penicillin and other antibiotics, as everyone knows, but the reason they are so good at it is because they can share genes. Who knew that? Not me. What happens is, when bacteria cells die other bacteria sort through their DNA debris and when they find anything that helps them to do something better, they incorporate the DNA into their chromosomes. You have to admire that don't you, whatever else you might think of the greedy little gobblers.
I'm glad I wrote that now. Pliny will be impressed. How would he know anything about bacteria?
Every Saturday in the Advertiser Review, on page 2, there is a thrilling science column called 'Can You Believe It?', written in such a way as to get people like me to read it. Sometimes I read it, and sometimes I don't. In the worst case scenario I read half of it. That means I really tried to read it but the professor or PhD student who wrote it was a bad communicator. Last Saturday I read all about Superbugs, and learned this interesting fact.
Bacteria are evolving ways to resist penicillin and other antibiotics, as everyone knows, but the reason they are so good at it is because they can share genes. Who knew that? Not me. What happens is, when bacteria cells die other bacteria sort through their DNA debris and when they find anything that helps them to do something better, they incorporate the DNA into their chromosomes. You have to admire that don't you, whatever else you might think of the greedy little gobblers.
I'm glad I wrote that now. Pliny will be impressed. How would he know anything about bacteria?
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Bacteria
Me: Was that poem any good or what?
Pliny the Elder: What?
Me: Was that poem ......? Oh.
Pliny the Elder: It has many faults. The reference to prawns in line one for example . One needs to have read the previous blog to understand it, and then, also the word order makes the meaning highly ambiguous. Furthermore the first verse gives the impression you were writing in prose and then realised you had a rhyme so you simply reformatted the lines.
Me: O Pliny, you are too perceptive.
Pliny the Elder: One cannot be too perceptive.
Me: What did you think of the second verse?
Pliny the Elder: I liked the ant running scared but could not approve of your rhyming bowl with bowl. That is not considered a proper rhyme in poetry. And I happen to know you squashed 3 ants that morning, not just 2.
Me: I was constrained by my 4 line stanzas. It takes at least 2 lines to kill an ant on location.
Pliny the Elder: Point taken. Poetic licence is allowable. But now to your final verse. Why did you run the lines on so? And your ending is extremely weak, not to mention that you omitted a final full stop.
Me: That was deliberate. I was cooking jam remember.
Pliny the Elder: Yes, but cooking jam is not indicated by leaving out a full stop.
Me: Alright, but didn't I save it by calling it the Poetry of Inattention?
Pliny the Elder: No. I really think you should have blogged about Bacteria as you intended.
Me: I know, I meant to, but Bacteria deserve more attention than I could give them cooking jam.
Pliny the Elder: That gives me little confidence in the safety of consuming it.
Pliny the Elder: What?
Me: Was that poem ......? Oh.
Pliny the Elder: It has many faults. The reference to prawns in line one for example . One needs to have read the previous blog to understand it, and then, also the word order makes the meaning highly ambiguous. Furthermore the first verse gives the impression you were writing in prose and then realised you had a rhyme so you simply reformatted the lines.
Me: O Pliny, you are too perceptive.
Pliny the Elder: One cannot be too perceptive.
Me: What did you think of the second verse?
Pliny the Elder: I liked the ant running scared but could not approve of your rhyming bowl with bowl. That is not considered a proper rhyme in poetry. And I happen to know you squashed 3 ants that morning, not just 2.
Me: I was constrained by my 4 line stanzas. It takes at least 2 lines to kill an ant on location.
Pliny the Elder: Point taken. Poetic licence is allowable. But now to your final verse. Why did you run the lines on so? And your ending is extremely weak, not to mention that you omitted a final full stop.
Me: That was deliberate. I was cooking jam remember.
Pliny the Elder: Yes, but cooking jam is not indicated by leaving out a full stop.
Me: Alright, but didn't I save it by calling it the Poetry of Inattention?
Pliny the Elder: No. I really think you should have blogged about Bacteria as you intended.
Me: I know, I meant to, but Bacteria deserve more attention than I could give them cooking jam.
Pliny the Elder: That gives me little confidence in the safety of consuming it.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Poetry of Inattention
As well as prawns, ants and birds like apricots,
but we do everything to stop them getting ours
even though we have so many that we need
to give them away or preserve them in jars
this morning I crushed the life from an ant
running scared in the bottom of the bowl
of apricots and when I'd done that
another ant ran out into the bowl
just now I'm making apricot preserves with sugar
in the recipe and we do not eat jam
all that often are we crazy
I sometimes wonder if I am
but we do everything to stop them getting ours
even though we have so many that we need
to give them away or preserve them in jars
this morning I crushed the life from an ant
running scared in the bottom of the bowl
of apricots and when I'd done that
another ant ran out into the bowl
just now I'm making apricot preserves with sugar
in the recipe and we do not eat jam
all that often are we crazy
I sometimes wonder if I am
Thursday, January 1, 2009
The Long Journey of the Prawns
Once there were 20 prawns caught in China. They were frozen and exported to Coles in Norwood where they were bought by Pliny and Nostradamus for their New Year's picnic the following day. So the prawns had to spend one more night in a fridge.
The prawns arrived at the picnic spot around half past one. Pliny and Nostradamus ate them one by one, first cracking off their heads and tails and peeling off their scales and squeezing out the yellow stuff whatever that is called. The prawns were consumed. But their heads and tails and scales and digestive tracts lay relaxing on a plate.
A seagull, several moorhens and a pointy headed pigeon were stalking nearby on the grass, which grows down to the Torrens pond near the railway bridge, a pleasant spot, with many trees. Nostradamus left the plate on the grass a few feet away. The seagull circled the plate 3 times and nipped at a prawn head. He took it away. He ate it. He returned. He ate several pieces of prawn, and was full. A large and elderly moorhen approached the plate and took a prawn tail. Ate it. The pointy headed pigeon walked up and down, looking at the trees.
Soon the plate was much depleted of prawn ends. Nostradamus tipped the rest onto the grass and poured another glass of wine for himself and one for Pliny. The river pond sparkled with a dull brown sparkle, a Chinese family fished under the willow tree on the other side, a giant fish leapt up, twisted and plopped back into the middle of the pond. Pliny and Nostradamus tried to remember the collective noun for ducks. They looked down at the pile of prawn bits. A thousand ants were ripping into it. It was disappearing, but there was an orange patina on the grass. Pliny thought about the long journey of the prawns.
The fish leapt again, joyfully.
The prawns arrived at the picnic spot around half past one. Pliny and Nostradamus ate them one by one, first cracking off their heads and tails and peeling off their scales and squeezing out the yellow stuff whatever that is called. The prawns were consumed. But their heads and tails and scales and digestive tracts lay relaxing on a plate.
A seagull, several moorhens and a pointy headed pigeon were stalking nearby on the grass, which grows down to the Torrens pond near the railway bridge, a pleasant spot, with many trees. Nostradamus left the plate on the grass a few feet away. The seagull circled the plate 3 times and nipped at a prawn head. He took it away. He ate it. He returned. He ate several pieces of prawn, and was full. A large and elderly moorhen approached the plate and took a prawn tail. Ate it. The pointy headed pigeon walked up and down, looking at the trees.
Soon the plate was much depleted of prawn ends. Nostradamus tipped the rest onto the grass and poured another glass of wine for himself and one for Pliny. The river pond sparkled with a dull brown sparkle, a Chinese family fished under the willow tree on the other side, a giant fish leapt up, twisted and plopped back into the middle of the pond. Pliny and Nostradamus tried to remember the collective noun for ducks. They looked down at the pile of prawn bits. A thousand ants were ripping into it. It was disappearing, but there was an orange patina on the grass. Pliny thought about the long journey of the prawns.
The fish leapt again, joyfully.
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