Unprovable Truths

It's nine o'clock in the morning and I'm standing in a queue at the Grainger Studio to get free tickets to the Young Performers Awards Grand Final. There are four people in front of me, and
no one behind.

Three of the people, and myself, were previously sitting on a circular seat, in front of the Box Office.

The First Person: A lady of a certain age in an orange jacket, with an English accent, who doesn't even know the tickets are free.

The Second Person: A lady in a green top and black three quarter jogger pants who can't believe there isn't a long queue for the free tickets. Twice she runs off, and comes back.

The Third Person: An elderly gentleman in a pork pie hat and a tan raincoat. He knows how many people fit into the Festival Theatre. He knows how many people fit into the Town Hall. He knows how many people fit into the Elder Hall.

I know he knows because we talk about these things. But at last we run out of venue capacities to discuss.

It is difficult to talk easily to persons who are all sitting on an outward facing circular seat.

Eventually the conversation dies.

There now comes upon the scene a:

Fourth Person: A lady of the obese persuasion, who is sitting in the cafe, some metres away, waiting for an opportunity.

I do not know this.

For I am facing directly away from the Box Office, occupied with a Brink Theatre brochure.

Hola! suddenly everyone has got up and formed a queue at the Box Office desk, and there are four people in front of me, and the last of these is the obese lady, but the real last one is me.

Had she not done this I would have seats in Row E, and she a kinder adjective.

Incompleteness

I'm with Gödel, said Pliny the Elder. The world is not everything that is the case. I haven't received my book yet, although I've paid for it, and that's a fact.

I don't think Gödel's theorem was concerned with things that hadn't arrived yet, I said doubtfully. I think it was only to do with arithmetical truths. That some things arithmetical are true but unprovable, in any consistent theory.

Well, said Pliny, It's true but unprovable that I haven't got my book. How do you prove that you haven't got something?

You're right you can't, I agreed. But it's not the Incompleteness Theory.

Yes it is, said Pliny. My transaction in buying the book is incomplete without the book. And you can't tell me that a monetary transaction is not arithmetical.

I think you have won the argument, I said. Gödel's theorem is more useful than I thought.

All That is the Case

I'm sitting out the back at a wooden table reading a book. Trying not to lean too hard on my blue and green striped elbows. There's grit on the table.

The wind blows the shadow strands of my hair over the pages. I look up. I see something moving on the low wall near the rosemary and pencil pine, above the black pot. It looks like a tiny white and ginger mouse, or a chicken. I look harder. It's a feather, ginger at each end and white in the middle. The feather is attached by invisible threads to the brick wall. The wind is making it twist and toss and rock back and forth and seem to be pecking the air.

Now I know that it's not alive, it loses my sympathy. And immediately regains it. What makes it not alive anyway? It's moving as though it's alive. What's the difference? It's trapped. But it isn't going to die there. It loses my sympathy again.

I go back to my book, which is about Kurt Gödel the mathematician. I'm reading the words of Wittgenstein: The world is everything which is the case. Kurt Gödel is just about to present to his philosophical and mathematical friends in the Viennese coffee shop, proof that the world is not everything that is the case. I like this.

It's warm. I go inside. There's some orange stuck in my teeth, from lunch. I'm thinking about the feather. I'm thinking: after I've got rid of the orange I'll go and look at that feather close up. I get some dental floss. I walk outside still flossing. I hope no one can see me. I bend down and look at the feather.

It is in fact two feathers, each with a ginger tip, and joined in the middle by white fluffy down. They are caught on a filament of dried grass sticking up between the bricks. This is why they looked like a chicken.

I like this too.

To the Editors

To the Editors of Velosophy,

I feel I must protest at the way I have been depicted in your publication, by your good selves.

Firstly, I object to your reference to that scoundrel Dali's description of my bicycle, with the attached red hot water bottle, and snail. Does no one think to question the great Dali? Is he not the master of Surrealism? Is not the picture of my so-called bicycle the very essence of something Dali would DREAM UP?

Secondly, I think I may claim to be a philosopher of sorts. There are, I am certain, many references in my works to bicycles. You will forgive me if I have forgotten exactly what they are. However thanks to google, of which I note you make great use yourselves, I have found an essay on my book The Interpretation of Dreams, in which essay I find the following statement: Thus the wish to sleep the meaning of every dreams Freud Freud p. the real substance of the book which is I rode a bicycle.

I admit, that is not perfectly clear, but you must admit, it is a reference. Why the writer scrambled up his text is not my concern. Possibly he wants the reader to pay him some money to read the essay proper. However, this is proof positive that I wrote directly on the subject of bicycles, and therefore I put it to you: Would you not have better served your readers with a serious discussion of my views about the meaning of dreams about bicycles rather than being content to mock me through the scurrilous words of my erstwhile friend Salvador Dali?

I await your response.

Yours faithfully,

Sigmund Freud ( Professor)

Freud's Bicycle

Hello fellow cycling philosophers! Something a little different for you today. Le Bon David and myself, the VeloDrone, in conversation:

VeloDrone: You know David, it struck me the other day that it isn't only we philosophers that have interesting things to say on the subject of bicycles.

Le Bon David: Now that's a coincidence, my friend, for I was only thinking the same thing myself last night.

VeloDrone: Why so?

Le Bon David: Well, I was idly googling famous people and their bicycles, as one does, and I chanced upon a most intriguing tale of Dr Freud and his bicycle, which was, believe it or not, related by the well known Spanish artist, Salvador Dali.

VeloDrone: Not the one about the hot water bottle?

Le Bon David: The very one. You know of it?

VeloDrone: Indeed. It is my favourite tale of Dr Freud. And Dali. But do relate it for our readers.

Le Bon David: Certainly. It seems that in 1928 Freud was a refugee in London, living in Hampstead. While there he was visited by Salvador Dali. As Dali was crossing the old professor's yard, he saw a bicycle leaning against a wall, and on the saddle, attached by a string, was a red hot water bottle, which looked full of water, and on the back of it, a snail.

VeloDrone: Brilliant! It gives a whole new interpretation to analysis. And I had forgotten about the snail!

Le Bon David: I think Dali was more taken with the snail than the hot water bottle. You may recall his famous drawing of Dr Freud's head as a snail. And Dali himself identified most strongly with the snail.

VeloDrone: It would be enlightening to know whether Dali rode a bicycle.

Le Bon David: It would indeed, my friend. I shall endeavour to find out.

Puisque les Odeurs....

We had tuna subs for lunch. The tuna oozed out of the sides and all over our faces and hands. We carried an odour of tuna with us into the Elder Hall.

No one would have noticed. For the Elder Hall was redolent of fumigants and farts. I'm not saying these could be attributed to any one in particular.

There should have been a scent of roses and violets. Rosalind Martin was to sing some lovely old French songs.

Old French songs are weird though. When you read the words, they aren't as lovely as you think.

The thief of the cheese is not here.... I should like to sew but a magnet attracts all my needles.... My corpse is as limp as a glove....

When your breath is stopped by astonishment there is nowhere for bad odours to go.

Sorry Poem for Pliny

Pliny, this poem is for you:

Me paenitet pudor
deflectere facie rubrae
ex medio publica
induco anum emergentem
ex mare flammea
sub caelo pulveris;
florae parvae, subrufi colori;
et sonitus noctis candens.

Deterior tuo possuent,
nisi prima verba deleta
at tamen, me excuso.

What's this? says Pliny, reading my poetical offering. Are you saying you are sorry? Your Latin is so abysmal that I cannot be sure.

Yes, I'm saying sorry. What's wrong with it?

Translate it for me, says Pliny.

Alright:

Sorry I am, wishing to deflect
the shame of your red face
from public view
I introduced an old woman emerging
from the sea under a sky of dust;
small flowers of reddish hue;
and the glowing red night noise.

It could have been worse for you
had I not deleted what I first wrote
but nevertheless
sorry I am.

Jupiter! exclaimed Pliny. What did you first write? Never mind, he added quickly. Your verb endings are all wrong and your nouns and adjectives don't agree properly. And you are ambiguous as to whether you are excusing yourself or asking me to excuse you.

I thought you would like it, Pliny. But as to the verb endings and the nouns, some crucial pages have fallen out of my Latin dictionary.

That need not be a disaster, says Pliny kindly, since you have me.

Seeing Red

Yes, admitted Pliny the Elder, red-faced, but I wrote it a very long time ago.

:::::

The newspaper was full of pictures of a massive red dust storm over Sydney. An elderly woman in a swimsuit emerged from a red sea under an orange sky.

:::::

It's black flower time. There are piles of tiny black flowers in the back garden. They've fallen from the variegated pittosporum tree. They aren't black really, but the blackest, plummiest shade of red.

:::::

At quarter to six this morning I was woken by a noise. An electronic sound, like Nnn!Nnn!
It seemed to be coming from somewhere outside. A minute later it went again. Nnn! Nnn! and continued at one minute intervals until it was time for me to get up. I never found out what it was, but I am pretty sure it emanated from something that was glowing bright red.

:::::

Is this some unfathomable female way of embarrassing me? asked Pliny.

An Ideal Wife

I take it you failed to convert Jesus to Buddhism, said Pliny the Elder.

I wasn't trying to, I replied, I was just trying to clarify a few things.

About mustard seeds, said Pliny, sympathetically. I used to know a thing or two about mustard seeds. I wrote about their medicinal uses at great length. I wonder if I can remember any of it now?

Try, I said.

Easier to Google, he said. Oh yes, look, this is me, on mustard:

Pounded, it is applied with vinegar to the bites of serpents and scorpion stings. It counteracts the poisons of fungi. For phlegm it is kept in the mouth until it melts. For toothache it is chewed. It is very beneficial for all stomach troubles. It clears the senses and, by the sneezing caused by it, the head. It relaxes the bowels and promotes menstruation and urine.

Pliny, I didn't know it was so useful! What about as a condiment? Did you Romans use it much in cooking?

Yes indeed. We used it to enhance the taste of fried doves, boiled duck, crane, and ostrich. And boiled sausages. I was particularly fond of it on my sausages.

Yes, it's good on sausages. Well, that was interesting. Is there anything else?

Yes.... No.

What?

Nothing.

Let me see.

No .

I'm going to look, move out of the way Pliny........ what's this? With a few spoonfuls of mustard a cold and lazy woman can become an ideal wife. PLINY! DID YOU WRITE THAT?

Kisa Gotami

How does the Buddha's Mustard Seed Parable go? asked Jesus. You'd better tell me, if you think it's so good.

It's a lot more complex than yours, I said. There's a rich man whose gold and silver turns to ashes. He's understandably upset. A wise friend tells him to go to the market place and set up his ashes and pretend to trade with them.

I like this story, said Jesus. It's funny.

Yes, that's what you think now, but listen. People ask him why he has ashes for sale. He tells them, these are my riches. The people think he's gone nuts. A poor young orphan girl called Kisa Gotami passes his stall and asks him why he has silver and gold for sale. He says, please hand me some of it. When she does, the ashes have turned back into gold.

Great story, said Jesus, but what about the Mustard Seeds?

Be patient, I'm getting to that part now. Well, the rich man sees that this girl has an eye for the true value of things...

What! cried Jesus.

.....and he marries her to his son.

Oh, I see, said Jesus.

Jesus, I said. Do shut up. This part is only of minor relevance.

I think you'll find it isn't, he said, looking wise. If I know anything about parables, he added.

I decided not to answer that, but pressed on.

Anyway, Kisa Gotami has a baby, and some time later it dies.

Oh, I know what's going to happen next, said Jesus.

No you don't, I said. She's very distraught, and runs around to all the neighbours asking for medicine.

Ha! said Jesus. But the baby's dead.

That's what the neighbours say. They think she's gone nuts.

You see! said Jesus triumphantly. The parallel with the first part of the story!

Oh yes. You're quite right. Thanks for pointing it out, I said. Now, one of the neighbours tells her to go and see the Buddha, because he might be able to help.

Jesus looked a bit put out. The Buddha puts himself into his own parable, he said. That doesn't seem right. Did I ever do that?

I don't think so, I said

No, it's unconventional, said Jesus. Still, there's nothing wrong with being unconventional.

True, I agreed. So, the girl goes to see the Buddha, and asks him for medicine that will cure her baby. And he says, bring me a handful of mustard seed.

At last, says Jesus. I suppose he's going to do a miracle.

No, stop second-guessing! He says that the mustard seed must be taken from a house where no one has lost a child, husband, parent or friend.

Well! said Jesus, this is either amazingly cruel or the Buddha has something further up his sleeve.

He hasn't, I said. Kisa Gotami goes from house to house with her dead baby and eventually realises that death is common to all. Then she buries her baby, goes back to the Buddha and takes refuge in him, finding comfort in the Dharma, and the path to enlightenment.

The cheek of it! exclaimed Jesus.

The Mustard Seed Parable Explained

Just then there was a knock on the door. It was Jesus.

Hello, he said. I was just in the area, may I come in?

We had two Christian ladies come round on Saturday, I said. And we sent them away.

Good for you, said Jesus. Interfering women. I wouldn't have let them in either.

Well, what are you here for? I asked.

I hear you have a few questions about my Mustard Seed Parable, he replied.

Oh, come in then, I said, and have a cup of tea. My friend Pliny was pointing out that the mustard seed doesn't actually grow into a tree.

True, said Jesus, but that is just a fault of translation. The word I used meant shrub. But here is a more interesting fact that not many people know. The black mustard plant is a managed weed in Galilee. What do you think about that?

You were saying that the Kingdom of God is like a managed weed?

Maybe I was. The best thing about a parable is that it's open to many interpretations. I like to think I meant it was ubiquitous.

Like those ladies?

No, not quite like them. Well, yes, perhaps.

Hmm, it's not your best parable, is it?

No, not my best.

The Buddha has a better one.

What's it about?

A handful of mustard seeds.

Well at least, said Jesus, no one can accuse me of one upmanship.

The Mustard Seed

I was surprised by the intrusion of the mustard seed into your musical criticism, said Pliny the Elder. But I suppose I was supposed to be. Did you finally manage to get it out from between your teeth?

Yes, but not until I got home at the end of the day, I said. There is nothing as efficacious as dental floss.

True, agreed Pliny, but to return to the parable of the mustard seed.....

Parable?

You meant it as a parable, did you not? A story to illustrate the dual nature of surprise?

I did, but is it a parable if it's something that really happened?

That all depends on the telling. Jesus had a parable about a mustard seed, so I've heard.

Oh yes I know that one. Consider the mustard seed. It's very small but it grows into a large tree that birds can shelter in. It's supposed to represent the Kingdom of Heaven.

But a mustard seed doesn't grow into a large tree! It grows at best into a middle-sized bush.

That's a good point. Whatever was Jesus thinking of? Perhaps he was remembering a time he had one stuck between his teeth.

Surprises

I like to read the program notes when I go to a Lunch Hour Concert. Then I know what I'm listening for.

Yesterday the program was Jazz Originals, the staff and Honours students playing some of their own compositions in various combinations.

Jazz is literally about surprise, said the program notes, and since we don't regularly perform together there will indeed be some surprises today.

Now I don't usually find jazz surprising, so I thought that if I was surprised by anything I heard in the next fifty minutes I would be very surprised indeed. That is not to say I was not hoping to be surprised.

The first piece was called Tina. The pianist had composed it, and written a long introduction for himself, which he played while the other players stood with nothing to do. No surprises there.

Then, Dusty Cox said a few words. But surprise! The microphone was faulty! We couldn't hear what he was saying. He didn't notice. The other players laughed at what was to us an inaudible joke.

The third composition was called The Ballad of the Unclean Coffee Machine. This had been composed by the bass player, and was about an attempt at cleaning a coffee machine that had gone horribly wrong. But you only got a surprise if you thought the music might somehow reflect this.

In short, surprise was in short supply, at least for the audience. The players were contantly exhibiting surprise and admiration for one another. This led me to understand a remarkable thing. It didn't much matter about us.

Meanwhile a surprise was unfolding in my mouth. A mustard seed, from lunch, was lodged between my teeth most annoyingly, and refused to dislodge no matter what contortions I tried to perform with my tongue.

Yes there are two sorts of surprises. Ones that surprise you when something happens and ones that surprise you when something doesn't. Perhaps I do get jazz after all.

Never Married

I know you never married, I said to Pliny the Elder, but you were fond of your nephew weren't you?

I was, said Pliny. He was my sister Plinia's child. His father died soon after he was born. For a time my sister, my nephew and I lived under the same roof. I adopted him, in the end.

What do you mean, in the end?

I mean in the end. I adopted him posthumously.

What, after he died?

No! After I died. It was written in my will, a testamental adoption.

Oh Pliny, that's so nice. In fact, it's rather moving.

Not at all. It was in order that he might inherit my estate. Had I not, it would have been impossible under Roman law, and there was no one else to inherit it. I wonder what he did with it?

Don't you know?

No, I have not delved into the family history.

Too busy?

Yes, I have been too busy.

You may rectify that when your book arrives.

Oh yes, Pliny's Women. It has not yet arrived. Where can that wretched book be?

Paris Hilton's Bicycle

Paris Hilton on a wooden bicycle! Pliny the Elder looked a little shocked.

Why not? I said. She would be up for it. She was the one who famously said that life is too short to blend in.

Did she indeed? said Pliny. But is she not a very wealthy young lady? And would she not be rather uncomfortable riding on a bicycle from which she might get splinters?

Oh, as to that, there are many different types of wooden bicycles. I replied, And Paris Hilton would probably go for the more expensive sort. These bicycles have a handmade wooden frame and conventional wheels, and are highly sought after by people who want to... ummm... stand out from the crowd.

That is not the sort of bicycle Rousseau was talking about, I am certain of that, said Pliny. He was talking about the wooden bicycles of East Africa and Brazil. These must be more primitive bicycles than any Paris Hilton would wish to own.

Yes, I've seen photographs of them, I said. They look like a cross between a bicycle and a scooter. They're not very streamlined, and most of them don't have pedals, but they are large and look useful for carrying logs from one place to another. You could certainly get a splinter from one of those.

I cannot imagine Rousseau being comfortable on one, said Pliny thoughtfully. I remember he used to wear a caftan because he had a certain embarrassing medical condition.

So he did, I said. I read a book about him just recently. In fact he did strike me as being a bit of a hypocrite. You know he was famous for his ideas on bringing up children?

Yes?

Well did you know he placed all five of his own children in an orphanage, soon after they were born?

I expect he was busy, said Pliny.

Pliny! Is that what you would have done?

Certainly not! I never had any children.

Le Bon David's Wall

Bonjour! Le Bon David here once again! We've had an unprecedented response to Rousseau's somewhat controversial article yesterday! Here are just a few of your comments:

::::::::::::

Bravo Rousseau! I invented a wooden bicycle years ago. I'm still riding it. Leonardo da Vinci.

Outrageous! Rousseau is an out and out hypocrite! He thinks we've forgotten him riding a metal bicycle in the 2009 Tour de France! Shame ! Phil Liggett.

There is no evidence to show that bicycles suffer from being chained to posts or railings for a reasonable amount of time. Dr Benjamin Spock.

It's about time someone came up with a wooden bicycle. Greenpeace.

Does Rousseau realise that wooden bicyles would have to be made from trees? Trees for Life.

What is the reasoning behind Rousseau's claim that a wooden bicycle need not be chained to a post or railing? Does he mean to imply that nobody would bother to steal a wooden bicycle? If so, we may conclude that nobody would want to ride one either. Geoffrey Robertson QC.

I want a wooden bicycle! Where can I buy one? Paris Hilton.

Rousseau's Modest Proposal

Hello fellow Velocipedallers! Le Bon David here ! I have a treat for you today, a special article by our old friend Jean-Jacques Rousseau. He seems to have got a new bee in his bonnet about the treatment of bicycles. I hope you enjoy it.

:::::::::

Citizens, you thought you had heard the last of Jean-Jacques Rousseau! But no! I am here to tell you what is wrong with the bicycle riders of today !

Recently I was in Paris. I looked around me. Everywhere I saw the most shameful sights. Bicycles, beautiful bicycles, chained up to posts and railings, and left to fend for themselves! The owners were goodness knows where, in cafes perhaps, at school, in the shops, who can say? The bicycles were left entirely without direction. They lolled, they turned their handlebars inwards, they drooped. In short, they were neglected.

Everything degenerates in the hands of man. And the same is true of our friend the bicycle! It is time for a radical change. Modern bicycles being made of metal, their owners think they can stand up for themselves. This is what leads to the most extreme neglect. I propose that henceforth all bicycles should be made of WOOD.

Do not laugh, citizens! The people of Brazil and East Africa already use wooden bicycles. And never do they chain them up to posts and railings. There is no need! If the bicycles are a little heavier and travel more slowly, who will argue that is a bad thing? I challenge you all to make the move to wooden wheels today. Let us see no more metal bicycles in degrading chains!

The Macaroon Sisters

I've just discovered that the macaroon as we know it is a mere travesty of the French macaron! I
said excitedly to Pliny the Elder, putting down my copy of Larousse.

How so? he enquired.

Larousse doesn't even mention the coconut macaroon! And yet they claim that the macaroon and the macaron are one and the same. And the name is derived from maccherone, meaning a fine paste, and so is macaroni!

Why are you so excited? Pliny asked.

Because it is exciting! The macaron is a very ancient cake, crunchy on the outside and soft inside, made with ground almonds, sugar and egg whites. The earliest macarons were made by monks in Cormery as far back as 791 AD.

Not so ancient as all that, sniffed Pliny.

Oh, you would say that! They used to make them in the shape of monk's navels.

Whatever for?

Larousse doesn't say.

I can scarcely imagine what shape that could be, other than round, which is a conventional shape for a biscuit.

True. The macarons of Montmorrilon, however, were supposed to have been shaped like coronets.

Very charming, but how could they have looked like coronets when they were meant to be joined together in pairs?

I don't know. Maybe they left a hole in the middle. I also learned that the Carmelite nuns made them in the 17th century because they thought almonds were good for girls that didn't eat meat.

Girls who loved sugar, said Pliny sourly.

And during the Revolution two nuns in Nancy became known as the Macaroon Sisters.

I shall not ask you why, said Pliny.

Macaroons

Macaroons! spluttered Pliny. What are macaroons? I can scarcely imagine these waves.

They're little pyramid-shaped coconut cakes, I said, with a cherry on top. The waves looked like little green pyramids bobbing up and down on the lake.

I daresay, said Pliny, that they are not usually green.

No, they are usually white or, if cooked a little longer, golden brown. At least I think so. Let's look them up on Wikipedia.

We typed in macaroons. The Wiki picture of macaroons was not what I was hoping to see. The macaroons were hardly pyramidical. They were slightly burnt and didn't even have a cherry on top.

Hmmm, said Pliny. They do not look like waves. But look here! " Not to be confused with the French macarons." Perhaps you meant macarons.

We clicked on macarons. The macarons were, in the photograph, the exact shade of green that the waves had been, but they were not the right shape, being two flat biscuits stuck together with cream.

Bad luck, said Pliny. Your image is untenable. Now what about the white frothing cherry and the spitting frogs? And the boab tree?

Pliny, you don't get banana points for criticising my blog.

I know, he said crossly.

The Cormorant

It was warm today, but only outside. It was windy too. Pliny and Nostradamus decided to go to the beach.

When they emerged from the dunes onto the windy beach Pliny turned the colour of a person who wishes to be elsewhere. What are you thinking? asked Nostradamus, who already knew.

So they went to West Lakes instead. It was windy there as well, but warmer than it had been on the beach. They walked along the narrow path at the edge of the lake.

The wind blew patterns over the ripples on the water. Ripples on ripples, triple ripples, quadruple ripples, as though the wind were a feather duster.

Low bushes edged the gardens of the close-packed houses overlooking the lake. Photinia with pink flowers and bees. Lantana pushing through rosemary, hibiscus poking through proteas. Diosma, alyssum and geraniums the colour of tongues. Palms. A boab tree.

Decaying pontoons rocked in front of the gardens. The wind whipped the water into little green macaroons, some of them topped with a white froth cherry, spat from the mouth of a frog.

A bay, a strip of pale sand, and some rocks. A young family playing, well clear of the unpredictable water. Pliny and Nostradamus followed a wide cement path to the limits of public access. Just then the sun emerged from a high grey cloud, which darkened to ominous black. A glittering burnished path shone momentarily across the wine dark lake.

On the way back, they saw the same things, from behind. And a cormorant up to its neck in the water, which swallowed it suddenly.

Pliny's Women

But Pliny couldn't get those banana points out of his head. He hadn't gained his reputation as an intrepid researcher for nothing. Besides he was very curious to know why a book had been written about his nephew's women. What on earth had the lad got up to after his uncle had all too prematurely left the scene?

So he googled up the Mighty Ape again. He discovered there that readers could buy certain items with the banana points earned from writing customer reviews. He looked at the list of items. Many of them were posters. There was one entitled The Elder Scrolls. I wouldn't mind that one, he thought to himself. He was also quite intrigued by The Ark of Truth poster, and one that depicted a knowing-looking young couple called Edward and Bella. The first two posters cost 3200 banana points each, and Edward and Bella cost 2200 banana points.

The Edward and Bella poster reminded him of his nephew, Pliny the Younger. Perhaps he would enjoy having that one on his wall. It depended really on what Pliny's Women turned out to be about.

He hesitated. He thought, why not?

It cost eighty five dollars plus shipping, but he could afford it.

He ordered the book.

774 Banana Points

Pliny the Elder thought he would try googling banana parts. He wanted to see if there was any mention of the mysterious banana part I had written about yesterday. There wasn't, but he learned a lot of interesting things.

He learned that many people call the bottom end of the banana the icky end. He learned that
some people think this is the most nutritious part of the banana.

He learned that in Tanzania research had been done on two Black-Head Persian Sheep to see which parts of banana plant residue had most nutritive value. Separate mixtures of crushed lower leaf lamina, mid-leaf ribs, pseudo-stem sheaths, pseudo-stem cores, and banana fruit peelings were placed in nylon bags with nylon strings and fed through a rumen cannula into the rumens of the sheep and left there for different amounts of time to see which mixture was absorbed most efficiently. Pliny could not quite believe anyone would bother to do this.

He checked the meaning of rumen cannula in the online dictionary. Yes it really was a sort of tube through which to feed things into the first stomach of a sheep. At least they said they washed the bags thoroughly after drawing them back out of the rumens. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it was a lot of unpleasantness for nothing, especially when he read the results showing that the peelings had been found to be the most digestible.

He learned, also, that if he would care to be the first to review a certain book by the name of Pliny's Women, he would receive 774 banana points. He was both shocked and astonished at this. He clicked on the site and was at once relieved to see that the book was about his nephew, Pliny the Younger, and not himself, and that furthermore it appeared to be rather scholarly. He remained puzzled about the banana points.

But when he looked again at the title of the website he began to understand. It was the Mighty Ape, New Zealand's Leading Online Bookstore. For a moment he considered ordering the book.
Eventually he decided against it because he didn't really know what he would do with 774 banana points.

Banana Bit

My subject for today is something that I don't really know.....what it is?

Well, how would YOU write that sentence?

Something, the nature of which I do not know .

Yes that's better. I suppose now you're quite interested to know exactly what it is.

What it is, is, the little brown curled-up-burnt-matchstick-shaped piece that must, and I don't really know, but think it must, have dropped off the pointy end of a banana. It's not exactly like a burnt matchstick because for one thing it has a head at each end, and for another it isn't friable but tough as a bootstrap, and pliable.

It's taken me many years to realise that these tiny things are associated with bananas. This is because they are never attached to a banana when you see them, but are to be found in the bottom of bags which have contained bananas, or in bowls that have had bananas in them.

When you read about the parts of a banana, no one ever mentions this part.

I just thought I would, now.

Right Intention

What do you think the VeloDrone meant by Right Intention? asked Pliny, this morning.

I suppose he was referring to Number Two on the Eightfold Path, I replied. No doubt he was letting us know that he knew more about the Eightfold Path than he let on to the Buddha.

Yes, yes, said Pliny impatiently, but what do think he understood by the term Right Intention?

Oh, I imagine it's about having a good and ethical reason to do what he is going to do, I said.

But in the case of asking us, his readers, to pay a visit to the Buddha's new shop in London, what do you think the VeloDrone's intention actually was? pursued Pliny.

To do a favour to the Buddha, I suggested.

But would the Buddha see that as a Right Intention?

Hmm. Probably not. Well that's his problem. By the way, did you enjoy the green frog cake I bought you last Friday?

I did indeed. Thank you. And did the Buddha like the one you gave to him?

I think so. But he didn't look at it, and that is half the pleasure in eating a green frog cake.

It is. I particularly like the way the frog's mouth is split open so that you can see the pink cream inside. And the way the green icing stretches and pulls away from the sticky syrup-soaked sponge cake underneath. And the taste! Sweetness upon sweetness. Perhaps it was too sweet for his Blessedness.

He didn't say so.

He wouldn't.

Buddha on a Bicycle

Hello cycling philosofans! The VeloDrone here. Guess who I bumped into on the road this week? Yes it was the Buddha himself, cycling trancendentally down the Middle Way. I don't know how he manages to get away with it. Must be something more than just good luck, though.

So, I invited him to stop and have a latte, and a little chat. It wasn't long before we got onto the subject of the Middle Way.

I'd like to try it, I said to him, but I've never had the guts.

It is the only way to escape the cycle of endless suffering, my friend, said the Buddha. Let me explain to you the Four Noble Truths. Cycling is suffering. The origin of suffering is attachment to the bicycle. Cessation of suffering is only attainable through detachment from the bicycle.

That's three, I said.

It's four, he replied. I've joined up the last two. Now, the Eightfold Path represents the Middle Way to self improvement.

Interesting , I said, suddenly remembering how these Eastern Philosophies tend to keep on branching off. But I don't really have time to listen to all eight. Just tell me one.

Well, Number Five is one I'm very into at the moment, said the Buddha. It is called Right Livelihood. It means making a living for oneself in a sustainable, eco-friendly and non-competitive way.

That sounds good, I said, but what's its relevance to cycling?

Well obviously, said the Buddha, it's a way of detaching oneself from one's bicycle. I've just opened a little shop in Covent Garden, called Buddha on a Bicycle. I sell stones, incense and knicknacks, and give lessons in meditation in my therapy room.

Oh, I said, and how's that doing?

Pretty well, said the Buddha. But I always need more customers. Perhaps you could give me a little puff in your magazine?

So, fellow Drones, that's exactly what I am doing. Drop by Buddha on a Bicycle next time you're in London. Mention that the VeloDrone sent you. You won't get anything for nothing but at least he'll know I'm practicing Right Intention.

The Taste of Green

Have you completed your quest? asked the Buddha. Can you tell me why there are no green stars in the sky?

Yes and no, I replied. Insofar as I now believe that there may be many green stars in the sky, but that we are unable to perceive them, due to the way in which our eyes function.

Is that all? said the Buddha.

No. Furthermore there is little point in speaking of green stars if they are unable to be perceived by us, since colour does not exist apart from us.

Isn't that rather circular? asked the Buddha.

That's rich, coming from you, I said. Not everything is circular that one might expect to be circular. Here for example, I have brought you a green frog cake, which, as you will see if you care to open your eyes, is square.

Thank you, said the Buddha, not opening his eyes but holding out his hand, and taking the cake.

The Buddha bit into the cake. Did you say this was a green cake? he asked.

Yes.

It tastes just like a white cake, or a yellow cake, he said, chewing thoughtfully. I conclude there is no taste to green.

And he swallowed it, never noticing that it looked like a frog.

Bad Timing

What do you think of when you hear the bassoon, the oboe and the piano playing together?
Probably not what I thought when I heard them yesterday. I went to a Lunch Hour Concert with my mum and got a lesson in Bad Timing.

We were sitting in our seats waiting for the concert to begin, when I remembered I hadn't given her the printed copy of an email from my son in Scotland. Instead of putting it in her handbag she began to read it straight away. The seats were filling up fast. My old professor of psychology sat down immediately in front of me.

Oh, said my mum, who hadn't got her hearing aids in, and was reading the bit about how my son is trying to potty train his 19 month old daughter. They're starting very late, she went on loudly. I used to put you on the potty after every feed from when you were a very little baby. Did you? I said, in a midstrength whisper, trying to bring the conversation down to a lower level. And you ALWAYS DID SOMETHING, she ended with conviction.

Normally I would have contested this, and defended the right of my son and daughter-in-law to wait until their daughter began to show some interest in using the potty, but due to the circumstances I was reduced to hissing Yessss. Who wants their old psychology professor to hear such things? Not to mention everybody else.

And so it was that when the bassoon, oboe and piano began to play the delightful strains of a Saint-Saens sonata, some Nussio variations, a duo by Villa-Lobos and a sarabande by Dutilleux, I heard only the sounds of breaking wind and tinkling water, and when it was over, applause seemed highly inappropriate.

Green Frog Cakes

The Buddha was right, I said glumly to Pliny the Elder this morning. Google is confusing about green stars. Do you know why there are no green stars in the sky?

What do you mean, no green stars in the sky? said Pliny. Take a look in the newspaper. Here is a photograph of a whole sky full of green stars surrounding a black hole that's just been found at the outermost edge of the universe.

They look kind of bluish, I said doubtfully. And they wouldn't satisfy the Buddha. He was talking about stars that are visible to us.

Well, what did you learn from Google? asked Pliny. Perhaps we can sort out the confusion.

A site called Bad Astronomy says a star that's at the right temperature to emit green light would also emit some red and blue light, so our eye would always see it as white. The sun for example. But the right temperature is about 10,000 degrees. The sun is hotter than that surely?

He must be talking about the surface of the sun, said Pliny. The sun is hotter in the middle, but it's the outer sun that we see.

I always thought the sun was yellow, I said sulkily.

A misconception, said Pliny, due to the fact that most boxes of crayons do not contain a white. As children, drawing the sun in our childish pictures, we learn to use the colour that is closest to white, which is yellow.

I cant imagine you having a box of crayons, Pliny, I said.

I didn't, said Pliny. I should admit that I have been reading Bad Astronomy too.

But what am I going to tell the Buddha? I wailed.

Dont worry, Why don't you just buy him a present. Everyone likes presents.

Do you?

Yes I do.

Oh, I didn't know. What sort of presents do you like?

Cakes.

Alright I'll buy him a cake. Would you like one too? What kind of cake do you like?

I'm very partial to those green frog cakes from Balfours.

I'll get two.

No Green Stars in the Buddha's Sky

The Buddha is not pleased by my statement that he sounds like me. He asks me to consider whether or not I may be dreaming. I concede that I may well be dreaming, and then I ask him if he might consider the same thing. But again he is not pleased and I feel the need to atone for my rudeness.

How may I atone for my rudeness, Lord Buddha?

It will take a thousand years of repeating sutras.

Is there anything I could do to speed things up?

Let me think. Yes. I shall set you a task, a quest. The quest will be a fitting one. You must find out why there are no green stars in the sky.

Yes, Lord Buddha, thank you Lord Buddha. I will find out why there are no green stars in the sky.

And then you must let me know.

Yes, Lord Buddha. I will let you know. Do you not know?

Of course I know.

Then may I have a clue?

It is to do with the temperatures of the stars and the wavelength at which they emit most of their light. It is also to do with........but you are a sly one! tricking me into telling you the answers myself. Be off with you, and no more questions.

Just one?

What is it?

Am I allowed to use Google?

Certainly. Good luck though. You will find a great deal of confusion on the subject there.

Green Star Dreaming

Lord Buddha!

Yes?

What do you know of dreams?

They are empty and meaningless.

I dream of green stars before I fall asleep.

Before you fall asleep? That is a monkey dream.

I know why I dream it. The green stars are weeds. And I have been spending too long in the garden with my weeding prong. That isn't what I wanted to ask.

What then?

I seek enlightenment. Today I was in the front garden pulling up green weeds with my prong, when suddenly I had the strangest sensation. As if I were asleep, and dreaming of green stars, illuminated by the sun.

So you were awake, and weeding, and yet it seemed that you were asleep and dreaming that you were awake and weeding?

Yes.

And how did you feel about this?

I knew that I preferred to be asleep and dreaming. Because in the dream I'm simply staring into the heart of the weeds and not actually weeding.

That is because you are lying down.

Is that important?

You will never accomplish the task of weeding that way.

May I ask you something? Are you sure that you are the real Buddha?

Why do you ask?

You sound like me.