Being Someone's Lucky Person

The third and last thing in my series of random things is:

Being Someone's Lucky Person and Carelessly Eating Two Cakes.

Last Tuesday morning I visited my friend Li Feng. She offered me a cup of jasmine tea and two warmed up coconut cakes. She poured a cup of tea for herself, which she doesn't usually do. Then she asked me to help her enter a Readers Digest Competition. She had scratched a box revealing a special number, which meant she was eligible to enter. The prize was a car, or $55,000. If you help me, I'm lucky, she said. If I win, I share the money with you.

I called the number on the entry form and was surprised to be answered by a real person. Now ma'am, said the real person, I want you to give me your unique number. I gave her a number that was printed on the form. Is there another number there, ma'am? she asked. So I gave her a number that was printed at the top. Is there any other number there at all, ma'am? she persevered. No, I said. You need to lift the red tab ma'am, she said. I indicated to Li Feng to lift the tab. The number under the tab was the same as the number at the top of the form. It all began to seem rather complicated. But the real person was happy with that number.

I gave her Li Feng's details. What will your friend do if she wins the $500,000? asked the real person. I said I didn't know. I wasn't going to say I thought the prize was only $55,000, or a car.

Does your friend subscribe to the Readers Digest? asked the real person.

No, I said. She doesn't.

That's fine ma'am, she still has a chance of winning the prize. Would your friend like to subscribe to the Readers Digest? We have a 50% off at the moment.

No, thankyou, my friend doesn't read very much English.

Would your friend like to buy a subscription as a gift for a friend?

No, I don't think she would.

Very well. Thank you ma'am. Have a nice day.

Thankyou. Goodbye.

Ooh! Very difficult! said Li Feng, after I'd put down the phone. I lucky you do that for me. If I win, we share. And she poured me another cup of tea.

So that all went extremely well. It was only later in the afternoon remembering these events that I was struck by a terrible thought. Perhaps I wasn't meant to have eaten both the cakes.

The Information-Rich Half Woman

Welcome to my attempt to discover connectivity in random things. The second random thing is :

The Information-Rich Half Woman.

Last weekend we went to the beach twice. Once with our daughter, on Saturday afternoon, and once without her, on Sunday afternoon. On Saturday it was cloudy and cool.

On Sunday it was sunny, but it was very chilly on the beach. I took a photograph of the esplanade for a reason that escapes me now.

I loaded the photo onto Facebook, where my daughter commented that it looked a little colder than the day before.

I was surprised. In the photo it looked sunny and there were several people on the beach in shorts. What are the clues? I asked.

The woman on the far right, she answered. An outfit for a cold day.

The woman on the far right was so far to the right that she was only half a woman. I had hardly noticed she was in the picture at all. She was middle aged, wearing one sensible shoe, half a pair of wide black pull-on trousers, half a sleeveless fleece, one sleeve of a red long-sleeved sweater and half a pair of sunglasses. She was, needless to say, walking on the esplanade, not down on the beach.

My daughter is good at processing information.

Big Bang and Deep Dip

It was deep. But was it right?

I decided to think of some random things and consider how they might be connected.

Of course they would be connected because I had thought of them, but I was looking for something more meaningful than that.

The first random thing that came into my mind was:

The Big Bang and the Deep Dip Next Door.

It was last Saturday night. We were watching Rockwiz. Suddenly there was a Big Bang! It seemed to come from outside. But when we turned on the lights and looked outside there was nothing unusual to be seen. The next morning we noticed that the fence had been violently bashed in, and there was a very Deep Dip in the driveway on the other side. We knew because we could see right through the hole in the fence. It was as though some projectile had landed there, made a hole and a dent and then disappeared leaving no trace. Perhaps an enormous person, exploding out of their laundry, hitting the fence, dropping heavily to the ground making a huge cavity, then getting up and running away before we could get a chance to identify them. Or something else. We do not know. It's not a house on that side of the fence, it's a row of flats.

The second random thing, which I shall talk about tomorrow, is:

The Information-Rich Half Woman.

The following day the third random thing is going to be:

Being Someone Else's Lucky Person and Carelessly Eating Two Cakes.

Then will come the hard part, linking them up. I'm not too optimistic.

At Some Level

Dreams are short. But some of them take a long time to tell....


So you have a real garden? asked Jesus. What's in it?

Oh, marigolds, violets, roses, lilies, I said. That's weird, come to think of it. They're all the ones in the song.

Not all, said Jesus. Check this out. And he was off again, singing.

The Crown Imperial bloometh too in yonder place, 'Tis Charity of stock divine the flower of Grace....

Yet, mid the brave, the bravest prize of all may claim, The Star Of Bethlehem- Jesus- blessed be his Name....

That's me, he said.

How come you're in your own garden? I asked.

Listen, said Jesus. Anyone can be in their own garden.

I mean it sounds like you're planted in your own garden.

It does a bit, said Jesus. But listen to this, the last verse.

Ah! Jesus Lord, my heal and weal, my bliss complete, make thou my heart thy garden plot, fair trim and neat.

Wait a minute, I said. That sounds like you'll be doing all the work in the garden!

Good heavens! said Jesus. So it does! What a stupid song. Nice tune though, don't you think?

Yes, I said. I like the way the lines don't fit the music.

Hey look! said Jesus, ignoring my remark. Someone's left a striped sock on the floor.

( Strange how dreams distort reality. As you know, I didn't see that sock till afterwards ).

How could they have missed it, I said, when it's so colourful ?

Yes, said Jesus. It makes you wonder. And see, the stripes are the same colours as my flowers, orange, violet, red and white and green. Now that just shows that everything in the universe is connected at some level.

Jesus! I said. That's deep.

The Blithe and Thrifty Marygold

My dream continued:

How does it go exactly? I asked Jesus.

The Lily, white in blossom there, is Chastity, the Violet, with sweet perfume, Humanity,
he crooned.

There you see, I said, that's where I have an issue. This is an old Dutch carol written in 1633. Humanity would not have had a pleasant smell.

You know, you're right! said Jesus. I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps I've been mishearing it all these years. But what else could it be?

I don't know, what does it sound like? How about Humility?

Humility! Yes! The humble Violet! That'll be it. I wonder what it is in Dutch?

And Jesus began humming happily again.

The bonny Damask-rose is known as Patience, The blithe and thrifty Marygold, Obedience...

Obedience! I interjected rudely.

( It was a dream. I'm usually quite polite. )

Now what? he asked.

The Marigold does whatever it likes, at least it does in our garden, I said. How does it represent obedience?

It was named after my mum, explained Jesus. When she was younger, he added.

Herr Jesus hat ein Gartchen

Last night I dreamed I was still at the Lunch Hour Concert, but instead of my mum I was sitting next to Jesus. He was humming along to Herr Jesus hat ein Gartchen.

You like this? I said.

Why wouldn't I? he asked. It's all about my garden.

You really have a garden? I asked.

No, he said. It's an allegorical garden.

What's in it? I asked.

Divers flowers, said Jesus.

What's that mean?

A lot of different flowers, he said. The Lily, representing Chastity; the Violet, representing Humanity.......

What? I said. The Violet represents Humanity? I don't think so.

I don't make these things up, said Jesus.

The Sock and Mr Jesus

Another Friday another Lunch Hour Concert. We were expecting a cello and a piano. But the program notes said 'Organ'. Oh yes, a change of program.

The organ music began, the ceiling cracked. It may have been cracked already. You notice things when you are looking up. The organ is high.

Usually that is all there is to do. Look up. But there was a double screen set up on the stage so you could see the organist's shoes on the left and his hands on the right. So I soon forgot the cracks in the ceiling.

The organ music was having even more alarming effects on the audience between me and the screens.

For instance. A man two rows in front developed a hole in the top of his head. It may have been there already. But you notice these things with an organ.

Another man four rows in front performed a peculiar wrinkling shiver from his neck to his crown, through his sparse hair.

A psychology professor looked twenty years younger as his neck became smooth. It may have been like that already. You notice things under an organ.

No one thought the organ music was funny. Except me. Diddle diddle diddly diddly dee....paaarp!
Diddle diddle diddly diddly dee...paaarp! Diddle diddle diddly diddly dee...paaarp!

Don't tell me that's not funny.

One of the pieces James Tibbles played was Herr Jesus hat ein Gartchen. It had five variations, all the same. The notes said the title meant King Jesus hath a Garden. But I beg to differ. That is Mr Jesus hath a Garden.

Two things happened at the end. One, James Tibbles came down the stairs and took a bow.
So we could see him.

Two, I asked my mum how it had been and she said not very good I don't like organ music. Did you have your hearing aids in? I asked and she said No, that would have been a hundred times worse.

Three, as I was getting up out of my seat, I saw that the person in front had left a brightly striped sock on the floor.

One too many things.

Needing a Frog

A frog? said Pliny. You needed a frog? But you must have been fifteen years old by then! What need did you have for a frog?

Biology, Pliny. Our Biology teacher at school asked us each to bring a frog to dissect in class. It seems a little strange, now, to think that we had to provide our own frog.

Does it? said Pliny. That does not seem strange at all. I would rather say it was a good practical character-building experience.

You would think that. And I had the best of intentions. I took a jar to the creek on Lockwood Road and looked for a frog. I could hear frogs croaking, but I didn't see a single one. So I gave up.

And asked the boy next door to catch one for you?

No! I told you we didn't speak to one another. Maybe I asked my mum to ask his mum to ask him. Anyway, somehow he caught a frog and I got it. It was enormously fat.

And you took it to school and dissected it.

I took it to school.

And you didn't dissect it ?

No. I wasn't looking forward to dissecting my frog. It had never occurred to me that I might not have to if I didn't bring one. But it must have occurred to three quarters of the class. So we had to dissect the frogs in groups of four, and someone else did it.

But you watched?

No, I didn't even watch. But I heard someone say OH YUCK! It's full of EGGS !

Tweety Pie

You know everything, I said to Pliny.

I take notes, said Pliny.

I take notes too, I said. But I know very little about birds. However, I have just remembered something. I once had a pet budgerigar.

Unlike you, observed Pliny. What were the circumstances?

The circumstances were that I was twelve and my friend Wendy Suter gave me one for my birthday. Her family kept budgerigars in a cage in their back yard. My budgie was aqua, white and grey. I called him Tweety Pie.

Pliny looked unimpressed by my choice of name.

I didn't really want him, I explained.

Nevertheless, sniffed Pliny, you could have thought of a better name. And where did you keep your Tweety Pie?

In a wire cage in the kitchen. It rapidly filled up with gritty black and white speckled droppings and I had to clean them out. Every Friday he was allowed out of the cage to fly around. He was terrified. And I was terrified. Sometimes he would land on my head and I would get this strange vibration in my throat. I can still remember it. It was horrible.

Did you have him long? asked Pliny.

Not long. Our family went on holiday and we asked our next door neighbours the Braileys to look after him. And on Friday Andrew Brailey let him out and Tweety flew out of their kitchen window and away to certain death.

You must have been annoyed with Andrew Brailey, said Pliny. He should have taken more care with your Tweety Pie.

He should have, I said. He was not to know that I was much happier with an empty cage.

Why not, asked Pliny. Did you never tell him?

I don't remember that we ever exchanged words. However, three years later I let it be known that I needed a frog, and he very promptly caught me one.

The Cloacal Kiss

But curiosity brought me back.

Alright Pliny, tell me, what is a cloacal kiss?

Many birds, said Pliny, mate by means of a brief touching of their cloacae, during which sperm is transferred from the male to the female.

And where are these cloacae? I asked cautiously.

Where you would expect them to be, answered Pliny. At the end of the bird.

What do you mean, at the end of the bird?

Under their tail, at the back, said Pliny. The cloaca is a multi function organ used for excretion of urine and faeces as well as for reproduction.

No wonder they do it briefly, I said. But wait a minute, what position do they do it in?

The male bird mounts the female from behind, said Pliny. Or so I believe.

In that case, I said, the female wouldn't see his stripes or his bars. So why does he have them?

No doubt she assesses them well before it comes to this, said Pliny patiently.

How Lame Their Feathers Be

Pliny the Elder looked chirpy this morning. I decided to risk it.

What were you going to tell me about Feathers yesterday? I asked.

Ah yes! said Pliny, looking pleased to be asked. It is most interesting. It seems the latest research shows that brightness of plumage is not the only factor in determining the sexual attractiveness of birds.

You mean to one another?

Of course! A foolish question!

Sorry. What else determines it ?

That is the interesting part. Stripes and bars, which have until recently been thought to be simply for camouflage, have been found to be a factor as well.

But how do they know that, Pliny?

They have dicovered that some of these striped and barred patterns are more likely to appear on male birds after they reach sexual maturity, and also that such patterns are found mostly on the front of birds.

Mostly on the front! How is that relevant?

Is it not obvious? Most camouflage patterns are found on the back.

And so? Oh I see. You mean when birds interact, they are usually face to face? But are they? I don't know much about the mating habits of birds.

They mate, said Pliny airily, with something called a Cloacal Kiss.

Well thank you Pliny, I said. That begs a question to which I do not wish to know the answer.

And I headed for the door.

Their Feathers Be

Pliny the Elder was not overly impressed by my attempt to talk like a pirate.

It didn't quite sound like a pirate, he said.

Yes it did, I said. It was full of me hearties, and arrgghs.

The me hearties and arrgghs were convincing, said Pliny, but you too often lapsed into language more suited to a fisherman.

I know what you mean, I said. I am more of a Captain Ahab than a Long John Silver. But at least I tried.

Yes, agreed Pliny, at least you tried.

And what have you been up to lately? I asked, in order to change the subject.

It is strange you should ask, he replied. For it is related to something in the poem you have been talking about for the last two days. The one that ends in how late their Feathers be!

It isn't how late their Feathers be! I said. That was a typographical error.

That may be your opinion said Pliny, but I think Fathers is the typographical error. You know that Emily Dickinson's spelling was rather idiosyncratic, and was often revised by later editors?

Not to that extent, I said crossly. And anyway, nowadays the revisions have been reversed, due to the modern idea that an author knows best what they mean to write. Anyway, let's for the sake of argument say it is Feathers. What then?

Nothing, said Pliny. It is not to do with the poem.

But you said that it was!

No, I said that it was related to something in the poem. And that something was Feathers.

Pliny!

What?

You're cod-bafflin'! Arrggh!

I fail to see.....but yes, we'll leave my Feathers till tomorrow.

Talk Like a Pirate Day

Arrhaar me hearties! 'tis International Talk Like A Pirate Day, an' I be goin' to talk like a Pirate for the rest o' this day!

'Tis a pity because I be wantin' to talk more about that poesy-writin' Emily Dickinson, an' her poemy piece, arrh..... how do it go now?........

how slow the Wind-
how slow the sea-
how slow their Fathers be!

Aye that be it! Keel haul me over a raspy bottom if I ain't just seen the meanin' o' the piece. For 'tis as plain as the pigtail on a bosun's shoulder that the Fathers be a set o' land-lubbin fishermen, sailin' home wi' the catch o' the day in their wormy holds.

An' the little babbies....aye the little babbies, they be waitin' at home for their daddies to bring home the sea fishies for the mammies to cook for their tea. An' the daddies be takin' a cod-bafflin' long time about it!

'Tis a fin-ticklin' mystery why I never did realise that 'afore !

How Late Their Fathers Be!

I was at a Lunch Hour Concert yesterday. Greta Bradman sang The Sunset, which is Respighi's musical version for soprano and string quartet of Robert Ascoli's Italian translation of Shelley's poem The Sunset.

That meant there was a lot to do. Follow the Italian, follow the English, listen to the music, listen to Greta and watch Greta. Impossible to do them all. I chose to pay attention to Greta, because she was so pretty, and she wore a shot silk lilac dress with a ruffle on one shoulder. Her voice was high and pure.

It was the right choice. The Sunset is Shelley at his dippiest. A young man and his lady walk into a forest at sunset, to 'know the unreserve of mingled being', after which the the young man says, Is it not strange Isabel? I never saw the sun. They agree that they will look at it tomorrow, but the next morning the young man is dead and cold. The young lady has to spend the rest of her life looking after her aged father. You see what I mean.

The second song that Greta sang was a setting of an Emily Dickinson poem, How Slow the Wind.

It's a short poem, and it goes like this:

how slow the wind-
how slow the sea-
how late their Fathers be!

Greta sang it so beautifully you could almost think it made sense, but what does it mean? I didn't know. When I got home I googled Emily Dickinson to see if anybody knew. At first I thought I was in luck. One site quoted the last line as : how late their Feathers be.

Oh I thought, Feathers, that makes a lot more sense. But on further reflection I concluded that Feathers made no more sense than Fathers.

Pink Flower

On the walk back, clouds filled the sky and the sea turned the colour of molten metal. Or so I imagined. Because all at once the sea looked like a brilliant photograph. A line of white on the horizon, silver gelatin sea, frothy tea shallows and dried apple sand.

But that was not what prompted me to take a photo. Well, yes it was. But that was not what prompted me to take two more.

What prompted that was the last of my coastal flowers. A little girl in a fluorescent pink net skirt. You could tell she loved that skirt. She was jumping in the shallows with her sister, making the skirt bounce up and down. It was something like a tutu. And over it she wore an oversized white top.

You know how these days you aren't supposed to photograph other people's children without permission? Luckily there is a distance beyond which that rule does not apply. The little girl was way down on the beach in the middle distance with her sister, and I was up on the esplanade with my mum.

So I snapped her twice. Once when she was leaning forward calling to the sister, and once when both of them began to run.

In both shots the pink skirt is a tiny bright pink spot in the silvery landscape.

Rusty Solar Panel Flower

The third unconventional flower in my Coastal Flowers collection is the Rusty Solar Panel Flower.

Now this really looks like a flower. You hardly need to define a flower loosely. It has a stem ( the pole), a head (the solar panel) , and seven stamens ( seven short wires sticking up on top ). And if that were not enough, the Rusty Solar Panel Flower is cream, red, brown and orange.

It is a pole, in a prominent position on the esplanade, just south of the Arch of Remembrance and the Brighton jetty, opposite the fish and chip shop and the Esplanade Hotel.

If it is a piece of street art, it is more ingenious and tricky than a seaside council would generally allow. It is a pole with a solar panel on the top. The lower part of the pole is black, then there is a narrow band of red, and the rest is painted cream. The metal pole has rusted in the most spectacular fashion, and a brilliant efflorescence of rusty reds and browns has broken through the yellowing paint, so that the pole appears to glow.

I stopped to take a photo of this pole, just as a mother stopped to take a photo of her baby. She did not want the pole in hers, but happened to be standing by the pole. Our photos would have crossed. She let me go first.

And that is why my photo doesn't show the sign on the pole, or what it says. The sign was side on to me, where I was standing.

I would like to tell you what the sign says, but I didn't see it face on. That is neither the mother's fault, nor mine. It is just the way it happened. But I have seen it before. If I remember rightly it doesn't say anything about the solar panel. Instead it features a linear map of the coastal walking trail, and underneath the map it says that some parts of the trail are not accessible.

The Flower That Is A Talking Fish

The second of my unconventional coastal flowers is the Talking Fish.

For the Talking Fish to be considered a flower I must redefine flower even more loosely as something orange.

That's ridiculous. I'll try again. Something that stands upright on one leg and has a head....and is orange.

The Talking Fish is another piece of esplanade art to be found at Seacliff. It has a message. The government is building a desalination plant in the gulf, which will result in saltier water. There are those who think this will be unpleasant for the fish.

Look now, at the Talking Fish. He is stencilled in black onto a sand coloured shade cloth tacked to the wire fence beside one of the sandhill exits. His body is coloured orange. He stands upright on a bifurcated tail fin. He looks angry. A speech bubble comes out of his open mouth. The words in the speech bubble are, I can't live in brine, Desal is not fine.

It is disturbing on so many levels. Firstly, the artistic. The orange colour reappears in ghostly form behind the fish in some sort of blotting accident. The final 'n' and 'e' are badly blurred, and the words are placed too low down in the bubble.

Secondly, the Talking Fish is obviously a goldfish, and they don't live in the gulf anyway.

Thirdly, the most disturbing thing of all....maybe it's just me but.....I can't live in Brine, Desal is not fine....okay it rhymes, and scans, with five syllables in each line, but somehow it doesn't seem to.

That is all I'll say,
Until the next day.

The Cat's Head Flower

The first of the unconventional flowers was the Cat's Head Flower. Of course it isn't really a flower, unless I redefine a flower loosely as a head on a pole.

Now, I have alarmed you. You think I have taken a photograph of a cat's head on a pole. But you should not take me literally.

This was a piece of street art, or more specifically, esplanade art, and a carelessly executed example. Imagine a short pole at the edge of a paved esplanade, next to a wire fence and some straggly bushes through which there's a view of the sea. Now you are thinking of the sea. But back to the pole.

On the pole is a sign. It is a pictorial sign. It would, had it not been defaced, have been a picture of a walking man, above a bicycle. The man is walking in the opposite direction to that in which the bicycle is going. The meaning of the sign is, This path is for both walking and cycling. The subtext is, You need to watch out!

But, someone has glued a black and white paper drawing of the head of a cat over the head of the man, using lumpy white glue. The cat is a cartoon style cat. Not a famous cat, such as Top Cat or Garfield, but a mixture of several cartoon cats. It has heavy black eyebrows, tigerish stripes, round eyes and cheeks, the rakish air of a pirate king.

The orientation of the cat's head is such that the cat is looking slightly back over its shoulder. This gives the impression that, instead of purposefully walking, as the original man was doing, the cat is performing a suggestive sideways shimmy.

I bet you would like to see it.

Two Days at the Coast

We went to West Beach on Saturday. The sea was the colour of prune juice. An ancient sea. A Mediterranean wine dark sea. The waves lifted and stretched before crashing. That was the moment you could see the prune juice and oxidized apple, with brownish white foam on the top.

The foam cascaded from the wavetops in bubbles that fetched up in pink scummy heaps mixed with seaweed and shivered in the wind.

That was Saturday.

On Sunday we went to Seacliff. We didn't go down on the sand. I had my camera and thought I'd take photos of flowers in the sandhills, and call them Flowers of the Coast. Some of the flowers were conventional flowers. Gazanias, portulacas, and stocks.

Then there were the unconventional flowers. The cat's head, the talking fish, the rusty solar pole and the little girl in the pink skirt. I shall elaborate tomorrow.

No, I have space here. I shall do the cat.

The Cat's Head Flower. This was......

No. I won't. It's getting bitty. It will be better if I do it tomorrow.

Missing Middle Words

"Then the music began. Then the music ended." Perhaps I did not quite do justice to the concert yesterday.

I shall tell you what happened in between.

To do that, I shall have to go back to just before the music began. Then I can tell you who came bounding onto the stage and sat down, and what instruments they brought with them.

Otherwise, you would not know.

Bounding onto the stage came Aleksandr Tsiboulski, in a grey jacket and pants, and a plain white shirt, and Jacob Cordover, in a darker grey jacket and pants, and a red shirt. They were both laughing, and carried guitars. They sat down.

They played Three Brazilian Scenes by Sergio Assad. The first one was Jump, the second, Water Lilly, and the third, Coral Reef. I don't know what a Lilly is, but maybe it's a Lily.

As soon as they began to play you could see that Aleksandr was the romantic one, and Jacob the intellectual one, not just because Jacob wore glasses. No. It was the expressions on their faces that told you. Aleksandr made sensual faces in time to his plucking of strings. Jacob played with an expressionless face.

This was surprising, because Jacob had longish black floppy hair, and I've already told you about his red shirt. Aleksandr had short light brown hair, and you already know about his unromantic white shirt.

It shows that you shouldn't make assumptions.

Famous Last Words.

The people in the Elder Hall were waiting for the Lunch Hour Concert to begin. Two men were chatting. One of them was going on holiday to South America. Soon they got on to the topic of Scott of the Antarctic.

They didn't remember the whole story but they remembered it in parts. I am put in mind of the famous words of Titus Oates, said one.

Oh yes, said the other. I know.

He said, continued the first man, I'm going out and I may be some time.

They both agreed that it had been a noble suicide.

Then, the music began.

Then, the music ended.

Everyone filed out, except for me and my mum.

A blue bag lay under the seat in front. A flat blue bag with words printed in white on one side: Walk Against Want 2004.

I picked it up and placed it on top of the seat.

Who was sitting there? we asked each other. We couldn't remember.

He was next to a woman in a red coat, said my mum.

So he was, I said.

An old man came back along the row and picked up the bag. Titus Oates. He had been quite some time.

Getting old, he smiled.

Sisyphus on a Scooter

Oh look! Professor Healey's sent us another one! said Belle et Bonne. He must be on a roll.

What's this one called, asked The VeloDrone. King Keret on a Kawasaki?

How funny you are papa! Perhaps you should write one yourself. No, this one's called Sisyphus on a Scooter.

I should have known, said The VeloDrone. Read it to me, my dear.

She began:

Sisyphus on a Scooter

Sisyphus was the son of King Aeolus, of Thessaly. He was greedy and deceitful and had been known to kill his guests. He had seduced his niece and stolen his brother's scooter......

Scooter? interjected The VeloDrone. Did they have scooters in those days?

Papa! scolded Belle et Bonne. Remember the title!

.....so Zeus became angry and ordered Death to chain him up in Tartarus. As Death was fixing up the chains, Sisyphus asked him to show him how they worked, and so it was that Death fell for the oldest trick in the book. Now Death was in chains and Sisyphus was free. The trouble was that now no one could die.

This annoyed the God of War no end. Eventually he intervened, freed Death and Sisyphus was sent back to Tartarus.

Sisyphus' punishment was to roll a huge rock up a steep hill, and just before he reached the top, the rock would roll down to the bottom again, obliging him to keep on doing it for ever.

Even with the scooter, this was tough.

Well, said Belle et Bonne, what did you think of that, papa?

That was silly, said The VeloDrone. Where would he have got the petrol? I'm really going to have to insist that our contributors stick to bicycles.

Ivory Shoulder, Golden Dog

Professor Healey's story arrived in the editors' office later that afternoon. Belle et Bonne read it aloud to The VeloDrone:

Tantalus on a Tricycle

Tantalus, ruler of an ancient Anatolian city, was riding his tricycle to a special meeting with the gods on Mount Olympus. On the back of the tricycle was his son Pelops, cut up and stewed in a pot.

But the gods didn't want to eat his son, for some reason. Only Demeter inadvertently took a bite of Pelops' shoulder, before she realised what it was, and spat it out.

Tantalus freewheeled his tricycle back down Mount Olympus, feeling glum. It wasn't just his son not being eaten, it was the tricycle. It wasn't kingly. Why couldn't Hephaestus have made a proper bicycle?

Some time later, one of the Fates brought Pelops back to life. He had a new shoulder made of ivory, fashioned for him by Hephaestus.

But Tantalus was soon in trouble again. His friend Pandareus had stolen a golden dog made for Zeus by Hephaestus. Pandareus had given the dog to Tantalus, who had then denied he had the golden dog.

In short, Zeus didn't think too much of Tantalus, and decided to punish him, in a most unpleasant way.

So now, here is Tantalus, standing in a pool of water under a fruit tree. He is hungry. But every time he reaches up to get a piece of fruit, the branches rise up in the air. He is thirsty too. But every time he bends down to get a drink, the water recedes. To make matters worse, a large stone is poised dangerously above his head.

It is now that he wishes he still had that tricycle.

Is that the end? asked The VeloDrone.

Yes, that's it, said Belle et Bonne. It isn't very philosophical. And the tricycle seems out of place.

The VeloDrone thought for a while.

I suppose the moral is you should be happy with what you have, he said.

The two professors came up with pretty similar stories, said Belle et Bonne.

Two professors! You mean there are two of them? cried The VeloDrone.

Oh yes papa, I was meaning to tell you.

I don't believe it, said her papa.

Tantalus on a Tricycle

I like it, said The VeloDrone. "It's nice not being a god". Obviously a man after my own heart.

Papa! said Belle et Bonne, how do you know what it's like being a god?

Of course, my dear, I don't know. But who has not, in his idler moments, considered what it it might be like to be a god?

Me, papa. I'm sure I never have.

Well, well, said The VeloDrone fondly, we are all different I suppose. Now, who is this Professor Healy and why has he written his article on a subject which he claims to know nothing about? He's written a little note here with words to that effect.

I don't know papa, I'm sure.

Very odd, said The VeloDrone. But we'll publish it, I think it's quite amusing. What have you there, my dear?

It's something that's just arrived, papa, from Professor Healey.

Ah! The same chap! What is this about? Let me see! He's very disappointed ....what?

He's very disappointed that he's had to write his article on Classics, when it's not his field. But that he's trying, and he thinks he's coming up with something interesting.

What's the matter with him? cried The VeloDrone. He can write whatever he likes as long as there's a bicycle.

Yes, papa, and look, he's given us the title.

Where, where? What's this? "Tantalus on a Tricycle"! I see a theme developing!

But that's impossible! cried Belle et Bonne.

Impossible, my dear? Oh yes, I see what you mean. A tricycle is not exactly a bicycle. But I think just this once we can let it go through.

Ba'al on a Bicycle

Professor Healy is mystified. Why have they asked him to write about bicycle philosophy with regard to Ugaritic studies? He knows very little about Ugaritic Studies. Whereas Classics are his thing.

John, he says to himself, it's a challenge. You must see what you can do.

He googles Ugaritic studies. Ah, he says. The cuneiform tablets of the Canaanites! The ancient gods. Ba'al, Lord of the Earth and Lord of the Rain and Dew. Yes! I have it.

He begins to write:

Ba'al on a Bicycle

Ba'al, once great god of the Canaanites, rode his bicycle along an undulating country lane. He enjoyed the freedom from godhead, nearly all the time. But the ups and downs of the road were making him introspective.

Where did it go wrong? he wondered. Things were great until the time I conquered Yam. Perhaps I should have been happy with that, and not asked El my father for a house. But no, I got the house, and that was fine. Perhaps I shouldn't have had that housewarming party.

No, the party went okay. I reckon I should have invited Mot, though.

Yeah, that was it. Mot was mad as hell. I hadn't even sent him respectful presents. And then he invited me to his house in the underworld, and I couldn't refuse. And he served me mud. Eughh!
The food of death. And eating it meant I had to stay down there.

But it wasn't that bad. I even got used to the mud diet. It kept me fit.

What it really was, and I guess I should just face up to it, I never should've married my sister Anat. She came down after me, sword blazing, split Mot in two, winnowed, burned and milled him and then planted him in the ground. Yeah, not good, Anat, you were always too ferocious.

But at least she brought me back to life by doing that. I suppose I should be grateful. And Mot came back to life as well, somehow. And then we fought again. In those days we were nuts. We fought until the sun goddess whatsername separated us.

And then I got my throne back. And the land was fertile again. Yet after a while people stopped believing in me and went for Yahweh. Figure that out! I never could.

At last Ba'al came to a long downhill run. Coasting, feeling the soft wind in his hair, and remembering that it was nearly teatime, he regained his equanimity.

Aah, he thought. This is really cool. It's so much nicer not to be a god.

The Invitations

Of course it was Belle et Bonne who opened the email. She read it once and then she read it again.

Pliny the Elder, she said to herself. Who does he think he is?

She read it a third time.

Two professors with the same name, she thought. It could be a laugh.

She consulted Madam Denis.

What do you think? she said. Should I write to them inviting them to contribute something?

Madam Denis looked dubious.

Classics! she sniffed. And Ugaritic studies! These professors are hardly philosophers.

But how do you know? And you know papa and Uncle David don't really care as long as there are bicycles. I think I will.

Perhaps you should ask your papa first.

No Marie, it will be better as a surprise.

And so it was that later that day the two professors received the following invitations:

Dear Professor John F Healy,

On behalf of Le Bon David and The VeloDrone, editors of Velosophy, it is my great pleasure to invite you to contribute a short article on the subject of bicycle philosophy, as it relates to Ugaritic studies.

Yours sincerely,
Belle et Bonne.
( for the Editors )

Dear Professor John F Healey

On behalf of Le Bon David and The VeloDrone, editors of Velosophy, it is my great pleasure to invite you to contribute a short article on the subject of bicycle philosophy, as it relates to Classical studies.

Yours sincerely,

Belle et Bonne
( for the Editors )

Only Belle et Bonne knows whether she has mixed them up on purpose.

Obsequious

Pliny the Elder is annoyed. The two professors have deprived him of the pleasure of writing a complaining letter. Worse, they have obliged him to write to the editors of Velosophy on their behalf. He derives no joy from being obsequious. He makes a start:

Greetings to the Editors of Velosophy from Pliny the Elder!

Gentlemen, due to a series of UNFORTUNATE EVENTS I find myself in the unenviable position of seeking a favour on behalf of two professors WHOM I BARELY KNOW. One is Professor John F Healey, the Professor of Ugaritic studies at Manchester University, and the other is Professor John F Healy, Professor of Classics at the University of London.

Professor John F Healey, whom I contacted in error, thinking he was Professor John F Healy, the translator of a SELECTION OF MY WORKS ( ! ), knew of me through my contributions to your magazine, and replied asking me if I would recommend him to you as a contributor. As I felt somewhat responsible for the connection, I agreed to do so.

Professor John F Healy, whom I also contacted in error, thinking I was replying to Professor John F Healey and agreeing to recommend him to you as a contributor, received the impression that I was inviting him to contribute to your magazine. Perhaps this is understandable, but it seems to me that Professor John F Healy was somewhat PRECIPITATE in his reply.

Whatever the case I feel I have done as much as can be reasonably expected by these TWO PROFESSORS. The rest is up to you.

I would prefer you to contact the professors directly, as I am a very busy man. I feel I should warn you however, if you do, IT IS EASY TO MIX THEM UP.

Thank you gentlemen, for your attention,

Pliny the Elder.

What do you think? asked Pliny, showing me the letter.

You have skilfully avoided being obsequious, I said.

Double Confusion

Pliny writes:

Most amicable greetings to Professor Healey, from Pliny the Elder,

Sir, I am indeed that Pliny who wrote a story that was published in Velosophy. If I recall, it was a mystery, about a disappearing bicycle, in which I featured as an amateur detective, in the process being accidentally taken for the Messiah by the singing members of the local Korean Church. I am not too modest to admit that my story was enthusiastically received. The editors of Velosophy are therefore well disposed towards me, and I shall be very pleased to put your name forward as a potential contributor. Your interest in bicycle philosophy does you great credit, sir.
I am, etc...

He sends the email. A short time later he receives a reply.

Pliny: Oh, drat and blast!

Me: What's the matter?

Pliny: I've sent it to the wrong Professor Healy! How could I do it twice?

Me: You mean you sent it to the Classics Professor Healy, the one you were going to complain to?

Pliny: Yes, and now he has replied, thanking me for the invitation to contribute to Velosophy.
Listen to this:

Dear Gaius Plinius Secundus, what a wonderful surprise to hear from you after all this time. I had not realised you were still alive! I hope you do not mind me saying so. I was delighted, if a little surprised, to be invited to write something for the magazine Velosophy. It is a great honour, I understand. Your own story, which I have not read, sounds a remarkable one. I hope I shall come up with something if not as good, at least worthy of your confidence in me as a writer. I will admit, many years have passed since I last rode a bicycle. PS. Just a small point. My name is spelled Healy.

Me: Is that it?

Pliny: What do you mean is that it? It's a disaster! I can hardly write him a complaining letter now. And furthermore I am obliged to write to the editors on behalf of two Professor Healeys or Healys, both of whom are virtually unknown to me.

Me: Are you fearful for your reputation?

Pliny: No, no. Of course not.

Confused and Surprised

Pliny is reading an email. He looks puzzled.

Me: Is that an answer to your complaining letter?

Pliny: Yes, but I do not understand it. It appears to be from Professor John F Healey, but he claims he is not the translator of my Natural History.

Me: How peculiar. What does he say?

Pliny: He says, Dear friend, I have just now received your letter of complaint. I fear you have sent it to the wrong man. I am Professor John F Healey, Professor of Semitic, Ugaritic and Aramaic studies at Manchester University. The man deserving of your ire is Professor John F Healy, Professor of Classics at London University. I suggest you reroute your complaint to him.

Me: Oh dear, Pliny, you seem to have sent your complaint to the wrong Professor Healy. Yes look, it's Healy not Healey. Didn't you check?

Pliny: No. Who would have thought there would be two of them?

Me: There aren't two of them. One is a Healy and the other is a Healey. And they are professors of completely different things.

Pliny: Well, no harm is done. I shall now send my complaining letter to Professor Healy. And meanwhile I have made a new acquaintance. Professor Healey is interested in continuing our correspondence. He has added a little footnote to his missive.

Me: What does he say?

Pliny: Well, it is a little strange.

Me: Why am I not surprised?

Pliny: I think you will be. Professor Healey asks if I am that same Pliny who once wrote an article for the magazine Velosophy. It seems he is a bicycle philosopher and has written something on the topic. He asks if I would care to put in a good word for him with the editors.

Me: My goodness! You're right, I am surprised.