The Spotted Veil

No sooner had the story been published, than a second email arrived from Samuel Beckett. The VeloDrone and Belle et Bonne were about to read it when there came a knock at the door. Simone de Beauvoir swept in, wearing a perky black and white striped hat with a spotted veil.

Simone! cried Belle et Bonne. What a lovely hat! But yes, I have seen it before. You wore it on the cover of your novel Les Mandarins. And now you have added a veil.

It's to hide my broken tooth! exclaimed Simone de Beauvoir. Thanks to that dreadful man, she added. Then she remembered her manners.

Hello VeloDrone, hello Belle et Bonne, how nice it is to see you both again.

And it's lovely to see you too, dear Simone, said The VeloDrone. To what do we owe the honour?

Ahem, said Simone. I have just read Beckett's story in Velosophy.

That was quick, said The VeloDrone.

Indeed, said Simone. And I am outraged!

Outraged, but why? asked Belle et Bonne. Didn't you see that I was in it?

I did, Belle dear, and that part was lovely, but did you know that Samuel Beckett is the man who knocked me off my bicycle the other day? The stupid man was riding with a pair of crutches attached to his cross bar and pedalling with one foot!

But Simone, he wasn't even limping when he left our office!

That's Beckett for you, said Simone. I know him all too well. He was playing at being one of his characters, Molloy. Molloy rides a bicycle in just that fashion.

You mean to say, said The VeloDrone, that the story we published was not original? Good grief!

It must have been original papa, because we were in it, said Belle et Bonne. Let's see what his email says........oh no!

What? cried the VeloDrone.

That was only the first half of the story! Now he's sent us the other half. And oh dear....and you are in it, Simone!

I forbid you to publish it! thundered Simone, through the spotted veil.

Beckett Writes

Then I suppose we shall have to wait even longer to get something from Simone, said The VeloDrone. Is there anything from our friend Beckett?

No, said Belle et Bonne. Oh no, wait, yes there is.

She began to read Beckett's email, to herself. She smiled.

Come on, come on, said The VeloDrone impatiently. What does it say?

It must be his article for Velosophy, said Belle et Bonne. And I'm in it!

You! said her papa! Read it out.

She began to read:

I'm in a room, and I am not alone. At least, I am not alone at this point of time. At another point of time I may have been here alone, for it seems familiar. But it is pointless to be thinking about other points of time at this particular one.......

Good heavens! cried The VeloDrone! Is it all like that?

No, said Belle et Bonne, not all. I'll skip those parts and get to the bit about me....

....A man is showing me around, a man purporting to be my friend, he wants something, I pretend that I remember him, now I think I really do remember him, he is a writer and he rides a bicycle. We went to university together, no, when I think more specifically about it, that was Joyce, not this man, who is much older. In the corner of the room a young woman is looking at a box.....That's me papa! A young woman!

And I suppose that's me, said the VeloDrone. An old man. That's rich from a man who thinks a computer is a box.

I'm sure he doesn't mean it, said Belle et Bonne. Now listen to this:

She looks at me, becoming concerned about a certain stiffness in my leg. I may have mentioned it to her in passing. She asks me how I manage to ride my bicycle with a stiff leg, this being in her opinion an impediment that would be hard to overcome. I reply that it is no impediment at all, that when I wish to mount my bicycle, which by the way is an old fashioned green bicycle with a rubber horn, I merely attach my crutches to the cross bar, rest my stiff leg on the projecting front axle, and pedal with the other. She seems dissatsified with this. Perhaps because I did not explain it to her as fully as I have indicated. I may in fact, have promised to explain it to her at some later date. Yes that would explain her look, and so it may be that is what I did....... don't you love it, papa?

Hum, said The VeloDrone. Is that it?

I think so, said Belle et Bonne. It stops there. But he hasn't signed it or anything.

Typical, said the VeloDrone. We can't be sure it's finished. Still, the bicycle is in it. Let's publish!

A Coincidence

That Samuel Beckett was a strange man, said Belle et Bonne, the following day. Did you notice, papa, that he didn't have a limp.

That's Samuel Beckett for you, said The VeloDrone, comfortably. Sometimes he limps, and sometimes he doesn't. It's something to do with existentialism, or absurdism. Or is it post modernism? I'm never quite sure of the difference.

It's something to do with not telling the truth, said Belle et Bonne, disapprovingly. I'm not looking forward to his story.

But you told him you were, observed her papa.

Belle et Bonne ignored this remark.

I don't know why you chose him to be the next contributor, she said. My friend Simone will be sending us her story soon.

Simone de Beauvoir! said the VeloDrone. That was months ago now. How long must we wait for this woman?

I don't know papa, but she'll surely write soon. I'll just check the inbox again....oh look, here's something from her, let me see......

You look alarmed my dear, said The VeloDrone.

Oh no! She's fallen off her bicycle and broken a tooth, papa!

Dear me! What happened?

She says she was riding along a country lane, when she turned a corner and crashed headlong into a man with a stiff leg, and crutches!

Waiting for Beckett

The VeloDrone was showing someone around the office. Belle et Bonne looked up.

And this is where it all happens, said the VeloDrone, pointing in her general direction.

Aha, said the stranger. Where what all happens?

Oh, said The VeloDrone, emails come in, emails go out, you know.

Papa! said Belle et Bonne.

Oh, hello my dear. Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Samuel Beckett. He has kindly agreed to write an article for Velosophy. This is my adopted daughter, Belle et Bonne.

Pleased to meet you Samuel, said Belle et Bonne. Are you THE Samuel Beckett?

I am indeed, said Samuel Beckett. And you must be THE Belle et Bonne.

Belle et Bonne giggled. Yes I am, she declared. And papa is THE VeloDrone. Also THE Voltaire, she added.

Oh said Samuel Beckett, turning to The VeloDrone. I didn't realise you were THE Voltaire. And do you ride THE bicycle?

Of course, said The VeloDrone. As do you.

Yes, said Samuel Beckett. I am a dedicated bicyclist. At least I was until I got this stiff leg.

Belle et Bonne looked at him sharply, but he did not appear to be making a lewd suggestion.

You have a stiff leg? she said. How unfortunate. Does that mean you can no longer ride a bicycle?

Au contraire, said Samuel Beckett, who was rather good at French. It simply means that I can only pedal with one foot.

Does not the stiff leg act as a sort of brake? asked Belle et Bonne.

Certainly not, said Samuel Beckett. But you are pre-empting my story. My article for Velosophy will explain in full what I do with my stiff leg when riding.

Oh good, said Belle et Bonne, looking sideways at her papa. I can't wait.

The Pocket Watch Part Twenty Three

Part Twenty Three? Yes, it has been a long story. And you have missed some parts. Bad luck.

You've missed the part where Sam kept the pocket watch for ages in a drawer. He didn't need it, you see. He'd acquired a much more high tech watch in the Navy, and my dad had one the same.

You've missed the part where my dad got married to my mum and they went to live in Manchester, and the part where I was born.

You've missed the part where I caught whooping cough several years in a row. Cough, cough! I watched my mum and dad gardening on long summer evenings through my bedroom window, coughing.

(What pathos! But wait, surely it was winter?

Oh yes, cough cough. I don't remember it perfectly, you know.)

You've missed the day dad and mum decided to emigrate to Australia, because they thought it would be warmer. And the day they told dad's family the news. Och! they said. Ye canny!

(You made that up!

What?

Och ye canny!

Alright, I made it up. I don't know what they said. But please don't interrupt, I'm nearly done.)

And now, you've even missed the part where Sam decided to give his dad's old silver pocket watch to his brother.

The Pocket Watch Part 3

What it meant was, that the pocket watch could not have belonged to anyone before 1928.

In 1928 my dad was four, and Sam was seven. Their dad was forty five. So who was most likely to have owned the pocket watch? Their dad.

But their dad's name was Joseph.

Their dad's brothers? No, their names were Bob and Tom.

Bob and Tom?

Bob and Tom. I have it on the authority of the family tree.

So this may be The Story of the Pocket Watch:

It belonged to Joseph Craig. He was a grown up man. He did not get his name engraved inside. He died in 1947. Not one of the five older daughters wanted the pocket watch. Or perhaps they were not offered it. Their mother gave the pocket watch to Sam. Sam was twenty six at the time.

Sam had his name engraved inside. The war was just over, and you never knew when you might need to have your name in something.

He had it engraved 'Samuel Craig'. The long curling ends of the initial letters S and C are decorated with tiny leaves, in a fashion which looks not quite professional, yet not too amateurish. Perhaps he even did it himself. The final G of Craig is insanely long and ends in a tiny aeroplane, which has completed a circular movement underneath his name.

Sam was very pleased with his pocket watch. It reminded him of his dad, and of himself. He resolved to keep it for ever.

to be continued

The Pocket Watch Part 2

So I thought I'd ask a Scottish cousin, who's father was dad's brother, Sam.

He didn't remember his dad having such a pocket watch, but thought it might belong to someone from a previous generation, because the name Sam cropped up often with the Craigs.

And this is when I got out a magnifier, and identified the manufacturer of the watch: AWW Co. Waltham Mass. This pointed to America. I decided to Google it.

And there I learned that the AWW Co. Waltham Mass. watch was something of a collectors item, and they were manufactured in Massachusetts, between 1860 and 1950. (Or thereabouts. I'm not about to Google it again.)

Are you bored? I'm not bored. Keep reading.

So. The exciting thing was this: If you could open the Waltham Pocket watch and look at the inside workings you would see a serial number and this would date the watch.

They even told you how to open up the watch, using a jar opener. That sounded somewhat bizarre. I decided to open the watch using a man, and got Allan to do it. He opened it, the way men do. The serial number was 6288979. This dated the watch at 1928.

Do you see what that meant?


to be continued.

The Pocket Watch

This is a story about an old silver pocket watch. It begins in the middle.

My sister gave me the pocket watch last Thursday. She said it had belonged to Joe, our dad. She said our mum gave it to her 28 years ago when dad died.

Aha! Why didn't mum give it to me?

That would be because straight after dad died, mum visited my sister who at that time lived in Scotland. She would have taken the pocket watch to give my sister as a keepsake. She would have said to me, although I don't remember, I'm going to take this pocket watch and give it to your sister, as a keepsake, I'm sure you don't mind. I would have said, no I don't mind, and then begun to wonder if I should mind, since she'd asked.

Unless she didn't ask.

So, the pocket watch remained in Scotland until it came back to Australia with my sister. And it rested in its little blue silk cotton-lined purse for all those years, moving from Adelaide to Port Douglas to Wardell, with her.

Until last Thursday, when she gave it to me, saying, this belonged to dad, I think it was his father's or his grandfather's. Then she opened up the back and showed me the name engraved inside: Samuel Craig. Not dad's name, but his brother's.

Was that dad's father's name, asked my sister. No, I said, his name was Joseph too. Well maybe it belonged to his father's brother, said my sister, or his grandfather. Mum will know.

But when I brought the pocket watch home to Adelaide, and showed it to our mum, she didn't know.

to be continued.......

Last Hours Of Ticks

It is a little known fact that ticks communicate by means of morse code. I later learned the two ticks that had attached themselves to me had left a testament of their final hours in dots and dashes on the inside of the tissue that was their tragic prison. I present it to you verbatim, except of course not in morse code, but in English. You may find it quite moving.


Last TESTAMENT of OUR Final Hours, By Big and Little TiCK.

LiTTle Tick: We were in a FIeld of GRASS, ...we spied a foot. BIg Tick said COME ON! I said NOOOO! He said, Why not? I said, it's not a COW. He said YES it IS, it's just a funny blue one. So we jumped. ...

Big TiCK: It was a MIStake I see tHAT now. But At the TIME I thought it would be an EXCELLENT adVENTure. WE Climbed the SOCK OF the COW and found a wIDE Expanse of hairless skin. A FEAST. We decided to sit quiet for the COW was moving.

LITTle Tick: That was no COW he still WILL NOT admit it. A Cow will not peel off its BLUE outer SKIN and lie PRone for several HOURs. NEvertheless Big tiCK decided to dig in.

BIG Tick: Next thing I KNOW I'm squeezed out of my comFY POZZIE! I'm SQUEEzed and SquEEZed. IT Doesn't hurt me THOUGH.

LittLe Tick: I knew Big TICK was SCARED. I was Scared. ALL at onCE we foUNd ourselves inside a big white squARE CLOUD. We ran around MADLY but could not gET OUT.

BIG Tick: The COW was pacing up and DOWN somewhere out THERE I'm SUre of it.

LittLE TIck: Suddenly the CloUD OPENED UP and we HEARD VOICES. The Voices were saying THEY are SMALL.

Big TicK: A huge POINTED weapon came towards US!

Little TICK: I Cried WHAT is to Become of us? Then Big Tick said SomeTHING that was so comforting.

BIG TICK: What did I SAY, I forget?

LittLE TICk: You said: We are STARDUST We Are Golden, And we've GOt to get ourselves Back To the GARden. I LOve You FOR saying that, Big TiCK!

Big TicK: I Love you TOO, Little TicK.

Here Ends the Last Testament of Big Tick and LittlE TICk.

Tick Tick Off

So here I am clutching two ticks wrapped in a tissue, and I don't know what to do. I'm not dressed respectably enough to leave the bedroom, since I've just got out of bed.

I can't think how I can put more clothes on without risk. If I put the tissue down, the ticks will fight their way out and escape into the bedroom. And then they might go anywhere they like. I could pull on some clothes with one hand, but I need to give those ticks my full attention.

That's why I'm pacing up and down.

Soon I will be rescued, when Allan gets out of the shower. He will take the tissue-wrapped ticks to Colin in his office. Colin will look at the ticks and remark that they are very small. He will also remark that it is lucky for me that they are whole, as I am less likely to be infected by broken tick parts left behind. He will then proceed to kill them by stabbing at them with a biro.

At the time I felt this was a happy outcome. But having reached a state of equanimity I am beginning to feel sorry for the ticks. Tomorrow I will make it up to them.

Outrageous Ticks

Yes it was delightful at the farm. You could sit on the verandah and look out over the peaceful valley all day long if you had no plans. That is what old Fred used to do, counting the cows, until he died at the age of 96. Or so I heard.

The view takes you like this: you share a wooden bench with another person, looking out. You say nothing for a long time. Then you say, I think the clouds are moving a little more slowly this afternoon than they were this morning. The other person looks towards the clouds and, after some time has elapsed, agrees that yes, they are.

You might think that says it all, about the farm.

I did, until I realised that I had acquired two ticks. Or perhaps I should say that the ticks had acquired me.

At first I thought I had a mozzie bite and that was bad enough. But the itchy spot was suspiciously round and black. I tried to squeeze it out. This is hard when you are on holiday and have been denied the luxury of tweezers, by the airline you have used.

Out popped the round black dot, from the tender white skin of thankfully-not-too-embarrassingly-far-up my inner thigh. I looked at it. It had legs. I squeezed it. It would not die. I didn't know what to do with it; it seemed wrong to let it loose. Then I saw I had another one.

I wrapped the two ticks in a tissue, clutched it tight and paced about the room.

Muttonbirds

From Pliny the Elder, greetings,

Where are you?


*******

Dear Pliny,

I told you I was going to Wooli, and that is why you haven't heard from me for the past two days. We visited Wendy and Colin's farm. You would like the farm, it is very spartan. The second day Wendy took us to Woolgoolga, which was windy, and then to Coffs Harbour which was also windy. I probably received these impressions because we climbed to the tops of lookouts a lot.

At Coffs, we crossed the causeway to Muttonbird Island. We looked for Muttonbirds, but didn't see any, unless the bird I saw flying low over the ocean was one. But no, it wouldn't have been. We learned from an information board that Muttonbirds are really Shearwaters. There are many kinds of Shearwaters, including the Fleshy-Footed Shearwater. They are the ones that migrate to Japan. When they get there they put on those little white Japanese cotton socks, and say Ahhhh.

Yes, it was quiet but lovely at the farm. The farm is currently a secret, which makes it all the nicer to visit. It is close to Pillar Valley, but don't tell anyone. Pillar Valley is so-named because of the strange natural stone pillar on top of a hill there. It looks like a pillar.

I am coming home today. Is there anything to eat?

Skirmish

From Pliny the Elder, greetings,

No I was not offended. But I am now.

Firstly, I am in no way enamoured of the type of pie known as the Lentil Pie. The fact that you think so merely confirms your low opinion of my culinary tastes. I think that I can safely say that I prefer almost any sort of pie to the Lentil. I took your advice yesterday and went to the shops. I bought a hamburger from MacDonalds and found it most delicious.

Secondly, it is nonsense to say that you are not interested in birds. I see among the holiday snaps on your Facebook page a photograph of an osprey nest, several geese, and a grey crane.
The osprey nest reminded me of something, being so high up above the ground. I have been checking my old notes. The parent ospreys make their young ones fly up to the sun, and those that fail to reach it are deemed unfit to live.

***********

Greetings, Pliny,

Sorry about the Lentil Pie. But MacDonalds doesn't sound much like you either.

That was very interesting about the ospreys, but I think your notes are out of date.

Yesterday we walked along Pimlico Road to Pimlico. It was very quiet. Sugarcanes, green grass, palms and silky oaks. A few houses, tractors, sheds. A place where you could play at Skirmish. Waterholes, geese, the sounds of plopping fish, or frogs. A squashed snake on the road.

In the afternoon we found ourselves at the top of Coolgardie Hill, about to walk down. We walked down. The view from the top, which was of the sea, canefields, the river, trees, the Pacific Highway and more trees, gradually just became a view of trees. It is like that here.

Today we are going to Wooli. You pronounce it Wool Eye. Is that not wonderful?

Wardell

To Pliny the Elder, greetings

Why haven't you replied? Are you offended I told you to go to the shops?

We went to a Pie Shop in Wardell yesterday. It was painted red outside. They make their own pies and you can see them doing it. Their special pie of the day was Eggs Benedict, which Allan liked. You would probably have liked the Lentil Pie. Why? It just seemed like you.

Wendy dropped us off by the river on our way back from Patches Beach, and we walked home from there. On one side of the road was the wide brown choppy River Richmond, and on the other, sugar canefields and grass. The wind was everywhere.

There were a few houses near the road or set back down grass tracks. Some of the houses were large and sprawling, with big sheds, and some were smaller, painted pink or blue. The owners favoured Buddha as a garden ornament, and palm trees and the Australian flag. They did not appear to like throwing anything away.

Closer to home we saw a grey crane. It flew into a glade and sat on a branch above a billabong.
I took a photo, just for you, Pliny. You know I'm not that interested in birds.

Lismore

From Pliny the Elder,

You call those lettuces? You write foolish things.


********

They are perfectly good lettuces. You are lucky I write anything at all.

Yesterday we went to Lismore, which is somewhere north of here. A river runs through Lismore, which floods a lot. The older houses are built above the ground and made of wood. Some of them are painted blue. We went to a rural supplies shop and bought some rural supplies. After that our vehicle smelled pleasantly of lucerne. We went to Horseland, where you can buy anything at all for a horse, in any colour. I was itching to take a photo of the two ladies behind the counter, they were so horsey. Behind them, on shelves, was an array of horsey nicknacks. I did not dare to ask them for a photo, because they would have wondered why I wanted it, and I could not have given a plausible reason.

PS I don't see why you can't just go to the shops.

Byron Bay

Greetings from Pliny the Elder,
It seems to me that you have not told me everything. And where outside exactly is the lettuce? The weather here has turned bad. I do not wish to go outside without having a clear idea of where I am going.


******************

Greetings Pliny,

Of course I have not told you everything. Every minute there is something new. Yesterday I was sitting out the back at a wooden table when a huge water dragon passed me on the grass and ran up the trunk of a nearby tree. I never saw it come down. Earlier we had been to Byron Bay, and seen the lighthouse at the easternmost corner of Australia. There is a signpost at the corner, so you know where it is. Also a lighthouse. We ate sandwiches on the foreshore. We had cups of tea in Bangalow. Green tea with melon flavouring. We were facing the counter in Chou Chou, looking at French cakes. Wendy drove us home past macadamia farms, and horses, through a lush greenish landscape. We drove over two horrid old bridges, which were being replaced.

The lettuce is directly in front of you Pliny, when you go out the back door. It is in the pots. I suppose you didn't think of looking for it there. Don't pull up our leek.

Pliny to Me, Me to Pliny

Greetings, wanderer,
You should not lie about the whereabouts of birds. If you were to tell me now that you had seen the grey cranes I should not know whether to believe you.

I know nothing about the tuna. Am I to understand that you wish me to pretend to your daughter that I have eaten it myself? I assure you this is not the case. I suspect you know what has happened to the tuna. And where is the lettuce?

Until our next communication,

Gaius Plinius Secundus

*****************

Dear Pliny,
I have posted some tuna to our house could you please check the letterbox on Friday. The lettuce is OUTSIDE! I thought you knew.

No I have not seen any grey cranes but I saw an osprey nest up a pole, with an osprey in it. We were on the way to Ballina. Here they are called the Birds of the Gods. Yesterday we walked to the Wardell cemetery. It is all white sand there which looks like snow. Some of the graves are nothing but heaps of sand with plastic flowers on top. They do not blow away in the wind, which is miraculous. Today we are going to Byron Bay.

Yours,

The Wanderer

To Pliny the Elder

Dear Pliny,

It is very pretty here. There are many sorts of birds outside my bedroom window. For example parakeets and galahs, and bush turkeys with yellow wattles. The last is not true. The bush turkeys were back at Tweed Heads.

There are horses and paddocks and a creek of clear black water and grass and well kept gardens. There is a mannikin dressed as a fisherman in sunnies.

We had pies for dinner last night from the new pie shop. Followed by apple cream puffs. After I ate my cream puff Emmy ( a dog ) licked my hand.

Today I am going to listen out for grey cranes, and visit Ballina.

I hope you found the lettuce.

PS My daughter thinks there might be a tin of tuna in the pantry . If you see her please explain to her why there is not.

Events in Real Time

I'm telling Pliny the Elder about a wedding that I went to yesterday.

You overhear some funny things at weddings, I say.

What did you hear? asks Pliny.

I heard an older woman say to a younger one, It's the photos and videos you'll remember it by.

Remarkable, says Pliny. Was she suggesting that the younger woman didn't need to pay attention?

I don't know, I said. I also heard an old chap say, Can't recognise anyone, they're all done up.

Hah! laughs Pliny. If everyone is unrecognisable that young woman will be none the wiser later on!

Oh well, I recognised nearly everyone. And everyone looked amazing. The women looked gorgeous, the men very handsome and the children as cute as pies.

You are being unusually effusive, says Pliny.

You never know who might read this, I say. Anyway, Pliny, I've got something to tell you.

You're going on holiday for ten days, says Pliny. I already know.

I know you already know. What I need to tell you is, there's no food here but lettuce.

Thank you, says Pliny. Anything else?

Yes, If the wind blows, could you flush the toilets?

Alright, says Pliny. Will you be blogging while you are on holiday?

I might and I might not, I say.

Well, if you're not.... says Pliny.

You can, I say. But keep them short.

Skovoola or Scaevola

Why do you want to know? I asked.

I thought Barbie's boyfriend was Ken, said Pliny.

I'm impressed that you know, I said. Skovoola wasn't really her boyfriend. He was the photographer at the bridal shoot.

Yes, said Pliny, but he turned up again at the beach.

True, I said. I'm sure it was more than coincidence. Anyway, I believe Skovoola was meant to be Swedish. I looked up a list of Swedish boys' names, but Skovoola wasn't on it, so it can't be very common.

I wonder, said Pliny thoughtfully, if there is a connection with the name Scaevola?

The flower? I asked

Not the flower, said Pliny. Gaius Mucius Scaevolus, also known as Scaevola, for his brave deed in defying Lars Porsena.

Well, it does sound rather similar, I said. What does his name mean and what was his brave deed?

The name means left-handed. It happened back in 500BC, or thereabouts. The Etruscan king Lars Porsena was marching on Rome. Gaius Mucius Scaevolus was captured by Porsena, after a failed assassination attempt. He was ordered to reveal the names of the other Roman plotters, under threat of torture. Scaevola deliberately thrust his right hand into the fire to show his contempt. Porsena was so impressed he set him free. Scaevola then revealed the details of the plot, which was so alarming that Porsena immediately made peace with Rome.

What a story, I said. So he saved Rome and was rewarded with a nickname.

Which subsequently found its way to Sweden, said Pliny.

Possibly, I said.

Yes, said Pliny. Possibly. And thence to Barbie Soccer Coach.

I like it, I said.

Lentils

You learned a great deal in the waiting room, said Pliny the Elder.

I did indeed, I said.

But did you ever find out......began Pliny.

.....about the stacked lenticular clouds? I said, finishing his sentence.

That was not what I was going to ask, said Pliny, but by all means enlighten me if you have learned something ......

I learned, I said, that lenticular clouds are so-called because they are shaped like lenses.

That is fascinating, said Pliny. Because lenses are so-called because they look like lentils.

Oh yes, I remember looking that up once. So they are, I said. And it's funny, because lenticular clouds don't look much like lentils.

Are you sure? said Pliny. You did say they were pink.

I said they looked like macaroons, I said.

A macaroon, said Pliny, looks like a giant lentil.

Well yes, I said, but it's a bad analogy. A lentil is too small to look like a cloud.

Nonsense, said Pliny. Compared to what? A macaroon?

A macaroon is a lot bigger than a lentil, I said. But now you have got me thinking.

What about? asked Pliny.

Optics, I said.

Good, said Pliny. Soon you will begin to ponder how it is that the relative sizes of lentils, clouds and macaroons are all able to be accommodated in the tiny space afforded by our lenses.

Oh, very good Pliny, I said. Now, what was it you were really going to ask me?

For a moment Pliny looked as though he had forgotten.

Lenses, he muttered. Oh yes, the photographer! Did you ever find out why Barbie's boyfriend was called Skovoola?

The Art of Waiting - 2

My mum has just gone into the surgery, so I have all the time in the world to gaze at the reflection of the window in the framed print of the hollyhocks.

Why do I like it so much? I'll tell you. Everything framed within the window is of pleasing and regular proportions. There is, at the bottom, a section of metal grid, formed in regular squares. Above it, the triangular curve of a sailcloth over the path outside. Behind the sailcloth are several branches, bare except for four leaves outlined against the clear blue sky. Higher still, four electrical wires are strung musically from left to right, and a fat little Dusky Seaside Sparrow sits on the topmost one.

In addition, there is a paper sticker in the lower left corner of the window, and the sticker says NO CASH. The sticker is on the outside of the window, to deter potential thieves, as if the metal grid would not be enough. If I were looking directly at the window, the letters of the words NO CASH would be reversed. But because I am looking at a reflection of the window in the glass, the letters are reversed twice, and so NO CASH appears the right way round.

At first I do not realise this is interesting. But suddenly I realise that it is, because it is an example of that branch of science known as optics.

I've been sketching this, remember? I haven't even drawn the wires and sparrow when my mum appears. That was quick, she says. I didn't even need to have any stitches.

Momentarily, I wish that it had taken longer.

Dusky Seaside Sparrow

Mum is still waiting. I am on my second National Geographic. Surely she'll be going in soon.

In the National Geographic is a story about the Dusky Seaside Sparrow, which became extinct in 1986. Poor Dusky Seaside Sparrows. They used to live on Merritt Island, Florida. They became extinct due to 'improvements'. You have to laugh. No, you don't. Their homes were flooded in an attempt to get rid of mosquitoes.

The last six Dusky Seaside Sparrows were sent to Disneyland. Now you have to laugh. But no, you don't. They were all males. After several years only one was left. His name was Orange Band. He was old for a sparrow and blind in one eye. There was a photo of him all stiff and manky at the top of the story. When he died a small voice made its way into the universe. I am zero, it said. So you see, no one has a right to laugh.

At last someone comes in to get my mum. Hoorah! Now there is no one sitting opposite me under the hollyhocks. I need a break from reading and looking at photos, so I have a good look at the print. I can only partly see the hollyhocks because the glass reflects the window behind my head, and the window is brighter than the hollyhocks behind the glass. I look at the reflection of the window.

Soon I'm so intrigued with this reflection that I take notepaper and a pen out of my handbag, and begin to draw......,

Barbie Soccer Coach

I have been looking forward to reading this. I had hoped that mum would have gone in by now, though. She is sitting opposite me under a framed print of hollyhocks, reading a magazine.

Barbie Soccer Coach is a Little Golden Book, published in 1995. On page one, Barbie is finishing a photo shoot. She looks gorgeous in a big white wedding dress. Off-puttingly, the photographer is named Skovoola. He may be meant to be Swedish. He is blond, blue-eyed and looks quite hot.

Barbie goes off to coach her little sister Skipper's soccer team. She wears cute little red shorts and long white socks. She tells her team, the Tigers, if they win tomorrow she will take them to the beach.

To cut a short story even shorter, they do not win. This is because the other team cheats. One of Barbie's team cheats back and is sent off. Because of this, the Tigers lose. She learns a lesson, and says sorry. Barbie is pleased that everyone has learned the lesson. Now we are all winners, says Barbie, and tomorrow I'll take you all to the beach.

Unexpectedly, Skovoola turns up at the beach as well, wearing a strangely patterned shirt.

I enjoyed that. Largely because of the art. Golden Book Barbie is much more in proportion than the Barbie doll. She looks exactly like quintessential beautiful young woman I spent many hours trying unsuccessfully to capture with my coloured pencils when I was ten.

What time is it now? Five past three. And mum is still here, sitting under the hollyhocks. Time to open up the second National Geographic. Ah! It's all about extinction.

The Art of Waiting

Where am I? Oh! I'm in the waiting room of the Ashford Dermatology Clinic. I'm with my mum who is having some things removed. I don't know it yet, but I will be here for quite some time. Like fifty five minutes! But I am resourceful and decide to fill my hour with ART.

First I choose some literature to peruse. I choose a National Geographic, dated January 2009, a Little Golden Book called Barbie Soccer Coach, and finally, another National Geographic.

The first National Geographic is full of amazing photographs. Bulging-eyed red-mouthed sweaty black men in the Peruvian Andes digging for gold, unpaid for thirty days out of thirty one, because on the thirty first day they're allowed to keep all the gold they can bring up in a four hour shift. In the photo they look like men who are thinking, Shit it's only day three.

Every photo in the National Geographic has a wow factor. There is one with such an excess of wow factor that they have folded it in half. When you open it up you see Kronotsky Volcano, which is somewhere on the Kronotsky Peninsula in Russia. Wow! In the foreground are black rocky mountains streaked with white snow. The volcano itself is a beautiful heart-melting blue, wreathed in soft grey smoke. To the left of the volcano, delicate pink clouds; to the right, blue-grey clouds; to the extreme far right, WOW! a pile-up of stacked lenticular clouds. Stacked lenticular clouds! I must google that one day. But in fact I can see what they are. They look like a stack of flat pink macaroons. WOW!

It is ten to three. I've been waiting twenty minutes. I turn my attention to Barbie Soccer Coach.

Where are You Coming From Daughter?

On Friday I was in the Elder Hall, sitting next to my mum, who had a dreadful cold. We were waiting for the Lunch Hour Concert to begin. We'd sat at the end of a row in case my mum had a coughing fit, which was quite likely. She rummaged in her bag for a sweet.

Would you like a Butter Menthol? she asked me. I said, Err..... yes thank you, I would.

That could be a song.

Would you like a Butter Menthol ? she asked me.
I said, Err.... yes thank you, I would.
But then I felt suddenly certain
Her cold germs would do me no good.
Butter Menthols are not wrapped up these days
And ones she had touched were inside
If I was unlucky and ate one
It might be the reason I died.
Cough cough.....

How very silly. I apologise wholeheartedly for that. Now to continue.....

The concert was Rosalind Martin, singing songs of Chopin and Schumann, in a lacy latte dress.
Most of the songs were about longing, and as a consequence were quite sad. But my favorite was the Lithuanian Song: ( of course it was in Lithuanian )

Very early one morning, the sun was rising,
Near the glass window Mother was sitting;
Where, she asks, are you coming from my daughter?
Where did you get your wreath all wet?

The daughter replies that it's wet because she had to get up early to fetch water, but Mother isn't having any of it, and accuses her daughter of running off into a field to chat with a boy.

It's true, it's true, Mother, truth I'd rather say-
My sweetheart I spotted in the field;
We only spent a few minutes talking,
And in that time, dew settled on my wreath.

You can see why I liked it.

Murk

This afternoon we walked along the esplanade towards Seacliff. It was warm and a little bit windy. The sky was blue and puffy. The sea, sapphire and amber, the sand dunes bejewelled with silken strings of portulaca, gazania and wild yellow oxalis. I'm telling you this so you will understand how pretty it was and how unlike Murk.

Last night we watched a Danish movie on SBS. It was called Murk. In Danish it was called Morke, with a line through the o. That may or may not be pronounced Murk, I don't know. Let us say that it is.

The movie was about Jacob whose brain damaged sister had died on the eve of her wedding to Anker, a weird guy from Murk, who she'd met on the internet. Jacob suspected that Anker had murdered his sister.

He drove to Murk, along a wet grey country road. Murk had an air of foreboding. Anker was fat and had the sort of haircut that made you think he was capable of murdering your sister.

We never found out if he had. But that isn't relevant here. What's relevant is that as we were walking along the shining esplanade this afternoon towards Seacliff, the sun went momentarily behind a cloud, six cars drove by in a slow procession and a young man shouted from the back of the second car, which was a black car, EEEEEUUUUUHHH!!!

And the esplanade took on an air of forboding, like Murk.

Deep Connections

Why so glum? asked Pliny the Elder.

So much for connectivity in my three random things, I replied. All I have come up with so far is this: The fence in story one, the sand on the beach in story two, and the coconut cakes in story three.

What about them? asked Pliny.

They were the same colour, I said.

No one would even guess that, said Pliny. You didn't mention the colour of the fence. Perhaps you should look at the bigger picture. These are not just random things, they are complex random events. It seems to me that there is plenty of connectivity if you examine them as a trilogy.

Oh really? I said. Go on.

Firstly, said Pliny, in his best didactic manner, there is the element of time. The Big Bang occurs in the night time. The Half Woman in the afternoon, and the Lucky Person in the morning.

So they do, I said.

Secondly, length, said Pliny. The Big Bang is a short story, the Half Woman is mid-length and the Lucky Person is long.

Certainly true, I said.

Thirdly, went on Pliny, in the Big Bang story, we have an emptiness in the middle of the story, a lack of relevant information that would enable us to solve the mystery. In the Half Woman, we are presented with, as it were, a half-set of information, which none the less enables the mystery to be solved. In the Lucky Person, we have a set of instructions given over the telephone by a so-called 'real person', enabling the protagonist to uncover a unique and lucky number.

A possibly lucky number, I corrected.

Yes, said Pliny.

Well that is most impressive, I said. But what does it mean?

It means, said Pliny, that your three stories when examined together represent aspects of things that are common to all human experience. Time, emptiness, half-truths, whole truths, the processing of information, luck, and the sharing of cakes.....

He stopped, and looked at me pointedly.

Thank you, I said.