The Ripple and Swirl

They freewheeled down to the bottom of the hill, and along the esplanade to the Ripple and Swirl Cafe, where they ordered icecreams.

They sat at a window table facing the sea.

Are you a famous philosopher? Irma asked Wittgenstein.

Some people say that I am, replied Wittgenstein.

Well, what do you think that means? she asked, pointing to a blackboard at the back of the cafe on which was chalked:

A fish and a bird might indeed fall in love. But where shall they live?

What do you think it means? asked Wittgenstein. It means what it says.

No it doesn't, said Emma, licking her icecream thoughtfully. It means you are to think about the question.

So it does, agreed Saint Nicholas The idea is that two people might fall in love, but they might not agree on where to live. The question being, who is to give in?

No, no, said Professor Freud, it is more serious than that. A fish and a bird live in completely different elements. It is impossible for them to live together. The question merely points out the fact.

I think they could live together, said Irma. If they decided to live at the beach.

Very good Irma, said Wittgenstein. But they could not live together as husband and wife.

Yes, they could said Irma. If the bird was to dip his tail in the water, and if the fish....

Goodness me! said Professor Freud, knocking his icecream onto his glasses with an involuntary jerk of his hand. Irma, you and your sister are only eleven. Let us change the subject.

Irma and Emma giggled.

Saint Nicholas tried not to laugh.

Wittgenstein stared hard at the Professor.

What is it? asked Professor Freud. And why can't I see?

Cheating

Irma watched in dismay as Wittgenstein burst out of the bunker firing his paintgun willynilly.

You idiot! she shouted. Get behind the bones!

But Wittenstein wasn't paying attention. He fired 6 yellow paintballs at Saint Nicholas who had come out from behind his bunker and was standing in the open.

Hey! shouted Saint Nicholas crossly. I'm out! Where's the referee?

Wittgenstein grabbed hold of his friend and frogmarched him back towards his bunker, where Emma was crouching.

Pow! Pow! Wittgenstein shot 2 yellow paintballs at Emma, who deftly slipped out of the way, and shot 5 red paintballs at Wittgenstein from her new position.

Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! yelled Saint Nicholas, who had taken all five paintballs in the stomach because Wittgenstein was using him as a human shield.

Stop! cried Professor Freud. Stop this game at once!! The yellow team is disqualified for cheating! The red team is disqualified for failing to leave the field when hit!

What's this? said Wittgenstein. I haven't finished playing! I have to shoot this girl.

Too late, said Professor Freud. The game is over.

Good, said Saint Nicholas. Look at me. I'm covered in yellow and red paint.

Your own fault, said Professor Freud.

Don't worry comrade, said Emma. It washes out.

Well that was most diverting, said Wittgenstein. I'm having such a marvellous holiday from philosophy. What shall we do next?

How about we all go to the Ripple and Swirl Cafe for icecreams? said Saint Nicholas. My treat.

Yes! said Emma and Irma.

With pleasure, said Professor Freud.

Are we whisking? asked Wittgenstein.

I don't think I could manage that, said Saint Nicholas. We're going to have to walk.

No, no, said Professor Freud. We have plenty of bicycles here at the meatworks. And it's all down hill from here.

Red Team, Yellow Team

You, Herr Wittgenstein, said Professor Freud, can be on Irma's team. Irma will tell you what to do. Her team is the yellow team. Here are your overalls, here is your paintgun, and here are your paintballs. As you see, they are yellow. And this is Irma, he added, pointing to a little girl of about eleven.

Wittgenstein looked down at Irma. Irma looked up at him.

And you, Saint Nicholas, continued Professor Freud, will be on Emma's team. Emma is Irma's sister. Her team is the red team. Here are your things.

So it's two on two, is it? said Saint Nicholas. Hello Emma. You look rather like your sister.

We're twins, said Emma. And we're both really good, she added.

I like good children, said Saint Nicholas.

At Paintball, I mean, said Emma.

I shall of course be the referee, said Professor Freud. Now is everybody ready? Armbands on? Then go to your bunkers!

There were makeshift bunkers at either end of the meatworks yard, and piles of bones dotted about the middle. Wittgenstein and Irma withdrew to the far end and crouched behind their bunker.

What happens now? asked Wittgenstein.

Watch this, said Irma. She ran out from behind the bunker. Wittgenstein saw her dodge from bone pile to bone pile until she was directly behind the bunker of Saint Nicholas and her twin.

Ouch! he heard, and then Ouch! Ouch!

Saint Nicholas emerged from behind his bunker, covered in yellow paint. You're bunkered! yelled Irma.

Her sister leapt out from behind another pile of bones and shot three red paintballs at her in quick succession.

Ouch! Ouch! squawked Irma. Ouch! She looked down at herself. None of the paintballs had burst. She ran back to Wittgenstein.

That was brilliant! she said. I'm still in, but your friend's out. We're bound to win now, even though you're useless, she added.

No, I'm not, said Wittgenstein. I think I'm getting the hang of it. Sit tight. I'm going to shoot your sister.

The Rules of Paintball

Professor Freud spotted them at once. He walked towards them, pushing up his goggles.

How nice to see you, he said shaking each of them by the hand. But what are you doing here?

We are on holiday, said Wittgenstein. But we are not sure of what we're doing here.

Saint Nicholas and Herr Wittgenstein, said Professor Freud, since you are here, may I invite you to join us in a game of Paintball ?

I know a lot of games, said Saint Nicholas, due to my profession, but I do not know the rules of Paintball.

Nor do I, said Wittgenstein, because I know no games.

Language-games, said Saint Nicholas. You know a few of them.

Paintball is a simple game, gentlemen, said Professor Freud. You put on overalls and goggles, you choose a team, and you try to capture the flag of the other team. In order to do this each player has a gun that fires paintballs. If you are hit by a paintball it will explode and you will then have paint all over your overalls. When this happens, you are eliminated from the game.

That sounds easy said Wittgenstein, I am good at dodging.

No you aren't, said Saint Nicholas. You never pay attention.

And you are rather slow, said Wittgenstein. Because you are so fat.

I shall put you on different teams, said Professor Freud. By the way Saint Nicholas, I hope you will not be tempted to cheat. There are serious penalties for cheating.

Why are you picking on me? asked Saint Nicholas. Wittgenstein is just as likely to cheat as I am.

No he isn't, said Professor Freud. You said yourself he doesn't pay attention. It is you I am worried about, because I know that you can do miracles.

Oh, don't worry about him, said Wittgenstein. He has just done one. And can't do another for quite some time.

Professor Freud looked somewhat disappointed.

Old Meatworks

Walking downhill towards the lower track they found themselves looking at the opposite hillside. It was covered in prickly brown bushes. At the top, against the skyline, was a series of joined-together structures.

What do you think that is? asked Saint Nicholas.

A ruin, said Wittgenstein. Lets climb up and see.

Alright, said Saint Nicholas.

I say, he added, after a while, do you get the feeling that we are not behaving consistently with our characters?

Yes, said Wittgenstein, I do. Perhaps it is because we are on holiday.

I hope that is all it is, said Saint Nicholas, as he continued trudging upwards through the prickles.

I feel, said Wittgenstein, as though we are going through the motions of things that have already happened in the lives of others.

So do I, said Saint Nicholas. And I don't like it. I wonder if I can still do miracles? Shall I try one?

Yes, try one. Whisk us up to the top of the hill, said Wittgenstein.

Saint Nicholas whisked them up to the top of the hill.

They found themselves inside a compound surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire.

This is an old meatworks, said Wittgenstein, reading a sign. It's horrible, can you get us out?

You may have to wait, said Saint Nicholas. I can't do continuous whisking. Look! There are some people over there.

I hope they are not terrorists, said Wittgenstein.

They aren't, said Saint Nicholas. They are playing paintball. And if I'm not mistaken one of them is our old friend Professor Freud!

Wittgenstein Wants to Have Fun

That isn't what I meant, said Wittgenstein. The poem is by William Blake. It's about a little lamb, not a little gull.

I know that, said Saint Nicholas. I was playing one of your language-games. Two of them in fact.

What were they? asked Wittgenstein.

In the first one I substituted gull for lamb in a poem, and the second was a deliberate misunderstanding, where I pretended I thought you were talking about the sandwich filling rather than the poem.

Very crass, said Wittgenstein. Please don't do it any more. I'm trying to forget work for a while. Let's go for a walk.

They walked inland, hoping to avoid the wind. They reached a river bank and crossed over a bouncing bridge. Then they followed a little-used trail up the side of a hill. The trail was lined with leg-scratching weeds.

Ouch! said Saint Nicholas. I knew I shouldn't have worn my shorts. Where are we anyway ?

I don't know, said Wittgenstein. But here's a sign.

What does it say? asked Saint Nicholas.

Caution, read Wittgenstein, in a ranger-like voice. This area is subject to seasonal change and trail collapse. In some places there is no trail or the trail has collapsed.

I don't much like the sound of that, said Saint Nicholas.

I do, said Wittgenstein. Come on. Are you with me?

They proceeded along the narrow prickly trail for a short distance, until they were forced to stop, the trail having collapsed.

A number of excited ants began to crawl over their shoes and up their legs. Wittgenstein and Saint Nicholas stamped their feet and jumped up and down. Then they turned and hurried back towards the river.

That was no fun, said Saint Nicholas.

Yes it was, said Wittgenstein. That was fun. Now, what shall we do next?

Turkey Roll of Wittgenstein

It was the day after Christmas. The special bumper edition of Velosophy has been published to great acclaim. Wittgenstein and Saint Nicholas have made friends and are having a picnic together on the beach.

It's very windy, said Wittgenstein. Even behind this rock.

It is, agreed Saint Nicholas. Never mind, It's just nice to have a day off.

Yes, said Wittgenstein. It is.

What did you do yesterday? asked Saint Nicholas.

Oh, spent the day with my crazy family, said Wittgenstein.

What's in these rolls? asked Saint Nicholas.

I don't know, mother made them, said Wittgenstein. I'm going to throw mine to that seagull.
Look at him facing into the wind.

He threw his turkey roll at the seagull. Immediately three more seagulls swooped down from nowhere. The seagulls fought over the turkey roll of Wittgenstein. Saint Nicholas laughed.

Little gull who made thee, Dost thou know who made thee? he said in a sentimental voice.

It's little lamb, said Wittgenstein.

It tastes like turkey, said Saint Nicholas.

Rude Gesture

Would you care to give us the gist of your story? asked Le Bon David.

He said it was short, said Saint Nicholas. Perhaps he might tell us the whole thing.

I will, said Wittgenstein. With pleasure. This is my story. I am in Cambridge, crossing a road. A cyclist makes at me a rude gesture.

What is the nature of the rude gesture? asked Le Bon David.

It is a V sign, said Wittgenstein. A gesture of contempt. I immediately decide that I must kill myself. I go and see my friend Bertrand Russell, and tell him so. He asks me if I am not over- reacting. I say I don't think so, because this gesture proves that I have wasted my entire life up to this point.

I say! said Le Bon David. And do you explain why you believe this to be so?

I do, said Wittgenstein. You see, it is a gesture that has no logical structure. A philosopher spends his life trying to discover the essence of meaning. There IS no essence of meaning. Only the stupid things we do in everyday life. It seems everyone knows this but me. That is why I may as well kill myself.

It's a good story, said Saint Nicholas. Is that the end? I assume you do not kill yourself. May we know why not?

Wittgenstein shrugged. Why not? he said. Bertrand asks me if I would like a glass of champagne first. This brings me back to considering a different aspect of life altogether. I tell him that I would love a cup of tea.

What a wonderful story, said Belle et Bonne. So philosophical.

So you, said Saint Nicholas.

What do you mean? asked Wittgenstein. So me?

I don't mean anything, said Saint Nicholas. As you purport to know.

They glared at one another again.

Would anyone like a cup of tea? asked Belle et Bonne. I'm just about to put the kettle on.

Geography

Where? asked Saint Nicholas.

Instead of being simply whisked away, said Wittgenstein, the boy could be made to escape on a bicycle.

Do you have any idea of geography? asked Saint Nicholas. Crete was an island last time I heard.

I thought this was supposed to be a miracle, said Wittgenstein. It might be a miraculous bicycle, provided by you.

But I had no need to provide a miraculous bicycle, said Saint Nicholas. I simply whisked that boy home.

Think again, said Wittgenstein. You are in need of a bicycle now, or your story may not be published.

You can't change history, said Saint Nicholas.

And you can't do miracles, said Wittgenstein.

Wittgenstein and Saint Nicholas glared at one another.

Belle et Bonne reached for the box of gingerbread. Luckily just at that moment Le Bon David arrived.

Oh Uncle David! I'm so glad you're here, said Belle et Bonne.

Yes, yes, sorry I'm late everyone. Shall we get down to business? It's getting awfully close to our Christmas deadline, said Le Bon David, taking a gingerbread man. Ha ha caught you little man, he said, biting off its head. Now where are we?

Saint Nicholas's story is sorted, said Belle et Bonne. You need to talk to Mr Wittgenstein.

Yes I do. Any preliminary ideas? he asked, looking at Wittgenstein.

My story will be a short one, said Wittgenstein. There is a bicycle in it, but I am not on the bicycle. I become suicidal, briefly. There is a good helping of philosophy, but no miracles, he added.

Good, said Le Bon David. We don't need any miracles.

Belle et Bonne coughed loudly.

Do we? he asked.

Basilios

May we hear the story? asked Belle et Bonne.

Certainly, said Saint Nicholas. It all happened a long time ago. I used to be the Bishop of Myra, you know, in the third century. But this story takes place many years after my death.

I thought you said you were in it, said Wittgenstein, irritably.

I am, said Saint Nicholas, as you will see. It happened on my feast day. The people of Myra were attacked by Arab pirates from Crete. They took many prisoners including a young boy named Basilios. Basilios was sold to the emir, and became his cup-bearer, because he could not speak the language.

Hah! said Wittgenstein.

What do you mean Hah, Mr Wittgenstein? asked Belle et Bonne.

Cup-bearer, snorted Wittgenstein.

Please, said Saint Nicholas. The boy could not speak the language and so could not divulge any of the emir's secrets.

Hah! said Wittgenstein.

Do go on, Saint Nicholas, said Belle et Bonne.

The following year, back in Myra, it was my feast day again. Basilios's mother would not join the festivities, being still too upset at the loss of her son. Instead she stayed at home to pray. Suddenly her son, who at that moment was serving wine to the emir in a golden cup, was whisked away and returned to his mother back in Myra, still holding the golden cup. And who do you think was responsible for that?

Saint Nicholas looked at Belle et Bonne.

You! she cried. O well done! And how lovely that he was still holding the golden cup!

Well done indeed, said Wittgenstein drily. May I make an observation?

If you must, said Saint Nicholas.

I was only going to say, said Wittgenstein, that I know where you could introduce a bicycle.

The Miracle

So Mr Wittgenstein, said Belle at Bonne, you study language-games?

A dog may expect his master, said Wittgenstein. But a dog cannot expect it's master next Wednesday.

I see, said Belle et Bonne sagely. It is because the dog does not have language.

But the dog may expect his master when it is next Wednesday, said Saint Nicholas.

Certainly, said Wittgenstein, but today, he cannot expect his master next Wednesday.

I think we all agree on that, said Belle et Bonne. I do hope Uncle David gets here soon. We need to talk about the bumper Christmas edition. Saint Nicholas has agreed to write something for us, haven't you Saint Nicholas?

I have indeed, said Saint Nicholas. I am looking forward to it.

We thought that since it was to be a Christmas edition, the topic ought to have something to do with Christmas, as well as the requisite philosophy and bicycles, said Belle et Bonne.

My story does not actually include a bicycle, said Saint Nicholas. And it doesn't really have to do with Christmas, except that I am in it. I suppose however that it could be regarded as philosophical as it involves a miracle, performed by me.

That is highly unsatisfactory, said Wittgenstein.

No no, said Belle et Bonne. He is right that if he is in it, it is by definition Christmassy. As to the bicycle, it it always possible to fit one in the story somewhere.

I meant the miracle, said Wittgenstein.

A Hundred and Thousand

I still don't hear it, said Saint Nicholas.

Ha ha! said Wittgenstein. It was a joke.

A joke, said Saint Nicholas. I don't get it.

Run, run, as fast as you can, said Wittgenstein. I thought everyone knew that rhyme.

It's not a rhyme, said Saint Nicholas.

It is when you complete it, said Wittgenstein scornfully. You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man.

Donner and Blitzen! exclaimed Saint Nicholas. I though you were a philosopher, not a comedian.

I was merely attempting to return our attention to the gingerbread, said Wittgenstein. If we don't begin eating it soon, someone will come in, then we will start talking and it will be too late.

A good point, said Saint Nicholas. Shall we?

They each took a gingerbread man and began to chew. Just then Belle et Bonne arrived.

Good afternoon, gentlemen, she said brightly. I see you have helped yourselves to the gingerbread. Do please continue eating.

Saint Nicholas continued chewing at a steady pace. Wittgenstein swallowed his gingerbread man quickly.

Mr Wittgenstein, said Belle et Bonne. I'm sure you won't be offended if I tell you there is a red hundred and thousand stuck to your top lip.

A hundred and thousand? said Wittgenstein. What is a hundred and thousand?

The little coloured balls sprinkled on the icing, said Belle et Bonne. They're called hundreds and thousands.

That may be, said Wittgenstein. But that a single one of them should be called a hundred and thousand. That is remarkable.

I hadn't thought of that, said Belle et Bonne, but I suppose it is.

Language-games are my particular field of study, said Wittgenstein.

Run run, said Saint Nicholas, finishing his gingerbread.

Oh, Saint Nicholas, said Belle et Bonne. You've made a joke. How funny you are.

Run Run

Wittgenstein and Saint Nicholas arrived at the editors' office at exactly the same time. The door was open but there was no one inside. They went in and sat down.

A box of gingerbread men lay open on the desk with a note saying Back in a Minute, Please Help Yourself.

Well, said Saint Nicholas, I suppose we should help ourselves.

I suppose, said Wittgenstein, we should introduce ourselves first. I am Wittgenstein.

No need for that, said Saint Nicholas. I know who you are.

Fine, said Wittgenstein testily. But who are you?

I am Saint Nicholas , said Saint Nicholas.

Wittegenstein looked somewhat put out.

A saint, he said.

Yes, said Saint Nicholas, You may have heard of me. I am the patron saint of children, sailors, bankers, pawnbrokers, orphans, travellers, judges, victims of judicial mistakes, perfumers, thieves and murderers.

Thieves and murderers! exclaimed Wittgenstein. How do you help thieves and murderers?

With bicycles, said Saint Nicholas.

Humph! snorted Wittgenstein. Are you here to discuss bicycles?

Yes, said Saint Nicholas. I'm to write a Christmassy story for the bumper Christmas edition of Velosophy. I know a lot about bicycles.

So do I, said Wittgenstein. Listen! Did you hear something?

No, said Saint Nicholas. What?

A tiny voice, saying something like run! run!

Didn't hear it, said Saint Nicholas.

It's coming from the box, said Wittgenstein.

They turned towards the box.

Gingerbread

Belle et Bonne had made gingerbread men. She brought some into the office.

Here Uncle David, she said, try one of these.

Le Bon David peered into the box.

May I have that one? he asked, pointing to one that was especially rotund.

Yes, said Belle et Bonne. I made that one just for you.

Very nice indeed, Belle et Bonne, said Le Bon David, with his mouth full. And what is this in honour of?

Christmas, said Belle et Bonne. Had you forgotten?

I had, said Le Bon David. I have been busy teeing someone up to write a story for the next edition of Velosophy.

Who is it? asked Belle et Bonne.

Wittgenstein, said Le Bon David.

Wow! said Belle et Bonne. Is he going to give his story a Christmassy flavour?

I doubt it, said Le Bon David.

Well, perhaps you ought to ask him to, said Belle et Bonne. It's to be our special bumper Christmas edition, you know.

I didn't know, said Le Bon David. We've never had one before.

Marie and I decided. We've already got a very special person lined up to write us something.

Oh dear! I'm afraid Wittgenstein is not going to like anyone stealing his thunder.

Don't worry Uncle David. The bumper edition will have room for everyone.

Who is this person? asked Le Bon David. Is he a philosopher? Does he ride a bicycle?

It's Saint Nicholas, said Belle at Bonne. Are you impressed?

No, said Le Bon David. He is no philosopher. And he doesn't ride a bicycle.

He knows a lot about bicycles said Belle et Bonne. I bet he knows more about bicycles than Wittgenstein. And I'm sure he has some interesting philosophies. Anyway, he's coming in tomorrow afternoon to have a chat.

So is Wittgenstein, said Le Bon David, warming to the idea. I hope they both like gingerbread.

Good Remembering

It's not last Saturday but the Saturday before. Can I really go back that far in time and remember it well?

It's very hot and we've driven all the way down to Semaphore. We've crossed the road and the beachfront carpark, walked down the track through the sand dunes and onto the beach.

There are people there, it is still hot even at the beach. We walk into the sea taking our shoes off first. Now this is the part I want to remember.

We're standing in the water. It's sunny and above us the sky is blue. Yellow electrical patterns crisscross the warm tea green sea. Clouds build in the northern quarter of the sky. They're roiling and boiling, they're cumulus, nimbus, cirrus and stratus all tumbling together, advancing as fast as a bus. Not a fast bus.

They'll soon be directly overhead.

It's nice in the water. We are up to our waists, no, not quite, looking towards the horizon.

The horizon is playing an optical trick, either that or the sea level has dropped.

We look at the puzzling line. Ships move along it, it fritters away at one end. We discuss these things.

When next we look up, the approaching clouds in the northern quarter of the sky have stopped moving. In fact they look to me like they have started moving backwards. This is puzzling too.

Yes, good remembering by me.

The Ineffable

The Ineffable was and is and will be thinking about Everything. It was, is and will be easy for him.

Sometimes he thinks on the Particular, at the same time. It is easy for him.

Corky he thinks, Corky? I don't remember a Corky, do I? Oh yes, of course I remember multiple Corkies, and not all of them dogs. There was one in a television show once, a small American boy, an orphan, who travelled with a circus. It was in black and white, and I always knew beforehand what would happen.

He remembers everything, the Ineffable. It is easy for him.

He chooses to think about one particular Corky, again. Something is puzzling the Ineffable.

Something is puzzling me, he thinks. Insofar as something can puzzle me.

And what it is, is, why would I bother to leave a voice message on someone's computer?

Inasmuch as I do understand everything, of course, I am perfectly capable. It is easy for me.

But, I am very busy. I need to think about Everything. And if I know that the vet is going to call someone shortly I don't generally choose to preempt him.

Or her, thinks the Ineffable, equitably.

Then something occurs to the Ineffable. Insofar as something can occur which is known to him already.

I wished to convey an additional message that only I had the authority to convey.

He smiles.

At the same time he thinks about bacon, and how easily it gets under the fingernails.

It is easy for him.

The Miracle

We shouldn't laugh at Corky's owner for her god thing. I had a god thing happen to me once, well it wasn't really a god thing, let's say it was inexplicable.

It was about fifteen years ago it happened. I was wearing yellow rubber gloves.

We'd had bacon for dinner and there was bacon stuck to the bottom of the pan, hard baked-on bacon, difficult to get off. I was doing the washing up. I scraped at the hard baked-on lumps of bacon with my finger encased in the finger of the yellow rubber glove.

I finished the washing up and took off the yellow rubber gloves. And then I saw it. A piece of disintegrating bacon stuck under my fingernail, the one I'd used to scrape the bacon with. But the fingernail had been covered at all times by the rubber of the glove.

I was astonished. But I thought perhaps there had been a hole in the yellow rubber glove. I examined it closely. I couldn't see a hole. I looked and looked. There wasn't any hole. The only possible conclusion was that the bacon had travelled through the rubber.

For half an hour I was in a state of believing the miraculous. It was regrettable that my miracle only involved the transmission of bacon through solid yellow rubber. But a miracle was a miracle, nonetheless.

So there you have my god thing. As I said it wasn't really a god thing, but it was inexplicable.

Turned out it wasn't even inexplicable. There was a hole in the finger of the yellow rubber glove after all, I had just missed it. But I haven't forgotten the feeling of being faced with the ineffable. That is why I would not laugh at Mrs Corky.

Transfer of Information is Complete

I've finished The Wonderful World of Dogs! I said. Hoorah! Now I can wrap it up.

So what was your final impression? asked Pliny. Did you find it to be meritorious?

Oh very meritorious, I said. And I have a third favourite story.

What is it? asked Pliny.

It's the story of Corky, I answered. And it is quite spooky. Corky was very old and collapsed one day in the kitchen He was taken to the vet's where he was pronounced untreatable. The owner and her husband agreed that he should be put down. The vet said it would be done in twenty minutes. They said their goodbyes and went home.

Why didn't they stay? asked Pliny.

If they had, I said the following would not have happened. At home the owner turned on her computer to search for some photos of Corky. As she was searching she got an alert message and heard a voice say, "Transfer of information is complete". She'd never had a message like that before. It was very clear and quite deep. Then she got a call from the vet to say that Corky had died. The time of death was exactly the time of the voice message. Her husband thought it must be a God thing, and that "Transfer of information is complete" was a message to say that Corky was already in heaven.

Did she think so too? asked Pliny.

She said she would like to think so. She said the voice had not been mechanical, but had sounded quite human.

Then clearly it could not have been God, said Pliny.

She didn't say it was, I replied. She said a God thing. She didn't even say it herself. She said her husband said it.

This is a confusing story, said Pliny. I don't know why you liked it.

Cheering Up

It must be bad, said Pliny.

It is. I don't think I can tell it after all, I said. The dog dies.

Well that must be the worst bit. And you've told it. Now you only need to tell the rest.

I can't find the right tone.

Try a different point of view, suggested Pliny.

That's a good idea, I said. I'll tell it from the dog's point of view. Here goes:

My name is Tora, and I have a sad, sad story. In 1973 a schoolgirl gave me to her teacher. The teacher had a wife and little boy. They thought the little boy would like me, but he was too small to like me, he was only two years old. The teacher's wife didn't like me either. She only pretended to. I'm a dog and I can tell these things. She smiled if her little boy piddled on the floor but when I did it she got cross. I remember one day I peed on the floor and she shouted. I was scared. At least she fed me though. And sometimes I would play with the teacher and the little boy in the garden. I used to get very excited. I wasn't very old. The garden didn't have a proper fence. One day I ran out on the road and got.....

I can't really continue, I said to Pliny. The dog can't say it got run over and was killed, and that the teacher had to bury it the garden, and that his wife was not particularly sad.

And why can't it? said Pliny.

It's obvious why it can't, I said.

There you are, said Pliny. Because it doesn't know. Cheer up.

I don't need cheering up.

You do, said Pliny.

To Move With the Foot

Now, said Pliny the next morning. Tell me your dog stories.

Here goes, I said. The first one is about me when I was studying at university and still living at home. At that time our family had a West Highland Terrier called Sam. I never thought of Sam as having much to do with me though.

Why not? asked Pliny.

I was regarded by my family as someone who didn't like dogs. I always maintained that I was indifferent. It is not the same thing.

True, said Pliny. Go on.

I used to come home after a long day at uni, and enter the house through the kitchen door. If I was unlucky Sam would come running towards me and jump up, scratching at my legs. I suppose he just wanted a pat. But in those days I used to wear stockings, and I didn't want Sam to tear holes in them, so I used to just move him aside, with my foot.

You kicked him! said Pliny.

No! That's exactly what my family used to say if they saw me doing it. Stop kicking Sam, they would say. I'm not kicking him, I would protest, I'm just moving him with my foot. But they were never convinced. Ha ha! they would laugh. Just moving him with your foot!

It all depends on the amount of force you used, said Pliny.

I used a great deal of force, I replied. He was very persistent. Sometimes I would lift him bodily in the air and deposit him some distance away. But the action was performed very slowly. I probably didn't hurt him at all.

Well, said Pliny, if he continued to do it, I suppose you didn't. Was that the story that you thought showed you in a bad light? Cheer up, it wasn't so bad.

No it's the next one, I said gloomily.

The Spinning Elephant

Do you have any favourite dog stories? I asked Pliny.

I have many, said Pliny. There was the famous hound of King Lysimachus who so loved his master that he threw himself onto his funeral pyre.

There's loyalty for you, I said.

Indeed, said Pliny. But my personal favourite is the story of a dog that was given to Alexander the Great by the King of Albania. This was a dog was of unusual size, and Alexander was delighted with its noble appearance. He released bears, wild boars, and deer before it, but the dog lay there unmoved. So Alexander ordered the dog to be killed.

But it was a present, I said. Wasn't that rather rude?

Alexander was an impatient man, said Pliny. But listen. I'll tell you what happened next. The king heard of it, and immediately sent another dog, saying that its powers should be tried only on bigger animals like lions and elephants. Furthermore he only had two such dogs and would be obliged if Alexander would not kill the second one, or the breed would become extinct.

It was a bit late to tell him that, I observed.

Yes, said Pliny. It was. But that is not the point of the story. Alexander at once procured a lion, and was delighted when the dog soon tore it to pieces. Then he ordered an elephant to be found. He was even more delighted with what happened next. The dog bristled and barked a mighty bark, then leapt up and attached himself to the enormous beast first on one side and then on the other, biting and snapping, and retreating skilfully at the opportune moment until the elephant became extremely dizzy and, turning round and round, fell down in a heap with a reverberating thump.

Is that it? I asked. Did Alexander think that was funny?

Yes he did, said Pliny. So did I when I first heard it. But it is not a story that would go down well these days.

Probably not, I agreed. But why should dog stories have to be politically correct, if they are true?
I have two dog stories of my own that I have hesitated to tell you because one of them in particular shows me in a less than sympathetic light, but now I feel encouraged to reveal them.

Please do, said Pliny, and I shall be happy to reserve my judgement.

Tomorrow, I said. I will.

Patsy and Skippy

Do you have any other favourites from The Wonderful World of Dogs? asked Pliny.

Yes, I said. The one called Patsy and Skippy. I read it with increasing scepticism, but towards the end I realised it was totally insane and I enjoyed it after that.

Intriguing, said Pliny. What happens in the story?

It's written in the first person by Patsy. She was in rehab in Florida for nine months for an alcohol addiction. She and some other women are sitting out on the patio when Patsy spots a dog on the grass. She goes over to it. It looks uncared for and unwell. She bonds with it instantly. She calls it Skippy and feeds it and takes it to a vet she met in rehab. But Skippy has a serious condition. Level four heartworm! During the month long treatment Patsy stays in the cage with Skippy at the vet's, cradling her in her arms until closing time.

What? says Pliny.

Exactly, I say. Anyway, Skippy miraculously recovers. Unfortunately Skippy's owner Tex lives just up the road. He sees his dog looking better and decides he wants her back. One weekend when Patsy is on a trial visit to her husband Tex takes Skippy back to his place and locks her in. Patsy is distraught. Her visit was successfiul and her counsellor has said she can go back home at last. But she can't go without Skippy!

Skippy isn't her dog, said Pliny.

I know, I said. But she loves Skippy and Skippy loves her. She goes to see Tex to ask for Skippy. He nastily refuses, even when she offers money. Everyone at rehab is on her side. They pray for her and Skippy, and give advice. It is nearly too late now. Patsy is flying home the day after tomorrow. She goes over to Tex's for one last try. Tex is out, but Skippy is in the yard. The gate is blocked on the inside by a heavy barrel. She pushes with all her might, and Skippy runs out of the crack. She takes her to the vet, who agrees to hide her there.

Aiding and abetting, said Pliny.

Yes. Patsy returns to rehab, just as the police get there. They ask her where the dog is. She says she doesn't have a dog. They search her room. Luckily there is nothing of Skippy's there. The rehab attorney talks to Patsy. She tells him what she's done. The attorney tells the police that Patsy doesn't have a dog. Patsy is only charged with a misdemeanour.

What was the misdemeanour if she didn't have the dog? asked Pliny.

Beats me I said. The next day Patsy flies home to her family with Skippy. She and Skippy were always meant to be together. That's the end.

You may have liked it, said Pliny. But I am not so sure.

Perhaps you need to read it for yourself, I said. To get the tone.

The Wonderful World of Dogs

Do my eyes deceive me? asked Pliny the Elder. Are you reading The Wonderful World of Dogs?

I am, I replied. I am reading The Wonderful World of Dogs.

It isn't your usual fare, observed Pliny. What made you choose it?

It's a Christmas gift for someone who loves dogs. I decided to read it myself though, to see if it was too schmaltzy.

And is it too schmaltzy? asked Pliny.

I don't really know, I said. I haven't read any other books about dogs. This one is full of short stories by different people about dogs they have owned or have heard of.

Well, are you enjoying it? asked Pliny. I suppose that is the more important question.

In parts, I said. Most of the stories are tedious, about dogs that are naughty or good, or get lost or are found, or die or do not die although the owner expected them to.

Tell me about one that you like, said Pliny.

I like the historical one about Gelert, the Irish Wolf Hound, the famous hunting dog of Prince Llewelyn the Great. He was loyal and good at hunting. After Llewelyn became a father, Gelert transferred his loyalty to Llewelyn's baby son, Gruffudd. The two were inseparable.

That's nice, said Pliny.

But one day Prince Llewelyn came home from hunting and went in to look at his son. The cot was overturned there was blood on the floor and dripping from the jaws of Gelert. Gruffudd was nowhere to be seen. Llewlyn roared in dismay, drew his sword and slew Gelert.

Dreadful! said Pliny.

Then he heard a faint cry. He turned and saw little Gruffudd snuffling away unhurt in the corner, and under him was a dead wolf!

Heavens! said Pliny. So Gelert hadn't done it!

No. On the contrary, he had saved little Gruffudd' s life. Prince Llewelyn was sorry. He took the expiring Gelert in his arms. Gelert licked his face and then died. He was buried with great honour at Beddgelert.

I see why you like that story, said Pliny. High drama in the tragic mode.

Yes, that's what I like, I agreed. And a happy ending as well.

The Real World

Meanwhile, in the real world down on George Street, it is early morning:

Harold: Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Little Baby Jesus: Wah! What was that?

Harold: It's me, Harold.

Little Baby Jesus: You stupid old cock. I was asleep.

Harold: It's my job.

Little Baby Jesus: Well now I'm awake, you'll have to amuse me.

Harold: Alright, how?

Little Baby Jesus: I don't know. I'm bored. Tell me a story.

Harold: I don't know any stories suitable for babies.

Little Baby Jesus: I'm not really a baby.

Harold: What? Of course you're a baby.

Little Baby Jesus: No. Take a closer look.

Harold: I can't see your face under that Christmas hat.

Little Baby Jesus: Well, take my word for it. I'm not a baby. You can tell me a grownup story.

Harold: I don't know any grownup stories either. Tell you what though. There's a Hoyts movie theatre across the road. We could go there.

Little Baby Jesus: Ooh yes! What's on?

Harold: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, or Narnia, Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Which would you like to see?

Little Baby Jesus: Oh the Harry Potter! I love Harry Potter.

Harold: I thought you might like the Narnia one.

Little Baby Jesus: Nah!

The Obligations of Goodness

You may be surprised to know, said Pliny the Elder, that there most certainly was a cock present at the nativity.

Oh really? I said. And how do you know that?

Research, said Pliny. There is an American book currently in print called Cock-a-Doodle Christmas, which features a rooster at the scene. It is the story of a young rooster called Harold.

What happens to Harold? I asked.

He lives on a farm, said Pliny, with Old Rooster. One day Old Rooster decides to leave the farm to live with his sister. Young Harold is now responsible for waking everyone up in the morning. Unforunately his crow is too soft and he fails in his task.

Poor Harold! I said. But what has it to do with the nativity?

I don't know, said Pliny. Amazon dot com doesn't reveal the rest of the plot. I suppose if they did you would not buy the book. But the picture on the front cover shows Joseph, Mary, Jesus and Harold in a happy tableau.

Where exactly is Harold? I enquired.

On the fence, crowing, said Pliny. He looks colourful and active, but extremely small.

Perhaps they're glad he doesn't crow too loudly, I observed. But that doesn't seem a satisfactory resolution to the story. It would have to go like this:

Baby Jesus was born in a stable. It was a big night. There were visitors and presents. At last they all go to sleep. Then it's morning. Harold cock-a-doodle doos, but not very loudly, No one wakes up. Later on when they do wake up, they all say It's good that little rooster has such a puny crow. At least we all got to sleep in. Hurrah!

Not satisfactory at all, agreed Pliny. And it doesn't fit in with the illustration. The family are awake and smiling; Harold is crowing on the fence.

Well, how do you think it ends? I asked.

Probably with some kind of transformative redemption, said Pliny thoughtfully. Remember that Harold would have been very unhappy that he had failed at his job. It's my guess that Harold is so overcome by the birth of baby Jesus that his next morning crow bursts out of him in loud joyful peals at a suitably late hour of the morning to the satisfaction of everyone.

That's lovely Pliny, I said. You should write a nativity book.

No, said Pliny. Just because one is good at something does not mean one is obliged to do it.

Christmas Cock

We were walking home from the shops along George Street. Two girls in shorts were walking towards us giggling. One turned suddenly and ran back to look into the garden they'd just passed. She leaned forward almost crouching, doubled up. She caught up with her friend and they passed us laughing.

Now it's us walking past the house. Of course it's the house with the loony Christmas decorations, the nativity scene in the garden and the Santa's legs sticking out of the chimney.

What was so funny about that? But then I see their this year's new addition sitting on the grass next to the manger. It's a Christmas cock.

Well, a cock.

He's a Christmas cock by virtue of his being at the nativity. Staring beadily at the baby Jesus in all his feathered glory. I wonder what possessed them?

Inner Tension

Next morning I received an angry letter from Ricky Ponting.

Dear madam, (he wrote)

I could not let your remarks on the fair game of cricket go unchallenged. You claim to have been listening to the radio last weekend, and to have heard two commentators agreeing that cricket thrives on inattention.

I think, madam, that you will find, should you obtain a transcript of the broadcast, that the words they used were inner tension.

I will concede the two expressions sound identical. However it should not take much thought to work out which was meant.

The wonderful game of cricket thrives on inner tension at many levels. There is inner tension between the players in the opposing teams, obviously, but also between the players in the same team. There is inner tension too in their tactics and even in the inexorable ticking of the clock towards stumps at the end of play.

I trust that after reading this you will concede that I am right. I am the captain of the team after all and I believe I should know. We are as you have noted doing rather badly in your home town of Adelaide. The weather here is also unpleasantly hot. I should hate to think that you are encouraging the locals not to attend by spreading the erroneous idea that cricket will thrive if they ignore it.

Yours without prejudice,

Ricky Ponting ( Captain ).


I searched inside the envelope. But he had not thought to enclose any free tickets.

Inattention

The cricket is on in Adelaide this weekend. Australia is playing England for the Ashes. I don't think we are doing all that well, not that I have paid it much attention.

You may be surprised to know that it is good for cricket, to pay it scant attention. I certainly would not have thought so, but for something I heard on the radio last week.

It was Sunday morning and I had just dropped my daughter off at her house. I was driving home up Greenhill Road and I turned the radio on. Two Englishmen were commenting on the cricket. What cricket was it? I don't know. Maybe it was the first test or something. Last Sunday it was. Look it up yourself if you don't know.

They were chatting in between balls, the cricket must have been quite boring at that point. One said, " I hear they might have a hung parliament in Victoria. Is it just me or is it foolish to have an even number of seats? "

I began to pay attention. I wished to hear what the other one would reply. How rude, I thought, for Englishmen to voice an opinion on this matter.

The other one replied by saying " Oh! He's bowled him!" or something to that effect. This is why I pay cricket little attention.

They continued talking in a desultory fashion about cricket. They spoke of things I have no memory of at all.

Perhaps you wonder why I continued listening to the cricket, given that I had no interest. It is because these days I always have the radio tuned to local ABC Radio 891. It is a sort of penance and the bad comes with the good.

So, I was not listening intently to the cricket conversation, but I believe it was about the interaction of the players, or the teams. And then my ears pricked up. "Well, cricket thrives on inattention," said the commentator. And the other one agreed.

Can it be true? I asked myself. How does that work? Still I suppose the cricket experts must know best.

Spatial Realities

It occurred to me this morning that the woman in the blue pants and green top was in the picture in order to give us an idea of the relative size of the satellite.

And she was staring into the bushes so we should not be distracted by her face. Alas for the best laid plans. No one had realised her orientation would be so intriguing. Why was she staring into those bushes? Satellite, what satellite? I bet none of us saw it.

It's funny how such things only occur to you later. Thinking again about Mr Rocket and Mr Squiggle, I realised something this morning that I should have realised over forty years ago.

Mr Squiggle was the man from the moon. He was a string puppet and his nose was a large wooden pencil. Every day he would come down to earth in Mr Rocket to visit his friend Miss Pat. Miss Pat always had a large piece of paper with a squiggle on it sent in by some child. She would pin the squiggle to Mr Blackboard and Mr Squiggle would use the pencil in his nose to turn the squiggle into a recognisable object like a flower, or a bee.

It was excruciating to watch. His big head and pencil nose would jiggle up and down and back and forth in front of the paper. How he achieved the necessary pressure to draw anything was totally outside the laws of physics.

He usually drew the object upside down. The finished squiggle would need to be turned the right way up before we could see what it was. I used to think this was done to keep us in suspense for longer, but this morning I was struck by the blinding obvious.

The puppeteer who manipulated Mr Squiggle's nose would have been somewhere up above Mr Squiggle out of camera shot. Leaning out over the top of a screen and looking down at Mr Blackboard, he would have seen his drawing right side up.

That was all. It goes to show how life-like Mr Squiggle must have been, that I never thought of it before.

Not All About Space

Yes, I remember the gist......

The eminent professor speaks:

Welcome to my lecture on Space. I'm going to tell you how we can make money out of it.

Here in Australia we have let ourselves get behind in Space. In the 1960s we sent up a rocket ship, here is a photograph. Yes, it looks like Rocket, the talking rocket character made famous by Mr Squiggle, I agree. We sent up several satellites that looked like toasters too. And I bet you thought all satellites were round.

After that we sent up our very own spaceman Andy Thomas, but by a circuitous route. That was because he ascended from the USA. Before him, we sent up another even less famous person whose name was Jeremy.

Since then Australia has remained on the outer, but the big players are interested in us for three reasons. Because we are here, fair and bare. Wait, it is supposed to rhyme. Maybe it was bare, fair and there.

Next we have a slide of a satellite dish and some greenery. Looking into the greenery is a woman in blue pants and a green top. What is she doing there?

Stop! Stop! No! I did not say any of this!

Oh dear, now I have upset the professor.