What About Gratitude?

Twenty kilometres up the coast, Margaret and Wittgenstein are eating a nutty seedy breakfast from white bowls with UHT milk added.

Wittgenstein does not marvel.

He believes that the world is what it is.

A collection of facts.

He says so.

Margaret is less than pleased.

What about gratitude? She has gone to a great deal of trouble to pack bowls and spoons, and keep the milk cool, not to mention thoughtfully choosing Crunchy Clusters.

Wittgenstein apologises. He is not good with women. He has lived alone mostly. To date, all the facts have been his.

It's all right, Ludwig, says Margaret. You can wipe the bowls. Here's a paper towel.

Wittgenstein attempts to do as requested.

I see what you mean though, says Margaret. The world is what it is. It's glaringly obvious.

To you perhaps, says Wittgenstein. But I have spent a great deal of time on it. Words mean different things to different people. And the same word can have different meanings. Take the word is, for example.

Is? says Margaret. Surely is means ...um.. what something is.

Water is clear, says Wittgenstein. Water is H20. Is in the first statement is not the same is as the is in the second.

I see, says Margaret. No, it isn't. One is is ... one thing and the other is .. isn't.

You are not concentrating, says Wittgenstein.

Nor are you. Fold it, says Margaret.

Uh? says Wittgenstein.

The paper towel. Scrunching is hopeless. You'll miss bits, says Margaret

I see, says Wittgenstein. Hopeless.

Never mind, says Margaret. We have a lovely morning ahead of us. You shall have my geology hammer.

I have been wondering, says Wittgenstein, why one needs a geology hammer in sand dunes.

The sand dunes display a variety of forms, says Margaret. It depends on their origins. Many are parts of extensive aeolian sand sheets and are migrating landward. Others relate to beach ridge formation, on the seaward side of the barrier. We shall examine the older cemented dunes of the Late Pleistocene age, which are formed of dune limestone or aeolianite. Are you with me?

He is. It sounds utterly fascinating.

........

Meanwhile Terence has wandered a very long way up the beach.

He is looking for avocets. Rednecked ones. He knows they are forty six centimetres high.

There's a bird! No, it's a seagull. May as well ask it.

Hello, says Terence, have you seen a redneck avocet?

What do they look like, apart from the obvious? asks the seagull.

Red necks, says Terence.

That was the obvious, says the seagull.

So, you have? says Terence.

No, says the seagull. It flies off.

Luckily the next bird Terence sees is taller.

Are you a rednecked avocet? asks Terence.

Bah! Stuck up types, sniffs the bird. No, I'm not one.

Where are they stuck? asks Terence.

Up, says the bird (a banded stilt, thirty six centimetres).

Terence looks up.

You stupid? says the banded stilt. Their BEAKS are stuck up.

From then on she ignores him, and resumes poking for molluscs.

But Terence now has another identifier.

Be strong, dear red parrot potato. Do not despair. Terence will find a tall rednecked stuck-up beaked avocet and ask it for feathers. Lots of red feathers. At least ten.