Lets We Forget

Generally my pineapples are a conservative lot. Imagine my surprise when I saw this week's pineapple turn up for his photo shoot with a paper medal bearing the words LETS WE FORGET.

What's this, Pineapple? I said. Can't you spell?

Course I can, said Pineapple flippantly. I'm protesting that's all.

What do you have to protest about? I asked.

All this Remembrancing, said the Pineapple. Remembrancing the War. All this Gratitude. We Pineapples are sick of it.

Don't you feel grateful to the soldiers who sacrificed their lives so that you could be free? I asked, astonished.

No, said the Pineapple. We're Pineapples, what freedom have we got? We always end up getting eaten.

That's quite true, I admitted. I hadn't thought of that. But at least you enjoy free and fair elections.

The Pineapple was taken aback.

That's not much, he muttered.

And you can join a local library and borrow books for nothing, I persisted. I remember a colleague of yours, the Intellectual Pineapple, who was very taken with the novels of Victor Hugo.

Hmm, said the Pineapple. Was he?

Yes, I said. He was a very soft-hearted Pineapple. I was fond of him.

Are you fond of me? asked the Pineapple.

It's harder to become fond of a Politically Incorrect Pineapple, I said.

What if, said the Politically Incorrect Pineapple, I was to say that I couldn't spell?

The Intellectual Pineapple.

Every week we buy a pineapple from the Central Market. Every week we take a photograph of our pineapple before we eat it.

This week's pineapple was wearing reading glasses, and looking at the cover of Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea. I called it the Intellectual Pineapple.

That was on Friday. Since then, I have found myself reading the final chapters of The Toilers of the Sea through the eyes of the Intellectual Pineapple.

This hasn't been much of a problem as The Intellectual Pineapple and I see pretty much eye to eye on most things.

We worried as Gilliatt faced the dangers of the storm. We trembled as he escaped the clutches of the Giant Squid ( for that is what it was), we shivered as he discovered the skeleton of Captain Clubin in an underwater cave, covered with dead crabs, which had eaten his flesh. We exulted when Gilliatt found the leather belt containing the seventy thousand francs. And we looked forward to his marriage to the beautiful Deruchette on his return home.

But it all went horribly wrong, for Deruchette had meanwhile fallen in love with the handsome new rector, who had just come into a fortune. The Pineapple remained confident. So what, said the Pineapple. She'll marry Gilliatt. She promised.

He couldn't believe it when Gilliatt did the noble thing, helped the young couple marry secretly and sail to England, and then drowned himself.

That's no way to behave, said the Intellectual Pineapple. Dammit, I identified with him!

Postbox of the Sea, continued

Mountains to right of you, mountains to left of you; penguins everywhere, and stormy petrels. A fearful place! Mille saints mille singes! What a battering you get there! continued Captain Gertrais.

In other words, it is a devilish coast. Such jagged rocks and reefs ! And then you come to Port Famine, which is the worst of all, with the heaviest breakers you've seen in all your life. And there you see these two words written in red: POST OFFICE .

On a rock a hundred feet high is a tall post with a barrel hanging from it. The barrel is the post box of the sea. Every vessel that passes sends a boat to the barrel with their mail. Ships coming from the Atlantic post their letters for Europe, and ships coming from the Pacific post their letters for America. The barrel is made fast to the post with a chain. It has a good hinged lid, but no lock or padlock. And it rains! And it snows! And it hails! And what a dirty sea.....


So, you get the picture. Victor Hugo's postbox of the sea was certainly a dangerous letterbox. But Captain Clubin had further reason to believe it dangerous, for earlier that morning he had committed a crime, and planned to commit another the following day......

The Postbox of the Sea

It is 1820 or thereabouts. In the downstairs room of an inn in St Malo, Captain Gertrais, an old ocean-going captain, is talking with Captain Clubin of the steamship Durande. Captain Gertrais is telling Captain Clubin about the postbox of the sea.

What do you mean by the postbox of the sea?

You don't know what that is, Captain Clubin?

No.

When you pass the Strait of Magellan ....

Well?

Snow everywhere, always rough weather, vile winds, a foul sea.

What then?

When you have rounded Cape Monmouth ....

Then?

Then you round Cape Valentine.

And then?

Then you round Cape Isidore.

And then?

Then you round Cape Anna.

Alright, but what is the postbox of the sea you talk about?

I'm coming to that.

I have quoted Victor Hugo at length, because he is an excellent writer. He does not hesitate to use over half a page to illustrate the old ocean-going captain's way of building up a story. From here, the old ocean-going captain goes on to explain about the postbox of the sea.....

(I'm coming to that).

Coincidence of Coincidences

Due to a coincidence I now have another dangerous letterbox story to relate.

But first, the coincidence.

No, first, the second coincidence, which was even more remarkable than the first, although, alas, having nothing to do with the dangerousness of letterboxes.

The second coincidence: Due to the first coincidence, I decided to look up the meaning of the word coincidence in the dictionary. Imagine my surprise when I opened the dictionary at the very page on which the word coincidence was to be found. Not only that, it was in bold type at the top right of the right hand page, so it was the first word I saw.

The meaning of the word coincidence: a chance occurrence of events remarkable either for being simultaneous or for apparently being connected.

Confession: I must confess here that the above definition comes from the Collins dictionary, and not the one in which the coincidence occurred.

Reason: The Collins definition was the shorter of the two.

Now for the first coincidence. As you may recall, I have been writing about dangerous letterboxes. Concurrently, I have been reading Victor Hugo's Toilers of the Sea.

This morning I read Book 5, Chapter 9, entitled, Useful Information For Those Expecting, Or Fearing, Letters From Overseas.

In this chapter is a description of what must surely be one of the most dangerous letterboxes of all time.

Time, however, having caught up with us, further revelation must wait until tomorrow.