Hyperboreans

So that's the end of Wittgenstein and Saint Nicholas? said Pliny the Elder.

Yes, I suppose so, I said.

Good, said Pliny.

Why? I asked. I've grown to like them. I could probably keep on writing about them for ever.

I'm certain you could, said Pliny. And it was all very well during the holiday period, but there are more serious things to write about than philosophy, icecreams and paintball.

What do you have in mind? I asked.

Well, said Pliny. I'm glad that you've asked. I couldn't help noticing that you received a copy of my Natural History for Christmas. How are you liking it so far?

I think Professor Healy has done a good job, I said. I expected he would have chosen to present only the most interesting parts of your work, but he's given us quite a lot of the tedious stuff as well.

What tedious stuff? asked Pliny.

Geography, I said, for example. And it's all wrong.

It may be all wrong now, said Pliny, but it was all right at the time. Where are you up to?

The Hyperboreans, I replied. I'm enjoying reading about them. "Death does not come until they have had their fill of life. Setting a banquet, they greet their old age with luxury, and then leap into the sea from a certain rock. This method of burial is the most serene." It's all in the way that you tell it, of course.

Thank you , said Pliny. I'm aware of that.

Proposition Seven

You can't disagree with Proposition Seven, Professor Freud, said Irma. You're always telling Emma and me to shut up.

Whatever are you talking about? asked Professor Freud.

When I was suggesting how the fish and the bird could, you know, and you wouldn't let me say it.

That was firstly because of your age, said Professor Freud, and secondly because an icecream shop is hardly the place for speaking of the things we cannot speak about.

Well, where is? asked Irma.

My consulting rooms of course, said Professor Freud. There, for a fee, one may speak of anything.

Professor Freud, said Wittgenstein crossly, Proposition Seven does not refer to things of a sexual nature.

Pardon me, said Professor Freud, but you would be surprised how many things are of a sexual nature, that are not recognised as such.

No, said Wittgenstein. I would not. But my proposition is a general philosophical one and I will not have it sullied. It is to do with statements that make sense and statements that do not.

Oh, I get it, said Irma. You mean, there's no point debating a nonsense.

Exactly right, clever girl, said Wittgenstein, looking triumphantly at Professor Freud.

But what's a nonsense ? asked Emma.

All of this discussion is a nonsense! said Saint Nicholas, getting up. Come on Ludwig, time to whisk ourselves off.

Tch! said Professor Freud. Gentlemen, please! Not in front of the girls!

Proposition One, Point One, and Beyond

Proposition One, Point One, said Wittgenstein, ignoring the flow of conversation, is this:

The world is the totality of facts, not of things.

That's quite good, said Irma. That means there are not just icecreams, but facts about icecreams as well, that make up the world.

Yes, said Emma. Such as this icecream has raisins in it. And that icecream is smeared all over Professor Freud's glasses.

Oh, said Professor Freud. Is that why I can't see?

Would you like to borrow my handkerchief? asked Saint Nicholas.

No thank you, said Professor Freud stiffly.

What's the matter? asked Saint Nicholas.

There may be certain facts about your handkerchief, said Professor Freud.

I assure you there are not, said Saint Nicholas. Do go on, Ludwig, he said to Wittgenstein.

Ludwig! giggled Emma.

Be quiet, Emma, said Professor Freud.

Does anyone understand what I'm saying? asked Wittgenstein.

Yes of course we do, said Irma. You are saying that philosophy does not need a special language.

Then, said Wittgenstein, I see that I may skip to my final proposition, which is Proposition Seven.

Good, said Saint Nicholas, because we really must be going soon. What is it?

It is, said Wittgenstein, as follows:

What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.

I can't agree with that, said Professor Freud.

Proposition One

Irma turned again to Wittgenstein.

If you're a philosopher, she said, you must have a philosophy. What is it, exactly?

It is laid out simply in my Tractatus, said Wittgenstein.

Eeuuw ! said Emma. What's your tractatus?

Now then, Emma! said Professor Freud. It is his famous philosophical publication the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Your sister was asking a serious question. Listen to the answer.

I have answered, said Wittgenstein.

No you haven't, said Irma. What does it say, the Tractatus?

Wittgenstein sighed.

It says: Proposition One: The world is all that is the case.

Most profound, said Professor Freud. What do you think, girls?

It's not, said Irma. Because it's obvious. What's Proposition Two?

Never mind that yet, said Wittgenstein. It generally takes people longer to understand Proposition One.

Well, I understand it, said Irma.

So do I, said Emma.

I don't, said Saint Nicholas. What about miracles?

Wittgenstein looked pained.

If a miracle can be shown to be a fact, then it is part of the logical world. But once it becomes a fact, it is no longer truly a miracle.

Steady on! cried Saint Nicholas. That isn't right! What about.....?

Are you a philosopher too? interrupted Emma.

No, said Saint Nicholas. I'm a saint. I thought you knew who I was.

You're a fat man who is really bad at Paintball, said Irma.

Well, thank you, said Saint Nicholas. Thank you very much. At least I joined in.

You did, said Professor Freud. And you will do better next time.

That might require a miracle, said Saint Nicholas.

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.

Les Champs

The final day of the Tour de France! Team Philosophe is riding towards Paris and drinking champagne from plastic flutes.

The VeloDone: Ah Paris! At last! I was born here, you know.

Jean Paul Sartre: So was I. And so was Simone.

Le Bon David : Not me. I was born in Edinburgh.

The VeloDrone: I sometimes forget. But you are an honorary Frenchman.

Le Bon David: Thank you. Oh I am glad the Tour is over. Will we three be in it next year? What do you think?

Jean Paul Sartre: I am negotiating to get back with Team Existentialiste.

The VeloDrone: Oh?

Jean Paul Sartre: 'Fraid so. I am more in tune with their mode of thinking.

Le Bon David: Haven't we got on alright?

Jean Paul Sartre: You called me a weasel.

Le Bon David: That was in the heat of the moment, when you were being a weasel.

The VeloDrone: It doesn't matter. We are negotiating too, Jean Paul.

Jean Paul Sartre: Oh, who with?

Le Bon David: Yes, who with?

The VeloDrone: You know, David. It is someone much younger.

Jean Paul Sartre: Wittgenstein?

Le Bon David: Younger.

Jean Paul Sartre: Who then?

The VeloDrone: It's Alain de Botton.

Jean Paul Sartre: What has he got to offer?

The VeloDrone: Don't you know? He's a sprinter.

All That is the Case

I'm sitting out the back at a wooden table reading a book. Trying not to lean too hard on my blue and green striped elbows. There's grit on the table.

The wind blows the shadow strands of my hair over the pages. I look up. I see something moving on the low wall near the rosemary and pencil pine, above the black pot. It looks like a tiny white and ginger mouse, or a chicken. I look harder. It's a feather, ginger at each end and white in the middle. The feather is attached by invisible threads to the brick wall. The wind is making it twist and toss and rock back and forth and seem to be pecking the air.

Now I know that it's not alive, it loses my sympathy. And immediately regains it. What makes it not alive anyway? It's moving as though it's alive. What's the difference? It's trapped. But it isn't going to die there. It loses my sympathy again.

I go back to my book, which is about Kurt Gödel the mathematician. I'm reading the words of Wittgenstein: The world is everything which is the case. Kurt Gödel is just about to present to his philosophical and mathematical friends in the Viennese coffee shop, proof that the world is not everything that is the case. I like this.

It's warm. I go inside. There's some orange stuck in my teeth, from lunch. I'm thinking about the feather. I'm thinking: after I've got rid of the orange I'll go and look at that feather close up. I get some dental floss. I walk outside still flossing. I hope no one can see me. I bend down and look at the feather.

It is in fact two feathers, each with a ginger tip, and joined in the middle by white fluffy down. They are caught on a filament of dried grass sticking up between the bricks. This is why they looked like a chicken.

I like this too.