The Incompetent Policeman

Aren't you going after him? asked Gaius.

I don't think so, said Victor. I imagine he's innocent anyway.

You do, do you? said Gaius. And what about me?

You're probably guilty, said Victor. As the paper bag will no doubt prove.

It will prove just the opposite, said Gaius, hotly. Make sure you don't lose it.

I won't lose it, said Victor. I'm a policeman.

You're an incompetent policeman, said Gaius. First you let a suspect escape, then you say he was probably innocent. If I were to escape would you say the same about me? No doubt you would. No wonder I'm worried you'll lose the paper bag. Where is it, if you don't mind me asking?

It's here in my pocket, said Victor. At least it was. I'm sure it was. Now what can have happened to it?

You've lost it, said Gaius. I knew it. Next you'll say I'm free to go.

You are, said Victor. Now I've lost the evidence.

Nonsense, said Gaius. You still have to write a report. You are not just dealing with any old suspect you know. I am a citizen of ancient Rome. I know all about legalities.

Ancient Rome? said Victor, putting two and two together. Pliny? Don't tell me you are Gaius Plinius Secundus? Otherwise known as Pliny the Elder?

At last! said Gaius. A bit of recognition. Yes, I am he.

Well well, it's an honour Mr Pliny, said Victor. This explains the penguin pie very satisfactorily.

It does? said Gaius.

It does, said Victor. I assume you would have been used to eating such things in ancient Rome. My report will make that clear. You have no case to answer.

Thank you, said Pliny. Although your assumption is quite wrong. And now may I go?

You may, said Victor, unless.....would you like to stay on in Victor Harbor for a few days and come whale-watching with me?

I would, Victor, said Gaius. I would indeed.

We All Know

Sing the Galumph Frog Song, said Pliny, finally.

Alright, I said.

I sang the Galumph Frog Song, as best I could.

That song doesn't make sense, said Pliny. Frogs don't go ladidadida.

I know, I said.

But the words are 'We all know frogs go ladidadida', said Pliny.

That's why it's funny, I said. Frogs don't really go ladidadida. They go galumph.

They don't go galumph either, in my experience, said Pliny.

What do they go, in your experience? I asked.

Ridip, said Pliny. As everyone knows. Your song is foolish.

Well, I said, so is your fear of tomatoes. Why are they evil? Were there evil tomatoes in ancient Rome?

Of course not, said Pliny. There is a website called Tomatoes are Evil. I obtain my information from there. The Aztecs used to eat them. And we all know how blood thirsty they were.

Worst Walk

Well, well, said Pliny the Elder. I've been invited to write an article for Velosophy.

What! I said. Have you? But you don't know anything about bicycles.

That does not seem to matter, said Pliny grandly. My reputation as a natural historian is sufficient to recommend me.

Well done then, I said. And congratulations. But you do know, don't you, that it will have to have bicycles in it. Or at least one bicycle. And I remember you telling me there weren't any bicycles in ancient Rome.

Yes, but there are bicycles everywhere nowadays, said Pliny. In fact they seem to be proliferating like flies. Have you noticed that where there used to be one chained up to a post every night on the corner of Dover Street and Portrush Road, now there are two?

I have noticed, I said. I can't imagine what circumstances could have resulted in that. Can you?

No, said Pliny. But I intend to investigate further. I shall go out tonight for a walk and observe what happens on Dover Street.

Good luck, I said. You will have to be there at exactly the right moment or you won't be any the wiser.

Perhaps I might enlist your aid then, said Pliny. You always go for an evening stroll.

Certainly. I shall keep my eyes open tonight, I said helpfully. Unless of course tonight is like last night.

Why, what happened last night?

I walked home very fast with my eyes covered.

My, that does sound dangerous. Why on earth was that?

The worst walk ever, I replied. Thunder and lightning; the sky was black and fluoro pink. A massive wind got up and the air was filled with dust. We hurried home to avoid being killed by falling branches.

Falling branches? Pliny looked alarmed.

Perhaps I'll postpone my investigations for a day or two, he said.

Wheels on Fire

So what do you understand by the term non sequitur? I asked Pliny, a little later on.

By that I mean a statement that does not follow logically from the one that came before, he replied.

And what kind of bicycle did you use to ride when you were young? I continued.

Yes, that's the idea. Although yours was not a statement but a question.

That's because I was changing the subject, not trying to give you an example.

Oh. Well, you should know that there were no bicycles in ancient Rome. And so I didn't have one.

Ah! I wondered why you didn't add a comment to the VeloDrone's wall the other day. How do you explain the fact that Plato did, then?

Plato! What did he write?

He wrote that his bicycle used to catch on fire, which was less than ideal.

You need to take everything that Plato writes with a grain of salt. It doesn't matter what it is, he will always claim he's got one.

Like those Ebay ads?

Yes. It's his way of trying to promote his Cave Allegory, and his theory of ideal forms. There's no reason why he shouldn't have seen an ideal bicycle go trundling by and casting a shadow on the wall of the cave, I suppose. And if it came too near the fire, well.......

But where would he have got the concept?

That's just the point. He didn't need the concept. The world of ideals exists separately from the world of ordinary things.

OK then, but having seen it how would he have known what it was?

Who's to say that he knew what it was?