The cycling holiday was nearly at an end. Marie, Belle et Bonne and Jesus retraced their route along the coast road. It was such a beautiful afternoon that they decided to stop riding for a while and take a walk on the beach.
Marie and Belle et Bonne walked ahead, while Jesus lagged behind. He was trying to think of what to write. It was true that he had begun to keep a diary last Easter, but he hadn't kept it up. In fact he'd only written in it twice. He remembered writing something about hoping someone would not be eaten by a shark.
Who was it?, he wondered.
Suddenly he heard a woman's voice calling urgently.
Farquar! Farquar! Farky!
A large brown dog bounded past.
What! thought Jesus. Surely no one would call their dog Farquar!
As he continued walking, the sounds of children's voices reached his ears.
Far-kar! Far-kar! shouted the children.
Unbelievable, said Jesus to himself. As if it isn't bad enough to call your dog Farquar in any case, to call your dog Farquar when you have young children unable to pronounce his name except as Far-kar has to be the height of irresponsibility.
He sped up to tell Marie, and Belle et Bonne.
Can you believe that dog back there's called Farquar? he asked them.
Oh, what a lovely name, said Belle et Bonne.
Showing posts with label shark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shark. Show all posts
Monday, April 25, 2011
Monday, December 7, 2009
Framed
And was there a shark? asked Pliny the Elder, or was it a false alarm?
Oh, you've been reading my blog, I said, pleased. Tell me, what did you think of my style?
Nothing but lists, said Pliny dismissively. Lists are no substitute for good writing.
But......oh, never mind. And no, there wasn't a shark. At least no one on shore could see one. Everyone was staring out to sea, the helicopter was hovering, and turning in circles, a couple of people came out of the water, the surfboarders paddled on regardless, a passerby asked me if there was a shark and I said that I didn't know. A little while later the helicopter flew off towards the south, and everyone carried on as before.
Perhaps the helicopter spotter was deceived by the shark blue sea, said Pliny, with a smile. Assuming that prescient colour was not the result of hindsight.
You're far too sharp for me Pliny, I said. By the way, how are you getting on with your Kafka story? Is it finished?
Don't ask, said Pliny, looking distressed. It was finished, but then I received a call from the editors asking for a followup to my last story.
That was good wasn't it? You had one all ready to go.
Yes, said Pliny, but they want it to be another detective story, and the protagonist has to be me.
What's wrong with that?
Not just me. Me in a toga!
Yes, but what's wrong with that?
I think you know. My story is about Kafka, a bicycle and a beetle.
Pliny, I said, in literature a tale can be altered, simply by adding a frame.
Oh, you've been reading my blog, I said, pleased. Tell me, what did you think of my style?
Nothing but lists, said Pliny dismissively. Lists are no substitute for good writing.
But......oh, never mind. And no, there wasn't a shark. At least no one on shore could see one. Everyone was staring out to sea, the helicopter was hovering, and turning in circles, a couple of people came out of the water, the surfboarders paddled on regardless, a passerby asked me if there was a shark and I said that I didn't know. A little while later the helicopter flew off towards the south, and everyone carried on as before.
Perhaps the helicopter spotter was deceived by the shark blue sea, said Pliny, with a smile. Assuming that prescient colour was not the result of hindsight.
You're far too sharp for me Pliny, I said. By the way, how are you getting on with your Kafka story? Is it finished?
Don't ask, said Pliny, looking distressed. It was finished, but then I received a call from the editors asking for a followup to my last story.
That was good wasn't it? You had one all ready to go.
Yes, said Pliny, but they want it to be another detective story, and the protagonist has to be me.
What's wrong with that?
Not just me. Me in a toga!
Yes, but what's wrong with that?
I think you know. My story is about Kafka, a bicycle and a beetle.
Pliny, I said, in literature a tale can be altered, simply by adding a frame.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Shark Perspectives
Oh what a multiplicity of views to be had yesterday between Hove and Seacliff by anyone walking due south along the breezy esplanade.
The first, a shock! The sand is low and wide. There's you, the rocks, a few low daisy plants, and three metres down, the sand, yellow and empty all the way to the jetty except for a man in a wide-brimmed hat, fishing at the edge of the sea. The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, shark blue.
A wooden seat on a concrete slab, the rocks, a sudden drop, the sandhills, rusty succulents and clumps of reeds, tipped with brown fuzzy pompoms, waving, the wide flat sand, the lifesavers' red and yellow tent and flags, the sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, and shark blue.
The bridge over the outlet, a sign, We Care for Water, a steep drop, between black rocks a pool, surprisingly clear.
A narrow pavement, scrubby trees, blocking out the view. A man and a woman, middle aged, walking a bulldog, that stops for a pee. A shuffling of walkers, and bikes.
Wire and shadecloth fence, ragged, low sandhills , camel humps of sand dumped by the council, sprouting seaweed hairs.
The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow and shark blue, six seagulls, a score of white-sailed yachts, surfboarders paddling north, a motor boat, and on the horizon, near the desal plant, a huge black Trojan Horse.
Children, running, wrapped in towels, a girl with a dozen balloons.
A helicopter, whirring overhead, stops ominously. Shark.
The first, a shock! The sand is low and wide. There's you, the rocks, a few low daisy plants, and three metres down, the sand, yellow and empty all the way to the jetty except for a man in a wide-brimmed hat, fishing at the edge of the sea. The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, shark blue.
A wooden seat on a concrete slab, the rocks, a sudden drop, the sandhills, rusty succulents and clumps of reeds, tipped with brown fuzzy pompoms, waving, the wide flat sand, the lifesavers' red and yellow tent and flags, the sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow, and shark blue.
The bridge over the outlet, a sign, We Care for Water, a steep drop, between black rocks a pool, surprisingly clear.
A narrow pavement, scrubby trees, blocking out the view. A man and a woman, middle aged, walking a bulldog, that stops for a pee. A shuffling of walkers, and bikes.
Wire and shadecloth fence, ragged, low sandhills , camel humps of sand dumped by the council, sprouting seaweed hairs.
The sea, shallow green, sandbank yellow and shark blue, six seagulls, a score of white-sailed yachts, surfboarders paddling north, a motor boat, and on the horizon, near the desal plant, a huge black Trojan Horse.
Children, running, wrapped in towels, a girl with a dozen balloons.
A helicopter, whirring overhead, stops ominously. Shark.
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