Dear all,
In his interesting news & other tidbits from Portland, OR, Mr. Richie
noted:
I don’t look at weather forecasts until I’m thinking about going on the
ocean. My wife does. She tells me that tomorrow is going to be hot and
sunny and so in the morning I put on shorts. And freeze.
I read this week several funny pieces by Jeremy Clarkson, the erstwhile
presenter of “Top Gear” and journalist on the Rotherham Advertiser. (I
don’t think I’ve ever before used the word “erstwhile.” It’s quite fun).
One of Clarkson's pieces was about how much better weather forecasting has
become, on account of satellites and Cray computers and so on. Normally
I’d have no opinion on the subject because I don’t look at weather
forecasts until I’m thinking about going on the ocean. My wife does. She
tells me that tomorrow is going to be hot and sunny and so in the morning I
put on shorts. And freeze. Or it’s going to be gloomy and wet, so I don
long trousers. And boil. It could be, of course, that the fault is not
the weather forecasters’; possibly she’s reading the forecast for Portland,
England or Portland, Maine?
Since the chickens have been making unusual noises of late, I thought
maybe they’d had a change of mind. So I asked them.
“Have changed your minds?”
Mimo, “That sounds quite painful.”
Pecorino, “Swapping them out you mean? Quite jarring that could be, I
should think.”
Appenzeller, “Well mind and brain are not synonymous you know.”
Mimo, “Here we go. She’s going to explore the mind the body problem
again.”
Appenzeller, To return to the mind the body problem for a moment…”
Pecorino, “Lovely weather we’re having.”
Mimo, “Great for sunbathing.”
“Actually that’s what I was going to ask you about. Do you have any sense
of what the coming weather will be, or do you just simply cope with
whatever the day brings?”
Appenzeller, “The corpse found in the mind the body problem, was probably
one of two principals involved in a duel…”
Mimo, “Forecasting, you mwan? Red sky at night, chickens’ delight is
about as sophisticated as we get in that department.”
Pecorino, "That and if you see gulls you know that the weather at the
coast is bad. Probably coming this way. On account of the fact that our
dominion is of an inland type.”
Mimo, “Rather a grand word for a Pecorino, ‘dominion.’ Have you been
talking to the rats?”
“Do they have a grand vocabulary?”
Pecorino, “Very swift animals, rats.”
“My wife wants to treat their acne.”
Mimo, “Do rats suffer from acne?”
“No. But when she went to buy vitamin D she found it was cheaper to buy
pills that have D in them but are formulated to help those who suffer from
acne.”
Pecorino, “So she’s proposing to treat diseases they don’t have?”
“I believe so. In retirement. Gotta have an interest.”
Mimo, “How kind.”
Pecorino, “I’m going to sunbathe.”
Mimo, “Me too.”
Appenzeller, “Me three.”
Mimo, “Not if you’re going to keep going on about minding the body.”
Pecorino, “Either Mimo and I do dualism, or you shut up and join us.
What’s it to be?”
Appenzeller, “Three bodies united as one.”
“Mind how you go.”
There came a very sleepy sounding, and gentle, “Whaaaaaat?” Possibly they
were already out of their minds, or I was losing mine?
Footnotes:
1. Those of you who have noted my thoughts on tanks as garden
ornaments may be interested to read that Jeremy Clarkson installed a
Lightning F1A jet fighter in his front garden. It was removed on the orders
of the local council which, said Clarkson, “wouldn’t believe my claim that
it was a leaf blower.” He also said, “You can’t be a true petrolhead until
you’ve owned an Alfa Romeo.” He also also said many things that caused
offense.
2. He started his working life selling Paddington Bears. An ancestor
invented the Kilner Jar sixteen years before the Mason Jar.
3. It’s important what you name a chicken. The NYTimes today has a
piece about children who named a chicken, “Big Bertha.” Big Bertha, as you
know, was a Howitzer with a very large bore. If you’ve seen the largest
naval cannon from a battleship, you’ve seen more or less what we’re talking
about here. To name a chicken this is to invite the possibility that it
will turn out loud and annoying and maybe. The tale ends with the
discovery that Big Bertha was a rooster.
4. The lead article in the NYT book review likens Charles Portis, who
wrote “True Grit,” to P.G. Wodehouse. True Grit, what ho?
5. My wife is indeed about to retire which, in the era of COVID 19,
means a hearty round of... elbow bumps. We’ll see what the chickens can
manage by way of celebration.
6. Our wedding anniversary is coming up. We’ll have been married
since the day that guy walking his dog on Salisbury Plain said, “You know
what this place needs? A few big stones.”
7. You should look up Walter Clopton Wingfield. Read all the way down
to the bit about bicyling to martial music after your wife has gone
bonkers.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
