We all have our quirks. One of mine is not ironing shirts or, in fact,
anything. I took up ironing very young. I liked many domestic skills. If my
parents worried that I might turn out gay they never said anything. I suppose
back then, you wouldn’t. So why don’t I iron now? When asked by, for example,
my sister—who irons pretty much anything and everything—I explain that there
are only so many hours in the day. Some of them I waste writing stuff like
this. So…existential choice…the Hereabouts, or ironed shirts.
I’ve been reading Alan Bennett, “Keeping On Keeping On.” He’s not very fond of
the police. One of his assertions is that when a spokesperson estimates crowd
size at a demonstration, more people will be counted if the subject is one with
which police were likely to agree: “Stop the War,” small turnout, “Countryside
Alliance,” larger. The paragraph in which these thoughts occur builds to the
conclusion that if police had been present at the Feeding of the Five Thousand,
“there would have been no miracle. ‘Listen, there were only a dozen or so
people there. Five loaves and two fishes, perfectly adequate.’”
I am typing with the door to the garden open and the screen across. Warmth has
come to these parts. The chickens have much to say on the subject. Contented
sounds waft on the wind, mixed in with the occasional, “Why doesn’t he come
shake the food container. Picking up these little bits is tiresome.”
“Bad service, I call it.”
“He should be summoned.”
“Let’s go see if there are worms in the compost.”
“No, I’ll get him out here to give it a shake.”
Mimo taps on the screen, “Hoi, God! Anyone home?”
I’m not in view. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Is that God speaking? Or furniture? (To those behind her) I think I’ve
reached the wrong department. Furniture’s put me on hold.”
“Try a different door.”
“Or we could go eat worms.”
Mimo has an idea, “There’s a beer out here.”
“Really?” I say.
“Oh yes. Just the kind you like.”
“Which kind is that?”
“Er…the hot one.”
“Hot beer?”
“That’s the stuff. Lots of it right by our food container.”
“Well in that case I’ll stop everything and come on out.”
Off to the Big Apple on the morrow, to witness a graduation. Fear not, the
girls will be left in capable hands.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off,
digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html
