Simple Simon Avoids a Slap

The badminton match completed, Simon Egdar walked over to the service counter and returned the borrowed shuttlecock in return being refunded the gold watch he had handed over as security. He returned it to his wrist with a sharp snap and sat on the bench to change his dunlop volleys for the camel hair brogues he had bought in Morocco. As he adjusted the velcro on his left shoe, a menacing shadow spread on the ground before him and he looked up. It was an attractive lady, displaying an unattractive scowl on her face. Simon was unsure, but started to get an ominous feeling.

"Er uhm, hello Susan", he suggested more in hope than confidence.
"Sally!", said Sally scornfully.

With that one response, a key was turned in Simon's mind and his memory activated. Scenes of dancing with Sally at the Slug and Lettuce hotel, a candlelit dinner of Big Mac's, and innocent fumblings in the back seat of his Travant flooded back, along with the promise of a phone call that had not been executed.

"Oh yes Sally", he stammered, "So nice to see you again. Uhm, let me introduce you to my friend Stevens".

Stevens was Simons badminton opponent. He stood half an inch taller than five foot eleven and a half inches and was an almost perfect facsimile of the tennis player Bjorn Borg. From the moment Sally glanced towards him, a calmness and/or lack of tension decended on the scene.

"Stevens?", queried Sally sweetly, "Why does Simon call you by your surname?"
"Actually, Stevens is my first name. My parents only wanted a single child but were afraid that I would experience single child syndrome. They decided to give me a non-singular name in the hope it could be avoided. They were kind of strange", explained Stevens, straightening his headband and adjusting the strings on his wooden tennis racket.
"Interesting. Would you like to come for a drink?"
"I would love to", piped up Simon, misreading the situation abysmally.
"Not you, Simon, I'm speaking to your friend", she snapped.

The two strolled away towards the bar, leaving Simon to ponder the ability of men who possessed the looks of attractive tennis players from the 1970's to diffuse the wrath of women scorned. He committed to the idea of growing a large McEnroe like hairstyle and foolishly considered his problems solved.

The End

Body Slam Sham

Body image problems have been quite an issue for a while now. It seems it doesn't matter how many times we are told we should be happy with what we've got, many people just can't get past the shame of the extra pounds, the lack of cup size or the inches that are suggested to make one the complete package.

Why is this? What's going on here that even intelligent and well educated people are experiencing this rather ridiculous problem. Putting mental health issues aside (for they are issues that I cannot possibly discuss with any authority), I think we are faced with a rather powerful force that is keeping the problem fresh in our minds. I would refer to it as the "Denigration of Individualism" industry, commercial enterprises that have discovered that it is lucrative to crush peoples belief in themselves, and then sell them a cure. I would go even further and say that this is not only commercial, but cultural.

Who's to blame for this? Is it the media? The capitalists? Society? No, it's us, we are to blame for the predicament we find ourselves in. We listen when we should ignore. We accept when we should reject. We overly concern ourseves with the opinions of people we don't even know and don't care for. In many ways it's understandable as this appears to be an easier way to live. We keep wanting to be part of "community", to be accepted into the groups that make up the human race. But at what cost? We keep undermining one of the gifts of being human, that of independant thought, the ability to identify what is important and what is fucking bullshit. We lack responsibility, by that I mean to ourselves.

I'm certainly not innocent of this crime against myself, that's for sure. It's a war, where each day I'm confronted by another barrage of suggestions telling me I'm not all I should be. I'm not sure the armistace will ever come completely, but I'm getting better at fighting the battles.

Long Gone, Not Forgotten

Yesterday I strolled into the Australian Museum here in Sydney ostensibly to view the recently opened exhibition "Egyptian Treasures: art of the pharaohs". Ofcourse as the entrance fee included general admission to the rest of the museum, I decided to browse the other exhibits contained therein.

Since a young age I've always had a curiosity regarding egyptian artifacts and history. Ofcourse the curiosity is not quite strong enough to stir a desire to visit modern day Egypt, so when a travelling exhibition appears in my town the train ride into the city seems of little sacrifice. It may be worthwhile mentioning that even though the title of the exhibition mentions "pharaohs" there seemed to be a dramatic shortage of artifacts with direct connections to the pharaohs. Instead the displays appeared to have belonged to people who held fairly lofty social positions at the time. No matter, it was still quite an interesting experience to take a close look at these items and if a little marketing is required to get punters to support these shows, I'm all for it.

I can't remember the last time I actually saw a real mummy, but I saw one yesterday. I've plum forgotten it's name (I'm not very good with names) but in some ways it was rather unspectacular as it was fully wrapped. Of more interest was a mummified cat that peculiarly had it's nose sticking out from the bandages, clear for everyone to see. Perhaps not best viewed by cat lovers.

For people who have an interest in jewellery and other items of body decoration, there is quite a good display of these to give an insight into what was worn during the time. Others will appreciate it I'm sure, but for me the items looked fairly similar to the things people wear today. In fact, some information text on the display made the comment that much of the jewellery of the time wouldn't look out of place today. Well, maybe some of the more extravagant pieces might.

My favourite displays were the large stoneworks that thankfully are part of the exhibition, as I bet they are a bitch to transport. Many of these would have come from the ancient temples, and the workmanship on them is stunning. Considering the technology of the day, I find it amazing that such detailed and precise work was possible. Perhaps it's my strange imagination, but there is one item that is the size of a large coffee table, rather weather beaten but you can clearly make out that it is a carving of a fingernail. According to the information plate, they believe it is a piece from a full size carving at a temple. My mind runs wild with just how big that carving must have been when intact.

The other exhibits of the museum deal mainly with the natural world (animal/vegetable/mineral) and are quite extensive. Perhaps a little too detailed for a general browse, but it's actually comforting knowing that there is some knowledge and expertise of these subjects that can be accessed by the general public. Ofcourse, no visit to the Australian Museum is complete without a visit to the dinosaur exhibition. Everyone knows that they were big creatures, but it's only when you stand beside the cast skeletons that you get an idea of just how big. Amazing and terrifying.

I've written before about how historical buildings in Sydney are important because they provide "beacons of history" and "anchor points" for the stories of our past. Exhibitions such as the above serve the same purpose. I hope they can keep travelling the world so people can experience them

By the way, the entrance fee is $22, which considering the artifacts are priceless seems a pretty good deal to me.

All Aboard, and I mean ALL

Donning the dark sunglasses (for it was sunny and warm that day), he of the Dale that Rocks wandered down to his local station of the government provided transit system. Dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and newly acquired brown leather casual shoes (shoelaceless, cleverly) he had his beaten up shoulder bag slung diagonally across, containing all he required to sustain himself on his journey. Yes, it was a day in the city to be a "tourist in your own town" as the infernal jingle goes. But first, the joys of the journey.

He had always cursed the need for small change currency to purchase a ticket on the cityrail system. Cash had become an archaic form of payment in his opinion, and so was delighted to discover the ticket machine now accepting a mere swipe of a credit card and some depressing of buttons with his digits to award him the little paper pass to passage.

A colleague had once enlightened he of a detest of public transport. But he of the Dale always enjoyed his journeys, for it was his opportunity to see close up the ingredients that make up society and the many interesting folk he wish he were like if he were brave enough. The dark glasses performed admirally the role of one way viewers, allowing him to look upon the people, without them being able to detect his enquiring glances. He frequently felt unsure of this, perhaps it was an unseemly practice, but he knew that many people were unsettled by a staring stranger, and he wished them no unease.

Boarding the nearly empty train, he sat as usual upon the benches near the doors as it afforded greater legroom. In the same area was a couple with their young child and a rather extraordinarily heavy duty pram with three rugged looking wheels and stuffed with a considerable amount of equipment. They were a pleasant looking family, obviously venturing into the city also.

Stopping first at the Creek of Wolli, stepped aboard a most spectacular creature. Dressed in black leather, he sported a collection of tattoo's of dubious artistic distinction, a studded piercing for every exposed extremity (including a chain from nose to ear), and an enourmous green mohawk. He took his place next to the family, and an interesting dynamic evolved. Silence was the first result of the cultural melting pot occurring in the carriage that day, until he of the Dale noticed the young child's curiosity peaking. Since the Wolli creature had stepped aboard, the child had not set its eyes on anything else. The silence was soon broken by the child enquiring, "How do you get your hair to stick up like that?", and a collectively held breath awaited the reply. In a concise and learned voice the Wolli creature said, "I use hair gel. While it's wet I can style it like this, and when it dries it holds". "Can I touch your hair?", asked the child. "Ofcourse!", cried the creature and proceeded to lower his head so the child could carefully touch the exquisitely styled strands.

He of the Dale thanked the gods of cityrail that he had witnessed such an event, a connection between two very different parts of society that were willing in a small way to share part of what makes them who they are. The parents of the child, now having been given an indirect introduction to the creature proceeded to have a fascinating converation with him, discovering that he is studying for a doctorate, and plays an electric violin in a ska band.

He of the Dale wished he could have taken a photograph of the group, as he felt that moments like this should be captured as reminders of how vastly different people can co-exist. Perhaps, he thought, the key was to think with a child's mind upon the issue, allowing curiosity to exceed pre-conceived opinions. He of the Dale pondered for the remaining journey.

Tacky Sea Tale

Part One

Captain Maximillian Phebes looked despondantly out to sea, studying the anvil shaped storm clouds that were gathering on the horizon. He stroked his greying beard with concerned strokes and puffed away on an inch long cheroot. Ever since his days on the sub hunter HMS Undertow chasing nazi u-boats, the ocean was part of him. He turned to look at his vessel, painted in a peculiar shade of lavender, it was christened the "Speedy Raj", named after the owners tortoise, Harold. It was an iron hulled freighter and was again being used to transport a shipment of sugared plums from Port Dennessen to England.

The captain's mind soon turned to his unusual encounter with the ships owner over a year ago. Doctor Percy Quebec was a wealthy and influential eccentric who had married his parrot (named "peanuts") courtesy of a special act of parliament. He then left London to live in a cave in the Lakes District where he intended to cultivate a pineapple plantation. The Captains journey to the Doctors unusual abode was through rugged territory, but after a mornings hike he spotted the cave and the resident. The Doctor was discovered standing in front of the cave, dressed from head to ankle in the full regalia of an eighteenth century French aristocrat. However, on his feet were two hollowed out pumpkins acting as rudimentary footwear.

"Excuse me, Doctor Quebec?", enquired the captain.
"Yes my good man, and you must be Captain Phebes. Pleased to make your acquaintence", responded he with charm.

With introductions extinguished, the two men entered the cave which was adorned with expensive furniture and even more expensive artwork that consisted almost entirely of oil paintings of nudes.

"This is quite a place you have here Doctor", proclaimed the captain, "But quite out of the way, I must say".
"Close enough", exclaimed the Doctor, adjusting his powdered wig, "for important people to find me. But where are my manners, would you like a cup of tea?"
"Yes, thankyou".

With that, the doctor reached down into the lower left leg of his britches, and extracted a small silk purse that contained fine tea leaves which he emptied into a china teacup.

"Milk?", asked the doctor.
"Er, yes please", responded the baffled captain.

From nowhere the doctor produced a live goat, and proceeded to milk the animal directly into the teacup.

"There you go, my boy, enjoy"

It hadn't missed the attentions of the captain that his cup of tea had in fact been missing a crucial ingredient, that of hot water, however before he managed to broach the subject, he was interrupted by the doctor, "Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you old chap, do look after my ship now", and with that the captain was escorted from the cave and began his treck back to civilisation. Looking over his shoulder as he walked, he could see the doctor performing a morris dance in front of the cave, for no-one in particular.

Part Two

"Captain!", boomed a voice with enough power to surprise the captains cheroot from his lips and topple over the railings into the sea. It was Miles Small, the captains second in charge. He was a bulky man of inderterminate North African origin and stood at the surprising height of six feet tall, surprising because he usually stood at a height of five feet nine inches.

"Small, for goodness sake don't creep up on me like that", spluttered the captain. And then identifying the rather sudden gain in height of his number two man, he glanced down to see that he was wearing a pair of ladies high heeled shoes, silver in colour.

"What on earth are you wearing man?"
"Heels captain!"
"Why are you wearing heels?"
"To maintain a look of excellence captain"

Sensing the possibility of discovering an uncomfortable truth, the captain ceased his line of questioning and turned his attention to the important matters at hand.

"Set sail, Small, set sail for Southampton. A storm is set to strike!"
"Sorry sir, we are a steamship. We have no sails"
"Very well, set steam, Small, steam to Southampton"
"Certainly sir!"

With that the captains deputy strode away with commensurate skill in the high heels considering the pitching and rolling deck of the ship. The captain gazed mournfully at the deep green ocean, and longed for the years upon HMS Undertow hunting the nazi u-boats.

The End.