Post No. 25

Whether or not a play called Stitching by one Anthony Neilson is to be staged is currently the topic that’s got our island’s attention by the short and curlies.  At least that was what the 20-02-09 edition of Xarabank was about. Apparently this Stitching is one sick puppy of a play, and the local classification board decided to veto it.

The guest panel was divided, obviously. Divided in two, in case you were wondering.

“Nobody should tell me what I can or cannot watch”

“You can’t have Tom, Dick and Harry staging anything they like”

“Yes”

“No”

And so it went on for about an hour. It felt like a rehash of the divorce debate.

I think that the heart of the matter is whether or not one accepts absolute values. And the implications for the fabric of society, to borrow a cliche’.

People who reject absolutes necessarily reject society and their place within it. You cannot have boundaries that others will have to respect. Because the establishment of a boundary is an absolute act in itself.

A nice freshly painted fence is a clear indicator of where my territory begins and ends. You know you should not leap over it and walk on my lawn – even though you can. If you do, then you can’t complain when (and if) I do the same. Because if you complain you are being discriminatory (against me). You are allowed to do something that I am not allowed to do. Not good. No sir. We either skip over each other’s fences or nobody does. In which case, what’s the point of fences?

This brings us back to life and real people. We all have fences. Some of us take offence when we’re called stupid, others hate it when somebody forgets a birthday, most find it unacceptable that our spouse plays the field, etc …

This is where morals (including law and religion) come in. Law-abiding citizens and adherents to a particular set of religious beliefs have one thing in common. They live their lives (or should that be life?) within the defined limits that are the same for everyone wherever they stand.

Although it is possible to modify these limits it is highly inadvisable, because if everybody decides to bend the limit a little, the perimeter will be deformed out of recognition. That is a problem.

If I throw my chocolate wrapper out on the street and someone told me that I’m polluting the environment I’d think he was crazy BUT if everybody disposed of their chocolate wrapper in the street … see what I mean? And if I may throw my stuff out on the street everybody may.

Same goes for morals, law and religion. Censorship can only make sense if we believe that our actions  will affect society at large. At the end of the day this is a numbers game…

Toodle-oo.

 

Post No. 15

Everybody seems to have an opinion about everything these days. It’s not like we’ve suddenly become a population of voracious readers … Should all these opinions be given equal consideration?

In our rush to grant each person his or her rights and dignity we overlook the most obvious “thing”: the person’s community. Each one of us is a member of a community whether we like it or not. We have two options – accept the mores of the society we live in or expect our society to live by our rules whenever it comes into direct contact with us. Let me elaborate…

Imagine a shopkeeper whose policy is to allow customers to use any method they prefer to effect payment. He advertises it far and wide and sets up shop. The first customers walk in and they want to buy the green thingamajigs.

“How much?”

“€2.”

Out comes the purse (or wallet), money plonked on the counter, fiscal receipt issued, thanks all round and bob’s your uncle.

The next day a bright spark comes along and reads the “Pay as it suits you” notice in the shop window.

“Three green thingamajigs please.”

The shopkeeper obliges.

“I’ll pay you now for one and the other two over the next two days.”

The shopkeeper, accustomed to people paying him on the spot, reminds himself of the sign he had put up outside and says nothing.

People hear of this and start doing the same. The adventurous types push the limit, as adventurous people are wont to do. Paying-up ideas become wackier by the hour, as everybody has his or her own opinion on how best to pay. The shop owner, bound by his word, has to accept without protest.

Thingamajigs start flying off the shelves but money only lurches in like a drunkard. The shop faces serious cash flow problems (don’t we all? ha ha) which overwhelm it, and the shop owner has to call it a day. Thingamajigs are no longer available and people who need them will have to do without.

The shop owner was playing with fire when he allowed people to pay as they thought fit. He was burnt to a crisp. Although they all paid lip service to the notion of paying, few actually paid up.

He should have enlisted the help of suitably qualified accountants and economists, to explain to him the nitty gritty detail of business and establish a reasonable payment policy. The rules should have been made amply clear and they should have overridden anybody’s opinion. Special cases may require individual attention, but that should be left to the the discretion of the experts. The individual customer is important to the business, of course, but no customer is greater than the business.

People’s opinions, more often than not, are shallow and are the result of little or no thought other than “This suits me now”. This is a direct result of people thinking that the community they live in (and its rules) is incidental to them. It is a picture hung on a wall, beautiful to look at but that’s about all there is to it. They don’t understand that their thoughts, choices and actions directly affect the fabric of their lives and the lives of people around them (remember the shop’s forced closure.)

I leave it to you to decipher who the players in this scenario are

Toodle-oo.

 

Market Forces II

I was telling my father what happened to me during one of my visits to Gozo.

“That’s immoral,” he said. “That’s stealing.”

“I told her, later, that we gave him too little for the bag …”

“No. I meant the seller.”

“Why?”

“He was asking you for much more than what the bag was – or is – worth. Hadn’t it been for her and her sister you’d have forked out the money.”

“Yes I would have BUT out of my own free will, so to speak. I wasn’t forced to take the bag AND give him the money.”

“We call his action profiteering – except that bags aren’t in particularly short supply.“

“I’d rather have a profiterole …”

He shook his head in exasperation and continued zapping channels. (For my father the greatest thing ever invented is the television remote control, not the sliced loaf. He can go for days on end without food and water, but I don’t see him lasting longer than 10 minutes without a remote control)

I understood his point but I still couldn’t agree with it. It is true that the hawker tried to sell the bag for more than it was worth, but a) he didn’t mislead me b) he didn’t make me take it c) the bag is not an essential item without which I can’t live.

If anything I am the fool who is easily parted from his money. I should have shopped around a bit before plumping for the first bag I saw. But let’s say that I bought the bag at the price he wanted to sell it to me. I could have come across a similar – or perhaps even identical – bag with a smaller price tag. I would obviously have told everybody about it. In the long run the original seller would have lost more than what he had gained by selling me the bag at an exorbitant price.

“You see,” I told him (my father), “his behaviour is like a parasite’s …”

“Well, you should know. You’ve been sucking me dry since the day you were born.”

“No, really. A parasite lives off its host until it kills it, however, once the host dies, the parasite dies with it. The species only survives because during its stay in the host the parasite manages to smuggle out some eggs or seeds – but that’s beside the point. The point is that a parasite can only take so much off its host. Then it dies. An ideal parasite is one that doesn’t shorten its host’s life expectancy.”

“But then it wouldn’t be a parasite, would it?” He zapped to the National Geographic Channel.

“But that’s beside the point.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. My point is that this person is killing – sort of – his host. He is reducing his ‘client base’. It’s what’s been happening to many local shops. Bookshops, clothes shops, CD and DVD shops … even the grocers”

“Are you all right?” He was looking for a shopping channel, probably.

“With the internet firmly planted in our midst, people are beginning to realise that quite a few shops have taken us on long and expensive rides. So what happens? We scrap the shops and buy everything from the internet. So the shops just wither away and close down. It’s a bit like the survival of the fittest really, if you think about it.”

“But increasing the price of things just because you can is not fair. Look at what’s happening with oil and grain prices the world over. Just because it doesn’t suit some people to grow grain for food they don’t do it. Or, some people are just speculating in oil. Is that fair? Isn’t that survival of the fittest? You can’t say that just because human activity follows a pattern that is seen in nature it is right. Or fair.”

“Hang on a minute. Hold your horses.” Somehow I saw horses on the television. Honestly, the man and his remote are in perfect sync. “I am only talking about “little luxuries” here. I did not say the principle should be applied to essentials as well, even though it does explain the logic behind what we’re seeing.”

“So who, in your opinion, should draw the line? I think that this is an ad hoc line you just drew to save face.”

“No it isn’t… I’m just saying that “biological principles” can explain – and possibly predict – the outcomes of certain goings-on around us. Never did I mention that they SHOULD be extended to the essentials, even though I insist that they could.”

“It’s still immoral.”

“OK.”

Some people are so hard-headed they make diamond look like a marshmallow. Honestly. Reliving the conversation has tired me out. Got to take a rest.

Toodle-oo.

 

Market Forces I

My wife is Gozitan – but you may have already figured that out on your own, given her obvious shrewdness. “Why obvious?” I hear you ask. Well … She married me, didn’t she? Let’s get back to the story …

As you may have read in a previous post, I cycle to work. We scientists cannot just turn up to work empty-handed. We have to accessorise. Even if it’s just a bag to carry past copies of New Scientist and the daily apple, to save on medical bills So I have to strike a balance between a bag that can hold some stuff and not interfere with the cycling. But I don’t like haversacks or backpacks.

During one of our frequent visits to the island where time stays still*, I made it my mission to buy myself a postman’s bag (because a) I decided it fits my style to a T b) I needed to pass the time)

We were having a quiet drink at the Tokk (the “market square” in Rabat) when an olive beauty dangling in a stall caught my eye. I walked up to the owner and asked him to see the bag. It was jam packed with zips, partitions, hidden pockets. A dream.

“How much?”

“€35.”

I had just positioned my lips to tell him to p*** off.

“Do you like anything?” I turned round. Her sister came to the rescue.

“Well, yes. I like that bag but he wants €35 for it.”

She made an outraged-cum-shocked face and turned to the stall owner. “Shame on you. Asking that much for that bag.” She spoke to him in dialect.

“Why didn’t he tell me he was with you? I’d have given him a good deal.”

“OK. I’m telling you now. He’s with me.”

“€28, then”

“No way.” I spun around. That “No way” ended many a day dream. It was Her.

“Ok. What do you want to pay for it, then?”

I blinked, polished my spectacles and cleaned my ears. This was new. A stall owner asking a customer how much she wanted to pay.

“What was your last offer?”

“€28.”

She shook her head. “Exorbitant. We will give you half.”

“OK. €14. Not a penny less.”

“Can’t you see I’m pregnant?”

“OK. €13. Please don’t press me.”

“Does €13 sound fair to you?” she asked me.

I nodded dumbly. I felt sorry for the man. I pulled out the money and held out my hand vaguely between him and Her. He waited for Her nod before accepting it.

I followed them to our table, feeling like Frodo after having got rid of The Ring – he knew he had done something Good, but he hadn’t understood exactly what it was.

There’s a sequel to this incident.

Toodle-oo.

*During the 80s the postal service used to stamp every letter with “Gozo – the island where time stood still” referring to the idyllic image we [Maltese] have of the island. Unless you’re of the “chilling out” persuasion a weekend can feel like 20 years. Personally I love the island, but I know people who wouldn’t go there to save their lives.

 

Blog Readability

You will be pleased to know that my blog’s readability level is ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. This means that none of you has an excuse for not understanding this blog

Toodle-oo

 

Cycling

I used to be the proud owner of a Series III Land Rover (1981 model). I had to take the VRT test last February. You’ll have to understand one thing before reading on … I’m not one who’s taken in by looks. So it follows that Benedicta (the landy) was not one to turn heads, but she could roar when she had to, if you get my drift … anyway …

I took her to the VRT station and the attendant gave her the once over.

“She’s not going to pass.”

“I think you’re not going to pass her.”

“I’m not allowed to pass cars with 4 colours.”

Blank stare.

It dawned on me that Benedicta was going to need some cosmetic surgery. I didn’t have the time for all that, so I gave her to a Land Rover enthusiast who promised me that she wasn’t going to need anything as long as she was in his care. (I’m sure I heard him mutter “She’s had a life worse than a stray dog.”)

“Listen.”

“What?”

“How are you going home now?”

“I’ll bus it, I guess.”

“There’s that bike by the door. Why don’t you take it? I was thinking of throwing it out soon. Saves me the trouble”

“Gee. Thanks.” (I think.)

If it were a dog you’d call it mangy. And it was love at first sight. Blue, gritty and it had that great worn look about it that tells you “This bike’s been to Timbuctoo and back.” (But the tyres spoiled it all because they were spanking brand new. They still had those sort of little hairs on them that new tyres have. Whatever …)

I am now cycling to work. It’s become the highlight of my day (except negotiating the roundabout at the top of the hill leading to the dockyard. I feel like a model for Brownian motion.) Going and coming. And do you know what’s really fun? Going down one way streets. The first time I did it it was more than I could take to stop myself from shouting “In your face!” to the No Entry sign.

Simple things please simple minds, you might say …

I don’t have to tell you that the bike-it-to-work scheme encountered some serious opposition from the wife. She even phoned the Police Station asking them whether it was obligatory for bicycle riders to wear a helmet. (I can remember how she said “bicycle”. It was like drawing your nails across a blackboard. And how she looked at me when she said it. It was a sort of serene look – like Tilda Swinton in Constantine – but you know, when you’re on the receiving end, that it spells trouble with a capital T.) To my relief the lovely constable on the other side told her “No. It’s not obligatory.” I think that had he been face to face he would have added “But there’s a White Paper about it.”

Her stance has changed since. She can appreciate that her husband now takes up less space in rooms. So she gave me a bicycle rack for father’s day . I think what she meant to say was: “Take the car, drive it till the petrol runs out, then take the bike.”

That’s it for today then. Speak to you tomorrow. Same time, same place.

Toodle-oo.

 

Tired

Today I decided to clear up the room that’s going to be the nursery. The paintwork’s done and we’re expecting the furniture any time soon… I embarked on the project with the enthusiasm of a wet dishcloth on a Sunday afternoon. I only made it through the evening knowing that I was coming to post something here … the carrot on the stick as it were. Now here I am … sitting in front of my computer too tired to think of anything interesting enough to keep me awake *blush*

Sorry about … YAAAAAWN … that

I guess I’ll call it a day … I’ll do better tomorrow. Promise.

Toodle-oo.

 

The Big Bang

And then there was light …

and heat …

and time …

whatever.

My point is that everything has to have a beginning. This is my blog’s beginning. I hope the bang wasn’t too loud. But I really hope that the LIGHT shines so hard that that it hurts your islets of Langerhans

Gawd, not another blog. Well, everybody else is doing it so why can’t I, as the Cranberries (nearly) asked when they boarded the gravy train. I don’t want the gravy. I don’t think it goes well with everything. Come to think of it I don’t think gravy goes well with anything really … but I digress.

I have been bitten by the logorrhoea bug. That’s bad news. For you. Now I’m challenging you to shut me up

I will be posting quite often. Think along the lines of dog –> lamp post –> aha –> cock a leg. (In my case it’s going to be more like: Me –> time on my hands –> aha –> post an entry)

That’s about as far as this bang goes. Handshakes and genial nodding over and done with. Prepare to want more.

Toodle-oo.