(That’s Mr Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, CBE, infidels; you may have heard of Sting.)
I could never understand the French. Cherchez la femme, pardieu! Why on earth would one go looking for a woman when surrounded by French bread and French cheese? (On the other hand, those French women are said to talk less …)
Anyway, I did not go looking for any woman. I’m happy with my food and my indestructible orange ball. And there is a woman who, when I arrived at my current place, told me she was the only bee-arch in the house. She does feed me from time to time, though, and she also plays soccer with me. I won’t comment on her ball skills, but, yes, if the ball ends up among the roses, cherchez la femme …
Uncle David, floating on all the elements of the periodic table, joined SN&Y … no, take your Vitamin E, we’re not talking adult movies here; they were advising us that those who are on the road must have a code that they can live by. But it was a woman, as explained in my previous post, who said I had to attend socialisation classes. The educated will also remember that it was Uncle Chuck’s mama, and not his dad, who took him to grammar school and to Sunday school.
Imagine my surprise when, after an early breakfast one Monday morning, I was called over to the car, where he held open the hatch for me. I was too naïve to realise it was a French car …
A very friendly gentleman met us when we stopped somewhere in the fresh West Coast air. We walked down a passage with pens on both sides. I was allowed to enter a pen, and while I was checking it for food and hazardous material, they closed the gate. At first I thought they were showing some respect for the genius at work, but then they turned and walked away.
“Yooo!” I shouted. “Yaauuu! Remember that sign in Singapore that says, ‘Don’t forget to take your thing when you leave’!” But they ignored me; an innocent victim of a blinded alley. As, in forsaken loneliness, almost like old Willie’s cloud, I watched my reflection in the water bowl, I remembered that it was a woman who sang of those of us with ravaged faces, lacking in the social graces.
The next shock was when they raised the lid to Pandora’s box, which was camouflaged as a gate, and all things not bright and not beautiful, of questionable wisdom and certainly not wonderful, rushed into the other pens. For a moment, I hoped it was “Catch Your Own Breakfast”, but then I remembered that I had eaten already (albeit almost an hour before that). These were relatives of that funny little thing we ran into in the vlei.
The penny dropped. Janice-not-Pearl. “Lacking in the social graces”. I had to re-educate the great unwashed. These were the socialisation classes the shrink had referred to.
Before I could do a Macintyre and slipper (or tooth) them into shape, of course, La Femme arrived. I was kept in a separate pen, from where I demonstrated dognified conduct while they watched. The freaks will stick together; they’re a tight old crew, indeed. I did my Chris Heart Surgeon impersonation; teeth, teeth and more teeth. But eventually, the funnies and I shared a few sniffs through the fence, while I figured out who were goodies and who were baddies and thinking the reintroduction of cannibalism might not be such a bad idea after all. And finally, in the afternoon, someone realised that I had been left there, and I was fetched.
The next day, I did not seriously object to being left behind, although I did not go into “happily ever after” mode. Getting a human being to change after it has developed bad habits is not an easy task. The motley crew flooded the area again, but I had the impression that they were a little better behaved, and that some of the rough edges had been made a little smoother. They had made progress; the need to chew them down to size was still there, but it wasn’t as strong as before. In the afternoon, the mouth basket came out and I allowed the mob to receive me in their pen. They were on their best behaviour; it wasn’t good, but did not warrant me taking off the mouth basket and sorting them out, either.
There was no dawn surprise the next morning; relax, don’t do it, seemed to be the motto. I had to get away from those fools, and watched the fundamental things apply as time went by.
But when the lights closed their tired eyes the morning after that, I found myself on the road again (without a Willie Nelson ponytail). Same old, same old; uglies everywhere, like a bad case of mange. Face to face, out in the heat, I gave them the eye of the tiger.
And then it was time to come together: I strutted into their pen like Freddie Mercury and Mick Jagger would have liked to. I bent it like Beckham, I jammed like Jimi, I shone like a national guitar. They only had eyes for me. I brought them all things refined; galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale as I walked the lines of nature’s palm and passed the wit of ancient wisdom.
They needed education. They needed thought control. I gave it to them. Sinking these pearly whites into them didn’t seem so necessary anymore. In fact, there was a brownish lady Husky …
Viva, the socialist classes!