When I was just a kid – yes my memory is still that good – my Grandmother was something of a jigsaw expert. In fact I think she may have graduated with at least a ‘Masters’ in the subject. She could put a jigsaw together in no time and she had a system. On one of the many rainy days in the North West of England she would carefully tutor me in the gentle art of creating pictures from a 10,000 piece puzzle. She may have been well into the autumn of her life but she was one mean hombre when it came to attacking this age old entertainment package.
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One of my friends recently invited me to lunch. I always knew he had a reputation and to be honest my ‘empathy’ antenna was out and working, as I awaited his arrival. He is an analytic by nature; late thirties; single and I’m not sure, but I think he’s living with his Mum. All the signs should have told me he’s a ‘tight wad’. Not that every analytic, single, thirty year old, mummies boy is mean, but something about this guy just stinks of ‘miserly’. Sadly, I wasn’t mistaken and I suffered through the worst lunch I’ve eaten in twenty years at…? You guessed it ‘Harry’s Cafe de Wheels’. Apart from the fact that it was downright unhealthy – I’m into low cal – it was nasty, but it was, as he continued to tell me “a cheap meal”.
I realise how old I am when I mention the name Robert Kennedy – Senator, Bobbie Kennedy that is! It happened just the other day in a room full of under 35’s. At first I became aware of the vacant looks and so I repeated his name and like the chorus of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, back came a resounding “Who?” It was at this point that I realised I had staggered into a time zone which had little or no appreciation of my past world or the greatness of its heroes and their sad departure.
It was too early in the night to disappear and my host would have been beside herself, if she’d have realised I wasn’t there – I think?. “Don’t you like cocktail parties?” She would ask, while I attempted to secret away my loathe and contempt for these bumptious occasions.
I can see him now, arched over his fist; stark rollicking naked; tight, curly locks and a deep sense of discovery in his stoney eyes. The ‘Thinker’ is a bronze and marble sculpture by Auguste Rodin, held in the Musée Rodin, in Paris. It depicts a man in sober meditation battling with a powerful internal struggle.
Only once has anyone convinced me – no! that should be “blackmailed me”, into attending a performance of the ballet. It was that evening I learned how much of a Philistine I can be, and on this occasion, I was Goliath. I also learned three very useful things about ballet that sad wintery evening.
I’m haunted by the triple ‘C’, I open my local paper; switch on my radio; watch the TV – it’s everywhere. It’s been like that for years.