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I Have started to rub beeswax into my hair and beard and often refer to myself as John. Alas, with the travel bans and all I can't go to the Jordan so I go to the Garden and baptise unsuspecting fauna in the birdbath. I find this strangely fulfilling.
"How much longer will you be doing this?" asks she who breaks bread with me.
“ One really ought to have people to do this sort of thing for one “ I said to the wife as I whizzed the Dyson around the dining room furniture, being sure to check for that nasty sticky fluff that accretes under chair legs.
“ it’s another Royal Wedding tonight pet” she said, tilting her head to one side with a wistful expression. How could I have forgotten this looming landmark in our lives? Was I growing anti-social with age?
“ I’ll defrost some frozen peas and we can spear them onto toothpicks next to small cubes of tofu and diced carrot, and we can toast the happy couple with some flat prosecco left over from the celebration we had when we finally paid off this year’s private health fund premiums.”
“ Oh darling” she whinnied “ what has become of us? “
“ My precious, we’ll be pensioners soon enough and we’ll look back on these golden carefree years with appropriate nostalgia”
It was then that I decided to buy a block of fruit and nut chocolate and hang the expense. It’s not every day a Windsor ties the knot, and I won’t have to touch the 2004 vintage Dom Perignon I stashed away for Trump’s untimely demise or impeachment, whichever comes first.
Editor’s note: For ‘untimely’ read ‘overdue’
Usernames and passwords, log-ins and security questions, pin numbers and profiles were not a part of my childhood, my youth or even my early working life.
When I was ten years old the only communication my family had with the wider world beyond my street was the wireless, the Sun newspaper late final extra, telegrams, the public phonebox two suburban blocks away or the private telephone owned by the Macellis a few doors down, which we all understood was there in the case of a compelling emergency. Mr. Macelli, a shoe salesman, had become the first in our street to trouble the PMG for a phone because his wife had a ‘dickey ticker’ and needed to be able to call him if she felt unwell. When I was about six years old television sets began to turn up in the street. We were invited here or there to watch Zorro, Rescue 8 or Hopalong Cassidy. The Ward family resisted for quite a while because my father wasn’t going to be rushed into new technology. He reckoned they cost an arm and a leg and delivered little perceivable benefit. I don’t think he was wrong at the basic level and I feel that the benefit to bullshit balance still favours bullshit, and more so than in the sixties. More channels just means more bullshit as far as I can see. The argument that saw a goggle box enter our house was my mother’s pleading that my sister and I were being humiliated at school for not knowing what Beaver Cleaver was doing, or why Father Knows Best. I really think though that she herself wanted to watch Lucille Ball and Ann Sothern and had merely gone for the most poignant plea.“ Think of the children Pete ” I heard her say through a crack in the door. A huge Stromberg Carlson television set duly appeared one weekend and that was that. It was a big ornate bit of furniture with an impressive tuning knob that went kerthunk, kerthunk, kerthunk around the dial to locate the three available channels.
I think I am wired differently to my children and those born since them. My senses spent more time in the open air, and my brain was expanded by my own original musings and observations. I read comics and went to the cinema, sure, but as a part of my waking consciousness they were a small portion. These days the stream of information and ‘entertainment’ is ubiquitous and ceaseless. Little faces open-eyed before little screens.
I played all day in the back yard, or down by the creek. I created a town in the dirt up by the back fence, with streets and houses made of junk. My matchbox cars and trucks drove around at the end of my fingers and ran up driveways into pumpkin leaves, paspalum clumps and biscuit tin garages. The weather that affected my little make believe town affected me. When it was hot and sunny I wore a hat. I didn’t run inside if it was spitting rain, but when the storms came I got wet gathering up the cars and ran inside. When it was windy on me it was windy in the town. The breeze carried the strong smell of privet in summer and roses, frangipani and lavender when they were in flower. There were flies, bees, wasps, butterflies, dragonflies, sparrows, willy wagtails, peewees, robins and god only knows what else in the air about me, and the micro fauna of the earth all around me. We had to be watchful for funnel webs, redbacks, bullants and those nasty green headed ants that really packed a punch for their size.
There were long pauses in the day when nothing at all seemed to happen. I watched my eye floaters until a crow flew over chasing a dove off the church hall roof. My mother brought me out a devon and lettuce sandwich and told me to put my sandals back on before I came down the yard because the bindis were bad near the back steps.
I guess I did have a username, and it was ‘mate’ or ‘son’ and my pin was something my mother kept. My contract with the universe to watch, listen and learn was renewed every day.
Fifty three years ago I was a choirboy at the Anglican Christchurch, in Kowloon Tong (Hong Kong). I wore a blue gown and a white surplice and led in the choir with my mate Patrick by my side. We were descant singers and often allowed to improvise, as we had a free thinking choirmaster (Patrick's dad). One Sunday we made our procession from the vestry to the choir stalls, in full throat with a Te Deum and as we turned to our allotted places our vicar let loose an amazing fart. It was like the crump of a grenade from the war movies, only partially smothered by his vestments. It was tuneful with some glissando to the after notes. To this day I swear it is the most honest thing I've ever heard in a church.
To think it was the memorial service for the late Sir Winston Churchill we were lurching into as well. What a lark. After the service we flawed cherubs were not even admonished for our underarm raspberries in the vestry. We shall fight them on the pews. We will meet them at the altar….we will swig the communion wine and we shall never surrender…we happy few. Well, two actually.
I was sitting waiting for my Thai takeaway a few nights ago when I spotted a New Idea magazine with a cover story about the Australian resident claiming to be Charles and Camilla’s love child, a son born of their youthful indiscretion. It moved me to my core. You see I have a story to tell and it must come out. Before I slide quietly past history’s gaze I must reveal my origins, for the sake of my wife and children, for my friends, for the Department of Human Services and for the illumination of humanity as a whole.
I am the love child of Sir Winston Churchill and Queen Elizabeth II. It is such an inexpressible relief to be able to share my secret. The magazine that ignited my resolve will next month be carrying the banner headline:
‘ The Longest Prime Ministerial Audience: Winnie and Liz, the Missing Hours’ and the subtitle ‘ Alan, the world’s newest and most misunderstood Royal’
There may be more about this shock revelation scandal mystery as I gather my wits about me and have some consultations about how to best monetize my unique situation.
pencils change
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