Egg Head

While teaching a class of 12 year olds, one of my students asked about the origins of life.

(for the record, she was supposed to be conjugating the present tense of avoir)

“Can you narrow it down a bit for me?” I wasn’t sure where she was going with it.

“Well, something had to start something… so what started everything?” Lucy wondered.

“It’s a kind of Chicken & Egg question,” I replied.

“What do you mean, sir?” she persisted.

“Whenever we contemplate the origin of anything we often ask, which came first: the chicken or the egg? Some questions we just can’t answer. Well, not yet anyway but I think we’re getting closer.”

Lucy stared at nothing in particular but I could see her wheels turning.

“And now I’ve confused you,” I laughed.

“Only because you’re confused, sir,” she stated, as respectfully as possible. “The answer to the Chicken & Egg Theory is easy: Chickens are birds. Birds are descendants of dinosaurs. Dinosaurs didn’t give birth to live young but laid eggs, therefore the eggs some dinosaurs laid eventually evolved into chickens. The egg came first.”

Wow.

A colleague once told me, “The best thing about being a teacher is that we are, indeed, the smartest people in the room.”

Some days I’m not so sure.

Helluva Twist

To the Finder

Should you happen upon these pages, Dear Reader, you will acquaint yourself with the final remembrances of a life – my life – which is no longer of any consequence to those who mattered most to me. For the record, I was christened Anne, branding me with the same scarlet stain borne by my mother, who died in childbirth. My father’s name I know not, nor was it ever a matter of record, which resulted in my being spirited away under a veil of shame to an orphanage on the very day I first drew breath. I am told I have a sister three years my elder, but Providence has never guided her along the path I have travelled, which, I suppose, has spared her the shame of having to acknowledge our kinship. Yet, I should have liked to look upon her face just the once, if only to discern even the slightest resemblance to the beloved sibling who appears every night in my dreams. But dreams are not to be trusted, for they ease the torment of not knowing with trickery, filling in gaps where there ought to be knowledge, lending convenient falsehoods which soothe the conscience, unperturbed, until morning.

I am Anne, not yet twelve years of age; this is all I can confirm to you.

My life as an orphan could not have been more wretched, even if I had been sent to the colonies where men feed upon the flesh of other men and fail to know their Maker. It is not the lark which wakes us each morning, but the birch across our faces in cold darkness, accompanied by the dull ache of hunger. Our tormentors squeal with delight at our sufferings as they watch us wince and stumble with fatigue, a weariness which pushes downward with such force that some are unable to straighten and walk upright until mid-day.

Today – my final outing on this Earth – I was not permitted even to see the sun, let alone feel its radiance. When I climbed up to the only window within reach, I discovered that it had been smeared with grease, so as to blur the comings and goings of those on the other side. I cried, but without tears, for they too have abandoned me, reducing my anguish to a whisper and little else, as even my breath fails to serve.
For you see, I am these days, breathless, due to incessant coughing which knocks at my chest with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer. I know what it is that has come for me – I know. From the look of panic among those who cannot hide their horror, to the countenance of quiet resignation which stares back at me from the darkened window. Without mercy, a malady burrows deeper and deeper into the soft, delicious flesh of my lungs; its hunger insatiable, its progress relentless.

So now, Dear Reader, as my spent candle’s tiny light beckons me to follow it into darkness, I must to bed for the final sleep. I lay me down with a heavy heart for it is without friends, without family and without having told my sister how much I love her. I can see her now… Esther (for I have named her) is trying to find me as I write this, but the race is now over without the prize being claimed.

To my sister, I offer my heart.
To this life, I offer myself.
To My Maker, I offer my soul.
Remember me – I am Anne.

And now to dream.

Tale End

Where’s Monica? a colleague asked

The heating’s not turned up enough

It’s not as if she’s over-tasked

To take care of this kind of stuff.

Where’s Monica? another chimed

It’s 9:05, we’ve got no milk

Do we now have to have her timed?

Her job? Her breaks? Her type? Her ilk?

I never bother, you know me

Head down, work hard and see it through

But did she get the gluten-free?

If not, my bowels will turn to glue.

The printer’s low on paper too

Delivery was yesterday

It’s just one flight, it isn’t two

So why the need for this delay?

I saw her tumble down the stairs

The look of shock upon her face

Those sandwiches went everywhere

And crystal’s not cheap to replace.

What if she’s poorly, do we know?

Those files won’t files themselves today

Or HR, did they let her go?

For if they did, they didn’t say.

No, Monica is fine and well

She hasn’t quit, she wasn’t fired

Her colleagues didn’t hear her tell

In one week’s time she’d be retired.

So now she sits as each day ends

With husband, Jim, and the odd glass

And smiles at what she left for them:

A photocopy of her ass.

Consequential Confidential

Image result for top secret Hillary sunglasses

I think at times, oh yes, I think
That I would make the best Rat Fink
The sort who listens to friends’ tales
Then snitches, sending them to jails
For foolery and crimes and tricks
(those deeds which get you two-to-six)
But then again I’d better not
They are a vengeful, wicked lot
Who’d want to even up the score
For they know me and I’ve done more…

Doggone

My dog has died and no one cares
I mention him but this draws stares
And frowns which tell me I’m too old
To mourn a pet, or so I’m told.
Empty corners, bare floor
Room before but now we’ve more
Toys donated, bed gone
No more divots in the lawn.
Coming home, a rusty gate
Announces me and though I wait
No rocket launches down the path
To knock me down and make me laugh.
Quiet mealtimes, no one begs
Or nuzzles gently at my legs
Knowing that, in time, of course I’ll
Slip him the odd, tender morsel.
Day is done, I climb the stair
And reach the top but he’s not there
I pray for sleep – those loving scenes
When he runs to me in my dreams.

Dead Giveaway

“I’m writing my will,” I announced.

“Oh my God!” Alison covered her mouth. “Are you dying? Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

“No, I’m not dying, but if I were I hope to God there’d be more on offer than tap water.”

“Save it for your nurse,” Alison fired back. “You scared me just then.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. No, I’ve decided I want to leave money to a good cause.”

“You have money?” Alison appeared surprised.

“I might have, by then,” I was a tad taken aback by the question.

“Do you consider anyone present a good cause?” Dave ventured, taking a visual inventory of my lounge.

“Don’t worry, you’re all getting something but I want to leave a legacy, something worthwhile.”

“Oh, great,” Laverne looked at the others. “I’m getting his Margaret Atwood Anthology while a bunch of rotten schoolkids are going to score an iPad.”

“No, I’ve been looking into it and I think I’d like to help save the rhino.”

“Since when?”

“Since about three o’clock because it’s taken me all morning to think of a good cause.”

“Why rhinos?” Dave was curious.

“I did a project on them in school and got an A+ on it, so I guess I’m saying thanks in my own little way.”

“And which rhinos are we talking about in particular?” Laverne cast her line.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean which rhinos? Javan, Sumatran, black, white… and I think there’s a fifth. You guys?”

“It says here there’s a great, one-horned rhino,” Alison scrolled through her phone.

I smelled an ambush.

“The white rhino. I’m saving white ones.”

“What do you have against black ones?”

“Nothing.”

“According to the statistics, there are a lot more white rhinos. Maybe you should help the black ones,” Alison scrolled further. “Oh, wait… the black ones have been making a comeback. That’s good.”

“Actually, it’s the black rhinos you hear about in the news all the time. You don’t really hear much about the white rhino anymore,” Dave joined in. “And are they even white or is that just from rolling around in the dust because they actually look sorta grey.”

“There are thousands of white rhinos and less than one-hundred of the Javan and Sumatran ones,” Laverne was also on her phone. “Actually, those last two don’t even have horns, just bumps. And they’re a lot smaller than the African ones. Are they still rhinos if they no longer look like rhinos?”

“Maybe they’re hybrids. Fifty percent rhino, fifty percent… I dunno… hippo. Someone will have DNA-tested their lineage.”

“Maybe they no longer think of themselves as rhinos. Maybe they identify as something completely different.”

I could feel it all slipping away from me.

“Maybe they were shipped to Asia,” Alison suggested, “although why would you transport rhinos anywhere? Saying that, if they were relocated back to Africa they’d be disadvantaged compared to the ones with horns.”

“The other rhinos would probably attack them,” Laverne turned to me. “Is that what you want? Rhino gang wars?”

“I’m not following your logic,” I replied, “but do go on.”

“You want to donate money to the white rhino who outnumber all the others combined-“

“-yeah, but hold on… proportionally, all the others are doing better than the white ones now,” Alison interrupted her. “And did you know that the northern white rhino is down to its last two?”

“In the whole world?” Dave checked he’d heard correctly.

“Yep, there are only two females left. “

“Then it’s the females we ought to be helping; they’re the ones producing the next generation,” Laverne decided. “We don’t even need the males, just a cup of their you-know-what. What are you doing to help these two females?”

“They’ll be in captive breeding programs,” I suggested, tentatively. “They’ll breed them with the other whites.”

“Why not the black ones?” came the riposte. “They’re the ones being shot left, right and centre. It’s not the white ones being killed, is it?”

“And what if the females don’t want to breed? Don’t they have a say in it? Why is it up to the males?” Alison queried.

Update: I’ll be leaving everything to the goldfish.

Alcohol On You Later

My granny’s got two teapots
(this tends to make her wee lots)
Her good one goes out on display
The other she keeps tucked away
When visitors decide to call
The posh pot serves them, one and all
Dispensing cups of Earl of Grey
On her brushed-silver serving tray

A person shouldn’t trivialise
A ritual so civilised

When Elsie Burns, who lives next door
Comes calling ‘round each day at four
The Staffordshire is put away
For it’s too late for Earl of Grey
Gran reaches for her other pot
Whose contents never need be hot
And pours her canny friend a cup
Of mother’s homemade pick-me-up

A nip of whisky leaves them feeling
Life’s too short to drink Darjeeling

Another Mist Opportunity

I’m known to stretch out on the lawn
Amidst the weekend carry-on
Of mowing, trimming, watering
And folks I know I ought to ring.
Just when it starts to get too loud
When life can push and kids can crowd
Before the next field’s needing ploughed
I lay right back and pick a cloud.
The dogs, alerted, circle me
Unsure if they should stay or flee
They know each trick, each ruse I use
To wrestle them in ones and twos.
Eventually they come to rest
On either side, heads on my chest
And then the three of us just stare
At our own clouds a way up there.
Marshmallow Fluff or Dairy Whip
A giant dollop on the lip
Of Heaven, cruising like a ship
That’s drifted, noiseless, from its slip.
I want to jump and land on it
And try my best to stand on it
Then sink into its spongy core
While eating handfuls from its store.
They have no map, no place to be
You can’t catch clouds because they’re free
To nonchalantly skirt your town
And make us run when they come down.
The trouble is, they take their time
And doing so, robs me of mine
So up I get – no time to lie!
Until the next cloud passes by…