| Shooting Blanks (1) |
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The air smelled delicious, all blossom and lush foliage, and plenty of birds
were singing their little hearts out. The ditch accommodated ducks while
above it a heron flew by, carrying a squawking duckling in its beak,
gracefully flapping its wings as the ultimate insult. I wondered whether the
duckling, despite its presumed death struggle, could at all have been aware
of the dazzling speed at which it zoomed over the ramrod ditch, amazed by
the sensation of something it had not quite had time to digest. Even if I had been energetic enough to turn the handlebars of my bicycle at a 90 degree angle and hurl myself into the ditch, effing and blinding, would there have been any chance of the heron overestimating my powers and being shocked into letting go of the squawking duckling? Not really. It's like trying to take an incompetent train driver to task: why get drenched if you know in advance that it won't get you anywhere …
If a large dog in a foul mood stares at you with its head tilted, you can consider yourself safe. It would go a bit far to state that a water jet is safe regardless of the circumstances, but can you empathise with the fact that it is the water jet that gives your faucet a range of expressions, a personality of its own? Just turn it on and you'll know what I mean. With or without percolator, tube or nozzle, a full-on blast of water always comes across as more cheeky than a sad little trickle, and you will empathise whether you like it or not. Let me assure you that it is far from easy to admit that one's emotions are affected by the language of the water jet.
When I was young, I was mesmerised by girls who ate their apple core and all - something which I saw as asking for trouble, being the sort of person for whom even the tiniest of pips inside a raisin in a slice of raisin bread forms an insurmountable obstacle. Had I been a pigeon or a cockerel, the neighbours would have had every reason to complain, however, possibly with the local police constable, or with the baker or cheesemonger on the corner in so far as they had not yet been replaced by a supermarket. Which serves as implicit proof that literature alone will not succeed in saving the human race, or the Ollie B. Bommel comic would have done the trick*. Or may I be so bold as to venture that the failure of left-wing popular culture, in so far as it has ever worked or will ever work - with all due respect for social thinking, I should stress, as something that never fails to endear regardless of the outcome - is attributable to the Dutch principle-monger's immunity to puffed-up parallels and names such as Super and Hyper? * Famous Dutch illustrated serial by Marten Toonder. In addition to larger-than-life Oliver B. Bommel and his irritatingly clever little sidekick, Tom Cat, it features an array of wonderfully named characters including the Marquis of Cantecler, the ever-vibrant artist Turpen Tine, chief constable Boom and his assistant, sergeant Sniffins ("Sniffins, surround the building!" "All by myself, sir?!"), cheerful local bum Jerkin Waddle, and bungling crooks Bull Super and Hype Hyper. |