Elmer the Epidemiologist

It is now some years since the events of this story occurred yet some aspects still rankle: the waste of gas; and the sheer self-absorption of our guest.

My wife was involved in the arrangement of a conference, and a distinguished epidemiologist was coming from the U.S.  I shall forbear from mentioning his name not because some will know him but because merely seeing his name in print irritates me.

We agreed to put him up since we thought it might be interesting.  Others, especially some of the wankier of the academic wankers, thought we were lucky to have him staying with us; as though we were being honoured by his presence.  The truth turned out to be a long way from that.

I went to pick up ‘Elmer’ at the airport.  He gave me a perfunctory greeting, and I carried his baggage for him to my car.  I still don’t know why I did that.  He showed absolutely no interest in my city – Adelaide - as we drove through it but almost commanded me to find a health-food shop; perhaps to buy some lecithin or some other fashionable foodstuff.  Since it was a Saturday afternoon, there were no health-food shops open.  Elmer regarded that as a very great failing and indicative of how provincial Adelaide was (he came from just outside L.A.).  I felt some mild satisfaction that he was unable to get what he wanted.

He was installed in our front lounge which we had turned into a bedroom in his honour.  My wife and I went out in the afternoon to allow him time to settle in, perhaps sleep a while after his long journey.  On returning that evening, we found him in the kitchen eating a large bowl of breakfast cereal.  Of course. His choice of food could be put down to jet-lag, but we soon found that, in spite of getting in a wide range of foods to tempt him at some expense (what fools we were), all he wanted to eat was breakfast cereal – morning, noon and night.

It was Winter.  I showed him how to operate the gas heater in his room, and we all went to bed early that first night.  I was horrified to discover, during the night, that he had left the gas heater on full and yet had the windows open letting in loads of cold air. I could see this was someone I could quickly learn to hate.  I drew this to his attention the next day, but he was quite indifferent to my concerns and continued the practice for the remainder of his stay.

The next evening he expressed a wish to go to a Vietnamese restaurant.  That was a fortunate choice since Adelaide has hundreds of them.  We started off in the Western suburbs and found several.  At each restaurant, Elmer would enter, ask to see the menu, and then loudly proclaim, to the astonishment of the proprietor, that the food was not genuine Vietnamese.  This must have happened a dozen times, and the combination of hunger and anger in me was making me near homicidal.

Fortunately for Elmer, and possibly the future of epidemiology, we found a restaurant in the western end of the city centre which, although not absolutely authentic in his lights, was close enough to the real thing to be acceptable.  Throughout the meal, he reminded us of how incredibly backward Adelaide was in comparison to Los Angeles with its Ethiopian and perhaps even Martian restaurants.

When we arrived home, Elmer went into the kitchen again for a further helping of breakfast cereal, after being an absolute pig at the Vietnamese restaurant.  I suddenly had a feeling for revenge and, that night, it came in the form of a grand piano which a friend had lent to me while he was overseas.  Those who know me know that I play the piano – not well, but loudly.  I have ‘mastered’, if that is the word, a few of the Etudes-Tableaux of Rachmaninoff.  That evening I played those few through several times.  I had hardly completed the first run through when I heard heavy footsteps go down the hallway and his door slam.  A smile of contentment broke out on my face for the first time in his visit.  I played on as I had never played before.  I even sight read a couple of the etudes I had never previously attempted.  The results were hellish.  If Sviatoslav Richter had not still been alive at that time, he would have been spinning in his grave.

I expected some reaction the next morning from our dear epidemiologist, but he just calmly munched his breakfast cereal – for once, at the right time of day – and hardly uttered a word.  He did not seem angry, happy, anything. 

I complained to some colleagues about his behaviour that day, but the message they gave me was that I was privileged to have him in my house and it was a small price to pay for close contact with genius.  What utter rubbish!  I would gladly put up with, say, a musical genius - the cigars and coffee-drinking habits of Brahms; the reclusive nature of Scriabin - but an epidemiological genius – and a self-centred, anti-social *#%%@ at that!  You'd have to be joking.

We gave up trying to socialise with the guy.  He ate us out of breakfast cereal several times, consumed many cubic metres of our gas, and we no longer cared.  We just wanted him out of our house, out of the country and out of our hemisphere.  Although it did occur to me that the gas he was recklessly consuming would have been put to better use had it not been burning, and his window had been shut.

A couple of days before he left he startled us by saying some very complimentary things about Adelaide.  We were startled because, only hours before, he had become blatantly insulting about the city.  We found that his change of heart had arisen because he had found the chocolate section in the basement of David Jones and, wonder of wonders, they had his favourite Belgian chocolate there.  I can't recall its name.  It could have been Ratsak for all I cared.

The day of his departure my wife and I were just as excited as we had been about his arrival; this time for a different reason.  I drove him to the airport.  As he got out of the car in the car-park, he looked around and said: "You have a really nice city here."  Perhaps he was trying to make amends in his socially incompetent way for the way he had treated us and our city.  Whatever the reason I just quietly said "Thanks", bundled him into the terminal, and left him there alone to wait for his plane hoping I would never see or hear from him again.  Fortunately, that has been the case.

So if, by chance, you are asked to put up an American epidemiologist in your house, enquire closely about his eating habits before you agree.

Elephants and toenails

There are silly questions and silly questions.  At school we were always told to ask silly questions because often they extract the most useful information.  But most of us did not want to ask those questions because they were, well, silly.  And if we dared to ask them we were told we were plain stupid.  But there are many such questions I now wish that I had asked; no time for regrets. 

There are some questions that make you suddenly sit up and wonder about a whole lot of things.  For example, I recall my four year old child asking me:  “Daddy, do elephants have toenails?”

Now a question like that is a truly original question.  I knew immediately nobody had ever asked me that before.  I also knew that I had never thought about it myself and could only guess at an answer.  My presumption was, yes, they do have toenails and certainly pictures of elephants show what appear to be toenails on their hooves.  The trouble is, when you are put on the spot by a four year old, you might be able to picture an elephant in general – but you can’t see its feet!

You can be pedantic and say that they cannot have toenails since they do not have toes.  I didn’t know at the time whether that was true or not (in fact, expert pachydermopodiatrist opinion is that they do have toes).  Anyway, I mentally thrust that aside and told my offspring that elephants do, indeed, have toenails.  What effect that answer had on his mental development I do not know but it does not seem to have done any harm.

I loved his question and recall my delight when I heard it.  I even used it, that same day, to introduce a presentation I was giving.  It seemed to fall flat.  I realise now, years later, it was because individual members of the audience were trying to picture elephants themselves, but they couldn’t see their feet!

Another question was asked by my eight year old some months later.  We were, by then, living on a farm and every walk around the property brought exposure to new collections of droppings left by kangaroos, wombats, etc.  (interestingly, you might have noticed yourself that  wombats pass fashionably square droppings, rather like gambling dice; just what are they doing down their burrows?).  Anyway, she asked: “Daddy, do snakes do poo?”

That question had the same effect on me as the pachyderm toenails.  This time I knew whom to ask.  I have a friend in Adelaide who has written books on excrement; well, concerning excrement.  I sent Rob an e-mail and he came back with all the information one might wish to know about the excretory habits of snakes.  It appears snakes exude their excrement as a sort of layer underneath, very much like worms, as they slither along.  I understood then why I had been unable to find any snake droppings in all my travels over our land, despite some serious serpents I have seen on it.

Both those questions have been outclassed since by a question asked by a parent at a at a parent-teacher morning I attended.  One mother stunned the group with the question:  “Does the school have a policy on rainbow braces?”

At first I thought she might be referring to trouser-supporting-in-dowdy-late-middle-aged-men-braces or trouser-supporting-in-young-male-trendoids-braces but then I realised, as she was pointing helpfully to her own teeth, or what was left of them, she meant orthodontic braces.  The teacher was caught off-balance for a short time.  Nothing in her training had prepared her for this one. 

I was impressed by way she recovered saying that the school, although not having formulated a final policy on rainbow-coloured orthodontic braces (henceforth abbreviated as RCOBs), did not approve of them in principle, and would prepare something in writing in the near future (just don’t hold your breath or, in the case of the parent in question, please hold your breath).  I think that was just confabulation but it seemed to satisfy the questioner.  It shut her up for a while and that was a blessing.

Afterwards, I realised I had been exposed to another one of those watershed questions and that I would always remember that parent-teacher meeting for that one question.  The question itself answered several other questions I had never bothered to ask myself, such as:

• Are there such things as a rainbow-coloured orthodontic braces?  Yes, the questioner was saying.  Why in heaven’s name one would wish to wear RCOBs was, for me, implied but unanswered.
• Do these present a problem at school?  Yes, the questioner was saying.  What this problem might be was left unanswered; I hesitated to venture such a stupid question.  I did pick up an oblique reference to the idea that RCOBs were far more expensive than standard issue and might be seen as a form of ostentation or conspicuous consumption by fellow students.
• Should schools have policies about RCOBs?  Yes, the questioner was saying and if the school did not have a policy it was clearly behind the times.  The parent was showing herself as intellectually and morally superior.  She had considered this weighty matter and had come to an independent decision. There was disapproval in her tone.  We were all being judged.

If you want to check out how mentally nimble your child’s teacher is, ask the RCOB question at your next parent-teacher gathering – preferably in front of lots of other people so that he or she is under pressure.  You will be seen to be the trend-setter, bringing matters of vital public interest into view.  If the teacher caves in on that one then deliver a coup de grace with an apparently innocent question about whether elephants have toenails.  You will be assured of instant recognition at any future school gathering.  Perhaps leave the one about snake droppings; it might seem eccentric.

Should such an important matter as RCOBs be left to individual schools?  It is a heavy responsibility.  Something needs to be done at state or federal level; maybe an amendment to the constitution (although we all know how successful those have been over the years).

Personally, I have not come to a final conclusion as to whether wearing of RCOBs is a good or a bad thing.  But if it is ostentation that was of concern to the parent-questioner a few other policies need to be formulated.  For example:

• No student should be dropped off at school in an expensive car.  Outlawed would be the BMWs, the Audis, the Alfa Romeos, and parents would be reduced to scrounging for an old FJ Holden in which to transport their offspring.  This would send the cost of FJ Holdens through the roof and a follow-up policy or a codicil to the first (if that is the correct term), would have to be issued prohibiting FJ Holdens.  Then we would see dilapidated old VWs being resurrected and so on.
• No student should wear a new school uniform; only second-hand uniforms are permissible.  Well, that policy would create a few logistic problems but, with the support of such parents as the RCOB questioner, maybe it would succeed.  Not sure how.

There are fertile grounds here for the policymakers.  The policies would have to be preceded by discussion documents and then followed by implementation strategies; veritable heaven for a bureaucrat.  I think it might be more productive to go back to wondering whether elephants have toenails.

The self-pleasure of reunion

School reunions can have a variety of effects.  In the early years after leaving school they can be an occasion for comparing your achievements with those of former chums.  There will be some just getting by whom you can lord it over.  Others you discover are skiing at Aspen or flying somewhere in their private jets.  You try to steer the conversation away from them.

I went to a reunion of my old, all-boys school in a distant metropolis perhaps 20 years ago.  It took place in the dining hall and we were arranged at tables, according to the year we had left, along that very long room.  There was an after-dinner speaker, a well-respected teacher, who related a long series of jokes.  Some jokes produced laughter from only the end of the room where decrepit old boys in their 80s were ensconced.  Others brought laughter from those who had just left the school.  It seemed that those of us in between had lost our sense of humour for there was little laughter at our tables.

About half an hour into the dinner, one of my contemporaries, who had become a politician, arrived.  As he sat down he said to our table: "I've just jetted in from the House of Reps.  We had a long session."  This was said in the 'born to rule' accent which a few years spent at the school sometimes engendered.  Naturally the latecomer was treated like a total outcast for the remainder of the dinner since he was obviously full of himself, or of something similar.  It was okay to be full of yourself so long as you didn't show it.  I was pleased to hear he lost his seat some months later.

Dinner talk got around to a former headmaster who by then had retired, to most people’s relief.  He was viewed with little respect and several recalled odd experiences they had had with him.  I recounted my own experience of 10 years before.  The headmaster had called me to his study one afternoon.  I entered the room with great trepidation.  I had no idea why he would want to see me. 

It turned out he wanted to dissuade me from leaving home.  To that moment I had never considered the idea since I was on a pretty good wicket there.   Overwhelmed by being in the headmaster’s study and having this remarkable being focused on me, I listened for a full ten minutes before it dawned upon me he had the wrong boy.  I assured him, because of his words, I would certainly never leave home (I was a bit of a crawler).  For an awestruck, downtrodden 14 year old the head remained a major authority figure despite that encounter and I assumed everyone else felt the same about him.  I sometimes wonder, though, what happened to the boy he was supposed to be giving advice to. 

About four years into his term of office, he had alienated quite a few of us by banning nude bathing in the school pool, a practice which had been de rigueur for a hundred years.  Although the pool had no filter, and grew algae with near-tropical luxuriance, diving in and swimming around au naturel had a rather elemental, primaeval feeling about it, and was rightly regarded as quite the most pleasurable activity at the school; well, for most.

In placing the ban he obliquely indicated that his wife, who always accompanied him to the school swimming sports, had been affronted over the years by the sight of such large quantities of unclad, adolescent, male flesh.  Strangely enough, despite her reported sense of affront, she had been an absolute stalwart at those swimming carnivals and had managed, with presumably superhuman effort, to cover her unease with a facial expression we naïve and unclad chaps had taken as signifying interest and delight - in our swimming prowess naturally.

The head spoke to the assembled school several times about what I might term a ‘sexual health’ topic; the Americans would now call it ‘self-pleasuring’ which is one of their more revolting euphemisms, but it conveys the concept.   I think he might have had some developmental problem in this area.  His approach to the subject was so idiosyncratic and obscure that perhaps one boy in fifty knew vaguely what he was talking about and one boy in a hundred was able to carry out his advice, perhaps to their subsequent regret.  For the rest of us he might as well have been reading an ATO guidance note on tax legislation; for some reason, the Alienation of Personal Services Act comes to mind.  I think he was too frightened and repressed to come out and clearly state what the hell he was talking about, but he still managed to convey a strong sense of warning and doom. 

These days we would say the head had the communication skills of a rock, an anxiety-provoking rock.  Nowadays he would have the opportunity to go to courses in interpersonal communication which would elevate his skills to those of a brick.  At that time we didn't know about communication skills; most eventually concluded he was an absolute drongo.

I went to another school reunion some months ago; this time in Sydney.  There were enough old boys from the interstate school, and one of its major rivals, to make a sizable party.  Everyone looked old, except for a handful of recent school-leavers who merely looked prematurely dissipated.  The occasion resembled a Grey Power gathering and I was well qualified for that.  I checked the mirror in the men’s a couple of times to see whether I really looked like these fellows.  Sad to say, I did.  A longer mirror would have shown I matched them in gut profile as well. 

The oldest person at the reunion turned out to be a master, not a pupil.  He was at the school during my time although he had never taught me.  A very kindly man, I had assumed he would stay teaching until he turned to chalk but, five years after I left, he chucked it in, moved here, and became a farmer.  He could not forsake his old teaching habits though; his cattle were the most literate in the country and his swine won several scholarships. 

I realised that he would be an ideal person to ask about the fate of my favourite teacher, known affectionately as WMR; nobody else at the reunion could remember him.  The old bloke dimly recalled him but had no idea where he had gone.  I was suddenly clutched with the black, abysmal thought that WMR, from whom I gained so much at school, might be dead.

I left the reunion feeling older, greyer, gut-heavier, and with a strong sense of loss.  Aren’t reunions supposed to be joyful affairs?

But this one had a happier outcome.  I contacted several at the school in that far-flung capital but they knew nothing of him.  Then I heard from their archivist who thought WMR had gone on to teach at a prominent Melbourne school but had just retired.  From there it was easy to track him down, write to him, and tell him, before it was too late, how much I appreciated him. 

When I had a chance to talk to him in person, I found him as fit, good-humoured and eloquent as ever; in him, the burden of teaching and years was very lightly borne.  I told him exactly that and he replied he had been “permanently happy” at the school.  To my surprise, he went on to say “we staff had such a ball at the expense of that drongo of a headmaster”.  He added that the head’s sex talk would always be followed by a spirited discussion in the staff room, lubricated with lots of Teacher’s Scotch Whisky, about what the duffer could possibly mean. 

I don’t think I shall attend any more school reunions.  Instead, I’ll sit at home, a glass of Teacher’s by my side.  One day I hope to work out what the old headmaster was warning us about, though I fear, for me, it’s too late.

Some very short stories:

Farewell

The fire took hold as Randall arrived. He heard screams amid the crackling sound of burning timber. Suddenly he was inside. In the bedroom two figures lay together unconscious; one his wife. He ran out of the house without looking back. He had seen his father for the last time.

Detachment

"Look at my bloody hands! Look at them !" ordered the heavily-built man. "I fought in war for smooth-skinned wimps like you !" He smashed his fist down on the bar. The atmosphere in the pub was electric. David unhitched his left hand and laid it on the table. The man fainted.

Home Thoughts

He sat quietly -eyes closed. He heard a nightingale calling over a soft summer breeze; there was a gentle rustle of leaves in the background. He wearily took off the headphones and opened his eyes to stare into the barren distance. He would return to Earth on the next shuttle.

Prophetic Tremor

The refrigerator groaned away to itself as ever. But now Russell could hear something new: a deep rumbling growing steadily louder. At last! he thought. The earthquake to smite the wicked of this City; this Sodom. Outside the Garbage truck      turned  his corner, receding, with its sound, into the distance.

Missed Appointment

It was the day of Earth's transit. Karke had long prepared for it; his instrument was focussed at the predicted time. No black interloper traversed the sun's dazzling

orb. He rechecked; figures correct. Twenty days later a perfect green sky was punctuated by the most brilliant meteor shower ever seen.

Reunion

She searched the horizon for his boat with longing. Suddenly there it was amid a wilderness of waves. It had survived the storm. She made her way towards it as best as she could. He was at the helm. With a final swoop she reached her secure perch -his shoulder.

Post Hoc?

The letter lay on the desk. He was irresistibly drawn to read it. "Darling, you will someday understand. ..." it started. He read on - a suicide note, unmistakably in h i s

handwriting. For a moment he thought of destroying it; then his hand moved towards an open drawer to grasp cold steel.

Late news

She opens the tablet container and absently swallows a hundred of the minute baubles. Soon drowsy, she lies down. Her breathing becomes stertorous. A mile away a telephone rings. "Dr Hearst? Mrs Sjoegren's path result: misreported,     I'm afraid. It's negative." "Thanks. I'll have my secretary ring her in the morning."

The Fraud

A perfect rose! He stopped to admire its splendour, then bent down to enjoy its aroma. Unexpectedly, there was no fragrance. He was mystified. Now, looking closer, he could see the petals were synthetic - made of the same material as his skin. He rolled away,

Registering bitter disappointment somewhere within.

Apostrophitis - a 20th century disease

For Captains Flat, the very name of which has, lamentably, lost its apostrophe, there is an urgent need to eliminate apostrophitis - the misuse of apostrophes - a rampant and endemic condition in the last half of the twentieth century.

If you can drink a schooner of Toohey’s you can use apostrophes properly.

As a product of our school system it is not likely that you know how to use apostrophes properly.  If you do it is most likely due to your own intelligence overcoming the inadequacies of what passes, these days, for English teaching (apologies to any English teachers but you know what I mean). 

Apostrophes are really useful things but much abused.  Sometimes incorrect use can make what you write almost ridiculous.  For example, outside the parking for a large flat development:

Tenant’s parking only

The clear implication of that is that there is only one tenant in the whole place!  Is that what the owner would wish passers-by to believe?  Getting a flat in that development must be pretty easy.

Some try to avoid the issue by writing:

Tenants parking only

But you know these people are just unavoidably publicising the fact they do not know how to use apostrophes.

I hope to make you a master of the apostrophe.  There will eventually be rewards for your mastery later in the year (to be announced).

Let me give three rules:

(1)  Never use an apostrophe to make a word plural!

  

This is probably the most common error.  You will see, in shops, orange’s for sale.  In front of the Narooma Bowling and Recreation Club they have a sign saying:

Visitor’s welcome

Have a look at it next time you are down there.  The correct version is, of course:

Visitors welcome

The use of an apostrophe in forming plurals of words is WRONG in 99.9% of cases.  Yes, 99.9% - so your chances of being right are slim if you are one of these Plural Apostrophisers (PAs).

(2)  It’s can only mean it is.

Another common error.  The apostrophe in it’s does not indicate ownership.  You cannot say, for example, “It’s face was red” since that can only be read as “It is face was red” which is meaningless.

The ownership form is its.  So the correct version of the example above is “Its face was red”. Its is an exception to the normal rule.  I can only suspect that it was felt more important to have it’s as the shortened form of it is rather than as the ‘ownership’ form.

I did not make the rules.  Don’t shoot the messenger.

 (3)  With ownership the apostrophe goes before the s if the word is single; after the s if it is plural.

If you have one dog and you want to talk about his, her or its teeth you can say:

The dog’s teeth

If you have more than one dog and teeth are again on your mind (an uncomfortable situation):

The dogs’ teeth

If you know these three rules and use them properly you will avoid 95% of all apostrophe errors and people in the know, such as your potential employer, will look more favourably on the over-inflated, largely fictional, job application you have written.

If your potential employer sees a sentence like:  “I have several certificate’s in verbal communication.  My interest in this had it’s beginning in....” you will probably be discarded from the pile of applicants without being interviewed.

I shall just repeat the three rules again:

(1)  Never never never use an apostrophe to make a word plural!

(2)  It’s can only mean it is.

(3)  The apostrophe goes before the s if the word is single; after the s if it is plural.

Unfortunately there is another rule:

(4)  An apostrophe is also used to show that something has been left out in a word.

 Examples:

            Auto’s - short for automobiles (some might think this one a little doubtful)

            Can’t - short for cannot

            It’s - short for it is

            Cauli’s - short for cauliflowers (some might also think this one a little doubtful)

An older example was ‘plane for aeroplane.  Here the apostrophe showed that the aero had been left off.  But we have got so used to just saying plane now that nobody uses the apostrophe.

So, from the above, we can see that the apostrophe serves two purposes:

(a)  To show possession e.g. Joyce’s hat; the dog’s nose, etc.  BUT NOT IT’S

(b)  To show something has been left out of a word e.g. can’t, isn’t, etc.

I shall just take one ‘never’ off rule (1):

(1)  Never never use an apostrophe to make a word plural!

This is because there is one instance where apostrophes can be used in forming plurals ­- to prevent confusion.  You might have known that there would be exceptions to all these things.  There always are.  A good example of this is:

Dot your i’s and cross your t’s.

But you don’t need apostrophes where there is no chance of confusion e.g.  MPs, TVs, the 1920s etc.

If you’re capable of turning off Australia’s Funniest Home Videos, you can use apostrophes correctly.

So, in this short introduction, I believe I have reinforced the correct use of apostrophes.  There is nothing mysterious about them and their correct use is as simple as flicking the off switch at the start of Australia’s Funniest Home Videos.

There is one final rule:

(5)  People who write about correct English usage almost always make mistakes themselves and people criticise them vigorously.

I do not pretend to have written something perfect and I welcome any criticisms.  These can be sent to Flat Chat or to my e-mail address - leleul@dynamite.com.au.

There will be further articles going beyond the apostrophe and, in addition, there will be an inaugural competition.  Keep watching this space!

If you see any examples of apostrophe misuse - especially in prominent signage - please let me know about them. 

PASO THORPE

Your affable apostrophiser

Foundation member and chairperson (?chairman, chairthing) of P.O.A.M.

If you can walk and chew gum at the same time, you can use apostrophes correctly.

Leon the Huguenot remembers an English professor who made him feel even more insignificant than he is.

The Blue Niles

I grew up in a rather sheltered environment; in a small provincial Australian city.  We had one small bookcase full of books and that made us fairly unusual in our street.  In most other houses the only book was the telephone book.  My family was not strong in the literary area and I do not think we have changed much.

Into my world, at about age 13, came the Niles – Professor Nile and his family.  I had heard of Prof Nile by reputation.  My tutor, a rabid, uncritical, Anglophile, was enraptured by him; how he could speak; how he could put his words together.  Warbeck apparently considered Nile, a professor of English, to be one of the wisest men to have walked the planet.  This was based on Nile’s educated, well-modulated English accent rather than any content.

After winning a scholarship, I found myself at the same school as his son, Derek, and in the same year.  Somehow Derek and I hit it off despite the fact that I was a barbaric Australian and he was a scion of the English master-race.  He was less critical than his father because he was a lot younger and had not yet developed such exacting standards.  Derek and his brother, Simon, were a strange pair though.  They had been imbued with the attitude that English things were superior and Australian things were definitely inferior.

My first meal at the Nile house was a tense affair.  Prof Nile seemed to be ready to pounce on anything I said.  I was well aware of this so I said almost nothing.  I did make a comment about some event having had occurred three times “in a row”.  He could not let that pass.  Immediately I was castigated for not having used “consecutively” since, of course, three events could not physically be placed “in a row”.  Thanks, Prof.  That lesson has stayed with me for decades along with the feeling of tension that accompanied it.

The two brothers became periodically far worse after their regular journeys back to the “Mother Country”.  On returning to Australia, they would keep their watches on Greenwich Mean Time for weeks.  This would result in such personal chaos that they would eventually revert to local time, but reluctantly.  I have to say I delighted in hearing of the appointments and lessons they had missed due to their faulty GMT conversions.

They would describe, in detail, how they would get from one tube station to another on the London underground including all possible alternative routes.  I was not to visit London for perhaps another 15 years so it was meaningless to me; I felt excluded from their conversation.  Of course, they did not want to exclude me since I was an important component; I was the one who was to be made to feel inferior and I confess I did.  I wanted to be like them but it seemed I was permanently blighted by being born Australian.  

There was no comfort coming from father and mother Nile.  Prof Nile would criticise the ABC news for being preceded by the “Majestic Fanfare”.  He considered no serious news service required a musical introduction.  Mother Nile would criticise our money, our food, our artists, our music, everything.  Both of them had special criticism for those areas in which we aped the British.  Our London-style buses were nowhere near as good, our thoroughly British trains were lacking, and areas which had been named after British suburbs and towns were mere shadows of their namesakes.  There seemed nothing of Australia they liked.  At the time I never openly questioned why they had come out here or why they stayed; yet they stayed and stayed. 

I had not yet come across the term “Whingeing Pom” and, of course, it is not politically correct to use such terms now, not that that would stop me.  This English family found fault in everything around them and spoke loudly about those faults.  They could not be covered by the WP appellation; they were in a class of their own.

I continued to be friendly with the Niles for several years – up to and a little beyond my commencement at University.  To try to improve my ability to converse with them I read well and voraciously.  It seemed to make no difference.  Every time I had a meal with the Niles I was once again put in my place by the breadth of knowledge of the parents, and the Australophobia of the children.

For my sixteenth birthday, I had asked for the Shorter Oxford Dictionary.  I thought that, if I mastered that, Prof Nile might take me seriously.  He was a walking dictionary himself and his pronunciation was impeccable.  I aspired to be like him and made up my mind that I would read through the Oxford Dictionary from A to Z.

 I started my task and had not got much beyond Aardvark when I realised that this was an impossible task because it was so terminally boring.  There were also the various exigencies of life as an 18 hear old which were crowding in.  I never did finish reading the Shorter Oxford but I find if I can keep the topic in the As before Aardvark, I can hold my own in any conversation.

As a defensive reaction to their apparent detestation of and disdain for Australia, I developed a dislike for England.  It was not a great step to take since the members of my mother’s bridge club, with their periodic trips ‘Home’ (although all had been born in Australia), and the interminable, ghastly slide evenings that would follow their return, had made me determined at age eight that I would never consider Britain in that way.  I knew my first overseas trip would be to Europe but I resolved not to use London or Britain as a base as so many of my contemporaries did; I would not visit Britain at all.

I was quite pleased when The Times was bought by an Australian (much less pleased now he is an American), Harrods by a Saudi-Arabian, and other core British institutions were picked off one by one.  However, the diminishing influence of Britain in our region did not result in our asserting our sovereignty and standing on our own feet as some nations might have done.  We just clutched for the apron strings of another major power and continue, even now, to clutch at those same apron strings, our foreign policy virtually determined for us.  

The Nile family gradually broke up.  The parents returned to England but, with delicious irony, both boys married Australian girls and settled down in Australia.  After years of decrying Australia and Australian things, they had discovered at least one thing they liked about the place.

Sadly, Mrs Nile died about three years after their return home.  I next saw Prof Nile quite by chance in the city.  He was actually glad to see me.  Now there was no criticism; no correction of grammar.  For him Australia, for all its deficiencies in his eyes, had become almost as much home as his beloved England.  And there were people here just as dear to him as any (not that I included myself among that number). 

I don’t know what caused that change; perhaps bereavement and age.  And, perhaps, the realisation that the idealised England of their imagination was becoming less and less like the England they were living in.

As part of my voracious reading, intended to rescue me from what the Niles appeared to consider abject barbarism, I search the school library for more and more obscure titles.  Finally I came upon what I think, even now, would be considered one of the daddies of them all.  One of the crowning achievements of the life of that great German philosopher, Immanuel Kant.  Even now my heart sinks just to contemplate the book – The Critique of Pure Reason. No, I did not read it in its original German as “Kritik der reinen Vernunft” but I might as well have for all the meaning I extracted from it.  I am not sure if the copy I borrowed was the Kemp-Smith, the Meiklejohn or some other translation; again, it would not have mattered.  It was 250 pages of the densest, most obscure writing I have ever come across (this was in my pre-Public Service days).  I was able to understand it sufficiently to realise that the author was of formidable intelligence but the reader was not. 

I do not think I attempted the book to impress the cleverest boy in the class although that may be debatable.  By then I had realised that all such attempts on my part to impress that gifted Adonis just succeeded in making me appear more stupid. 

No, I was driven to reading the book because of the Niles.  By the time I finished the book, with my brains almost sore with effort (although I know they have no pain receptors), Prof Nile had returned to England.  I was never able to casually introduce into a conversation the concepts of synthetic truths versus analytic truths, and a priori  knowledge with him.  If I had he would have possibly rejected Kant because Immanuel, like me, was not English and, in any case, I was not expressing myself with perfect grammar and diction. 

So the whole thing had been futile.  No, not quite futile.  The gifted Adonis met me in the library one day and said he had noted I had the book out.  I had not realised, although I should have, that he was on the library committee.  The Kant had possibly not been borrowed for fifty years.  He gave me a superior, deprecatory smile – one I recall to this day – so I felt even worse.  I knew he knew I had taken the book out to impress and that I could not possibly have understood it.

I have not read Kant since although I now have two copies of the Critique that remain unread.  I bought them in the hope that, with age and experience, the fullness of Kant’s meaning would burst on me like a revelation.  Fat chance of that now!  But I am not in such awe of Kant as I was, though, of course, he remains an intellectual giant.

I was introduced to the Compact Classics by my sister in law.  She was in the book trade and had obtained them free since they had not sold well presumably due to their relative lack of sex and violence.  But, in each of these three volumes, there were dozens of great works – of the Western canon of course – summarised completely in two pages!  The Origin of Species – two pages; the Canterbury Tales – two pages (not in Middle English); most remarkable of all, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire – two pages.  These made the Readers Digest condensed versions seem verbose. 

I looked down the contents to the Ks.  Ah yes, Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason in just two pages – two very readable pages.  All these years later I now know what he was on about.  Very reassuring the author of this summary states:  “The text, however, is notorious for its difficulty due to its long, dense passages and unusually obscure concepts.  Indeed, interpreting a typical paragraph, especially for a modern-day reader, is often akin to trying to decipher an unknown foreign language.  Kant’s own colleagues- trained philosophers who studied the text in its original German – complained about its perplexing vagueness and ambiguity.” 

Prof Nile, where are you now?  I want to talk to you about the Critique of Pure Reason. Alas, it is too late; no Prof Nile.

Leon the Huguenot muses briefly on the days when television journalists were less educated.

Raw sewerage

Many years ago, while partly slumbering through a news broadcast from a commercial television station, my attention was suddenly drawn by the reportage of a Murray Flood.  The breathless female narrator, rightly impressed by the scale of disaster that had overtaken one particular town, said that large quantities of raw sewerage had been washed into the Murray. 

I watched with rapt attention, thinking I would see long lengths of earthenware and PVC pipe being swept along by the torrent (well, the earthenware pipe would have gone straight to the bottom).  I wondered just what raw sewerage could look like; would it appear like a newly extruded pipe from the factory?            

The video of the flood (almost always called inundation in television parlance) zoomed in on the water – no pipes there. There was just sewage with just a glimpse of a set of false teeth which, according to a universal law, always accompanies sewage. If you don’t believe this, asked the local sanitary people how many sets of false teeth mysteriously transmigrate through their pipes every year.  This is population movement of epic proportions – akin to the diaspora of Huguenots in the sixteenth century.

So the commentator had confused sewerage with sewage (the singer not the song?).  This was in the dark days before commercial television stations required all their commentators to have advanced degrees in grammar, writing and semantics.  Now, of course, even the most basic football commentary is given in perfect, grammatical English; well, that was the intention.

Now, of course, no commentator would confuse sewage and sewerage; the very thought is laughable. Thank heavens for first-rate public education.