Mulled Vine

“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a girl who always wore a red riding…”
“Wait a minute!”
“What?”
“You wrote this story?”
“Yes.”
“About a girl called Little Red Riding Hood?”
“Yes, how didyou know that??”
“It’s not a new story.”
“It’s not?”
“No. Try again.”
“Ok…. Uhm … Once upon…”
“Not that bit.”
“Oh, ok. … there was a duck called Jemima Puddl…”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“No. That’s that not new either.”
“I don’t understand. I just made up these stories.”
“You must have heard them before.”
“I guess. Maybe I should do something else?”
“Like what?”
“Invent things. I had this really great idea for a round thing that goes round and round…”
“Wheel.”
“What?”
“Its called a wheel. Its not a new invention either. Look, why don’t you just chill and take it easy.”
“You mean like to do nothing?”
“Yeah.”
“But that’s pointless.”
“Yeah, so, what’s new?”

Infinity is a fancy word for something that never ends or finishes. For example, time goes on and on, forever (if you wait long enough), never stopping. It never FINishes – it is infinite. Got it?

Numbers are the same. There is no biggest number. Don’t believe me? Humph! Ok, smart donkey, think of the biggest number you can. Got it? Ok, now add one to it, and that’s a bigger number. There is no biggest number. You can always add one to that number and get a bigger number.

Still with me?

Good, because now it gets a bit weird.

Imagine you have a piece of rubber – I mean, really streeeeetchy rubber – say a piece as long as your ruler. That’s 30cm for you clever people out there. Now get a pen. How many dots in a row do you reckon you can draw on your piece of rubber? 100? 200? Maybe even 300?

Ok, so do it. Draw the dots on the rubber in a nice row. See you muuuuch later.

Done it? Cool.

Now stretch your piece of rubber. You might need some help with this. Go ask your Dad – I’m sure he’s got nothing better to do. Trust me.

Are you stretching yet? See how the dots are separating? Now stretch the rubber until the space between the dots is about 30cm. Yes, I know you need a big room to do this. Go ask your Mum if you can go to the park and do some ‘science’. She won’t believe you, even if Dad is going with you, so be sure to take this article with you when you ask here.

Right, now get anyone you can at the park to help by drawing more dots on the rubber so that there are no more spaces and you have a really long line drawn on the rubber.

Waddayamean you don’t want to? It is NOT pointless!! (Get it? POINT-less? )

Oh, so you know what’s going to happen do you?

Yes, you are right. You can go on stretching the rubber for ever (I told you to get REALLY stretchy rubber), and keep on drawing dots.

So how many dots can you draw on your piece of stretchy rubber?

Infinitely many.

Well, first you need air, lots of it, and if you don’t have air, see my article “How to make air”.

Ok, so you have the air. Now what?

You swish it very fast, round and round and round, making like a whirlpool, then, when its swirling around nicely on its own, you step away quickly, being careful not to upset the new tornado (tornadoes can be quite sensitive, you know, because of their funny shapes, and are liable to suck up anyone who they think is looking at them funny.)

You’re probably wondering about the swishing air bit. Well there are two ways to swish a whole lot of air. Either you are really powerful, like God, who can do just about anything, including swishing, or you are a “law of physics”.

What do you mean you don’t know what a law of physics is? (This could be a longer explanation than I thought!)

See, its like when air pressure is high in one place, and low nearby, so the air moves from the high pressure place to the low pressure place and you get wind. That’s a law – it always does that. It doesn’t say one day, “Ooh, I think I’ll go left today.” It can’t – the law is the law.

So how do we get laws? I mean, who says air has to move like that?

I don’t know and it gets a bit tricky now so I hope you are sitting down.

Have you heard of the Big Bang? No, not Humpty Dumpty, idiot. The Big Bang is what the call the big explosion that happened at the beginning of time, quite a long time ago, like a gazillion years. There was this “point” and it went “Boom!” and hey presto there was a universe full of laws.

Or you could believe that God, who has no beginning (weird, eh?) decided one fine moment that a universe would be mighty nice thing.

So there you go. You know how to make a tornado. Kind of.

She stood before him defiantly, with clenched fists, her lips quivering with emotion, the words “Or else what?” hanging like a Damoclesian sword between them.

He knew she knew he would do nothing – he was boring, dull, predictable and grey in her eyes – but enough was enough and he felt an unfamiliar sensation rise up in his usually placid spirit, a raging fire, torrid emotions that poured into his mind like a swarm of infidels. He let out a roar and rushed forward, grabbing her fiercely with both hands by the throat and lifting her off the ground. She stared back with wide-eyed astonishment, immobile at first, but then clutching frantically at this hands; but he was too strong – the unappreciated hands that had slaved away to give her all she wanted now squeezed the life out of her.

He watched coldly as her eyes began to mist over and the struggling
ceased, until finally she hung limply from his grasp. He let her fall to the ground and stared at this hands – good, reliable, faithful, servant hands – and he wondered if now at last she would stop wanting more.

The old woman waited patiently on the pavement, like so many times before, clutching a flimsy, frilly jacket to her body to escape the icy wind that swirled mockingly around her and taunted her exposed flesh. She had been there all evening, dressed in her finest: improbable heels, fish net stockings, a tight silk red dress slit up to forbidden heights, and excessive makeup to match. But no one had even slowed for her, and the street was now empty, the other younger girls having found customers for the night, leaving her alone to her maudlin thoughts.

Finally she sighed and walked off slowy, painfully, to return, hungry to an empty room.

Behind her a solitary can clattered in the wind, offering a tinny accompaniment to the click-clacking of her fading heels.

It had been a long day, traipsing through the cobbled streets of Venice and watching languid, love filled gondolas float by under our feet. We turned the corner and there it was, a quiet little plaza, in the centre of which tinkled a little fountain sculpture of a smiling cherub. Thankful for the opportunity to rest and the surprising absence of any other tourists we sat down and munched on our cheese sandwiches.

Milly turned to me, her little rosy cheeks bulging with food, and said, “Daddy, is this a wishing fountain?”

I hesitated, unsure whether to be truthful and to disabuse her of her childish notions, that wishing wells, magic, pixies and assorted heavenly beings were imaginings that had no useful bearing on practical reality and human progress.

But then the cherub winked at me … I swear it did, leaving me vaguely stunned … and since to the best of my knowledge I am not insane, I looked down at her and scooping up a little of the crystal clear water, splashed her playfully in the face and said, “It might just be, my love, you never know.”

I am holy.

I don’t just mean good, and neither am I oblivious to my many faults. This is not delusion or arrogance because my state is not my doing, that I should be given a reason to boast. The fact is, some chap came along one day and said, “You are holy.”

I did ask him what right he had to make such declarations but he just shrugged and told me about some other chap that had come along one day and said … well you can see where this going.

Holy am I.

Hans Schmittal was made for his job: a large man with brutal, hairy hands, closely shaven head and cold, grey eyes to match his uniform. He relished pain – in himself or others, it did not matter – pain was his elixir. He particularly liked being given the young ones, eyes so innocent and trusting at first, then slowly registering frightening realisations of their fate, they began to plead, to snivel and whimper – he liked that; for him it was sexual, and their deaths, finally, orgasmic. They promoted him to camp Kommandant, where he was able to architect more efficient mechanisms, to inflict more efficient deaths, and even though he could hear the screams in the air as he sat on his balcony sipping Riesling, it was not the same – he missed being the instrument of his own dreams.

I wonder if God feels like I do now, holding a single life in my hands, in the the subtle potential squeeze of my index finger?

Does this fat, bearded man in my sights deserve to live, this dick-head, wife-shagger that seduced my Mabel, soiled our marriage bed, and destroyed our lives forever? No, of course not.

At least, I think it’s him – the photo in her purse is not very clear.

Oh well, never mind – unlike God you can’t expect me to know everything.

Better safe than sorry.

I have a pair of rose-tinted glasses, through which the world looks lighter and brighter, more hopeful than the place I am used to. I bought them from a street vendor in Notting Hill, a smiling, dark-skinned fellow with filthy dreadlocks – he said they would bring me much happiness.

I asked him why he did not wear them himself, but he just beamed and, pointing to his eyes, replied, “Laser surgery, man.”

I was immediately envious, and watched as the tint faded away from my new glasses.