Day 75 (31 May): Shall I compare thee to a stick of celery?
I have recently alluded to the elusiveness of connubial bliss in the life of your lamenting and love-lorn correspondent.
As a consequence, I have met with a veritable deluge of sympathy and advice. No, I am not going to tie a knot in it, I decided that was not a serious proposition.
But I am very grateful to you all. Having analysed the pile of pick-me-up suggestions I have retained the top two, namely:
When selecting a new partner, subject candidates to the Alfie Test. This involves locking Alfie in the trunk of my car for twenty minutes and then submitting each candidate to the same process. Reactions upon release to be compared. Of course the candidates, hopefully, will lack a bushy tail to wag so I suppose I’ll just have to go with the one who snuffles me the most. I hasten to add that Alfie is the control element in this experiment. I shall not be eloping with her however much she bounds up and down.
Some vicarious advice. My camino friend Maxine sent me a recording of the late Gerard Hoffnung - the 'Lament of the Bricklayer' which led me to to listen to his speech to the Oxford Union in1958. It is here that I found a pearl of wisdom which will sustain me during the loneliest of nights. A man was asked which of his organs he would keep if he could only retain one. He selected his navel organ. When asked why he explained that it was because he had a strange habit. He liked to eat celery in bed and it was a very convenient place to keep the salt. As chance would have it I possess both celery and salt and am now quite looking forward to this evening.
On more than one occasion over the last few years I have had cause to reflect that sex has a lot to answer for. Essentially we are being remote-controlled by our genes.
I nearly wrote 'jeans' but, conspiracy theories aside, I do not think jeans are a threat. Unless they are too tight. The genes need, or think they need (who is brainwashing them huh?), to be passed on. Consequently even people in their fifties, sixties and beyond who are not going to be passing on their genes, or much of anything else one would hope, are still behaving as if procreation is their number one goal.
Imagine how simple life would be if you were not biologically compelled to impress somebody else, seduce somebody else, keep somebody else by your side or get over the absence of somebody else. Bloody chemicals. If I had paid more attention in school ( we are back there again) I could have rattled a few test tubes together and come up with the antidote.
Eureka! Genius Neil!
As soon as I've got a COVID vaccine sorted I'll work on the anti-love potion. I have the brand name already - 'Lusturdust'.
I am tickled pink by the name of the SpaceX first stage recovery craft OCISLU - which stands for ‘Of course I still love you’. It is that kind of attention to detail and whimsy that is part of Mr. Musk’s genius. I cannot imagine that 'joking around' figures in the top ten of NASA rocket engineer selection criteria. But it is the possession of irreverence which allows people to break out of hidebound group-think and do the truly remarkable. The SpaceX Starship (under development) was originally referred to as the BFR. To EM it was always the Big Fucking Rocket - because that describes what you need to get to planet Mars. The F never stood for Falcon. Falcons don’t cut the mustard. I’m not sure they even eat mustard - so why would they?
I joked the other day about the space suits being drawn up by a Hollywood designer - which they were. And look at the design, both inside and out, of the Crew Dragon. It is sleek, sexy and Star Trek. Because EM sees clearly that to inspire young people to get involved in space and the opening up the galaxy the experience should be cool. Why on earth would something so tremendously exciting look anything other than sexy?
Perhaps I should buy a space suit. A red one?
Have a super Sunday my little Love Bunnies!