Females, good food and folly
EASTER AGAIN. Can’t believe a whole year has passed since I bade fond farewell to the inimitable David Dee Gee Gittens.
Just watched him belting a soulful O Come, Emmanuel on pan flute. How long does a video stay on YouTube? Dee Gee has many which are apparently still helping people. Live on, my brother!
Dee Gee contended that the secret to staying young was: “Wumman!” Guess I’m destined for an early departure. Just never had any luck in that field.
I remember one girl. If I could but touch the hem of her garment, I mused, or anywhere in that general area, I would die a happy man. But she had a pit bull of an aunt who kept her under heavy manners.
Except for one glorious afternoon. A group of us went for a walk. And she was there. Hearts throbbed, tendons tingled as I held her hand for the first time. She squeezed encouragingly.
And then, damn it all, there was an uprising.
And uprising which would put the Arab spring to shame. An uprising no red-blooded 17-year-old boy could ignore while in a group wearing short pants and no underwear. I had to let go.
Thrice I essayed to quell the mutinous rogue.
But in vain. As soon as my hand touched hers, he would hoist anew his petard. After a few more attempts, we gave it up. Nor did any second chance present itself.
Another girlfriend was coming along nicely. Until her mother dreamt that she caught us frolicking. End of story.
That’s the sort of luck that has dogged my life. Like last Saturday. I was picking a rest when my daughter told me a lady outside wanted to see me. Thank heavens I had taken off my old short pants with the underwears hanging six inches below.
What I had on wasn’t much better, however. Oversized trousers handed down from the Mighty Whitey or somebody large, precariously held up by a piece of baling twine.
My daughters call them the “Clinton pants” because of a conspicuous stain in an unfortunate place. (Actually it’s spilled PVC glue which attacked the fabric but it looks kinda jizzy.)
Smelling like a goat after a day on the farm, I stumbled out to find not one, but maybe an hundred lovely females, many wanting to hug a NATION columnist. “I love your articles!” said one with a beautiful smile. But you could tell that the smell and the garb weren’t cutting it.
These were the Barclays Park to Morgan Lewis Coastal Zone hikers, by the way, all looking fit and healthy.
Moving on smartly from “wumman” to something else I haven’t had in a long time. One of the Nicholls clan who buys our hay sent me some freshly baked Nicholls Bajan salt breads.
Meanwhile a fellow from Shorey Village sent me a heap of Branker’s fishcakes, hot out of the pan. As Omar Khayyam once put it: “A bread and three, a sweet maubee, and thee beside me singing in the wilderness; and wilderness is paradise enow!”
No “thee” were there but the bread and three went down proper, bringing back fond memories.
My foodial fortunes frolicked even further with two invites to Sand Dunes on the East Coast for lunch. Grilled fish, baked pork, fried chicken and veggie platters were enjoyed by all. The best value for money around.
Then a friend brought me two barbecued pigtails from the Village Inn in Shorey Village. The Inn-folk have mastered the art of low-salt pigtails.
So, no luck with females, plenty with food.
A lone streaker at cricket provides welcome comic relief for maybe 15 seconds. He is hauled before the law courts, his fate uncertain.
A sadistic firm hands out vuvuzelas at the same venue, no doubt torturing peace-loving patrons for the entire match.
One such instrument was subsequently given to a seven-year-old St Andrew grandson.
Now every bull-cow in the parish is bellowing under the impression there’s a she-cow on heat.
I demand the death penalty for that firm. Or, better yet, lock them in a cell next to a vuvuzelist. That’ll teach ’em!
On Good Friday I’ll show grandson Raffie how to predict his future with an egg-white in a glass of water. If there’s a vuvuzela in there, he’s history.
• Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email email@example.com