Friday, April 30, 2010

Feeling a little crabby

Crabby by Pants

Thinking is exhausting. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. While 'jogging' around Lake Larrikin today, I came across a large mud crab stomping about in the shallows. I noticed it did look quite cross - an etymological epiphany that probably won't win me any prizes.

I've emphasised 'jogging' because my chosen form of exercise does not seem to have meaning in Australian nomenclature. There is 'walking' and there is 'running'. What I do is not running, that is fairly obvious, but neither is it walking. If you bounce rather than stride, it's called jogging. Let us not lose the last vestiges of verb usage if it's at all possible.

Larrikin's Enders are prone to superfluous external observance, which is another problem. They will compulsorily annotate what you are doing in case your internal narrative is faulty,

Them (and by that I mean all of them) - I see you're out for a walk.

Me - (tacit) Please feel free to die prematurely.

A continuous community commentary is not exactly the substitute I dreamed of when I left the increasingly creepy surveillance society of inner London. At that point, there were no security cameras dotted around the 'jogging' tracks on Hackney Marshes commenting on your mode of exercise, although in the frenzy of Olympic fever, that situation may have altered.

There was often talk in Hackney of computer-generated admonishments to cease and desist from contemplating anti-social behaviour being introduced, a la Beadle's About. Fortunately, they had not been installed during my tenure and no person or machine ever dared accuse my jog of being some kind of walk.

I've thought about that Lake Larrikin mud crab a lot. There is a crab in the series of stories I'm trying to illustrate. She isn't grumpy. But I'm grumpy. I've been reading about the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. I'm not particularly impressed that technology is always the cleverest child in class until there's a problem, at which point it retreats to a corner and throws a planet-threatening tantie. And then its parent, Big Bizniz, steps in and demands that Grampa Gummit 'do sumpin'.

There are eighteen oil and gas rigs along our coast and arm dang sher we done ab no gummit no no bedder dan dem yanks do.

Thinking really is exhausting and I'm going to have to stop now ...