As Monday is National Women’s Day and I have to clean my bicycle I hope you’ll forgive me if I tell you, once again, of the time I wandered upstairs into my cranium to pay a visit to the Pondering Division of my Memory Bank.
It was on National Women’s Day and this was a surprise visit.
“Busy are we?” I said.
Naturally the staff began jumping around.
I smiled. Even though I am the captain up there, I am always friendly. I asked the Head of Pondering (HOP) if it were possible that men would ever, seriously, start a men’s liberation movement?
After all, we ARE liberated; we ARE our own masters; we ARE . . .
I was interrupted by a voice that made everybody jump. It came in from outside entering the operations area through both ears and reverberating off the interior walls.
It was the wife from the kitchen.
I said: “What is it, dear heart?”
She wanted to know what I was doing. I shouted back: “I was just talking to myself.” (She would never have understood the truth.)
She wanted to know when I would fix the iron. I said: “Yes, light-of-my-life, I’ll drop everything and fix it right away. I mean, I am only trying to earn an honest living but we don’t need money in this house because we get everything free just by shuffling our pack of plastic cards at the supermarket, at, the butcher, at the blasted dress shop . . . ”
I admit that most of this was said, sort of, very softo voce.
I leaned against the doorpost of the Pondering Department. Many staff members were scratching their heads. They tend to do this a lot in this section.
The Head of Memory (HOM) popped his head in. Useful fellow to have around. I told HOP and HOM that men have men’s clubs and the difference between a man’s club and woman’s is that most of the time a man’s club is silent. We have little need to speak. But when women meet, they can’t stop.
The voice came crashing through again.
I replied: “Yes, chickabiddy, just getting the jolly old insulation tape. Can’t fix the iron without insulation tape, can we? You could get your little self e-lec-tro-cuted! ZAPPPPP!”
I told the Head of Memory: “Expunge that thought!” I heard the sound of flushing.
“Women chatter so,” I went on. “They chatter about each other. They chatter about anything.
“Men merely exchange views.”
Later, in the Memory Department’s operations room I caught somebody shovelling neurons into a bin. “Hey!” I cried, “what are you dumping?” I recognised my history notes from school. “You can’t throw these away!” I scolded. “And what’s this? My bachelor memories of Felicity Throgmorton and that time we had in a field outside Stratford! Dear old Throgs!”
I said to HOM, “How can you throw precious stuff like this away?”
He grumbled that I stored so much useless information that it was no wonder they couldn’t always come up with answers when I needed them.
“Please,” he said, “get away from those bins. Just leave us to do our job? You can’t possibly remember everything at your age.”
The Voice once more came crashing through, this time sending a memory file crashing to the floor. The dust made everybody sneeze. HOM said: “You see what I mean?”
His words were drowned by The Voice.
“Quick,” I said to HOM, “I am supposed to be fixing the iron. Where the devil did I leave the insulation tape last time I used it?”
“Search me,” he sniffed.
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