"When I'm in charge of the world, I'm going to pass a decree that says all spiders must wear tiny shoes on every foot, have top-hats on and carry umbrellas at all times." My companion announces.
I look from my Guinness to the window and, beyond that, to the rain that keeps me and my suede jacket (Emmylou) here. I take a sip whilst thinking that perhaps the Serious Organised Crime And Police Act of 2005 which recriminalises the possession of cannabis is simply too little too late in some cases. The damage to brain wave patterns has already been done. I take another sip of Guinness and take another look at the rain. Soon I realise that my companion is waiting for some sort of reply.
"To make them less scary..... you see?" she prompts.
"Hmmm. Where are you, as ruler of the world and everything in it, going to get all the miniature hats and shoes and umbrellas? At a guess there must be, I dunno, a billion spiders in the world. That's ... four billion pairs of shoes " which seems a big enough burden for a new leader to have to face but to add on top-hats and umbrellas. It just seems a bit .. excessive."
I'm trying not to destroy her dreams and enthusiasm but I can't help but think that all the energy spent discussing wardrobe decisions for arachnids could be better spent learning more about the relative successes and failures of Simon Bolivar (the only man ever to have been exiled from a country that was named after him).
"Well" she says "the umbrellas are already available in cocktail bars all over the planet..." this I had to concede. In fact giving the cocktail umbrellas to spiders seems a lot more sensible than polluting drinks with them.
"and I'll get the Japanese to make the shoes and hats."
I look at the rain and remember an old song.
"Who is going to pay for it?" I say, forever practical regarding finance.
This stumps her. Still falls the rain. I sip again at my Guinness. Savouring savior.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll tax people more or something."
"So you are going to make the workers of the world work even longer and harder to pay for spider shoes and miniature hats. Are they not exploited enough"!?" I sound uncharacteristically impassioned about this. I don't really think I am all that passionate about the plight of workers in this futuristic dyspeptic dystopia that my fantasist drinking partner has dreamed up. I think we have enough problems in the real world without worrying about an imaginary one.
"OK. OK. OK" she says like a more apathetic Sal Paradise. "I won't make them wear shoes and hats and umbrellas. I'll have them killed instead. Then they won't scare me anymore."
Jesus on the cross crosses my mind as I sip and look to the skies. I don't know whether to try and change the subject or to embark in a continuation of the discussion which has all the potential to turn into a relationship destroying argument. I decide that I'm not getting any younger and that I've missed enough opportunities in life. I shouldn't turn down the few chances that present themselves now.
"You can't just suddenly turn around and kill all the world's spiders. That's ridiculous. I mean, we'd be over-run with a plague of flies. Millions, billions of flies everywhere. Buzzing in your ears as you try and sleep, vomiting their digestive juices on your food when you try to eat, blocking out the sun for days on end as they migrate to areas that they have not already destroyed with their pestilence and vulgarity. Moreover, you can't just go around killing things you don't like " that is exactly what Hitler did."
Yes, I did use the word "moreover" in conversation and, more worryingly, yes, I did compare her to Hitler.
Today, though, she was being unusually reasonable.
"OK. OK. OK." she said as Kerouac turned in his grave along with entire generations of psychometric testers.
"We could promote another type of creature to do the spider's job."
Oh this was gold. Never before presented with such an opportunity I had to stifle a laugh.
"So now, you're Stalin. Shoot the generals and promote so that there are new generals to purge. Good to see you picked the two most devastating and murderous leaders in the history of the world to model yourself on."
"Right, fine. I'll keep the spiders." She conceded, not too easily but too simply.
"You know I'm not going to vote for you when we elect a leader of the world, don't you?" I prod.
"I don't think it'll ever happen Ross." She talks as if this was all a mad idea that I thought up.
I concentrate on not making matters worse. I look out the window and sip my Guinness. The rain is falling with renewed vigour and the Guinness is running low. This moment always sneaks up on me. A sudden sense of panic creeps over me. I make a decision and a concession.
"Do you want another pint?" I ask.
"Eh.... can you just get me a lemonade, please?" she replies sweetly.
"No"
I stand up and go to the bar to buy alcohol. I get a Guinness and sit back down. I watch buses splash students and wait.
Later, thunder announces itself.
I look from my Guinness to the window and, beyond that, to the rain that keeps me and my suede jacket (Emmylou) here. I take a sip whilst thinking that perhaps the Serious Organised Crime And Police Act of 2005 which recriminalises the possession of cannabis is simply too little too late in some cases. The damage to brain wave patterns has already been done. I take another sip of Guinness and take another look at the rain. Soon I realise that my companion is waiting for some sort of reply.
"To make them less scary..... you see?" she prompts.
"Hmmm. Where are you, as ruler of the world and everything in it, going to get all the miniature hats and shoes and umbrellas? At a guess there must be, I dunno, a billion spiders in the world. That's ... four billion pairs of shoes " which seems a big enough burden for a new leader to have to face but to add on top-hats and umbrellas. It just seems a bit .. excessive."
I'm trying not to destroy her dreams and enthusiasm but I can't help but think that all the energy spent discussing wardrobe decisions for arachnids could be better spent learning more about the relative successes and failures of Simon Bolivar (the only man ever to have been exiled from a country that was named after him).
"Well" she says "the umbrellas are already available in cocktail bars all over the planet..." this I had to concede. In fact giving the cocktail umbrellas to spiders seems a lot more sensible than polluting drinks with them.
"and I'll get the Japanese to make the shoes and hats."
I look at the rain and remember an old song.
"Who is going to pay for it?" I say, forever practical regarding finance.
This stumps her. Still falls the rain. I sip again at my Guinness. Savouring savior.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll tax people more or something."
"So you are going to make the workers of the world work even longer and harder to pay for spider shoes and miniature hats. Are they not exploited enough"!?" I sound uncharacteristically impassioned about this. I don't really think I am all that passionate about the plight of workers in this futuristic dyspeptic dystopia that my fantasist drinking partner has dreamed up. I think we have enough problems in the real world without worrying about an imaginary one.
"OK. OK. OK" she says like a more apathetic Sal Paradise. "I won't make them wear shoes and hats and umbrellas. I'll have them killed instead. Then they won't scare me anymore."
Jesus on the cross crosses my mind as I sip and look to the skies. I don't know whether to try and change the subject or to embark in a continuation of the discussion which has all the potential to turn into a relationship destroying argument. I decide that I'm not getting any younger and that I've missed enough opportunities in life. I shouldn't turn down the few chances that present themselves now.
"You can't just suddenly turn around and kill all the world's spiders. That's ridiculous. I mean, we'd be over-run with a plague of flies. Millions, billions of flies everywhere. Buzzing in your ears as you try and sleep, vomiting their digestive juices on your food when you try to eat, blocking out the sun for days on end as they migrate to areas that they have not already destroyed with their pestilence and vulgarity. Moreover, you can't just go around killing things you don't like " that is exactly what Hitler did."
Yes, I did use the word "moreover" in conversation and, more worryingly, yes, I did compare her to Hitler.
Today, though, she was being unusually reasonable.
"OK. OK. OK." she said as Kerouac turned in his grave along with entire generations of psychometric testers.
"We could promote another type of creature to do the spider's job."
Oh this was gold. Never before presented with such an opportunity I had to stifle a laugh.
"So now, you're Stalin. Shoot the generals and promote so that there are new generals to purge. Good to see you picked the two most devastating and murderous leaders in the history of the world to model yourself on."
"Right, fine. I'll keep the spiders." She conceded, not too easily but too simply.
"You know I'm not going to vote for you when we elect a leader of the world, don't you?" I prod.
"I don't think it'll ever happen Ross." She talks as if this was all a mad idea that I thought up.
I concentrate on not making matters worse. I look out the window and sip my Guinness. The rain is falling with renewed vigour and the Guinness is running low. This moment always sneaks up on me. A sudden sense of panic creeps over me. I make a decision and a concession.
"Do you want another pint?" I ask.
"Eh.... can you just get me a lemonade, please?" she replies sweetly.
"No"
I stand up and go to the bar to buy alcohol. I get a Guinness and sit back down. I watch buses splash students and wait.
Later, thunder announces itself.
