It has come to the PO's attention that not every reader of this blog is entirely comfortable with what he perceives to be the unnecessarily personal nature of some of the supposedly humorous remarks that have appeared in recent posts. In particular, this reader, whose wish to remain anonymous the PO naturally respects, feels that the references to his snoring during the recording of the BW's performance of Khatchaturian's Toccata were not only disrespectful but also unsubstantiated, and possibly libellous.
Naturally, the suggestion that he may have offended the sensibilities of one of his most loyal readers has left the PO in a state of some considerable distress, particularly coming, as it does, so soon after the publication of his most recent post, in which he mocked, albeit gently, the BW and the Mother Superior for their inability to read a simple school calendar.
It seems to the PO that there are at this point only two options open to him in order to rectify the situation.
The first is to make an unreserved apology to all those he may have offended in the past and to renounce forever the twisted arts of parody, satire and mockery.
The second is to redress the balance by demonstrating that he is as ready to ridicule, lampoon and otherwise make fun of himself as he is anyone else.
It will come as no surprise to regular readers to learn that having reflected for several seconds on the various merits and demerits of each of these alternatives, the PO came down in favour of the second.
And so, without further ado...
Picture the scene...
It is the first of November 1985. A young PO - twenty years old, and, if we are to be honest, as yet neither very paternal nor especially optimistic - lies slumbering in his bed in a spartan room in one of the drab concrete blocks that make up the Lycée d'Artagnan in the sleepy French town of Nogaro. Outside his window there is a gentle rustling sound as a soft breeze caresses the fallen autumn leaves across the playground.
The PO snorts and turns over.
With some difficulty he lifts his head a centimetre or two off the pillow and opens a bleary eye just wide enough to see the alarm clock beside his bed. Unable to read the red LCD figures he leans forward and squints until they slowly come into focus.
It is 8h28.
That's good, he thinks to himself. I can still afford another couple of -
WAIT !!! 8h28 ??!! I have two minutes to get up, brush my teeth, shower, dress and run the four hundred metres across three playgrounds to get to the classroom where, as I interior monologue, thirty French teenagers are congregating in preparation for what they no doubt regard as another forty minutes wasted with the English assistant.
The PO hurls himself out of bed, stubbing his right big toe on the corner of a cupboard as he does so. He stumbles out of his room straight into the shower that is just next door, where he stands under a spray of cold water for long enough to rub a handful of shampoo into his hair, but not quite long enough to wash it back out. Somehow, he manages to brush his teeth at the same time as drying himself (pretty ineffectively, it has to be said) with a hand towel, then pulls on a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, grabs a pile of books from the corner of his desk and charges out, leaving the door to his room wide open behind him.
Three three flights of stairs and a long corridor later he is suddenly out in the harsh morning light. The playground is deserted. Naturally - all of the pupils are in their classrooms.
He glances down at his watch : 8h34. Six minutes - a personal best - but if one of the senior teachers finds his class unsupervised, he is in trouble. He turns and runs toward the main building.
He runs faster than he has ever run in his life. Half way across the second playground he trips and stumbles, almost falling over before miraculously regaining his balance. As he reaches the third playground his calf muscles begin to burn, but he doesn't even slow down. One last effort, he thinks.
A metre or two from the main entrance to the building he finally allows himself to ease up. He looks at his watch again : 8h36. He might just make it before the din made by his pupils draws the attention of another teacher. He reaches out his right hand and pulls on the door handle.
It won't open.
Suddenly it dawns on him : in order to prevent children from leaving the building during lessons, they lock the doors. Assistants don't have keys; they are only issued to the real teachers. He has no choice but to go to the school office to find someone who can let him in. Which means he will have to admit to oversleeping. And suffer the consequences.
The PO hangs his head in shame and begins to make his way towards the school office. The same phrase echoes through his mind over and over again.
"Dead man walking."
"Dead man walking."
"Dead man walking."
"Bonjour, Monsieur l'optimiste paternel futur."
Wait, thinks the PO. That's not my interior monologue voice. That's the voice of the caretaker, Monsieur Dupont. He looks up to see a ruddy, friendly, extravagantly moustachioed face peering cheerfully at him out of the top of a blue boiler suit.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Dupont," the PO says dejectedly, trying but failing to raise a smile.
"So, wot eez eet you ar doo-eeng eer at zees time of ze day ?"
"Well, Monsieur Dupont, you see, I kind of overslept and I'm late for the class I'm supposed to be teaching to the fourth year and the door is- "
"Late ?" interrupts the caretaker quizzically, thereby also conveniently preventing the PO from repeating the entire exposition of what is already an overlong anecdote. "I seenk not."
"You sink not ?"
"Mais non, mon optimeestic yurng friend. Zat ees, not ernless you were opping to be doo-ing ze treek ou ze treet for ze allo-een." He pauses for dramatic effect, before continuing wryly. "You see, too-day eez wot we are colling ze two cents." He allows himself a little laugh. "I mean, ze oll cents, ov course. Eet eez, ow you say, ze banque olly-day."
Tomorrow : At last, a fair and satire-free summary of the BW's Christmas school report from Hogwarts - and that's a promise.
Point of order: this reader is happy to be ridiculed, criticised, lampooned, satirised, parodied, belittled, denigrated and generally trashed on the basis of his utterances, actions and general behaviour. That surely provides plenty of material. No need to make up sins he didn't commit.
Posted by: The Recluse | January 10, 2006 at 11:09 AM
Fair point, well made.
Posted by: The PO | January 11, 2006 at 12:16 AM