Okeefereport: Dred Poets Scociety

Slumped on the throne around midnight last night, with only my affliction for company, I began to reflect as one does in such quiet times, on the entertainments of the preceding day. Was it the brusqueness of my query into the relativity of Danes baldness to his project management position, which caused the shocked intake of breath amongst the company? Was it impropriety on my behalf to introduce the topic of the baldness of one so young who I had just met? Did my subsequent attempt to show concern as to how the name Dane went down in provincial Brisbane schools seem condescending? These are the types of thought that often beset me when roused from slumber for such a contemplative task.

Along with Alice, Jack, Dane and Paddy, I was present as Hugh’s guest for lunch, refreshments and The Poetry Game on Easter Monday. Spag Boll and assorted alcohols including some genuine Champaign adequately covers lunch and refreshments, what’s The Poetry Game I hear you all ask. Well apparently something like Balderdash, though my memory of this game is faint if not fiction. The first two lines of a poem are read by the um ‘playmaster’ and transcribed by the players. The players must then write what could possibly be the next two lines while the playmaster writes the real ones. That completed the playmaster reads all the possible poems in full and the players must guess which is the real poem. Simple enough you say and so it is till it comes to scoring. One point if you guess the real one, two points for you for each player who guesses yours as the real one which I believe goes up to three if all players guess yours. Like back yard cricket ancillary scoring opportunities were developed. One of those, that which got the best laugh, was my best scoring opportunity but unfortunately my type of humour produces only stifled snickers as apposed to those for Alice’s, I think, bawdy bellows.

Alice pipped Jack for top score though I would have liked to see an independent audit of Hugh’s scoring which I thought lacked confidence. That said, scorings a hard job and we were Hugh’s guests eating and drinking his food wine, without having to wash up, so there was little but token dissent. You can see can’t you that in an environment like this with the bonhomie flowing it was inevitable that the topic of baldness would float to the surface. Lets face it if it hadn’t been me some other would have brought it up. In any social gathering there will be those sudden ‘breath in’ moments which I like to see as, well, icebreakers and I salute those with the aplomb to execute them with such finesse. Yes I think that worked very well.

Easter worked much as planned though I need not have panicked on Thursday night and bought those half dozen eggs which will probably go off in my fridge before next Christmas panic. When I went to my laundryman on Friday (the fact he was open should have ticked me off) at about midday Enmore road was thick with smoke and cooking smells from every well patronised café, restaurant, take away and pub. So many happy hedonists I would not have been at all surprised had a marching band turned the corner and led a mardi gras parade down the high street. As for the rest of it I was, as in the lyrics of Johnnie Mercer, able to Accentuate the Positive, Eliminate the Negative, Latch on to the Affirmative and not mix with Mister In-between (why couldn’t Hugh’s poems have been these). Leah’s (Alice’s artist school friend) exhibition on Thursday night gave me my fill of the arty end of GenY, not much different from any other arty end I’ve noted. Saturday I worked ‘ho hum’ Sunday evening I spent in Erskinville listening to music I love and greeting old friends at the cost of only a beer (though this cost can be only a down payment to be paid in full the next morning)

Hope yours was so good,

Catch you later, when your legs are straighter. (Oh Poetry)

R

Happy ghosts only a platform away