God's diary: The early bits

Eternity past 1: Well, here I am.

Eternity past 2: This is rather boring.

Eternity past 3: Dull. Dull. Dull.

Eternity past 4: A hobby, that's what I need, a hobby. I'd collect stamps but I haven't created them yet.

Tuesday, half past three: I know, I'll make something, sort of a DIY project. I'll start next week. What's a 'week'? I'll have to make that first.

Sunday, beginning of time: Dawn is early, isn't it. I should have made it about half past ten, that's a more civilised time for it. Next time. Made matter and energy today. They made a satisfying sound when they exploded. I should read the instructions on the box.

Wednesday, beginning of time: I've been busy. I created fish and moons and jam and zebras and asteroids and newspapers and stars and toast and newts. Lots of stuff. Once you start, you can't stop, a new idea pops into your head and, bang, it's six legs, no legs, wings, four legs, eyes and teeth everywhere. I may need to send out for more pieces.

Friday, beginning of time: Worked in the garden all week. Frankly I'm sick of it. Got tired and did things in a hurry. Painted everything green. Who'll care? Back sore. I have blisters from weeding. I should have paid more for turf.

Saturday, beginning of time: Took up sculpting today. Break from the damn garden. Nice. He looked quite good. Forgot urinary tract and reproductive system. Had to stick it on the outside as an afterthought. Will create pants to cover up shoddy work. Too tired today. Fig leaves will do. Hands dirty.

Sunday, beginning of time: I'm buggered. Should have joined union. Slept in late. Mum brought breakfast in. She's sweet. Will take day off. I deserve it.

6000BC : Just had a look in. Christ, they've messed the place up! And there's so many of them! They are very hairy. Oh well, no harm done really. Shake the old etch-o-sketch and start again. I like the geography though. The mountains and valleys look quite nice. I'll keep them. Just get the exterminators in to fumigate the place. Damn. Can't come until next Thursday. I'll just cover the whole thing with water. That'll fix them. Well, except the ducks. And the fish. And the whales. And seagulls. And so on.

Talked to some old guy. Told him to build a boat. Delegate. You have to do it.

250BC: Just told some prophet to wear a radish on his head for twenty years to symbolise poor town planning. These nuts will do anything. Bit of a laugh really.

The Orchestra

The modern orchestra owes its origins to our distant ancestors. Small groups of hunter gatherers scouring the shoreline for meagre food sources would occasionally come across the enormous skeleton of a stranded whale picked clean by sea birds. Fascinated, they would climb all over the bones, rapping here and there with their clubs. The cacophony thus produced was oddly pleasing to their ears. (It is a little known fact that whale skeletons are tuned in F sharp.) In their primitive tongue 'Orca' (for 'whale') gave rise to our 'orchestra', for a group of people engaged in making noise in a co-operative manner.

Since those times, of course, whales have almost completely disappeared from the orchestra having found more lucrative employ in the opera as baritones. Distant echoes of that time can still be seen in the xylophone with its clear resemblance to rib bones.The orchestra is divided into sections, each of which pays its own cab fare. There is the wing section, home of the ducks and geese. In winter entire pieces must be struck from the repertoire as this section tends to migrate. The wind section is so named for obvious reasons. First and second baboon are particularly prone to punctuating Strauss waltzes with noisy blasts owing to their all fruit diet. The smell dissipates slowly, but not before rendering patrons in the stalls unconscious. The percussion section bears closest resemblance to our ancestors on that distant shore. Often clothed in animal skins, they continue in a tradition often handed down from father to dog of striking anything stationary with a stick, or possibly two.

At the forefront of the orchestra stands the conductor. He wants to make sure that they have all paid their fare and to assign sleeping compartments. He sweeps the air majestically with his baton but none of the orchestra see him. They are too busy reading their music or making bets. The music swells. The conductor swells. He had seafood and regrets it now. Small fires break out amidst the violins. Bravely the orchestra pushes on. The horns sound. There is a traffic jam and they don't want to be late for the ending of the piece. The music is climbing to a crescendo where it can get a better look. The triumphant final chord rings out. It sends for a pizza. The concert is over. The conductor bows. The orchestra bows. The audience bows. Everyone is so polite here.

As the patrons file out, they know they have participated in a cultural practice as old as time, or at least Uncle Phillip. Their duty to society paid, they can once again face the light unashamed. They have been to the orchestra.

Waves

The smallest wave upon the shore

Is still the ocean - nothing more

And so it is with you and me

Waves on an eternal sea

Tarzan

Deep in darkest Africa

Within its Congo heart

Tarzan grew to be a man

From a rather shaky start

Bereft of dear old Mum and Dad

And in a dreadful scrape

Tarzan was raised to manhood

By a tender hearted ape

Just as well that apes are not

Like humans, you and me

They would have left him die for sure

Another refugee

Napoleon's Hat

Napoleon's hat lies wilting

On a dusty shelf somewhere

Between Marconi's underpants

And a lock of Shakespeare's hair,

But savage dreams of empire

Still linger in its brim

And it mourns its former owner

And keenly misses him,

For Napoleon grew downwards

From his hat down to the ground,

And served as locomotion

For his hat to get around.

Emily Bronte

Emily Bronte wrote a book

(It's rather good,

Worth a look.)

Passion filled

With love insane,

It makes me think 

About her brain,

And what it was

That lead her to

Write such a 

Fascinating stew

Of madness, sex

And tragedy?

What dwelt inside?

What could it be?

What jungl'd heart

Beat within

That placid breast

Victorian?

Folk Surgery

All over the country they are springing up. Folk surgery clubs are being formed by enthusiastic amateurs keen on maintaining their link with the grand living traditions of surgery as handed down father to son to dog for generations, free from the pollution of professionalism and the cold clinical eye of modern science.

Like all folk traditions, many threads make up the fabric of folk surgery. Some conservative traditionalists will commit to nothing more than what was known to Galen from 100 CE. Admittedly their clubs are few in number, but their rigorous adherence to ancient surgery more than makes up for their rapidly declining numbers.

Some people prefer to dwell in those halcyon Victorian days with bright steel instruments unfettered by blind compliance with the upstart Pasteur. Such meetings do tend to be characterised by cheerful screams and noxious odours, but enthusiasts quickly become immune to such minor unpleasantness.

On special Fair days, different surgery clubs will set up their brightly coloured tents and practise their own favourite historical techniques on each other and the unwary passer-by. A wonderful afternoon can be had by the whole family for the trifle of a few minor amputations. How the children laugh to see father hobble so. Jolly times! Teeth extractions can be arranged for the squeamish who merely wish to dabble in this most delightful pastime.