Elspeth the Ant

Other people have cats, dogs and budgerigars. My pet is somewhat smaller.

It is an ant.

Just one.

Of course, I cannot be too sure that it is the same one; I’m not sure how long they live. Tiny creatures tend to have short lives. I know that some types of ant queens can live for many years—perhaps thirty years, but the workers have much shorter existences.

But not tiny lives. To them their life must be as big as our lives are to us.

I wonder if, when they get to be really old, maybe four or five weeks, they think, “It must be nearly time to retire, to put all my feet up.”

They can move really quickly, too. They have such spindly little legs that flash along without ever seeming to trip over anything.

My ant does tricks. When I blow on her she either freezes or suddenly runs around in a frenzy. I think she is playing dead or trying to throw some unseen predator off the scent.

Elspeth (the ant) never attacks me. She is well disciplined. She will come and inspect my feet but never climbs onto my leg. Perhaps my feet are not the right scent for her.

I sometimes wonder if they have a sense of humour. It is unlikely; they seem to be so busy all the time running aimlessly around.

When I watch Elspeth going about her duties I can see no end product. She comes to the same place and inspects it every day knowing that there will be nothing there.

I believe she is skiving off from her work. Elspeth, I am certain, is a shrewd ant. She rushes around pretending to be busy but, in actual fact, she is just having a laugh on her colleagues.

I bet all her co-workers are carrying ever-heavy loads of grub for the grubs while she comes and checks out my feet, giggles and then goes back to the Queen to tell her that she has worked really, really hard but there was just nothing there worth bringing back.

Communicating with ants is difficult. They cannot, I am now pretty certain, read. I tried writing as small as I could but Elspeth ignored it. The pitch of my voice is very likely to be well below their threshold of hearing—if they have ears in the first place.

Snakes have no ears. Playing music for a snake is like throwing snowballs in the fire.

Maybe ants are the same. No ears.

Tonight was a bit of a breakthrough occasion. Elspeth brought a friend.

Possibly Elspeth is about to retire and so brought along someone to show her how to avoid working.

I hope it is only a retirement. I can’t think of the worst that could happen to her.

My fear is that she will perish before her time. People don’t watch where they put their feet. She could be murdered. Or manslaughtered. Antslaughtered?

Is killing an ant regarded as anticide or ant-acid?

I am prepared for the inevitable. There is bound to come a time when Elspeth will not show up and the truth will dawn. She has passed away. Gone to that great ant’s nest in the sky where her and her colleague’s tiny souls will rest from their interminable labours in peace.

It might be that they will sit on comfortable cushions and sip nectar through a tiny straw while basking in the light of a miniature sun.

A just reward for a brief lifetime spent, in Elspeth’s case, avoiding labour.

Tiny lives and big lives. Ants and elephants with us somewhere in the middle.

All biological machines. We look different and we behave differently but we all have lives to live and our own way of doing it.

We are described as being ‘self aware’. Are elephants? Insects? How can we tell if they are?

How do we know what an ant feels when it sees a huge giant’s foot heading down towards it? Does it panic? Does it feel pain as the life is gradually squeezed out of it?

I worry about Elspeth. I don’t worry about the neighbour’s filthy cat. But I do worry about my Elspeth.

3 Litre, V6 Toyota Estima is Ill!

Our car just died. Well, not actually quite dead but it is critically ill. It has gone in for major surgery at Dr. Tan’s clinic in Sentul.

On Monday morning I was expecting a chap to come around and assess the car for a potential trade-in value. We were seriously thinking of getting a new one.

Our car was made in 2002, we bought it as a reconditioned model from Japan in 2008. We love it. It is magnificently comfortable with plenty of power and room for most of our (large) family.

But it has been giving a bit of trouble recently and so, we thought, the time has come to say goodbye to our faithful friend.

About two hours before the assessor was due to arrive I went out and started the car’s engine. Make sure everything was ready for the big occasion.

I had previously emptied the car out—it is stunning how much stuff accumulates over the years. I bet your house is the same if you have lived there for a good while.

After a short while I noticed that the water temperature gauge was climbing up. And up. And up.

Uh, oh! Now would be a good time to kill the engine. The temperature wasn’t going up fast but it was going high.

Opened the bonnet (hood, to my US friends) to be greeted by clouds of steam hissing away.

Not good.

Took the top off the radiator header tank. It was empty. Filled it and put the top back on. Left it for a few minutes and opened it up again. It was empty. Repeated this trick three times and on the fourth I left it alone and went indoors.

The next morning Dr. Tan and one of his medical staff arrived and examined the engine. Judging by the skin of foam appearing on the top of the water in the radiator—that took some filling, by the way, it looked like there were internal injuries involved.

They took my beloved away to the clinic where major surgery is to be performed. A new engine and gearbox; new shock absorbers and a new start computer. Perhaps new wipers, too, to clear away the tears of parting.

BOM* and I sat holding hands, worrying about our dear friend and colleague. So many journies to so many places with just us and, in the past, with Mum, too.

I suggested that it was the car’s way of telling us that it didn’t want to leave us. It was begging to stay.

We talked about it, BOM and I, and decided that it could stay. Dr. Tan said that it would be good as new after treatment and a little tender loving care in the clinic.

This afternoon, my son, Zakwan, took me to visit the car. We took the opportunity to put four new tyres on his Honda while we were there.

The medical staff were clustered around pampering it and cosseting it.

It will take, they assure me, a week for the full treatment to take effect. They suggested that we go home and leave the car with them; it is in good hands—safe hands.

It was clear we should only get in the way.

We put a deposit down for the treatment and, with a feeling of sadness, we left it there. Alone.

Later, we telephoned the assessor and explained that there would be no need to come and look at the car.

We had decided that it would be better off with us than with some stranger.

The new car can wait until this one is ready to go.

I think I should send it a ‘Get Well’ card.

What do you think? It couldn’t hurt, could it?

*BOM = Beloved Of Mine (my lovely wife).

Sport and Fact

It is entirely possible that I have never, ever, written a ‘Blog’ about football—or, as they call it in the States, soccer.

Well… that’s got that over with.

Professional sport, generally speaking, is a wonderful thing. Whatever it is and whomever you root for it is something to create fervour and favouritism.

It gets the pulses racing and provides entertainment for the masses. Watching it is something that everyone, irrespective of their beliefs or infirmities, can take an enthusiastic part in.

People like to watch cars and motorcycles racing and even boats. We used to spend our time watching boats hurl themselves around a lake. Sadly, our friend, Dave King—who drove a boat called ‘King Thighs’, was killed racing.

There are team sports like soccer, rugby, hockey and lacrosse that are ever popular.

Some sports are slow like snooker and billiards while others are much, much faster as we see in ping-pong… oh… sorry—it’s called ‘Table Tennis’ now, I believe.

There are tennis and badminton addicts just as there are sepak takraw followers.

What about wrestling? Is it really a sport or just acted entertainment? Never mind, a drop from four or five feet is still a drop whether you are acting or not!

Some people adore watching golf on television; there are, I am told, television channels dedicated to it.

In parts of the World there are people who race snails or tiddle for winks even, once a year, speed dig for worms in an International Worm Digging Championship.

There is something for everyone even if it is just sitting in front of a computer doing battle with trolls.

We haven't even touched Winter Sports yet!

Those who know me will wonder why I haven’t mentioned cricket. Because the name ‘Cricket’ should only be mentioned in hushed and awed tones by ‘The Faithful’.

My favourite team, at the moment, is Sri Lanka; the best all-round cricketer of all time has to be Kapil Dev.

This is, you will observe, my opinion that you will say is entirely subjective. You can say that but you will be wrong.

Because it is my opinion it is now chipped into stone as an undeniable fact.

All my opinions resonate with fact. You are not free to have alternative opinions because I am an expert.

In all things.

I can categorically state that the best soccer team—in the World, is Chelsea. The finest soccer player ever was the ‘King of the Bridge’, Peter Osgood with Gianfranco Zola a very close second.

Irrefutable. Facts. Because I have stated them.

I am the authority on all things. It is mine to uphold or discard as I see best fit; mine is the favour and only me.

Everyone else’s opinions or favourites are increasingly irrelevant unless it is a matter in which I have no interest and only then do I permit you some space to form your own ideas.

Thus it is with politicians, some religious leaders, heads of corporations, terrorist cells, etc.

Thus it is with ‘Facebook’.

Ideas, opinions and policies are stated with absolute conviction that theirs is the only way—the right way, no less.

Quibbling, questioning and downright disbelief are damned. Such persons who dare are verbally abused and insulted with the crowing acknowledgement of cronies.

In some societies this can lead to physical abuse or, even, death.

In some societies the words behind their beliefs are twisted to the point of being beyond recognition but are still avidly followed by ‘The Faithful’.

How to break this stranglehold on power and ignorance?

There are so many aphorisms that appear on the Internet; so many wise words and parables; so many quotes from inspirational people that other people accept and nod sagely in agreement and yet those words are not followed unless they conform to the accepted mind-set.

There is no solution. Those in power, those with the loudest voice, those with the most sarcasm will win because nobody wishes to look foolish or weak and yet, in following these leaders blindly they are displaying that weakness.

Only by following me will you be saved. Only by listening to my words and heeding my life instructions will your very existence be successful and satisfying.

Here beginneth the first lesson:

“In the beginning there was only the ‘Bridge’. Then Chelsea appeared on it. Lesser beings appeared alongside—they were ‘Three Point Lane’ and ‘Craving Victory Cottage’ to be peopled by the ‘Spoors’ and the ‘Phlegm’…”

And Spurs are still rubbish.

The Joy of Writing

Somebody, a relative of a friend of mine, just asked me how to write a story. I referred them to a previous ‘Blog’ wherein I told, unintentionally, a lie. More about that later.

The situation in their head was that they would write this epic memoire about the time they had lived in Outer Batchuwalahland, get it published and thus become immensely wealthy.

This is a common thread in the minds of those who do not, currently, write.

Let us suppose you wish to become a sportsperson. You consider the event in which you are bound to excel; you go to the gymnasium and – la voila! You are selected for the next Olympics.

We shall comfortably, because it suits us, ignore the idea that there are thousands of people out there with the same idea, that they have practised their skill for many years and are still merely competent. Yet you, brilliant as you are, shall rise to the top like fresh cream, instantly.

Watch ‘American iLid’ or ‘X-Factory’ and observe how many people turn up for auditions and, ultimately, how many people win – usually one. We, individually, may disagree with the winner in the same way that the commercial market often does, but there can be only one (with apologies to ‘Highlander’!).

Thus it is with writing.

Why is it that journalists are often high up in the best sellers lists? Because they write for a living.

They are practised and polished.

All of us can tell a story but can we write it down? Are we able to be wordmiths and craft a story out of the words at our disposal just as a blacksmith forges a horseshoe or a gate out of iron and fire?

Many of us have stories in our heads. Many.

Having the story does not equal success.

Practise. Nobody ever became good at something automatically. There is no magic key to the skills that people possess. It takes work and dedication to get up there with the hundreds of writers who earn a living.

This is not the same as being hugely successful. Just as there can only be one sportsperson who is ‘The Champion’; just as there is only one winner in song competitions, there can only be one person at the top of the ‘Best Sellers List’.

Suppose you have written our story or memoire—whatever it happens to be. What is your next step?

Find an agent or publisher.

No easy task. It took several years for me to find one. Stephen King worked just as hard to find his first publisher as did many others.

Who does your marketing?

Even if you take the short cut and self-publish—a reasonable route these days with e-books being ever popular, you still have to get people to find you. Look at the lists in Amazon. Not just ‘look at the books on the page you have searched’ but the lists of books.

Thousand upon thousands of them.

You want people to notice yours?

Be assured that, amongst those thousands, there are a high percentage of self-published books; among those self-published books there are a high percentage of books that are only of high quality in the minds of the writer.

In this respect the publisher, or the agent, is a kind of filter that often (but not always) allows only those writings through that are of the highest quality and likely to return their costs.

If you self-publish your book it is likely to be buried under a mass of other books where customers will be unlikely to find it.

Thus, you need marketing. Do you know how?

All this takes time.

Writing a story is not the instant link to riches that people imagine it to be.

You need patience. You need time but, most of all, you need practice, work and dedication.

In the end, few people are worthy of rising to the top. Like Stephen King, Robert Ludlum, et al, there are few that will rise to those heights. People like Ray Owen, RB Clague and Robin Gregory are going up because they have the right approach. They start by writing because they enjoy telling the stories and they let it take them on from there.

I explained this to my friend’s relative. They were unimpressed. I am certain that they think that writing is ‘money for old rope’, as it were.

So I gave them the best tip of all.

Just write. Don’t worry about grammar, syntax, punctuation, spelling, dangling modifiers—all that can be sorted out later.

Just write.

Oh. The lie? Yes. When I gave a short ‘writing course’ on this ‘Blog’ some time ago I mentioned that, at the end, the story developed for the purpose of that course was rubbish and unlikely to be published.

Ultimately, after a lot of work, it is published. Readers tell me that they have enjoyed it immensely.

That, right there, is the joy and satisfaction of writing.