Wombat Diet

No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money. –Dr.Johnson.

I set off bright and early this morning to buy a pair of jeans.

Unaccustomed to my company at that early hour, the lady who keeps me at the moment wanted to know where I was going. “He’s going to see his mistress” said the princess beside her, on her way to school. That is, before she put in her headphones and turned them up to tune me out.

“Aye, I am bringing her breakfast in bed” I said. “I should be so lucky!” said the breadwinner. “Me too”, I thought, but I just smiled and said “You don’t stay in bed long enough.”

Teachers cannot stay in bed, unlike pupils like me.

The princess had an audition and was intent on offering, with equal enthusiasm, a choice of “Gollum or Shakespeare”. No, I didn’t know Gollum had written anything either, but if people wanted my opinion they wouldn’t wear earphones and turn the volume up, so I kept quiet about that.

The actress duly went to school and my lady and I carried on through sunny Cavendish Square to Regent Street. “You know that nothing in Oxford Street opens before ten?” said she who knows these things as we parted company. “But, what makes you think I’m going shopping?” I said.

Some teachers know too much.

I walked for a bit, admired Prospero and the new construction at the BBC’s Broadcasting House, and the sad, soulless, shutness of All Souls church beside it. It was hard not to feel some regret for the day when such a lovely building might have been open all the time.

I was unaware until now that Prospero was said to be too well endowed when Eric Gill finished the sculpture, though I recall reading once of his fetish for displaying his own endowment to his female pupils.

Some teachers show too much.

(Then again, maybe he got breakfast in bed).

Sure enough, at 8:30 Oxford Street was as closed as All Souls. EXCEPT, that is, for bookshops and coffee shops. I knew all along I was returning to civilization. Returning? I have yet to have consecutive haircuts here, but that day is fast approaching.

I made a small side trip into St.Christopher’s Place where I found an amusing piece in a gallery window, depicting children in gallery. Here’s a similar one by the same artist (John Wilson). Charm, yes. Five thousand pounds? Not on my current income.

And so I ventured into the more affordable world of books, of 3 for the price of 2, determined to “just browse” — and then determined to “stop at one”.

Shortly afterwards I was happily ensconced in the Starbucks opposite Selfridges and reading Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert. Much as I like to dislike Starbucks as much the next sophisticate who doesn’t like Starbucks, the freshly brewed coffee was undeniably excellent.

Had I remembered a pooterish review of the book, which I recalled on seeing a different cover on Amazon.com, featuring an upturned bowl of cherries, it’s possible I might not have bought it.

Happily, upon stumbling upon it I started reading it and was very soon chuckling. “This will do nicely” I thought. (And in the background a voice: Get out of here before you spend any more money!).After I’d been reading for a while, laughing intermittently, I paused to take a closer look at the book. “Scientific erudition enlivened by acerbic wit” said The Times.

I then discovered an interview with Prof. Gilbert in the back of the book. He reports, in reply to being asked what makes him unhappy, that he gets snippy when people use language incorrectly.

Clerk in a store: “That will be three dollars.”
Prof.Gilbert: “When?”

I only think this.

In my one-time local supermarket in the Philippines I used to ask for n pork chops. Invariably, this was echoed as “n pieces of pork chop?” “No, not n pieces; n pork chops” I replied.

“N pieces?”
“No, not n pieces, n pork chops” I confirmed, every time.

I realized that life was too short and I refrained from demonstrating the distinction.

Asked if he has any writing rituals, Gilbert replies: “Orient desk at 45 degrees from full moon and consume powdered wombat intestines. Actually, no.”

At this point I had to pause, for a chuckle, but also to reflect on my feeling of exuberant wellbeing at that moment and to wonder, “What is it with wombats?”

A 6ft, 5in Australian friend and former colleague recently revealed on online persona, alias the secret wombat. It seems to me that last year’s surprise best-seller “Eats, Shoots and Leaves” by Lynn Truss (not to be confused with “Eats, Roots and Leaves” by Nicolas Waters) was a polite version of a joke I first heard about a wombat who eats, roots, shoots and leaves.

Reportedly, Gilbert likes single malt whisky and electric guitarists. This tells me, without reading any further, which is to say that I get a good wombat gut instinct, that he tunes into things that help create or recall certain moods. A good malt is a complex thing with many subtle flavors and evocative powers, like music.

The book is not at all a book about how to be happy, but I can tell that it is pure wombat guts. I know I can not get a prescription for PWG, so I’ve decided to blog and see if I can turn up an occasional supply of potent stuff.

Tags: Blogs, Books, Coffee, Humour, London