So. As I was saying in the last post, before I was so rudely distracted by the vicar — the human condition. As usual, any attempts at philosophy will have to be carried by Flame Haired Parker in the novel. Or possible one of the Fools. Not sure yet. But I have the conditions:
- innocence
- curiosity
- passive acceptance
- yoghurt
- anxiety
- the flex you find on an iron
- active distrust
- St Winifred’s School Choir
- hostility
- marginal tax rates, where N is the price of fish and Y has something to do with it.
I’m sure you will agree that I am a genius and should be given an honorary doctorate by the University of Liff. Aha — a punning cun. Pish posh, I say.
To summarise then: if all things are equal and all the world’s a stage, then we are merely players and life is a bowl of cherries. Or maybe we are the cherries. Or perhaps it is the actors who are simply made up to look like cherries. Or maybe it is cherries that resemble famous actors — coming soon to a supermarket near you — Gielgud blues, red Brandos and dwarf Gaffneys.
