by RICHARD HOADLong ago in the cold North Land, so the Inuit say, there was only one fire. A man and his small boy were Keepers of the Fire. The man tended the fire at night, the boy during the day.One day the man went hunting and didn’t return by nightfall. The tired boy at length fell asleep and, as the fire died down, a huge polar bear stomped it out with his great wet feet.“Now all the people will be so cold, they will have to leave the North Land,” said the bear. “I will have it all to myself.” But a little grey robin had been watching. And when the bear left he found a tiny ember still glowing. He fanned it and fanned it with his wings until the fire was blazing again. Nor did he stop until the boy awoke next morning. The robin’s breast was burned a fiery red by the flames and remains so to this day, but he didn’t care. For wherever he alighted in homes throughout the North Land, fires began to burn. The bear was very angry.“Mark my words,” he grumbled, “that robin is who start global warming.” Although he doesn’t realise it, Carl Moore and I share similarly unhappy views about much of the present, including cricket, and not abundant hope for the future.But should we columnists stomp out the flickering fires of hope for a brighter future or, like the robin, fan the embers and bring them alive?Right now the dilemma over my farm’s future is driving me round the bend. We need to do some costly upgrading, but how can we risk investing when time and again Greenland swamps the supermarkets with cheaper milk? I have had to take refuge in old hymns like:There is a Greenland not far away/ At H. Benn’s beck and call/ Where all our dreams are crucified/ For no good reason at all./ We do not know, we cannot tell/ Why they should keep us down/ But we believe they want to be/ The only goat milk around.Oh dearly, dearly, must we pay/ Our facilities to upgrade/ While they can spend taxpayers’ money/And sell cheaper than lemonade./ Oh Haynesley, Haynesley, hear our cry/ And do not let us fail/ Unlock the gates of ignorance/ Let fairness now prevail.However, instead of ranting, let’s fan(?) some random fires:First, a friend named Ben. Ben fixes anything – milking machines, fridges, coolers, ovens, TVs, microwaves, ice cream mixers, fans, power tools, chicken processing equipment, you name it, saving this country vast foreign exchange. Where there’s Ben, there’s hope.Ben is also my philosopher. He feels Moses stressed certain commandments relevant to a rebellious people crossing a wilderness. “If the homo thing is as bad as we think, it would be specified in the Ten Commandments.” He’s right, but is it specified? “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, nor his wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ???” I rest my case. Secondly, Mr Patel tells me how about 30 young Indian boys are raising sheep on unused lots. This is great news just when I feared Bajan traditions of livestock-keeping were dying out.Thirdly, the stark mathematics of democratic voting is beginning to hit home. Simply this, in any given democracy the group reproducing fastest will in the not too distant future command political power. Put bluntly, all you need to achieve political power is unprotected sex. Lots of it! And some groups are already working feverishly towards this.Finally, this column usually stays clear of yeast infections. But in the public interest we must draw attention to a remedy mentioned by Monday columnist Annette Maynard-Watson.A lady apparently healed herself by the nightly introduction of, as we understand it, an aloe leaf to the offended area. That is outside our realm of competence. Our concern, however, is that some husband returning home late with a few beers in his head may get amorous. The wife engrossed in her true romance novel lets him have his way.Suddenly, a length of green aloe appears, then whoosh! “Allo! Allo!” he exclaims in dismay.“No, dear,” she corrects him, “it’s aloe vera.”By this time, however, he’s already hit the road running, naked, screaming . . . .
