This is my last for 2013. I predicted no 13 year would bode well and it didn’t. Although there were no hurricanes despite the usual dire predictions by so-called “experts”. Beats me why we keep listening to them.
And we got new money designed by a three-year-old summer class. At least it looks that way. The big deal is that it can’t be used for money laundering. If it gets even slightly moist, I am told, it starts to crumble. Those drug barons are up the creek.
This week we want to visit a secret garden where magical things happen; woffle a bit on the economy; take in a Sandy Lane party; and finally put a one-eyed cock into our secret garden and see if the magic will work for him. So here goes:
There being no crosswords extant in the bathroom, I picked up The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, first published in 1910. And was spellbound. It is about a little girl who comes to live with an uncle. She discovers there is a very sick boy in the house who the doctors and everybody else think will never walk or live much longer. She gets him into a closed-up secret garden and the magic happens.
Good and bad thoughts
The theme is that “thoughts – just mere thoughts – are as powerful as electric batteries, as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body”.
Furthermore, good thoughts drive out bad ones. The two cannot exist in one place. “Where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow”.
Barbados is like that sick boy with everyone predicting doom and gloom. We need to get her out into the sunlight. And just as there are aches and pains when you first exercise your out-of-shape body, there will be aches and pains as we trim the fat and work her into shape. But these are good signs.
Let Moody’s and Poor’s downgrade all they like. Clients are still paying $60 for 20 minutes at Bush Hill. And repeat business is licking, we are told. Things can’t be that bad.
Besides, I got invited to a 7 p.m. cocktail reception in the Sandy Lane area last Friday evening. When goat farmers get to hob and nob with falutins, we’re doing okay.
Actually it wasn’t easy.
I got the invite at 5:30 from the NATION. My good shirt from Mighty Whitey was in the wash and I had to wear the funeral blue.
The underwear was on its third day. I’m always worried some lady may ask me to give her a ride home, invite me in for coffee, bend down to pick up the coffee spoon, get a whiff of male scent and tie me down and have her way with me.
You may think that unlikely but one of my brothers reportedly used to touch himself inappropriately and rub it around his neck. It drove his dancing partners wild.
Of course I didn’t know anybody there except David Ellis, who feels I should be imprisoned for writing pornography, and Stetson Babb. Hot tip: Stetson is partial to that half-raw, white people salmon and goes for doubles each time. Warn the waitresses.
Also got to meet Stephanie and Emma, both with Virgo, I am told. Not strange, I suppose, given that I once played with The Bachelors. We were nearly all married.
Stephanie is your classic beauty type, Emma more hot mama practical. She was telling me about her directing a film involving a stallion when a drunk fellow apparently challenged the beast as to whom was better endowed.
Emma quelled the rivals to their mutual satisfaction but didn’t say how. Probably held them by their connections until both felt they were winners no matter whose was raised.
Finally, the one-eyed cock. Those cocks from Nefertari also challenge each other occasionally. “Conan” lost an eye and was getting beat up by all and sundry.
Desperate and hungry, he’s moved up by the front door where he’s thriving on all kinds of snacks. And crowing lustily.
Come 2014 we Bajans intend to crow too. Bring it on!
•? Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.
