As Seneca once wrote, in the opening of his Thyestes: quis infernorum sede ab infausta extrahit? "Who pulls me from the ill-omened seat of the Infernal Regions?", things got "a little too much" this evening in Hades (that... place). I confess, that were I more of an even-minded philosopher and less of an ever artistic poet, I could have handled things a little better. Yet, equally, as things stand, my departure from that place was at least dignified, and more or less civil. As Tom Cruise said in John Grisham's The Firm, "It wasn't exactly a sequential conversation. There was a lot of yelling, mostly by me."
As you may well remember, Dear Diary, in my last letter to you I happened to mention that a certain little overlord of a young lady found fault with every single little thing I did (even if it was faultless). This evening, it was her turn to be at fault. I asked her, very gently, politely, "May I have some olives please?" She muttered something short under her breath, and did not seemed to acknowledge my request. So, I waited another minute or so, and asked her again, softly, politely, "May I please have some olives?" (That was, in order to rectify the mistake she had made, which was no big deal and could have been put right in a flash). She began to get angry, and lost her temper. Therefore, I told her precisely what I thought of her (not impolitely, yet merely the unvarnished truth, assertively, what has been going on about this over the past few months every day). Needless to say, it was not pretty.
I even went as far to call her a subducisupercilicarptor which really pissed them off (this means 'an eyebrow raising fault finder' - it is the longest word in Classical Latin). The boss (her brother) said, "Right! Max, go home, now. You're speaking another language which I am not comfortable with." (Latin has a certain reputation, from the Harry Potter books and movies, and much else besides). I was only too glad to leave.
The boss (who's eighteen, by the way, the "older" brother) was under the assumption that I would have to walk home, because there are no buses or taxi firms open at that time of night. Normally I would walk home, two hours, through the forest, across the fields, under moonlight, no problem (a hobo for fifteen years means I just walk, and walking is no problem, whatever distance, from John O'Groats to the Lizard, no problem). Yet this just happened to be the day which I returned to the luthier for my instrument (a cajon had been repaired), and the luthier very kindly gave me a lift home, as had been pre-arranged that day, without the little 18 year old boss' knowledge (in accordance with Divine Providence). The luthier even repaired my guitar (my best one: Saint Lilian, my very best classical guitar, quite expensive and certainly very precious, many years gigging on it) and did a splendid job of it. This was just as he had done for my cajon, giving it a proper snare, and adding two levers so it's drum sound can be muted or the snare may sound at the flick of a switch: very nice. (For which I had paid him handsomely beforehand, and naturally, I had not turned up empty handed but came with an offering of continental style meats, olives, olive bread and some nice French cheese, as well as some more refreshment, to thank him for his hospitality).
All in all, it was not a bad day, despite the apparent loss.
As things fell out, or rather, as the Three Fatal Sisters (Moira) decreed, I happened to meet a lady intimately acquainted with a top classicist, Peter Jones (author of Learning Ancient Greek and Reading Ovid's Metamorphoses). This venerable and most well spoken lady needed someone to format her book for her which she has lately written. Seeing as I happen to know a thing or two about formatting books, I said I shall indeed do this for her, but ask nothing, because I respect and admire that great classicist so much, Peter Jones, and because she is my friend's mother (the luthier's). Nonsense, she said, asserting that she must pay me something for my efforts, to which I accepted, politely, graciously.
One door closes, another opens. Life, is an adventure.
Max.
No comments:
Post a Comment