5.11.03
The manager of our Oxfam Bookshop is secretly waging war against the infidels. Tabards, however, are hard to come by in the 21st century and she arrives in a series of expansive shawls designed for the fashionable woman over fifty. We arrive and tiptoe through a minefield of silences.
In the 12th century children were taught that elephants slept standing up against a tree because once they fell over, their lack of knee-joints meant they could not get back up. The elephant huner would saw almost all the way through a tree so that when the elephant went to sleep, both would topple.
I remembered this as she was flicking through glossy pictures of velociraptors, brontosaurs and pterodactyls. Of children's educations, she once said, "Well, it's a pity they're being taught wrong." I wonder if she believes Darwin is burning in hell, or if a Tyrannosaurus could get back up once it had fallen over.
While working, we have learned what not to say. Small things, like, "I'm going out for Hallowe'en." And big things, like, "I lost my faith in God when I lost my child." And weird things, like, "Hi, my name's Bob, and I'm a hypnotherapist."
Hypnosis is witchcraft and the work of the devil. Hypnosis makes people uncomfortable, and Bob is not allowed to talk about it when he is in the shop.
It does not seem to bother him. He smiles and shrugs and hands us contraband calling cards and says thzat if we want to, we can follow him out of the shop and he will speak to us on the street. Then again, Bob is somebody who specialises in retrieving hidden truths. Our manager may try to wallpaper over the cracks. She may try to hide the flaws with silence. She may believe if we all pretend it's not there, the elephant in the corner will collapse, lose its knee-joints, and get dragged away by 12th century elephant hunters. Bob knows there is something deeper.
In the 12th century children were taught that elephants slept standing up against a tree because once they fell over, their lack of knee-joints meant they could not get back up. The elephant huner would saw almost all the way through a tree so that when the elephant went to sleep, both would topple.
I remembered this as she was flicking through glossy pictures of velociraptors, brontosaurs and pterodactyls. Of children's educations, she once said, "Well, it's a pity they're being taught wrong." I wonder if she believes Darwin is burning in hell, or if a Tyrannosaurus could get back up once it had fallen over.
While working, we have learned what not to say. Small things, like, "I'm going out for Hallowe'en." And big things, like, "I lost my faith in God when I lost my child." And weird things, like, "Hi, my name's Bob, and I'm a hypnotherapist."
Hypnosis is witchcraft and the work of the devil. Hypnosis makes people uncomfortable, and Bob is not allowed to talk about it when he is in the shop.
It does not seem to bother him. He smiles and shrugs and hands us contraband calling cards and says thzat if we want to, we can follow him out of the shop and he will speak to us on the street. Then again, Bob is somebody who specialises in retrieving hidden truths. Our manager may try to wallpaper over the cracks. She may try to hide the flaws with silence. She may believe if we all pretend it's not there, the elephant in the corner will collapse, lose its knee-joints, and get dragged away by 12th century elephant hunters. Bob knows there is something deeper.
