Open Writing

When I was living in a student residence, there was a group of us who used to eat meals together in the canteen. One of the young men, Anthony, was a bit posh and impeccably mannered. He had the misfortune to be sitting opposite me one evening as I hungrily wolfed down my meal. I'd arrived late and the canteen was about to close. In my rush, I dribbled some custard down my chin. I saw Anthony watching me disapprovingly as I wiped it off with a paper napkin."Oops, perhaps I ought to have gone to a finishing school," I said, trying to hide my embarrassment.

"I think that a starting school might have been more appropriate, "came his disparaging reply. Needless to say, Anthony never did ask me out.

It is said that it is not how you start but how you finish that matters. I wonder though, have you ever had such an ignominious end to something in your life that you have retired from it altogether?

My ballet career ended in this sort of humiliating way. At four years old, with bloomers peeping from the sides of my leotard and scuffed ballet pumps, I probably did not cut quite the cunning figure that I envisaged myself to be. Nevertheless, I was keen and enjoyed myself until one day it all came to a crashing end, literally. The teacher instructed us to do the "Melting Chocolate Soldier Dance". The idea was to pretend that you were gradually melting, from the head down, whilst marching around the hall. I slowly bowed my head, dropped my shoulders and bent at the waist until 'thwack', I lost my balance and toppled into the back wall. I hit my temple on the brickwork and was carried out with a severe concussion. I never went back.

My kissing career started on a more promising note, albeit that I was not the kisser but the kissee.I was ten years old at the time and was delighted to be given the role of Sleeping Beauty in the school play. The perk of this role was that I got to be kissed by the handsome prince who happened to be the best looking boy in the year - blonde, chisel- faced Rory. He refused to kiss me during rehearsals but steeled himself sufficiently to peck me on the cheek each night of the production. Things seemed to have proceeded remarkably well, until the week after the show, when I came down with a bout of chicken pox. Poor Rory succumbed a few days later. I was labelled as a carrier of girl germs and for the remainder of primary school Rory pointedly went out of his way to avoid me. It was not so much the end of my kissing days but it was certainly the start of an awfully long abstinence. For Rory though, it did indeed mark the end. He never kissed a girl again and my humiliation was complete when, many years later, upon leaving school, he joined a monastery and became a celibate monk.

My Christmas card buying career was the briefest of all. I was having a bad day. I have them occasionally. You know, days when I drop things, burn things, spill things. I put it down to being a congenital klutz. In desperation and keen to get me out of her hair, my mother asked me to walk to the most distant shops and buy her about 100 Christmas cards.
I was delighted with myself when I came across some really attractive cards which, inexplicably, had been marked down to almost nothing. I snapped them up and even bought a few extra packets, just for good measure. I put them down on the hallway table with a flourish. My mother was pleasantly surprised by my astute purchase, that is, until she opened up the packaging. They had "Gelukkige Kersfees" printed inside in bold letters. Each and every one of them was written in Afrikaans and here we were living in Durban, South Africa which is known as the last outpost of the British Empire. We could count the number of Afrikaans speaking friends we had on half a hand.

Like it or not, we all finish up in pretty much the same way. The members of the local bowling club were reminded of this sobering fact only last week. There were several complaints that the woods were being covered in a sort of rough grit as they rolled along. When questioned, the green keeper replied cheerily, 'Oh, that's just Agnes. She passed away last week and she stated, in her last will and testament, that her ashes were to be scattered on the bowling green.

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