From hopeless handyman to heroic candy-man
Gaston de ROSAYRO
How unkind can some people get? Many insist I am hardly accomplished
at carrying out the most simplest of chores. They even go to the extent
of calling me domestically disabled. Things got so bad that I decided to
‘seek professional help,’ although of a different sort than is usually
suggested to me. “Nuts to you,” I told them while elaborating that they
could go and do what the monkey did with nuts. In my estimation anyone
who goes to a psychiatrist should have his head examined.
I harboured an ambition to be an artist once. But I could never draw.
I mean I could not even manage a straight line even with the help of a
ruler. You see the line becomes terribly slanted. Okay if I had the
slightest talent to draw I would have made a career of being an
editorial cartoonist and drawn funny caricatures of certain crooked
politicians, tycoons, bureaucrats and policemen. And I would have made a
montage of them in a sort of rogues’ gallery. And I would not have given
a tinker’s cuss if they had sued me because I would have told the entire
shebang: “If the face suits you then slap it on!” But I still have not
given up hope of becoming a modern artist at least. All you have to do
is to splash paint on a canvas, then wipe it off with a cloth and sell
the cloth.
All right then, it is an empirical fact that I cannot sing either. If
I ever had to sing for my supper I would be a starving scarecrow. Or
come to think of it listeners may have paid me more than a superstar to
put a brake on my vocal chords. The truth is I can’t even rap. If I did
my audience would not clap they would slap!
It is not that my voice is all that bad. It is rather attractive for
an accomplished presenter. But the problem is that I cannot carry a tune
in a bucket. So for a long time I have had the good sense not to sing in
public. I save my singing voice for solo performances in the shower. The
family maintains that the neighbours inquire politely if our pet
Labrador Retriever, Flash, who is usually quiet, has suddenly taken to
baying out loud. Very funny! Well let me tell you for the last time, if
I am going to sing like everyone else, then I don’t need to sing at all.
Again I concede I am a mutt at Mathematics. I get half scared to
death when totting up numbing numerals. You could actually call me ‘mathophobic’.
I could never have attempted a financial job if my wife, sorry life
depended on it. I always considered mathematics a devilishly daft
subject. So I thought why the heck should I have to follow a darn stupid
formula? Pure mathematics, my foot! My kind of maths is of the most
impure kind because I spew out the most profane oaths when confronted
with counting my change. Anyway why bother when you can always use a
calculator to sum things up.You may have surmised by now that I am not
really much good at anything. A total failure as a handyman too. They
say I could not knock in a straight nail.
If only they would pass me a hammer I would show them how an ugly
human head could be nailed into a wall with the same dexterity as fixing
an animal trophy. They also claim I am the most feared cook East of
Killinochchi. They maintain I cannot fix anything. Not even a slap-up
dinner. Some ungrateful guests have spread a malicious rumour that with
my cooking it does not do any good to invite people over for dinner.
They say I have to ask my friend the High Court Judge next door to
send out warrants. It is small consolation when they concede that I am a
hospitable host. But not when they elaborate on the reason that nobody
ever leaves my kitchen hungry. Nauseated yes, but never hungry. And the
worst crack about my culinary achievements is that when I go into the
kitchen the onions start to cry.
They also claim my chillie omelettes are dynamite. When they hit your
stomach they explode on impact. Imagine, when the parish priest came
over for dinner the other night he said grace. When he had completed his
thanksgiving speech my wife couldn’t resist the crack: “My husband’s
cooking is so bad that we usually pray after we eat.” As if on cue
granddaughter Keshi 17 and going on 25 quipped: “My dada has a black
belt in cooking. One chop and you are dead!”
Do not ask me why but when my car or anyone else’s vehicle breaks
down I am constrained to look under the hood. I would not notice if the
problem had to do with the radiator or accelerator. Still hand me a
hammer and a pair of giant tongs and I will handle it as a make or break
emergency. I have nothing to lose either way.
As you can see, I’m artistically, culinarily, vocally, musically,
mathematically and mechanically impaired. But it could be worse. So
instead of trying to be the all-round handyman I decided that it would
be far safer and practical playing popular candy-man.
I was asked to take charge of my little grandson Kingco for an entire
day. He actually loves my food. Actually he thinks a combination of
waffles and ice cream is the greatest culinary invention of all time.
But I took him over to the old Victoria ‘Meda-Midula’ and asked him to
finish up his hot dogs before he tucked into his sweets. I bought him a
pack of delicious candy bars for dessert.
He could not resist them and kept unwrapping them one after the
other. I left him for a while on a park bench while talking to an old
acquaintance. He was munching what must have been his fifth delectable
strawberry morsel when a man came across from the opposite bench and
said: “Hey, eating all those sweets is not good for you young man. It
will give you tummy aches, blacken your teeth, and make you fat.” Little
Kingco replied: “No probs, mate! My great-grandfather lived to be 102
years old.”
The man asked, “Did your great-grandfather eat six candy bars at a
time?”
Kingco coolly answered: “No, he minded his own darned business!”
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