Henry's Comforters

When I was a young man, not yet 30, I was unfortunate enough to be caught in flagrante delicto with another fellow’s wife. The furious cuckold crept up on us and threw a jug of boiling hot water over me. Apart from the unspeakable agony I suffered, I also nearly lost my manhood. Well, I learned a lesson, and since that time have behaved impeccably whenever in the company of a married woman, especially when I suspect her of being in heat.

I have dealt with this painful incident in “The Life Of Henry Fuckit”, my autobiographical novel in progress.

JOE:	Nothing like pain if you're looking for distraction. Takes your mind off things.
IVOR:	That's for sure. You know, I read somewhere, just recently, in some nondescript waiting room, indistinguishable from so many other waiting rooms, I read a fragment from an article in one of those coffee table magazines, covering a sublimely ridiculous range of topics, something about the appreciation of pain. (Pauses) Yes, the appreciation of pain. It said something like this: Pain isn't suffering. No, it's the pain we associate with suffering that we fear.
STEVE:	That's a neat turn of phrase. Sounds good. But what's it got to do with this poor cunt lying here? Prone for three weeks! And that's even without mentioning the second-degree agony! Isn't that pain enough? What's this kak about suffering without pain?
IVOR:	No man, for fuck's sake listen to what I'm saying. Pain on its own isn't suffering. It's not possible to adequately describe pain, the actual experience that makes you groan or scream. Because you can't communicate it you become cut off and powerless. All you can do is submit to it and concentrate on it, attentively and slavishly. That's why I agree with Joe when he says it takes your mind off your other problems. Pain demands your undivided attention.
STEVE:	Hmmm. So for the past three weeks lover-boy here has been totally unperturbed by the futility of his miserable existence. He's had a complete break from all existentialist anguish. A nice little holiday.
JOE:	Jesus, you call it a holiday?! You call this a holiday, all this pain and humiliation? Second degree burns to your buttocks, your thighs and your scrotum? I don't think I'd call this a holiday.
STEVE:	Christ man, don't get me wrong. Do you think I don't have sympathy for what he's been going through? I mean, it sounds as if he nearly lost his balls when it all started going septic, what with all the shit he was lying in. If Ivor hadn't discovered him when he did I dread to think…What made you decide to call on him, Ivor?
IVOR:	Well, it was just coincidence, luck. I hadn't seen him for more than a year, not since my wedding. It was school holidays and I had some time on my hands. On the Tuesday I tried to phone him at the Dockyard for a chat, but they said he hadn't been in for two days. I had to go to Fish Hoek the next day, so I decided to call in at Kalk Bay on the off chance of finding him at home.
JOE:	That was the Wednesday, so he'd been lying in his room for four days. Yisiss, he must have been in one helluva condition! How'd you get in? Wasn't the door locked?
IVOR:	No, fortunately not. I knocked and called and tried the handle. Jesus, what a sight! And the smell!
STEVE:	Please, man, spare us the sickening details. Cut that bit short. So you called an ambulance and got him to Groote Schuur and here he is on the road to recovery. But the cause of the…er…the injuries…the accident…? He was delirious, so how did…?
IVOR:	It was that little Greek shit himself who told me when I went to phone. Bastard said I should call the rubbish truck, not the ambulance. And I saw his wife there: two black eyes and an arm in a sling.
STEVE:	Ah, but there you are! A crime of passion. Can you blame the guy? How would you like to find your wife being pomped on a table in the back room? Especially these Mediterranean grease-balls, they take it seriously. They get married in a church and they've got their certificate - that means they've taken out sole fucking rights on the woman and that's the end of it.
IVOR:	Well, put like that, I suppose you can term it 'rough justice'. (Thinks about it.) Yes, Henry had it coming to him. He took a chance and it didn't pay off. Hey, Henry, how about a grape? Joe and STEVE here went and bought you a nice bunch of export grapes to help you recuperate. No? Don't mind if we try them do you? Oh yes, and I've brought you a bottle of good old Government House Port.
JOE:	Yuk! Export?! No wonder South Africa's a pariah state. Ggiptooh! (Spits grape skin into sputum mug on locker.) Sour leather! (Passes sputum mug to STEVE and Ivor who also spit out half-chewed grapes.)
STEVE:	What did that fucking smous on the pavement say to us? Sweet as honey, Master. No pips, Master. Skins so thin and soft you don't need teeff, Master. This grapes is what the Queen of England eat, Master. Fuck the Queen of England! If that half-caste poes is still there when we…Hey. (Distracted by bowl of grapes on neighbouring patient's locker.)
JOE:	Gee, it's a good thing we decided to sample them. What would Henry have thought of us? He might even have choked on one. I once met a man in the bar at the Glencairn Hotel whose uncle nearly died from choking on a grape. But there happened to be a doctor present and just when this oke had turned blue in the face and was about to fall down asphyxiated the quack grabs him from behind in a bear hug and gives him one helluva squeeze. It's a special manoeuvre, named after one of Hitler's henchmen for some reason. Either Himmler or Eichman, I forget which. Apparently the grape shot out with such force that it knocked over a full bottle of beer on the other side of the room.
IVOR:	Amazing. So this guy owed his life to the quick action of the doctor? Got to know what you're doing though.
JOE:	Not really. This was actually a medical student, not a full-on physician, and he was a bit pissed and overdid it with the manoeuvre. Broke several ribs and punctured both lungs. Instead of choking to death on a grape Uncle drowned in his own blood. (Steve returns with exchanged grapes. Offers them round.)
STEVE:	Try these. Now these are what I call grapes. I'm afraid the old toppie next door will never taste the fruit of the vine again, by the looks of him. Can hardly breathe, let alone savour the sweet plump flesh of a prime honey-pot. Far gone, far gone. (Shakes his head in sorrow.) Took a dekko at one of his cards. 'Get well soon'. Jeez! 'Looking forward to having you home again.' The only way he's going home is as ash in a fancy little urn. The human propensity for self-delusion - it's truly astounding. All right, that's enough. Leave some for Henry. (Places bowl on locker.) I mean, he's the one supposed to be enjoying them.
IVOR:	We don't seem to be doing much to cheer you up, Henry. You've hardly said a word since we arrived. Do I detect resentment in your reticence? Maybe you feel that true friends would have been more attentive to your well-being; that our neglect is partly to blame for your… um… your accident; that if we had been at your side we would have distracted you from your besottedness; we would have jolted you out of your moral stupefaction; we would have warned you with such strident emphasis that you would have turned aside from your suicidal folly; we would have reminded you that God gave you a strong right hand in order to cope with these powerful temptations.
STEVE:	Come on Ivor, its all-very well for you to talk, a married man. A nice pair of tits to fondle whenever you like, and putting your cock in most nights of the week if you're not too pissed. Have you forgotten what it's like to be a starving bachelor going crazy with hunger?
JOE:	Yes, Ivor, you're coming over decidedly judgmental. It must be this cosy bourgeois lifestyle doing things to you - on the permanent staff, snotty school, smart car, smart flat, smart wife with fabulous tits and a good job, as well as….
IVOR:	(Angrily.) Will you guys leave my wife's tits out of this?
JOE:	Alright, alright. Calm down. Where's that bottle you were talking about? I'm sure the patient would appreciate a drop of medicine. Hey Henry?
STEVE:	Yah, let's try and cheer old Henry up. (Empties tumbler of water into urine bottle.) He can have the glass; we'll have to share the bottle, in humble deference to necessity. (Pours generously for Henry.) Yah, these hospital scenes can be fucking depressing, what with being surrounded by the sick and dying, being assailed by the mingled odours of antiseptic, disinfectant, stale food and overflowing bedpans, and listening to a background of groaning, coughing and spitting. Fucking depressing.
IVOR:	Come on, Henry old chap, raise yourself and have some of this lovely stuff. This is what Alfred Lord Tennysan used to drink when composing his best poetry. Or was it Lord Byron?
JOE:	Is that the origin of the expression 'Pissed as a lord'? That's my boy, Henry. (Henry gets to his knees, takes glass, raises it, sniffs, takes a sip, then drinks greedily.) Cheers! To your speedy recovery. (Takes a swig and passes bottle to Ivor.)
STEVE:	Hey, Henry, whilst you're semi out of the prone position, now would be a good time to let us inspect your wounds. Out of curiosity and for the record so to speak. (Takes bottle and knocks it back.) Ah, just what the doctor ordered!
IVOR:	Good idea. Hey, Joe, pull those curtains will you? Don't want any of these visitors gawking in prurient abandon as if it's a free show or something.
STEVE:	Nosy bunch of fucking perverts. The visual evidence of Henry's private shame and agony is for his friends' eyes only. Not so, Henry? That's it; undo those strings. Careful now, for Christ' sake! Jesus, wow!
IVOR:	Henry, you poor fucker.
JOE:	Fuuuck! (Henry kneels in bed, posterior aspect presented. Drains glass and puts it on the locker.)
IVOR:	Well, look…Jesus…at least it's all new skin. I mean it's healing up nicely now. I mean, it's not as if there's any gaping wounds. And what about the, er…the area where it went septic? That all under control too?
STEVE:	Henry, just bend forward a little, if you don't mind. That's it. Could actually do with a torch. (The three visitors cluster at foot of bed, peering at Henry's buttocks, thighs and testicles.)
JOE:	No, not too bad. It also looks to be on the mend there. Lucky he didn't lose them.
IVOR:	That's for sure. No, they seem to be hanging quite normally. Once that scab comes off they'll probably discharge him.
STEVE:	Mm. You know, this reminds me of a nurse I once knew. A bloody wild woman with a vicious sense of humour. Our brief relationship was memorable for its violence and its depravity. Her parting shot was to say, with a horrible sneer on her face, which I can still see in my mind's eye, that not only did I have an exceptionally short prick, but that I was a freak of nature too. She claimed that, in the line of duty on the wards, and off duty as an unfettered nymphomaniac, she had come into contact with thousands of pairs of balls, all of them lopsided, but mine were the only ones to tip the scales to the left and not the right. Totally shattered my self-esteem. Took several days of humiliating surveys and research to expose her pernicious lie and restore my equilibrium.
JOE:	Does it matter? Anyway, Henry doesn't have to worry. His right ball is definitely in the ascendancy. Okay, Henry, thank you. You can cover up and make yourself comfortable again. Why don't you lie on your side a bit? Shit man, look at this! (Takes bottle and drains it.) You guys have gone and finished the whole bottle. Hey, Mike! (Notices Mike de Jongh's head framed by curtains.)
IVOR:	Hi, man. Glad you could make it. A bit late though, they'll soon be ringing the bell and throwing us out.
MIKE:	Greetings, gentlemen. (Formally shakes hands.) Hello, Fackit. Glad to see you, and so sorry to hear about your mishap. (Shakes Henry's hand vigorously.) I brought you some assorted dried fruit to promote digestion and regularity. And also some reading matter - I know you've always got your nose in a book. I asked the bookshop owner to recommend something philosophical, but none of that damn existentialist crap you were so fond of. Something to uplift you and strengthen the character.
STEVE:	What was your choice? Dale Carnegie? Billy Graham?
JOE:	(Takes book from packet.) 'The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.' Not a bad choice, Mike.
IVOR:	Stone cold stoicism. I don't know about STRENGTHENING the character. STRANGLING the character is more like it. Stoicism, asceticism, Spartanism, flagellation, self-deprivation, cold showers, abstinence, frugality, humility, chastity, and all manner of self-loathing. A mirthless devotion to duty and virtue. I don't know, Mike. I somehow doubt whether he's ready for the straight and narrow, but I might be wrong.
JOE:	Ah, here we are Henry. This is for you. "Do not say 'How unlucky I am, that this should have happened to me!' By no means; say rather, 'How lucky I am, that it has left me with no bitterness; unshaken by the past, and undismayed by the future.'
STEVE:	Ag, it's all very well to urge an oke to be dispassionate and long-suffering, but does that deal with any of the underlying problems? What Henry needs to do is analyse where he went wrong and how he got himself into this condition in the first place.
JOE:	Not so easy. How do you pinpoint a moment or an event in your life and say, This is where I fucked up. Too facile.
STEVE:	Kak. What's facile about self-analysis? I've actually given this some thought already. Cast your mind back seven or eight years to those days in Bedford Street. Free-and-easy, rebellious, irresponsible. But eventually we all got our bits of paper and moved along on the roads we'd chosen, for better or for worse. Except Henry. Henry, looking back now, don't you regret not having done a degree and embarked on something, anything, instead of wasting yourself in that bloody Dockyard? Don't you regret not having made a choice, not having made a commitment?
IVOR:	Steve, I think you might have put your finger on it. None of us could be said to have had a vocation. No voice called us. I started out studying Law, thoroughly detested it, and switched to Economics because it was the only subject that interested me at the time. Now I teach it. And you, with Architecture, and Joe with Librarianship. Arbitrary, arbitrary. Even our dentist here - would have preferred to be a brain surgeon or something, but you've got to be realistic.
JOE:	Not Henry.
IVOR:	No, not Henry. This is what I'm saying. Instead of accepting some basic realities and humbling himself enough to embark on something specific, he preferred to drift without direction, uncommitted, unwilling to place his bet for fear of losing.
STEVE:	I'm inclined to agree with him, Henry. If you analyse it and put it in a nutshell it comes down to this: your main problem is a fundamental lack of courage. You can't face the prospect of discovering you're an unexceptional, boring nonentity like the rest of us. What do you say, Joe?
JOE:	Well, I don't know. I suppose you're right, in a way. But remember how he used to talk about being a dilettante? His vocation was to be a dabbler. Not just in the arts, but in life itself. Life with a capital L. I liked that idea, and it wasn't a weak excuse for not choosing something else. Henry, my old china, I'll tell you where I think you went wrong. You lost your identity as a dilettante. Your concentration wavered and you stopped focusing on what was important to you. You stopped dabbling. Instead of remaining interested in everything under the sun, you gradually became oppressed by everything under the sun. Either you should have given up the notion of being a dilettante and chosen a career, any fucking career, as Ivor suggests, or you should have stuck to your guns and kept moving and making a superficial study of this and that, and expressing your shallow opinions on every aspect of life you chose to dabble in. (Looks at Mike, who has become increasingly restless, shifting from one foot to the other, half raising his right hand as if to gain attention and permission to interject.) What say you, Mike? You seem a little agitated, as if you were struggling to ignore the urgent demands of an anal itch.
MIKE:	Damn you, you…. Now listen here, I've heard nothing but bally rubbish from the three of you. Now it's my turn. Henry, I'm not going to say I don't sympathise with you and the dreadful pain you've had to suffer, but there's no getting away from the fact that you brought it upon yourself. This is the consequence of a lifestyle I warned you against years ago. Your life has fallen apart because there was no structure to it. Just drinking and smoking, reading all that obscene, subversive junk you called Literature and Philosophy, sitting about talking endless crap, attacking all the tried and tested social values, profaning every religious principle you could think of, denouncing your own country and people, applauding communists and terrorists as they murdered and burnt, and always, always despising the hard working, the responsible, the consistent, the decent. God, you make my blood boil! No wonder you've landed yourself in hot water. No wonder…
STEVE:	Nice pun that, Mike. Ha, ha. Hear that, Henry? Landed yourself in hot water. Didn't burn your fingers though. Burnt your bum instead.
MIKE:	Oh, shut up! The three of you are almost as bad as Henry. I'm surprised you haven't ended up in trouble yourselves what with the cynical approach to life and the lack of belief in anything. Henry, for your own good, you'd better change your ways. Treat this incident as a final warning. Heed the warning and start the long process of building yourself up into a proper man, with principles, integrity and backbone. Ignore the warning, and in no time you'll find yourself in the gutter and headed for an early grave. (There is silence. Then Henry struggles to his knees and crouches facing them. At last his eyes have come alight and he speaks with fierce indignation.)
HENRY:	Alright, enough is enough. I've had to listen to all four of you and this is my response: Fuck you too! What right have any of you to pass judgement on my life? I'm not interested in your career counselling and your sermonising. What do you know about my inner conflicts and the writhing of my soul? You advise me to capitulate and become a dispirited nonentity, then you chastise me for not having obeyed my original instincts to resist the dispirited nonentity temptation, and finally you tell me no, forget about being a dispirited nonentity and rather become an insufferable hypocrite and a bigot. Your collective advice would be enough to turn any sane man into a gibbering schizoid. You don't have the faintest idea of what it is to be a genuine dilettante. It's because you gave up the struggle without a fight, or you weren't even aware of a struggle in the first place. You talk about commitment and choice! I have made the hardest choice: to commit myself to nothing. I have elected to drift through life, letting things happen, examining whatever comes my way, observing myself, exposing myself as completely as I can to what it is to be human. Do you think that's easy? No, you are the ones who made the easy choice. You've backed into your mental caves, fortified the entrances, and now peer out apprehensively, your eyes filled with suspicion and fear. No, I don't need your sympathy. You are the pitiful ones; you are the ones too timid to live in the open. Fuck off back to your caves. Leave me to be buffeted by life, and maybe even caressed by it too, who knows. Even if it does mean the gutter and an early death, at least I will have LIVED! Go! Get out! (Shouting wildly.) Ring the bell, you fucking bitches! Look at the time. Get them out! Get them out! (Bell rings.)

The Relative Importance Of Passing Time

It was clear from the outset that the relationship between Henry Fuckit and Alfred Whitehead was going to be similar to the relationship between a grit of sand and an oyster. The constant nagging irritation would result in a many-layered product greatly adding to the value of the sand but being of doubtful benefit to the shellfish. Innumerable conversations were to take place in that office on the second floor, most of them centred on the subject of Time, and The Passage of Time.

.      Alf Whi	tehead:You do understand the theory of Relativity, don't you?
Henry:	Of course. Both. My grandfather was doorman at the Savoy in London back in nineteen-voetsak and he opened a door for Albert Einstein. It was a momentous moment, not for my grandfather, who didn't know a slide rule from an anal thermometer, but for Herr Egghead. Just imagine the implications if my grandfather had not opened that door.
AW:	Somebody else would have opened it. Or he would have opened it himself.
Henry:	Precisely. You come up with two possibilities without even thinking about it. If we accept the possibility of my grandfather not opening the door as he was required to then the ENTIRE HISTORY OF SCIENCE could have been altered. No. THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE WORLD FROM THAT MOMENT.
AW:	Oh for goodness sake! You're trying to tie my testicles in a knot. You know perfectly well that once the moving finger has written etcetera, etcetera. I wish you wouldn't introduce any of your degenerate relations into serious conversation.
Henry:	Yah, but haven't you heard about South Africa's secret space project? At this very moment a spaceship…
AW:	PLEASE!! (Shouts in a frantic whisper, face contorted in alarm. Puts finger to lips and goes to window. Leans out then quickly pulls back.) Just as I thought, you bloody fool. You know their rules about discussing secret projects. They're always trying to catch terrorists and communists, and spies and rooinek traitors. Hand me that hook. (Henry hands him the six-foot window opener standing in corner of room. Leans out and pulls. A scream is heard simultaneously with a clattering and bumping sound.) That'll teach them. Bloody Ape disguised as a Monkey window cleaner. Now where were we? Alright, but keep your voice down.
Henry:	They've launched a spaceship with one person on board: twenty year old Shadrach. His twin brother Meshach they've got in a cage at Apollofontein. The craft will progressively accelerate until it reaches a velocity of 372 000 miles per second. That's really fucking fast. Initially they aimed at Alpha Crucis, the brightest star in Crux Australis, but then chickened out and are now headed for the middle of the Coalsack Nebula for fear of hitting something. The spaceship will travel for half a year and then do a U-turn and come back to earth. Obviously when it gets back after a year Meshach will celebrate his twenty-first birthday with a double helping of putu and five gallons of skokiaan. But Shadrach, South Africa's first astronaut and the world's first time traveller, will find that he's only eleven years old. He will have shrunk in stature, his big manly voice will have turned again to childish treble and his foreskin will have regenerated to its undiminished proportion and elasticity. Our top scientists recently gained access to a special version of the Special Theory of Relativity and have come up with their own conclusion. They talk about contracting time. If this experiment is successful the world will sit up and realise that we're not just a bunch of fascist shitheads with brains the size of peas.
AW:	I see. Mmm. Yes, it makes sense. The implications boggle the credulity. Our leaders could remain young forever. Just a little sabbatical, a time trip, and the years would fall away.
Henry:	For the select few it would mean immortality. Only one problem though.
AW:	What's that?
Henry:	The K factor. Heard the one about the Englishman, the German, the Japanese and the Kaffir? They're each given three iron balls and told to do something with them. I forget how it goes exactly… Anyway the other three do something or other each… I think the Englishman balances one on top of the other and the Jap copies him and the German… Anyway. But the Kaffir - this is where we get the K factor - the Kaffir loses one and breaks the other two.
AW:	Yes I've heard it several times, in different versions in both official languages and yours is far and away the poorest rendition. I don't see any profit in trivializing a serious discussion with badly told jokes of dubious wit.
Henry:	Do you think humour and science are incompatible? I suppose you must, from the disapproving way you tighten your lips in imitation of a cat's anus. The point is the South African astronaut is BLACK and brilliantly imaginative and with a sense of humour light years beyond the grasp of the bush professors on the ground at Appollofontein. ANYTHING MIGHT HAPPEN.
AW:	This might or might not be true. You know that I suspect you of being a bloody liar. A bloody wisecrack. Be that as it may. I can elevate myself above the slings and arrows of swinish pricks. My thoughts dwell in the realms of metaphysics and pure science. Let us resume the discussion having, in a spirit of magnanimity, wiped your filthy slate clean on the strict understanding that you refrain from all further attempts at levity or frivolity. I am your senior in years, position, wisdom and decency. Kindly refer to me as Mr Whitehead and not Alf, Alfred or Fred. Are we in agreement?
Henry:	Yah sure. Anything to make you feel good. Mr Whitehead. Sir. Just call me Fuckit.
AW:	Very well then. That seems to have cleared the air a bit. Now let us discuss The Measurement of Time, a subject of central importance to each and every member of civilian staff working in this Dockyard. Damn the imposition! (Annoyance at the phone ringing on his desk.) You answer it. If it's anything to do with work tell them I'm in the midst of a total re-inventorization of screws, brass, self-tapping, and can't possibly be disturbed.
(Henry picks up phone. Speaks slowly and clearly.)
Henry:	Central Store. Assistant Stores officer Henry Fuckit at your service. Good day. Sentrale Stoor. Assistent Stoor beampte Hendrik Fokdit op jou diens. Goeie dag… Oh, hello… Yes Madam. He's just been in conference with the Admiral but I can see if he's available… Yes… okay… I've got it. I'll make sure he gets the message immediately. Thank you. Goodbye. (Replaces phone).
AW:	My wife?
Henry:	Yes. She says don't forget to make the copies of her knitting patterns and also have you phoned your sister in Canada to find out whether they received the photographs.
AW:	Damn it! I'd clean forgotten the copies.
Henry:	She also said you have a head like a sieve. Mr Whitehead. Sir.
AW:	Ahem. Yes, well that's… No damn business to… as we were saying. Thank you for the message. As we were saying, The Measurement of Time goes back to time immemorial. Our first thinking ancestors became aware that the sun comes up and the sun goes down, the sun comes up and the sun goes down, the sun comes up and the sun goes down. Yes, and it was the movement of the sun, or shall we say the APPARENT movement of the sun, for as you might know the sun does not move about the earth but the earth rotates on its axis and gives the false impression of the sun being in motion about us, east to west, when in fact it is we who are moving west to east. The appearance of the sun moving across the sky having made man aware of the passage of time. The first clock was the sun in the sky and days were regulated accordingly. Now we are at present talking in terms of SOLAR time which I will define in precise and cogent phraseology as time measured by the Earth's daily rotation relative to the Sun resulting in Apparent Solar time which is the time indicated by a sundial marking the position of the Sun relative to the meridian upon which the sundial is located. So far so good and all reasonable and within the grasp of the meanest intelligence. Now the motion of the Sun relative to the stars is not uniform; neither is the orbit of the Earth truly circular but indeed elliptical, both of which factors having resulted in variations in Apparent Solar Time during the course of one year. To remove these damnably irritating little discrepancies we have devised Mean Solar Time which I will now endeavour to explain but require you to sharpen your concentration and to hang upon each and every word in order not to render the time and effort I am expending in elucidation totally null and void. (Henry slaps face and pinches ear lobes.) These variations are corrected by turning our gaze from the Sun to the stars in order to obtain Sidereal Time, Sidereal Time being measured again in accordance with the rotation of the Earth but this time relative to the stars and not the Sun. Unfortunately matters are complicated by the fact that a Sidereal Day is four minutes shorter than a Mean Solar Day and a mathematical formula beyond your grasp must be applied via Sidereal Time to Apparent Solar Time in order to arrive at Mean Solar Time. Yes?
Henry:	Two questions. First, if there's a four-minute difference between the two systems what's to stop them going completely out of synch after a few years; and second…
AW:	Enough! If you wish to ask questions you may submit them in writing. Where there's a will there's a way. Now the Mean Solar Day is divided as follows: one Mean Solar Day equals twenty four Mean Solar Hours; one Mean Solar Hour equals sixty Mean Solar Minutes; one Mean Solar Minute equals sixty Mean Solar Seconds and, ipso facto, one Mean Solar Day comprises 86 400 Mean Solar Seconds. The Mean Solar Day is reckoned to begin at midnight and run through twenty four hours, or to comprise two twelve hour portions, one from midnight to noon and the other from noon to midnight. In the twenty-four-hour system the hours and minutes are given as a four-digit number. For example 0028 means twenty-eight minutes past midnight and 1240 means forty minutes past noon. But, and here we encounter a problem of disastrous proportions, 2400 of September 30 is the same as 0000 of September 31. Now in the twelve-hour system…
Henry:	Excuse me.
AW:	Damn it! I said no questions.
Henry:	This isn't a question, it's a point of order. Thirty days hath September.
AW:	What? For God's sake don't be so bloody pedantic. The twelve-hour system has twelve hours from midnight to noon designated ante meridian, and twelve hours from noon to midnight designated post meridian. However an even more serious ambiguity arises. 12 AM and 12 PM are mutually indistinguishable unless one adds the word 'noon' or 'midnight' to 12. I shall now proceed to discuss in some detail Greenwich Mean Time, Ephemeris Time, Co-ordinated Universal Time, and the Rolls Royce in time, Atomic Time. Now GMT or Greenwich…
Henry:	Please! For Christ's sake, this is INKRREDIBLY boring.
AW:	Boring? BORING? Understand me correctly: do I understand you correctly? Are you saying that you find the most important aspect of your life BORING? I can only put this down to subhuman intelligence. Also you are new here. You are immature, you have not learned. I pity you. You are defenceless. Arm yourself before it is too late. How are you to cope with the years of emptiness that lie ahead? You speak of boredom? Every day of every week of every month of every year will be a nightmare of choking black boredom. Addiction, insanity, suicide. That is what awaits the man not equipped to deal with time.
Henry:	Alright, alright. Tell me about Atomic Time.
AW:	Atomic Time? Very well then but heed my warning. I see danger in your path. There is something amoral and reckless about you. And you are coarse. Be that as it may, you have been warned. Atomic Time. Yes, now Atomic Time is pure and beautiful and the contemplation of its crisp precision never fails to uplift my spirits and help me place one foot in front of the other. Unlike Solar Time and Sidereal Time and Ephemeris Time, which are dynamical and involve the motion of bodies such as Earth, Sun, Moon, Stars and Satellites, Atomic Time is measured by cycles of electromagnetic radiation. There are some fifty-one Atomic Clocks scattered about the world and one of them right here in Simonstown Dockyard. They are all independent but regularly compare recordings and it is conservatively estimated that after a period of three thousand years between them there will be a combined difference in readings of less than one second. This is what makes life tolerable, knowing that every instant of our day is determined and there can be no doubt about the order of each individual succession, in the progress from seven thirty to four thirty, of thirty two thousand four hundred seconds. (Long pause in which they regard each other.)
Henry:	Boss?
AW:	Yes. And don't call me 'Boss'.
Henry:	Don't take offence but can I ask you a personal question?
AW:	Certainly not. I don't want any of your bloody insulting rubbish.
Henry:	It helps to pass some of those dreary seconds. Alright. How about showing me the Atomic Clock?
AW:	Not now. All in good time.

Conducted South

From The Life Of Henry Fuckit

There were few white passengers and he had a whole compartment to himself. The initial excitement induced by the novelty of his situation had begun to dissolve not long after the train left Bulawayo. Now, halted at this siding, in a strange limbo of almost complete silence, the enormity of his undertaking was growing upon him. For a while a wave of panic filled him as he contemplated the vastness of the unknown future confronting him. Strong emotions welled up: fear for the cold unfriendly world into which he was stepping; nostalgia at the memory of his friends, mentors, Mrs R, even the boys busy about the house and in the kitchen – even that pig Dolf Welgemoed. Every detail that made up his life at Ingachini was now so dear to him. A heart-rending self-pity filled his eyes with tears and caught at his throat. He felt a strong urge to halt what he had set in motion and scurry back to the familiar safety of Ingachini. The coalescence of these feelings amounted to a brand-new experience that he intuitively recognised as being ‘homesickness’. So, this is what it’s like to feel homesick. Gee, but this is quite distinct and exceptional. There’s nothing quite like it. He thought of his poor tormented mother who had suffered intensely from this same ailment. He became so wrapped in the contemplation and savouring of his newfound emotion that, before he knew it, it had passed, and he realised, almost ruefully, that he no longer felt homesick.<br>
Up front there was a hiss and a toot and a gentle shudder ran through the carriage. Very slowly the view through the window was sliding sideways and he was on his way again. It was already well past noon and in a few hours they would cross the border into Botswana.
He became aware of a voice out in the corridor and a few moments later there was a sharp rat-a-tat, the insertion of a master key, the turning of the latch and the rolling back of the door. This movement, from the rat to the end of the roll, was accomplished with a virtuoso flourish and there in the doorway, larger than life, stood the spitting image of Joseph Stalin.
“Kaartjies asseblief,” he announced in a brisk business-like tone. “Tickets please.” A thickset powerful man of about forty years of age, he was dressed in the navy blue uniform of a senior conductor on the South African Railways. His black shoes shone, his trousers looked freshly pressed with knife-edge creases, his jacket fitted him snugly and his cuffs and collar were snowy white. A silver fob-chain drooped across his abdomen to the left pocket of his waistcoat and was presumably connected to a chrome-plated whistle. The black silk tie with its gold coat of arms was tied at his throat in a sensuously plump knot. His chin was smooth and shiny whilst the great black moustache luxuriated rankly upon his upper lip. His eyes were small and close-set but glinted with a domineering fierceness. When he removed his peaked cap his thick, neatly clipped raven hair crowded his forehead. Henry was pleased to be acquainted with such a vigorous specimen.
“I see you’re travelling to Cape Town, Mr O’Riley,” the conductor said in a strong South African accent as he read the details on the piece of paper. “The train’s empty now but at Jo’burg it will fill up and you’ll have to share. You must fill in this form and have your passport ready. We will get to Plumtree and the Botswana border in about an hour.”
Henry took the form and glanced at it nervously. This was the first official document he had ever been required to complete. Surname, first names, date and place of birth – straightforward enough. But sex? Was he expected to disclose how frequently he masturbated? What business was that of theirs? The conductor noticed the worried look clouding Henry’s face and promised to help him once he had attended to the other passengers. Meanwhile Henry was to tackle the easy stuff on his own.
Braithwaite had skilfully replaced MARY ELIZABETH with HENRY FUCKIT, altered the year of birth from ’24 to ’50 and substituted the photograph. The repining Englishwoman’s countenance was supplanted by the unshaven visage of her son. Henry admired the sleight of hand. Then for the first time he took the trouble to read the copperplate message inside the cover. Goodness gracious me! He became indignant. This was ridiculous. Was it not absolutely plain that he, a British Citizen, was to be allowed to pass freely without let or hindrance? Why should he be troubled with these irksome questions, prying into the innermost sanctum of his private life? Had Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State not made it unequivocally clear that he was to be afforded such assistance and protection as may be necessary?
As the conductor was rolling back the door for the second time he was waylaid in the corridor. “Meneer Ponchielli!” Henry heard the voice calling above the clackety-clack of wheels leaping the gap from one length of rail to the next. “Meneer Ponchielli! Asseblief meneer. The chef says you must come quick. Daar’s ‘n fokop met die spaghetti!”
“Alright, tell him I’m coming now-now.” He put his head in and addressed Henry: “Sorry about this but I’ll be back shortly. Five or ten minutes, that’s all.”
When he returned he looked pleased with himself. “That chef is doing just fine. He really takes his job seriously. Tonight you will taste the best pasta north of my wife’s kitchen. Delizioso!” He pinched the air with thumb and forefinger and pursed his lips in a kiss of gastronomic delight.
“I heard that fellow call you Mr Ponchielli,” said Henry, as the conductor slid behind the let-down table and faced him. “You must be of Italian extraction. Ponchielli is a famous name in opera.” His guest’s surprise was evident. He banged the table with his fist and shouted with laughter. Then he shook Henry’s hand with enthusiastic vigour.
“I can’t believe my ears. You know, you don’t find many people who have heard of Amilcare Ponchielli. I am the grandson of the great musicista.” He spoke with pride.
“It’s a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a close relative of such a gifted musician. I have heard excerpts from La Gioconda on the BBC. Also I know that your grandfather taught Puccini and was a major influence on him.”
“Your information is spot-on. This is amazing. You know, I am named after Puccini. Giacomo Ponchielli. But everybody calls me Jack. Except my wife.” For a moment a look of doleful regret came into his eyes and his shoulders sagged. “She calls me Maestro. I wanted to be a great musician, maybe even the conductor of an orchestra. But instead I am the conductor of a passenger train. Yes, I know it’s an absurdity; you can laugh if you like.” Henry had indeed been unable to conceal his amusement. Jack Ponchielli sat up erect and the despondency left his face and his voice. “As my dear father always told me, you have to be realistic. Rather be a good railwayman than a bad musician. And I love this job: I meet many strange and wonderful people and the train is a special place. I am a romantic and I like to think of the train as a world entirely on its own, very separate and detached from the bigger world out there. On the train we are moving in another dimension and can be introspective and objective. But hey, we’ll be in Plumtree in ten minutes. Where’s that customs form of yours?”
The filling in of the form seemed a trifling thing when dealt with by the conductor. “You see,” he explained, “you have to learn how the world works. When you’re asked a question you must know what type of answer is being looked for. You’ve got to know who you’re dealing with. Let’s take a new form and start again.” He began writing. At FUCKIT he raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Under ‘Sex’ he wrote MALE. “They just want to know if you’re a man or a woman.”
“But that’s ridiculous. I ticked ‘Mr’. If I was a woman would I be calling myself Mister?”
“‘Purpose of Visit’. You’ve put TO AVOID MILITARY SERVICE AND TO SEE THE WORLD. They don’t want you to say that. What they want you to say is VACATION. ‘Period of Visit’. You’ve got WHO KNOWS? THE FUTURE IS A CLOSED BOOK… SIX WEEKS is what you put. You can always change your mind; they don’t care. Are you getting the picture.” He continued to scribble away and finished with a flourish. “Voila! The deed is done.” He rose to his feet, adjusted his cap on his thick black hair and prepared to make his exit. “After dinner I will play my violin in the dining saloon. Tonight I am in the mood for Vivaldi. I hope you won’t find my playing too bad. I like to think of the train moving slowly through the black night and the wild beasts and the Natives out there listening to the music as it passes.”

From “The Life Of Henry Fuckit”