Other Side of the Mirror: Just out of my element

When I was in my salad days (yes, there are still people who use such phrases) I used to write humorous stories, real roll on the floor with mirth pieces.
And readers would come up and say, great stuff, but when are you going to write something serious and durable. Finally, intimidated, I began writing on politics and aeroplanes and military matters of deep and abiding profundity. No one read them. I kept waiting for the earth to move when I advised Bill Clinton, told General Musharrif how to deal with Manmohan and vice versa and second guessed Tony Blair. Not one letter to the editor. Yet when I wrote about people, just people, who would never shake the trunk of life, they laughed and they enjoyed it and they called and said, that was funny.
Then they said, so how come you don’t do something serious. And my wife would say, I wish you were one of those profound writers who were always being interviewed saying things like ‘nevertheless’ and ‘in the true perspective’ and ‘weighing the pros and cons’ and ‘ipso facto and de jure and ad infinitum’, why can’t you write like that.
So when they came up again and they’d say, this serious business is okay but you should never have given up your funny stuff, that’s where you were really in your element. And that’s just it. I am one of those folk who is never in his element.
What are you doing these days, people ask me and I have to say, looking for my element. It doesn’t get many laughs but it is my golden fleece.
I have always admired people who hit back with scathing wit, have an arsenal of squelches and can insult with panache and style. My repartee crumbles under pressure and I am getting the distinct feeling that even my swash is buckling.
There was a time I could engage in rapier sharp fencing with the best of them. Now, I lose out to everyone including the parrot. This complex manifested itself alarmingly in Dubai the other day when I took the car to the mechanic to check out a “tickticktick” sound.
I said, there’s a “ticktick” sound that goes “tuchatuch” at over 80. He sneered like only car mechanics can sneer and said, the dittlewat in the thingummy has gone.
I said...oh it has, has it, what can we do, believing naively that collective responsibility might make things smooth.
Without glancing at the car, he said, we’ll have to change the watchmecallit and then recrank the camshaft minor rod so that there is no damage to the fiddlebit.
I said I couldn’t stand it if the fiddlebit was damaged, fiddlebits being very close to my heart.
He said, and I think the gleebobs in the gearbox are worn out so unless you want the rotary teeth to break you’d better open up the engine and look into the pistons.
I said, he was the boss, ha ha, and anyway, looking at pistons was one of his strengths and no one would drive on the highway with a messed up gleebob. He said, well, its your car, the sentence spoken at that level of contempt and derision matched only by teenage children toward their parents. I said, of course I agree with you, we have to put the old girl right.
So, ten days later, having paid a small fortune in cabs, and a large fortune in repairs I drove out with a fresh thingummy and a spanking new fiddlebit.
Inside ten minutes the “tickatickatick” was back, only this time emphasised by an “a” note between ticks. I look it back, apologized for the inconvenience and said, the sound is still there.
He said, well, what do you expect, you never changed the engine giddlebunt or the catchratchet in the axle base.
I said how silly me, all my fault, apologize, apologize.
The sound is still there. See what I mean. I never win. If I ever walk out of the house in style, I am back in seconds because I left my briefcase behind. Sheepish, that’s me. Reach customs and I cannot find the right keys. Put the alarm on and it won’t go off. Buy tickets to a match and be sure there’s a pillar obstructing the view. Wear a new short and the collar button breaks.
In fact, I recall a fascinating story I must relate except the ink in the ballpen has dried up ...