The Natives at Play

Observing the natives in their natural habitat, is an important part of settling in on a New Planet. Instead of going to the zoological gardens to observe other species, I prefer to sit in a cosy room with a hot beverage, observing some of the strange rituals practised by the natives. It affords me much amusement and I am beginning to take these strange aliens to my heart.

The first thing that I noticed upon arrival some years hence, was the strange apparel the aliens wear. At first I was eager to fit in, but have so far resisted the urge to scrape my hair back and plaster it down with gel, and have not bought enormous silver hoop earrings, almost white skin foundation and pale pink, shimmery lipstick.

I wonder, with a slight smirk, if the undeveloped aliens truly think that pink velour fabric stretched over chunky thighs with a large, white and usually wobbly belly hanging over the waistband, is an attractive sight. Surely there is better use of such material....like a circus tent or housing for a small nation? Those that resist the pink furry stretch fabric are oft times squashed into a pair of denim trousers, a good three sizes too small, and hearing their thighs rubbing together as they mince along reminds me somewhat of a herd of wildebeest rioting across the plains of the Southernmost Colony. And I do wonder, what the purpose is of the flimsy piece of string-like fabric I see poking out of the back of said trousers as they only just manage to stay up? My eyes can scarcely resist ogling the sparkly butterfly or red heart or sequined (usually provocative) word that hovers, oh so cleverly, and not so subtly, above the well-rounded gluteus maximus...perhaps that is the intention, after all.

And watching these beings strut and squeal and throw up in the street, I once more wonder at the diversity of beings on this planet. As well as the loud-mouthed, foul-tongued undeveloped beings who hide their features beneath sinister hooded apparel, there are of course the lovely and gentile sorts too. These can usually be spotted next to sporting arenas, and particularly at horsey events...occasionally it is difficult to tell beast and being apart. They wander around dressed in cigar-scented caghools, leather boots, casual yet obviously exorbitantly expensive cashmire sweaters, cunningly draped pashminas and sometimes, but not always, carry a pampered pooch in a leather handbag.

There is also, to my delight, a plethora of check-shirted, high-waisted, sensible-shoe-wearing beings with loud nasal laughs and immense intellect. In days of sunshine and sweltering heat, they are easily identified by the white socks and brown sandals they sport and their knobbly white legs poke out plaintively from a pair of long shorts or short longs, depending on your point of view. They wander the highways and byways, clutching their oversized bags, pushing their spectacles up their high-ridged noses and are many a time to be seen wandering up a nearby mountain with a map in a plastic bag and a large rucksack on their backs...and of course the obligatory thick-soled hiking footwear, red walking stick and packed lunch (squashed marmite and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower cordial).

I do so enjoy the varied species of life on the New Planet, I think I will continue along this vein in my next epistle...

Under attack

It has become apparent to me that the New Planet has a number of unpleasant elements floating about in its atmosphere (and no, I'm not talking about large-mammaried celebrities). Although I have been on this planet for a number of years now, I continue to be attacked and struck down by these dastardly bugs. Surely a being should build up a resistance after a time? They lurk out there, waiting until I am tired and vulnerable, and then they swoop in and attack and leave me feeling as if I have been run over by a herd of woolly mammoths. And since my stomach is now churning after another assault, I shall retire to my chamber to contemplate, scheme and plot about the best way to take over the world.

Couch Potatoes...

On the New Planet the nights are drawing in, darkness descends in the late afternoon and the air is frosty. And in the gloom, when shopping is manic with present-hunters pushing and shoving and jostling to get the best deal, traffic building up making easy travel nigh impossible, the only retreat for a sane traveller is the couch, in front of the picture box...well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. But I'm not going to ramble on about the endless repeats, no, I have something much more important to mutter about.

To my disgust and not a little shame, I have found myself enthralled with the latest 'reality show', which as any ex-Southernmost Colony dweller realises instantly, is actually Celebrity Veldschool. For those travellers too young to remember such rites of passage, ask an older sibling or friend that grew up in the dark days 'before', as they will surely remember the delights of such compulsory excursions during their undeveloped years.

Aah yes, veldschool - an entire week of hikes in the rain, leaky shelters constructed out of twigs, runs up a mountain at dawn before breakfast, melkkos, cold showers and the constant, daily, incessant and vehement indoctrination and propaganda designed to make us all aware (and terrified for that is surely a terrorist's aim) of the red terror that lurked behind every khaki-bush, rock and eucalyptus tree. That that very same red terror is presently the governing body on the Southernmost Colony, causes me to smile and wonder what the 'oom' that was in charge of the drip-feeding would think of it all now.

And let us not forget the games we were forced to engage in...'terroriste en soldate' - dropped in the middle of nowhere with a compass and a torch and an instruction to leopard crawl towards the pool of light in the clearing far away, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for the 'soldate' who might stumble across our little band of 'terroriste' as we lay in the damp pine needles, faces daubed with mud like a primitive tribe preparing for war - which in essence we actually were.

Oh, the joy of avoiding capture and the thrill of swimming through crocodile infested rivers, negotiating the twists and turns of bat-riddled caves and muddy swamps as we made for home, in the rain and the pitch dark with the 'oom' yelling at us in a foreign tongue, the language of governance, which we were all expected to speak fluently. Would that I had remained a 'terroris', as I would now be living in splendour with inestimable amounts of treasure at my disposal (even though it should actually be used to govern the colony and not be used for trips to other planets and the building of immense mansions with a sea-view).

So my point is this, as undeveloped beings on a far off planet, we survived the tortures of sleepless nights in a cave, on the muddy ground, in a windswept cabin, bugs, spiders and the occasional serpent, didn't complain (much) and were not paid vast quantities of treasure to endure these deprivations. We were even forced to ablute in full view of the other undeveloped beings, many of whom did not even have the manners to turn away as we perched on the small bucket in the middle of the woods, and all this in the name of 'education'. I can only imagine how well such experiences would be viewed by the safety-obsessed bureaucrats on this planet - why, nary a helmet or knee pad or harness or hoist was seen - we did it all ourselves and if we fell down a ravine or lopped off a limb while using an axe unsupervised, tough, we simply climbed back up and continued on our merry way...and no one was sued.

Tantrums and pouting were not allowed, food was scarce and might well have been cockroach pate and lion testicle for all we knew. Did we mutter and moan and storm off in a huff, no we did not! I'm not comparing us all to the opinionated and puffed up seekers of fame that are presently sequestered in a jungle, I'm only pointing out that we survived veldschool, and so will you...