There is an expression that has been grossly overused for the last while.
“The elephant in the room.”
Now I don’t know who coined this irritating cliché, but he [or she] should be shot, preferably with an elephant gun.
But why do I mention it now, you ask? Well, probably you don’t but I like to think I give rise to intelligent debate and discourse. Leastwise, I do have a reason.
Sir Fartzalott arrives here occasionally. For those of you who maybe haven’t bothered reading this in recent times, Sir Fartzalott is the youngest of the grandkids.
He is a lovely kid with a solemn face and a strange sense of humour. He has a couple of activities that he indulges in when he comes here. One is to press every button and switch every switch he can lay his hands on which leads to some interesting surprises, such as music suddenly blaring out at around a hundred watts.
His other activity is picking things up and transporting them. He loves playing with my old collection of Dinky and Matchbox toys which are all well over fifty years old. I have grown used to seeing little cars in the strangest of places I would find an old Ford truck on the toilet cistern or a Massy Fergusson tractor in the coal scuttle and know exactly how they got there.
He was here a couple of days ago, and found our elephants. They are two little hand carved and highly polished African elephants and I have had them for donkey’s years [or elephant’s years?]. One of them ended up on the table in the kitchen, but the other is nowhere to be seen. For once, Sir Fartzalott has me baffled.
So if you do happen to find an elephant in the room, could you let me know?
I miss him.