SOME ODD things in the paper these days. You might have seen where our leading article on the death of Franois Mitterrand said his victory in the presidential election in 1981 was a tribute to his "catlike" cunning.
Catlike? What happened to rat-like? I hold no brief for the rodent species, merely ask what is going on here, if a trend is beginning. I suppose doglike devotion will be next to go.
The other day too I saw an actor described in these pages as having a "lob-sided" grin. Hmmm. Lobar damage extending all the way to the oral area, or perhaps the result of a botched lobotomy? Though maybe it is just the attractively high are to his particular simper or the deceptively slow, under-arm delivery of sardonic smirk.
Meanwhile on the letters page I saw someone suggesting, in relation to the dreary old row over "British Isles" nomenclature, how we might "solve" our national conscience.
I suppose the first thing to do is to take a good look at it.
The national conscience is kept over on Upper Merrion Street in a small annexe off the Natural History Museum, giving rise to many amusing remarks about its influence on the staff in nearby Government Buildings. By the way, many people wrongly presume it is kept up in the Aras and make the trip for nothing on Sunday afternoons. (It was in fact kept there until the Eucharistic Congress in 1932 when it was put on open display in St. Stephen's Green; after that it was moved to its present location).
Naturally the conscience is invisible to the naked eye though many people claim to have seen movement inside the perspex case wherein it is preserved. Its keeper must find it hard not to smile at these tales: he is a surprisingly young career civil servant paid quite rightly at Assistant Principal level, and extremely polite and helpful though he must surely tire of the obvious questions. (Does it make cowards of us all or is that just another notion of the mad Dane? How does he know when it is being pricked?).
Anyway he insists there is no particular problem bothering the conscience these days and it has been as quiet as a mouse since the last referendum. So no worries there.
Now to less pressing matters. I see where the artist Pauline Bewick has described her character the Yellow Man as "my ideal being - complete without a partner. He represents total happiness. He is happy and content alone with nature".
I don't know. Coming from a wife and mother such as Ms Bewick is, this seems an unnecessarily negative attitude to take against traditional marriage and the ordinary joys of family life in the urban areas where most of us are obliged to live. Naturally art suffers in marriage, Egon Schiele for example showed a notable softening of style and outlook when he took a wife, and a certain (measure of) complacency - oh all right - crept in.
I am no expert on symbolism but perhaps the Yellow Man's colour suggests he is merely afraid of commitment.
Ms Bewick's accompanying dance-theatre piece has been described as part Bacchic song-and-tango celebration. Yet we are told that the performances are suitable for children.
I would be worried about the prospect of young people being exposed to the notion of an unrequited lover such as the Yellow Man being involved in a "Bacchic song-and-tango celebration." I don't need to tell you about Bacchus, but it may not be widely known that the tango originated in the 19th-century brothels of Buenos Aires, where by all accounts its movements and rhythms reflected the professional concerns of the staff and clients.
I am aware that subsequent grin go dilution of the tango form contributed to its popularity (by 1910 it was all the rage in Parisian dance circles) but really, the machismo element still dominates, often with unacceptably aggressive lyrics.
For adult visitors to the Yellow Man show, there is also the unspeakable prospect of being reminded by insensitive neighbours of how many it takes to tango.