WHERE WERE WE

But we should do something about this woman standing in the doorway with a snake on her head. We can't just leave her there; it would be rude. She's getting tired, I think, and perhaps a little exasperated. She wants to get on with this novel.

I can never write the word novel without thinking of the word navel, and then in turn of my grandmother's story about the retired military commander from the Royal Navy who was recognized from his lapel pin by another commander who said, "I see you're Naval, sir," and the first guy replies, "Oh, Thank you," and tucks in the front of his shirt.

I suppose what makes the story funny to me is not the humor so much as what humor was for my grandmother; she really thought it was funny.

Therefore there are two levels to the humor, as well as two levels to the word naval.

For me, anyway: for you maybe not; maybe the word naval leaves you cold and flat as a dead flounder, whereas the word iniquity, let us say, reverberates for you like hot pancakes falling from the sky.

Which makes me wonder how we ever actually succeed in communicating with one another, what with all these denotations and connotations and whiz-bang association airplanes caromming out of each syllable.

Quite a business.