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I LOVED your golfing
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would love to post your article (for my) course for
seniors entitled Autobiography and Journaling ... and
let them read your article as a good example of what
I call the reader's writer, clearly expressed and easy
to read. (Howell)
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Read
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originally found this site after searching for
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Scroll down to read the tale of
... The Tong Master
~ The Write Way ~
Friday 23 February 2001
The Tong Master
Greetings,
Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I'm able to chat with people from
all over the world, and it's fascinating to discover that we all encounter
similar language problems - whether we're Up There or Down Under. One dilemma
common to all is the confusion about whether to use 'will' or 'shall.'
Yes, I know you lie awake at nights, tossing and turning, wondering whether
you were perhaps a little rash telling the greengrocer, "I shall have that
box of mangoes and not the grotty ones you're trying to sell me, my good
man!"
Whatever else he thought of you, he must have been pretty impressed by your
obvious grasp of grammar. 'Shall' is used in the first person singular and
plural (I and we) to indicate intention and determination.
It's a far stronger term than simply saying, "I'll have that box of
mangoes ..."
'Will' is used to indicate volition, doing something through the exercise of
free will, and futurity - an intention to do something in the future, for first,
second and third person, in both singular and plural forms (I, you, he/she/it,
we, you, they).
"He will finish painting the fence when he's had a swim, if he feels
like it."
However, you can also use 'shall' with first, second and third person, in
both singular and plural forms to indicate determination, obligation or
compulsion:
"Oh yes, you shall clean up that mess, young lady!"
So, there are rules - but it's another case of "if it feels good, do
it!" These days, people will most likely answer you whether you use 'will'
or 'shall.'
There have been some more additions to the sorry tale of Dr Morgenes and the
Giant Gerbil over at the Never-Ending Story - if your sense of humour verges on
the ludicrous and you fancy penning a few lines, we'd love to hear from you.
Stop by and add your tuppence worth to the plot: http://www.write101.com/fun.htm
Here's a little tale my son sent me about one of the great Australian
institutions - the barbie! Out here, barbeques have a strange effect on the male
of the species. Men who, in the kitchen, can't tell the pointy end of a frying
pan from the blunt end, suddenly become experts in the culinary arts and vie for
the title of ....
The Tong Master
Macca was at the barbeque and Jonesy was at the barbeque and I was at the barbeque; three men standing around a
barbeque, sipping beer, staring at
sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never leaving them alone.
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We didn't know why we were at the barbeque, we were just drawn there like moths
to a flame. The barbeque was a powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet.
Jonesy said, 'The thin ones could use a turn.'
I said, 'Yeah, I reckon the thin ones could use a
turn.'
Macca said, 'Yeah, they really need a turn' - it
was a unanimous turning decision.
Macca was the Tong-Master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of
his long silver tongs, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with
an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little
backs. A lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone
full circle, back to where they started. 'Nice,' I said.
The others went, 'Yeah.'
Kevin was passing us, he heard the siren-song sizzle of the snags, the barbeque was calling, beckoning, 'Kevinnnnn ...come.'
He stuck his head in and said, 'Any room?'
We said, 'Yeah,' and began the
barbeque shuffle;
Macca shuffled to the left, Jonesy shuffled to the left, I shuffled to the left,
Kevin slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer.
Now there were four of us staring at sausages, and Macca gave me the nod, my
cue. I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the
plastic bag and lay them on the barbeque; not too close together, not too far
apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers - fat ones, thin ones,
herbed and continental. The chipolatas were tiny, they could easily slip down
between the grill, falling into the molten hot-bead-netherworld
below. Carefully I laid them sideways ACROSS the grill, clever thinking. Macca
snapped his tongs with approval, there was no greater barbeque honour.
Johnno came along, he said, 'Looking good, looking good' - the irresistible lure
of the barbeque had pulled him in, too.
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We said, 'Yeah,' and did the shuffle, left, left,
left, left, he slipped in beside Kevin, we sipped our beer.
Five men, lots of sausages. Jonesy was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that
pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed lots of
promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up
and down the casing.
Johnno was shaking his head, he said, 'I reckon
they cook better if you don't poke them.'
There was a long silence, you could have heard a
chipolata drop; this new-comer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas
from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-master, then
the Sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger - and everyone below was just a
Watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock
the Weber.
Dianne popped her head in, 'Hmmm, smells good,' she said.
She was trying to jostle into the circle; we
closed ranks, pulling our heads down and our shoulders in, mumbling, 'Yeah yeah
yeah,' but making no room for her.
She was keen, going round to the far side of the
barbeque, heading for the only available space . . . the gap in the circle where
all the smoke and ashes blew. Nobody could survive the gap; Dianne was going to
try. She stood there stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her
nostrils, sausage fat spattering all over her arms and face. Until she couldn't
take it anymore, she gave up, backed off.
Kevin waited till she was gone and sipped his beer. We sipped our beer,
'Yeah.'
Macca handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he
nodded. I knew what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the
abdication. The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip - was I ready
for the
responsibility? Yes, I was. I held them up high and they glinted in the sun.
'Don't forget to turn the thin ones,' Macca said,
as he walked away from the barbeque, disappearing toward the house.
'Yeah,' I called back, 'I will, I will.'
I snapped them twice, SNAP SNAP,
before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist,
rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a natural, I was the
TONG-MASTER!
Until Macca got back from the toilet ...
© Danny Katz 1998
(Danny Katz
writes for The Age newspaper in Melbourne.)
Chuckle, isn't that a hoot? I'd love to know if
this is a universal bloke-thing, or something that's peculiar to Aussie men.
This week's quiz:
Fill in the table:
| VERB |
NOUN |
ADJECTIVE |
| educate |
education |
|
|
honour |
honourable |
|
silence |
silent |
| please |
|
pleasant |
| economise |
economy |
|
|
injury |
injurious |
| vacate |
|
vacant |
| suspect |
|
suspicious |
| provoke |
provocation |
|
|
grief |
grievous |
LaVonne sent this ... well, what can I say? We
just can't help ourselves. Old habits die hard.
Three people arrived at the pearly gates of
heaven.
St. Peter asked the first, "Who's there?"
"It's me, Albert Jones," the voice replied.
St. Peter let him in.
St. Peter asked the second one the same question,
"Who's there?"
"It's me, Charlie Jones."
And St. Peter let him in.
He then asked the third one, "Who's there?"
"It is I, Verla Chapman," answered the third.
"Oh, great," muttered St. Peter.
"Here comes another English teacher."
Last week's quiz:
Match each word from list A with the definition
list B.
| List A
prophylaxis
exhibitionist
retrogress
domination
chronology
ethnocentric
trimester
topography
trinity
trident |
List B
preventive treatment
one who shows off
go backwards
control
order of events
group centred
school term year
land forms
group of three
three pronged spear |
Word of the week: Ingravescent
(a) Growing worse or more severe. A medical term used of illnesses, a patient's
morbid condition or disease, etc. Suggested for use instead as a faintly perjorative
descriptive for your less savoory acquaintances. "How's Isidore these
days?"
"Oh, ingravescent, I'm afraid -
distinctly ingravescent." (Hall of Superior Words)
Tautology of the week: soup
du jour of the day
Here are some pithy Latin phrases -
you're sure to find a use for at least one of them some time in the coming week:
Nullo modo (No way)
Fors fortis (Fat chance)
Labra lege (Read my lips)
Raptus regaliter (Royally
screwed)
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Regards,
Jennifer
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