A man is driving along in a car with his son beside him. Suddenly someone pulls out in front of him, and there’s a terrible accident. The man dies instantly, and the boy is rushed to hospital. The surgeon walks into the operating theatre, looks at the child and says “I can’t operate, this boy is my son.” How can this be?
Some responses to comments:
Yes, everyone in the world has a mad uncle, if not then they’re in denial.
There is no one who can’t get lunch with me, it’s just the last couple of weeks I’ve been busy (work, study) and stressed, mostly with family matters (geez, my grandfather was in so much agony they had to put him in restraints to stop him thrashing around and disconnecting the machines…) so I haven’t been able to schedule lunch dates everyday. But, things are settling down, so if you persist…
I've added a picture of the woolen cat to the "blogs I have not joined" post.
I am always up for a hot chocolate, anytime, anywhere, all offers accepted.
And all of you, stay out of my cleavage!
*
I had a traumatic visit to the doctor this afternoon, and afterwards my knees were shaking and I had to hide in a dark corner until I stopped wanting to cry. I went and hung out in an internet café until I could stand without wobbling. Then I ate lots of dairy chocolate, which I’m allergic to, so then I had really bad hayfever and felt even more miserable.
Luckily today was my writing workshop. I tried really hard to sulk for the whole class so people would feel sorry for me and give me hugs... but I just couldn't manage it. Lasted for about seven minutes and then I was teasing Kate, rolling around on the floor laughing, throwing things, eating cake, and shouting at the top of my voice (just your average children's writing course). I love our course, I laugh more on a Monday afternoon I do the rest of the week put together.
Today Bob Kerr visited our class. He was funnier than I expected him to be – I’ve only read one of his books and it’s called “After the War.” I really want to illustrate my own picture books. So much more control! (And, as Bob pointed out, you don’t have to give half the royalties to someone else). Of course, somewhere along the lines I’d probably have to learn to draw people…
Speaking about learning things, I’m trying to work out what to study next semester. So far I’ve narrowed the options down to ten papers:
New Zealand Politics – Power, equity and diversity
Maori Culture, Performance and Technology
Introductory Astronomy
Prayer, Meditation, Trance and Ecstasy: A Study of the Techniques of Spiritual Transformation
Writing the Landscape
Creative Non-fiction
Environment and resources
Fundamentals of geology
Cultural Encounters: The Literature, Film and Theatre of Aotearoa New Zealand and the Pacific
Media, Society and Politics
I really should decide what I’m going to major in at some point. I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Can you tell?
Maybe I don’t have to do anything with my life. I could just be eccentric like my uncle. By the way, the uncle hunt went well. We found the section, it’s only five minutes walk from my house. We had to scramble up a muddy bank and then crawl through some bushes, and suddenly we were standing in front of a pile of… ah… rummage. Bicycle wheels with broken spokes. Rusted car bonnets. Pieces of corrugated iron. Car batteries. A toilet balanced precariously on top of it all. Then we pushed our way through a tunnel of harakeke and found ourselves facing more um, well… junk. An even bigger pile. And in the middle of it, a small shed. Pinned to the door was a 1999 closure notice from the City Council – “This dwelling is unfit for habitation.” We pushed the door open and we were almost buried in an avalanche of ancient computer monitors, toasters, electric jugs and bicycle parts. No uncle. But we did find a gas cooker set up in the shelter of a stainless steel sink, and nearby some empty eggshells. Fresh uncle signs. This was obviously the right habitat.
I left a note on the door, next to the closure notice. And what do you know, this evening my uncle turned up. I fed him soup and tea, and then I listened for hours while he told me all sorts of interesting stories. Like, did you know that if you take apart a nine volt battery you can make two three cell batteries which can be used in some kinds of portable phones (and this is much cheaper than just buying the correct batteries). I’m scared. What if it’s genetic? If I ever start talking about phone batteries for more than a few minutes, please, please, stop me.
I hope no one is still trying to figure out the "riddle."
You’d be amazed the answers people come up with, involving adoption, second marriages, sperm donors, ghosts, genetic engineering…
But of course it’s simple, the surgeon is the boy’s mother.
Posted by Fionnaigh at May 5, 2003 10:17 PM