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Last week I had the honour of seating myself next to Livio de Marchi in his floating wooden Ferrari for a trip along the Amsterdam canals. The difference is no more than 30 feet or so as the crow flies, but once you're on the water, it becomes quite normal to wave, almost as normal as it still is in some small villages. And it's different still in a wooden car seated next to a jolly Mediterranean chap who tirelessly waves back if he isn't taking the initiative himself. I could hardly not join in, and so I found myself grappling with the awkward question of whether, having raised my hand more than seven times, my gestures were still appropriately non-committal yet seemingly convivial. Having tried out 17 different poses, levels and speeds, next time royalty waves I'll pay extra attention, for the whole thing left me stymied. Although I persisted, of course, each fresh attempt was accompanied by that slight feeling of embarrassment which I hoped no-one would notice, although that as such is a funny thought as it is the generative frame of mind itself which is a flow-on from the supposed discernibility, which added an on-the-spot feeling of discomfiture with my own lame analysis. Oh, how I craved a sympathetic ear to explain all of this, but that's something one wouldn't inflict on one's worst enemy. What remains is the dialogue with one's own ruthless conscience, and there's nothing one's conscience loves quite as much as embarrassment. But enough already - you must know that embarrassment is a priceless incentive to write, with the métier proceeding to reduce the gaffes committed by the self to a form of entertainment. Which is what I've just done, using my other hand. |