Going back through one of my writing journals, I discovered
a whole page of scrawl that was totally unfamiliar to me. It was about a character
named Mandy. I do not name characters Mandy. This "Mandy" character was involved in "everyday situations" and typically "rolled around on the floor". I then placed Mandy and her trademark floor-rolling into an international espionage setting – which I noted would be "extra amusing". Today, this strikes me as little more than odd. No wonder I get the faces I get sometimes. Are my attempts at humour ever actually as clever as I imagine? Hindsight does wonders. Shameful wonders. I am also struck by the peculiarity that Mandy is "integral" to the scene, she is the "height of its humorous tones", and yet she would "most effectively be placed in the
background of shots"....
Mandy. Mandarin.
Da'doy.
Now this joke makes sense. Foolish-yet-comprehensible sense. See it now: a mandarin in a CIA classified ops briefing, on the table, corner of shot, as the no-nonsense Commander-in-chief prattles off war criminal histories, disgraced double agents, assassination plans, the kind of bait-and-switch heists that might end in success, arsenic, or nuclear retaliation. And then his mandarin rolls off the table, or something, and he fumbles over his toes to catch it.
Now this joke is actually slightly amusing. In its execution, more or less.
Now this joke is actually slightly amusing. In its execution, more or less.
I do not name characters Mandy, and I didn't. But I certainly don’t call a
Mandarin a “Mandy”.
Where did this voice come from? Social ties with country bumpkins? Infectious TV jingles?
....I can sense an old memory rising to the surface. An acquaintance I don't think about too often these days, and that brief embarrassing episode shelved away.
At the time of recording this entry, I had developed some uncertainty and insecurity about the pronunciation of the citrus fruit Mandarin (say:
“reen”) which, I believed, is a distinct entity from the language Mandarin (say: "rin").
I did not know the truth. I did not know about the Mandarin Orange.
When this friend told me, I froze for a minute. Then it was as though a bridge was suddenly built in my mind, and the world seemed a simpler, smarter place to be in. Evidently, this recent humiliation had been transferred to a fear of writing the word on the page.
I did not know the truth. I did not know about the Mandarin Orange.
When this friend told me, I froze for a minute. Then it was as though a bridge was suddenly built in my mind, and the world seemed a simpler, smarter place to be in. Evidently, this recent humiliation had been transferred to a fear of writing the word on the page.
Mandarins seem to feature prominently in my life. Just last night, I dreamt that I mistakenly stole one, believing it to be my orange. And this was before reading and deciphering my old notebook entry...
For more fruit dreams and veggie nightmares, check out my Visions and Ramblings of My Unconscious wordpress journal or ask me about my Vitamin C deficiency paranoia on the street!
