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one month passes...
two weeks pass...
Since Brodie doesn't seem to be around, I thought I'd recount a little anecdote about him. This is completely true, by the way.
Brodie and I were sitting on a hillock of hummock grass in the tatty eucalyptus creek by the billabong. We were discussing paleogeography, which is one of Brodie's interests, along with bellhoppery.
Brodie was telling me about the paleo-supercontinent of Gondwana, of which Australia is just one tiny sliver. Apparently, about 500 million years ago, Australia collided very slowly with neoproterozoic India. This, Brodie explained, is why the curry houses of Melbourne are so authentic.
In the middle of this exposition, Brodie suddenly burst out: "Grampsy, are you wearing a fake wig?"
I explained patiently that there's no such thing as a fake wig, since all wigs are real wigs.
Brodie shook his head.
"An actor whose role demands that he wear an 18th century wig could fake the wig by using his own hair."
"So are you suggesting that I'm using my real hair to fake a wig?"
This was clearly not what Brodie had been intending to suggest at all, but stubbornness made him pretend that it was.
"Yes. You're using your real hair as a fake wig."
To prove that the wig I was wearing was real, I lifted it off my head: "There. You see, it's a real wig."
Young Brodie was having none of it.
"You could still be using your real hair as a fake wig, just by detaching your real hair from your head first, in order that it better resemble a real wig when lifted."
Well, my bluff had well and truly been called. I had in fact been faking a wig, using my real hair as a red herring.
"There's no gulling you, lad," I said, ruffling Brodie's wig (which, by the way, is real). "One of these days you're going to make the greatest bellhop Queensland has ever seen."
"I already did," said Brodie. "His name's George."
― Grampsy, Friday, 20 July 2012 02:48 (eleven years ago) link