The ODD ANGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIII, Issue 307, 29 December 1942, Page 4

The ODD ANGLE

(By MacCLURE.)

• WHAT THEY TOLD HIM

I didn't like the look of our little parson cobber's friend, but, as I heard later, he didn't like the look of me either. "The trouble with him, Mac, is that he's just back from a twelve months' inspection of our mental hospitals and he's come to the conclusion there's a much higher type in those institutions than outside. Call it prejudice, if you will. Down south they swung a beaut on to him—after telling him they were giving the inmates "an evening," the hospital authorities invited an equal number of business men, church dignitaries, politicians, and what not, and our cobber engaged them all in conversation and took down their "crazy" ideas In shorthand and printed them In his pamphlets The views were mostly those of the "outsiders," and there were ructions when his pamphlets appeared under the title of "What the Insane Told Me." Our little parson cobber looked sad. "Our own bishop was annoyed, too," he said, "very. And then there was the Hon. " I couldn't catch the name.

• GOOD-BYE, MR. CHIPS A recent obituary notice should have taken many an elderly citizen back in memory to schooldays. It was the death of the widow of a great man in his day—Robert Lee, one of our first inspectors of schools, who died over 20 years ago. "The inspector's coming"—gee, where was the kid who didn't have "the wind up." Examination days, waiting for the Robert E. Lee examination! Days of untold horror, sleepless nights. Teachers worried stiff. Mum and dad to face afterwards. And—but, listen. The other day I had a visitor. A beautiful lady. She just looked at me and smiled. I was very polite, naturally. Again that beautiful smile. This was getting embarrassing. "So you're Donald MacClure?" she asked softly. There was something infinitely sweet about the way she spoke my name. Someone, away, away, back, had spoken to me in that same tone. The intervening years rolled away and a sweet young girl teacher was speaking it again You've guessed right! She was my third standard teacher in the midnineties, and she'd come to look me up—and incidentally to approve of "The Odd Angle"—and don't you forget that. It was nice of her. What would you say if your third standard teacher looked you up? Well— that's what I said. And—l didn't have any apple to give her that dav either.

• THOSE LIGHTING UNRESTRICTION 8 Firmly grasping his arm I led the white-faced Team Warden into a nearby tearoom. "Take it steady," I said, "all will come clear to you soon." He sighed and buried his lace in his hands and sobbed silently. He s been a good man in his day " someone at the next table said sympathetically. "What d'you mean by that crack 'in his day?' " the Team warden demanded as he sat bolt upright. "I mean, er, before you started trying to understand this new change-round in the lighting restric- , would-be sympathetic a PoJ°getically. "I never shall the Team Warden answered dismally. A tremble ran through ?imme P „ted. COW " 1,16 pretty wailress • THE RISKS WE RAN On the eve of a glad New Year which holds the almost certain promise of a victorious peace it illbehoves anybody to question our right to celebrate, to have a jollv good time, to drink to the boys oversea, to each other, and—to ourselves, for, after all, if it were not for our prompt action in demanding that appeasement" cease at once and war be declared upon Hitler, look where we d be now. Yes—just look. And, while you're about it, just look where some of us would have been if we hadn't hopped in quick and claimed exemption (or married earlier in the piece) or knocked ourselves up with booze, defaulted, or discovered we had a conscience. Or were more "essential" to the war effort here than "over there " The very thought of the fearful risks we ourselves ran in demanding war should be enough to sober some of us should we drink too heartily to each other—or ourselves. What d'you say? And here's to all of you —a really Happy and Prosperous New Year.

• WILL THEY NO' COME BACK AGAIN? NO. The people who have written to me about what you term "this Pukekohe scandal," and who, like the last correspondent signing herself "A Boy Scout's Mother," are "flaming mad about the whole business," would naturally like me to slather up these "Pukekohe as one angry parent calls 'em. I don't intend to though, not yet. Not till after the inquiry; then we'll have the growers' side of it. On the face of it, it's a shocking business this "giving the Boy Scouts five bobsometimes less—for a seven days' week of six hours." Especially if, as stated, "the Boy Scouts took all their own gear with them and paid for their keep." Now, angry letters are all right in their way, but let us hold our horses for a day or two and see what the metropolitan president, Sir Joseph Smith and the commissioner, Major R. F. Ward, have to say after they've interviewed the Commercial Growers' Association and the Primary Production Council. Until that inquiry is held I prefer not to comment. That is, if you don't mind.