THE COMMON ROUND

Otago Daily Times, Issue 22751, 11 December 1935, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND

By Wayfabeb.

An unnerving challenge to the last prerogative of the male section of. mankind—that of being a male —is reported in type that fails to fit the crucial nature of the communication: —

The Daily Telegraph's Prague correspondent says Miss Zdenka Koubkowa, aged 24, the woman's world track champion, will shortly undergo an operation to change her into a man. . . .

This, we must protest, is carrying sex equality a bit too far. It is permissible —or at least it is inevitable —that man should admit the right of woman to everything she can get. He must, perforce, allow her to out-run him in athletics, down-talk him in argument, outwit him in domestic diplomacy, bankrupt him in business. But surely lie is entitled, in return, to expect her to remain—a woman.

If she starts taking it into her head to become a man, there will be all sorts of complications. Regard it from the social viewpoint. A young fellow is attracted by a lovely girl he meets at a tennis party. They chat pleasantly, they pursue a stray ball into the shrubbery and hold hands for a long moment. He arranges to take her to a theatre the following Thursday, and while he is awaiting her at the D.I.C. corner he receives a hearty slap on the back. He turns indignantly, and gazes upon one Who might be the brother of his light o' love. "What-ho, old chap," the apparition remarks. " Hope P haven't kept you waiting, but I was a bit tired of myself yesterday so I went and had an operation."

Or imagine the dreadful predicament of the city man, whose wife is subject to whimsical changes of mood and sex. He is transacting important business with a visiting colleague. Negotiations are at a critical stage. " You must come out to dinner with me, old chap," he says. " I'll ring the missus and tell her." The following dialogue ensues:—

Maid-servant: 'Ullo? City man: Is your mistress at home, Mary Ann? Maid-servant: No, there ain't none. City man: Come, come, my girl, no impertinence! Where is she? Maid-servant: She ain't me mistress no more; she's me master. City man: ? ? Maid-servant: S'no use usin' unseen langwidge at me. She's gone aht ter the pub fer a drink in yer new blue suit, an' ses she'll be playin' billiards ter-night, so youse not ter wait up fer her. You see how awkward it might be. Then there would be the difficulty of invitations to parties. For instance, our hero has been asked to attend a very exclusive affair, requesting the pleasure of the company of Mr Binks and lady. It is plainly stated that admittance may be had only on presentation of the card —aiid at the last moment he finds that he is expected to take, not the shining, shimmering female creature he had counted on, but a big, rough fellow in a tweed suit and a black beard. Or, conceive his embarrassment when, having finally accepted his wife's defection from femininity, he makes her a member of his club or lodge, and on an important occasion she comes sylphing in with her hair marcelled, her eyes mascara-ed, trailing a few yards of, chiffon about her, among the outraged members in their black ties. That is the real danger foreshadowed in the she-male situation. Wo all know, if we read our books of popular quotation, how fickle is a woman's mind, and one dares not hope that, changing her sex, she will neglect to change her mind as well, and at least as frequently. An inconstant nymph is a quite'sufficiently disturbing person to have about the home, but when a man is put in the position that, returning to his bower, he is uncertain whether the nymph may not have been transformed into an equally inconstant faun or satyr during his absence, he will feel wretched indeed. The Great Mogul, philosophically making the best of a bad world, it may be remembered, summed up the blessings of humanity in these poignant lines: — Home is the sacred Refuge ot our Lite, Secur'd from all Approaches but a Wife. Divers men, on diverse occasions, have considered the homeward journey sufficiently beset with terrors, in the knowledge that a wife awaited them. But to be greeted by a blunt instrument of chastisement wielded by an ex-spouse who has undergone a masculine transmogrification, or by the spectacle of his slippers propped before the fire (and no dinner cooked) with the erstwhile dainty feet of his matrimonial partner amply filling them, as (s)he smokes one of his Christinas cigars—that is the frightening prospect that he now must face. A new category of widowhood threatens, with the entry in the matrimonial stakes of the lady whose partner insists on playing Rugby. Perpend:— " If it is to be said that because a man under 30 played Rugby football on Saturdays he neglected and spurned his wife, England will be a more difficult place in the future than it has been in the past." This was the remark made by Mr Justice Langton in the Divorce Court in granting a decree nisi to Mr William John Baker, of Church

road, Richmond, Surrey, who, it was stated,. used to be away on Saturdays playing Rugby. Nothing could be said in criticism of Mr Baker, added the judge, except that he liked Rugby football. That would rather commend a man to a British jury. We have become familiar with the grass widow (whose husband, presumably, allows his vegetarian zeal to entice him ravenously to the public reserves to chew and wallow, when he should be building the new lien coop; and of the o-olf widow (she who slumbers fretfully at home by day, while the spouse excoriates the links; and is kept awake fretfully by night, as he indulges in his mashie anecdotage) ; we are now, perhaps, to have an epidemic of Rugby widows, who must sit by the radio, quaking, all Saturday afternoon, and by the bedside of injured heroes all Saturday night, brooding on their melancholy lot. But not, perhaps, in New Zealand, where the ambition of every mother worthy of the name is to give a son to the local Pirate team, and of every young lady to scream a stalwart beau to mud, blood, and victory on the football field. We hope, at least, that the sinister message from London which appears above will not divert our New Zealand womanhood from their lofty purpose. That would be a national calamity, hence the following:— Now, girls, it you desire a man To build a home tor you. You simply must do all you can To make an All Black do. Don't worry if the future groom Entirely fills the drawing room. Or if he's outsize hands and feet Convince yourself they're simply sweet; And when he goes to hold your hand, And grips it like an iron hand. Don't let out an almighty yell, But say his torso's just too swell ; On chewing tobacco place no ban, But just declare you love the man. Chorus: On footballers our fame depends), 'Tis woman's place and glory To cheer the players when they win And nurse them when they're gory. A telescope lens has been made in the United States that has taken a year to cool down. We are not impressed. It will probably take some of our political candidates longer than that. A climber suggests that everybody who clambers up Old Man rock should

leave half a crown under a ledge on top. It is an excellent idea. We have already planned our ascent for 1965, when it should be worth while.