THE COMMON ROUND

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23206, 2 June 1937, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND

By Wayfarer

Our “ Old Pioneer ’’ chips in with a word or so to the unwise; Dear “ Wayfarer,”—l was much interested in your last article, describing the trials of a wife whose hubby reads the newspapers morning, noon and midnight, and spills cigarette ash over her face while they are in bed. Articles such as this are valuable, as the rank and file will read them and derive much benefit thereby. There are plenty of men who are lions at home- and lambs abroad. Like the old Turk, they would woo in the guise of a slave and appear as a savage when the lady’s heart is won. I shall feel joyful if you follow in the footsteps of sundry humanitarian organisations in the United Stales and Canada and solve matrimonial problems every week.—Your old friend. Old Pioneer. It is no sooner asked than done (see below). Old daddy “Wayfarer” has always felt that the best part of matrimony and kindred complaints is minding other people’s domestic business, and he is willing to pry into anyone’s private life and proffer advice from a lifetime of observation.

Here, then, beginning in a modest way, our first column of advice to the lovelorn:

Poppet (St. Kilda) writes that she is worried about her husband. “Up to last Labour Day,” she says, "he used to beat me up regular every Friday night and often he locked me in the hen-house. Since then he hasn’t even blacked rny eye, and I’m afraid he must of fell for one of them peroxide blondes in the egg and spoon race at the freezing workers’ picnic, the dirty doublecrosser." Don’t worry too much,

“Poppet” dear, if he is neglecting you. Most happy marriages have their worrying moments, and his seeming indifference may merely be that he Y s got religion or is running a doubles chart. What is the blonde’s address, dear? Perhaps you’d like “Old Daddy Wayfarer” to call and look her over. Albie B. (Tuatapere) says: “My financee has refused to speak to me for near two year, and at the dances always does the Lancers and Maxina with X . the bloke from the abbatoirs, and rides home with him on his push bike. I haven’t got a bike. Last week I called and she told me to git. She threw a pan of skim milk over me and put the dogs on me. Do you think her love is cooling?” Our reply is to be a man, “Albie,” old bpy. and show by your actions you will not be trifled with. If she throws another dish at you, let her have one in the crumpet to get on with, and if the dogs bite you, bite them back. You must remember faint heart never won fair lady. ' , „ We have also letters from Mater, who wants quintuplets; from " Flossie,” who says she wants a boy friend with a motor cycle, like her comrade Ivy has, only nicer with blue eyes; and from "Elijah, who wishes a recipe for taking warts oil his nose as his Intended is a lady and he wants to be worthy of her when they go to the pictures. These have been answered in plain envelopes.

We hope to make this department a regular feature of the column, and it would be very nice if those who seek our advice would enclose their pictures and a few postal notes.

We have also, from our constant correspondent’s scrap-book, this proem, or ditty, which he considers apropos to the heavy expense of kissing the typiste:— She let her hand be taken, and wlth confidence unshaken he tried his best to waken in her heart some sentiment. . With a wondrous burst of feeling, round her waist his arm was stealing, yet her face showed no revealing ot her mind’s ingenuous bent. His voice, quite low and pleading, for himself was interceding, but the maiden paid no heeding to the words that he might say. And no lover persevering over had so dumb a hearing to his terms of love endearing as she gave to him that Untune waited with a guile premeditated. and with cheek unmitigated up and kissed her. Then she cried: “There, you monster! I just knew it 1 I was sure, or quite near to it, IE I waited, you would do it. Now I hope youxe satisfied!” Business men arc 50 f°°^ as to ignore our recent warning against typiste-bussing, and so unfortunate as to be mulcted therefore, may at least derive some consolation from their income; tax forms. Therein they will find claims for exemption allowed, against such contingencies as this. Though whether their fine should be deducted as “ Petty expenses, incurred in the business ’; as “Repairs or Maintenance of machinery ” (after all, a typiste in a sense is part, of a machine); or as “ Accident insurance (for employees only) ” we are not prepared to say. But it obviously represents an ordinary business risk, and should not be taxed.

We are interested and not unimpressed by the latest manifesto of the Dress Reform Party. Says the report of a competition for new designs for men’s clothes:— Competitors may go the limit on imagination. For example, there is no reason why a toga costume should not win. Trousers are not essential.

" . . . may go the limit on imagination.” It is an intriguing challenge to our ingenuity, but the limits are so confined when we come to consider them. One limit is that reached by the menfolk of, as we remember, a nomad Arabian race, who wear heavy veils, and are swathed from head to foot. That form of dress, it may be supposed, leaves everything to the imagination.

But where may we let the imagination wander elsewhere? The antithesis of one imaginative flight is the usual channel one may explore. For example, if one imagines a world without women, and exhausts the possibilities of that theme, one may turn to thoughts of a world in which there are 100 many women. Such a world, we might parenthetically add. as Mr T. S. Eliot has envisaged:--

... In this land There shall be one cigarette to two men, To two women one half pint lI bitter Beer . . .

Such speculation, it occurs to us (still in parentheses) is too distressing for mid-weekly matutinal development. It is terrible, in this age, how the womenfolk seem to get the best of everything . . •

That is, however, by the way. What wo find ourself faced with, when we allow our fancy to range without let over the possibilities of men's dress, is that there is absolutely no antithesis to the allenveloping Arabian costume, save nudity, which leaves nothing to the imagination. And nudity is not, presumably, what the members of the Dress Reform League want. Like everybody else, indeed, they no doubt have it. Discouraged, we turn again to the competition schedule, but there is little, there to inspire us when we read: Trousers arc not essential.

Now this, it seems to us, is demonstrably a false statement, uttered anywhere south of the Tweed, short of the South Sea Islands, or beyond the confines of the Dunedin Gymnosophist Club.. For has it not been written: You may live without conscience, You may live without heart, You may live without culture. You may live without art, You may live without kinsmen— Without uncles and aunts,

But civilised man cannot live without pants. The bold suggestion that “ trousers are not essential ” seems to us rank heresy, implying not reform but reversion, for who but our most unconsidered and rudest ancestors wore not this honourable garb? Even unto Adam, who fashioned himself breeches from green leaves, trousers have marched proudly down the ages as man’s closest companion, and that whom he loves best next to himself. From the report of a co-operative society at Mosgiel: “ It was hoped to institute some form of social life, so that members of the society and their wives and lady friends could meet.” But whether such meetings would promote social life is surely a trifle doubtful. “Wanted, an experienced girl, for Alterations . . We are assured that the successful applicant will be much improved.

Union officials at a Ford automobile factory “ were attacked by a group of employees at the gate .of the rouge plant.” And were their faces red?