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Mealtime activities

Saturday, 09 October, 2004

One of the things we had to do at SPC (which, incidentally, was a lot more fun than the missionary game where you had to pretend to be a tourist or a member of some little-known tribal group that constantly kisses other people's hands, or the Hovering Bunnies game that Lachlan made us play—a game where everyone chooses an animal and you bounce back and forth so that, if you were “horse”, say, you'd have to say, “Horse calling fish,” and everyone solemnly has to put their hands in their armpits, flap their elbows and say, “Hovering bunnies,” and then whoever is “fish” would have to do the same, however s/he couldn't call back to horse, and the catch is that everyone has to do all of this without showing any teeth which made for sore and aching cheek muscles, and, if you did by chance revealed some of your pearly whites, other members of the group could wave their elbow at you and yell, “Teeth! Teeth!” through their toothless orifices—at which point you were declared officially out. Oh yeah, and you can't close your mouth while the game is in session. Now where was I?)—

One of the things we had to do at SPC was to fulfill the requirements listed on a sheet of paper that had been placed in little plastic buckets that were sitting on our tables as we ate our dinner on the Thursday night. All requirements had to be placed in the bucket before the end of the meal when the judging would commence. I can't remember all of the requirements but some of them were:

• a blue toothbrush;
• something pink;
• the most interesting middle name on your table;
• a joke;
• a four-line love poem;
• a picture of a dragon;
• something beginning with “s”;
• a year 2000 coin.

My table strove valiantly to come up with all the things on the list but I think we failed on the year 2000 coin. I wrote the four-line love poem and, because I was quite proud of it (it's the only creative thing I've written in the past six months AND it's in iambic pentameter with an a-b-a-b rhyming scheme), I'm posting it here:

Your love to me, like chicken soup to cold,
infects and spreads through fevered blood and heart;
the germ we share shall sprout and grow to old—
in sick and health, our bond—'til death do part.

Ben says it's weird and he doesn't like it but I thought it was clever—playing on both the language of love and of illness. And they do neglect to tell you that, in marriage, you do share everything together. EVERYTHING.

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