The lives of parallel lines are uneventful: no sudden twists or unexpected turns disturb their single track monotony. And yet they dream of non-Euclidian space where rules are bent and of that infinite horizon where, at last, they’ll coincide. Concentric circles, on the other hand have no such hyperbolic hope. They know their limitations. Destined to be solitary cranks, they circumlocate, make roundabout excuses and observe their fellows from a distance. They never socialise.
Thirty years ago, I failed at school. Since then, washing lines and roller blinds have taught me all I need to know of pulleys – more than ever Mr Roberts (maths) was able. I’ve found that sound is energy, as every tug resisted turns to squeak. I sort the clothes in sets, but socks still disappear through worm holes in the wash or wrap themselves in m??bius chains (though less so, now I’ve mastered static electricity and use conditioner). No doubt Miss Jones (domestic science? history?) would be proud of my monarchial skills: I can tell King Edward…
My Very Excellent Mother used to be the soul of generosity, and her beneficence a universally-acknowledged truth. Around the world, students rejoiced when they recalled that she Just Sent Us Nine Pizzas. But as time passes, so it seems, the universe contracts; mom’s liberality is capped and scientists decree that students will make do with Nothing. Supperless I’m banished to my room. I must redo my fourth grade science project.
The bubbles in my bath are white; try as I might they never change despite a range of gels and goos in rainbow hues – pinks, greens and blues. The chemists say it’s child’s play to reproduce the scent of fruits, herbs, flowers and roots. But still the foam is monochrome.