A DEHYDRATED FIG FOR YOUR BRAVE NEW WORLD!

New Zealand Listener, Volume 13, Issue 333, 9 November 1945, Page 16

A DEHYDRATED FIG FOR YOUR BRAVE NEW WORLD!

out that there is no sense in a worm turning, since it is the same at both ends, I must protest, however hopelessly, against this Brave New World into which dumb: humanity is being hustled by the embattled forces of radio, cinema, the Arts, the Associated Chambers of Commerce, and the "popular science" journals. Give me liberty or give me euthanasia! In short, this peace which has broken out like a rash all over the pitted face of our simple old-fashioned wartime world has turned me into a conscientious objector. "T someone has pointed I have just read an article in one of our more pontifical weeklies telling me that my post-war home will be built of steel and asbestos. Since it appears very unlikely that I will get a house at all, I resent particularly being told that what I shall get, or do, will be thus and thus. I don’t want a steel and asbestos house. I want a wooden house, with tiles on the roof and the bathroom wall, then, if the power system does shortcircuit, I’m not likely to be grilled like a piece of bread in a toaster. As for asbestos-what pleasure or profit could there be in insuring an asbestos house? "The house is no eyesore, although the plain, functional design will at first puzzle the eye accustomed to ghimneys, tiles, pseudo-Gothic and yzantine porches and suchlike trimmings." Mark that word "functional"; it means that my new home (and yours) will have all the graceful contours of a bully-beef tin. And "the house can be painted any colour, but nigger brown will tone well with natural surroundings," In other words, we are to exchange the tyranny of one Brown House for that of another, _. This Age of Plasticine But the half has not been told. My new car--your new car, my friendswill be made of transparent plastic and will be fully streamlined. Or so the illustrated magazines tell me. It will be transpargnt so that you can see at a glance how the wheels go round (if you can get any petrol to make them go round), Conversely, you will be able to see if there is any petrol in the tank should the wheels refuse to turn for any other reason, And, of course, the passers-by will be able to see you, so that you -won’t be able to use it as a dressing shed at the beach, and should you manage to stall it on the tramlines at a busy’intersection you will feel (and look) like a shrimp in aspic. The more so since you won't be able to push it to the kerbside, there being no corners to get a grip of in its fully streamlined body. " Again, as you value sanity, take no thought for the morrow, what ye shall eat, and what ye shall drink, etc. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Someone has just invented a breakfast food made from wood-pulp. True, I have been eating one like it for years past but the manufacturers have so far bowed to convention as to claim that it is cereal in origin. Sops to Cerberus, no doubt. Indeed, every staple article of diet has

already been processed, "purified," synthesised or dehydrated out of all recognition, With the exception of beer-it hasn’t occurred to anyone to dehydrate that back to something like normal strength. True, there are still 10,000 (more or less) who have not bowed the knee to Baal. I had dealings with one the other day, a dear, old-world craftsman who still makes clothes from wool instead of glass fibres or aluminium filings, But his products are in the nature of antiques, and priced accordingly. Remote Control Nor can one regard the future of the cinema with equanimity. Even now, I understand, film producers are dallying with the idea of adding olfactory effects to the visual and aural sensations of the screen. "The smellies," in short, are on the way, and one can but pray that the soap trusts don’t get wind of it. But of all the change and decadence we see in everything around us, developments ‘in radio are those which fill me with most apprehension. For I am told that the time is not far distant (with what unction do the fuglemen of industry mouth those syllables!) when individual receiving sets will be worn on the person as comfortably (and inevitably) as the wrist watches of to-day. Under such duress how the human puppet will jump at the voice of authority-marital or political. Where’er You Walk Where’er you walk you will find no peace. ‘Indeed, I had a foretaste of the new freedom the other day. I was crossing the street at. lunchtime when a traffic officer yawped at me from the safety of a radio truck, "You, the man in the grey suit, don’t jay-walk; use the pedestrian crossing!" Now I am normally the most mild and inoffensive of men, but after having been bawled out by experts over several years it is irksome to find that the rucked sports coat and baggy flannels of the civilian are no protection against officialdom. I drew myself up. "I will not," I said, with emphasis, "IT will not walk between your lousy white lines. No motorist has the colour of right to try and beat me to any particular point on the road, nor have you (continued on next page) = 4

(continued from previous page) any right to cause Alarm and Despondency among motorists by distracting peaceful pedestrians who are crossing the street. This is still, I hope, a free country." At least, that’s what I felt like saying, if I could have got my tongue round it. What actually happened was that I sprang like a rocketing pheasant, did a rapid hop-step-and-jump to the pavement, ripped the pocket of my new suit on the door handle of a parked car, collided with a verandah post, smashed the glass of my watch, barked my shins, and knocked my two-guinea hat into an oily puddle, I am, you see, one of the vast army of the inarticulate; my repartee is of the long-delayed-action variety. I suffer from afterthoughts. But I suffer, too, from forebodings. Let those who want to live in glass houses throw the first stone.

J.

A.