2008 Woodie Awards
English Excuses to America
Erainier Eubra
Issue date: 5/7/03 Section: Opinion
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Generally speaking, on working mornings, I wake up at 5:45 a.m., without the assistance of an alarm clock, but with the old church bell just a few yards away from my window. I spring out of bed, prepared for the day, which, at this season, is very grim and dark.
If my internal programming should fail, I can usually count on the church bells to wake me. Otherwise, much to my dissatisfaction, a next-door neighbor wakes me with his irritating thumping and bizarre signing of a song that never ends.
Unfortunately, this was one of those mornings where I failed to awaken. I was in the middle of a complicated dream about A.S. Byatt, who was explaining reasons, which seemed perfectly valid at the time, for a particular kind of dressage saddle. Suddenly, burglars entered my dream. I soon realized they were not burglars, but in fact, the window cleaners propping their ladders against my bedroom window.
It was 8:00 a.m., and these cleaning men were conversing about their night of various bodily pleasures. Either what they said is indeed true, or they were simply trying to instruct me, the man behind an old English curtain, about the ferocity of their pornographic imaginations.
8:00 a.m. is the exact moment at which I have to leave. Squawking like a chicken, I flung on a pair of trousers, a shirt, socks, shoes, and a coat on top of my evening clothes. While heading towards the garage, I tried to think up an excuse as to why I was so late. Terrible traffic jam? Inexplicable elves and dwarfs hungrily patrolling the M60 Road? Hah!
Unless... what if I didn't bother with an excuse and simply told the truth? Now there's a thought.
Generally, unless you have very frightening parents or a natural predisposition to fantasy, it is school that first introduces us to the queasy art of making excuses. Teachers have an insane tendency to demand detailed responses to questions in which the only possible answer is "because."
Thus, "Why did you fling your math book over the school wall and then attempt to climb over to retrieve it, cheered on by your classmates?"
If my internal programming should fail, I can usually count on the church bells to wake me. Otherwise, much to my dissatisfaction, a next-door neighbor wakes me with his irritating thumping and bizarre signing of a song that never ends.
Unfortunately, this was one of those mornings where I failed to awaken. I was in the middle of a complicated dream about A.S. Byatt, who was explaining reasons, which seemed perfectly valid at the time, for a particular kind of dressage saddle. Suddenly, burglars entered my dream. I soon realized they were not burglars, but in fact, the window cleaners propping their ladders against my bedroom window.
It was 8:00 a.m., and these cleaning men were conversing about their night of various bodily pleasures. Either what they said is indeed true, or they were simply trying to instruct me, the man behind an old English curtain, about the ferocity of their pornographic imaginations.
8:00 a.m. is the exact moment at which I have to leave. Squawking like a chicken, I flung on a pair of trousers, a shirt, socks, shoes, and a coat on top of my evening clothes. While heading towards the garage, I tried to think up an excuse as to why I was so late. Terrible traffic jam? Inexplicable elves and dwarfs hungrily patrolling the M60 Road? Hah!
Unless... what if I didn't bother with an excuse and simply told the truth? Now there's a thought.
Generally, unless you have very frightening parents or a natural predisposition to fantasy, it is school that first introduces us to the queasy art of making excuses. Teachers have an insane tendency to demand detailed responses to questions in which the only possible answer is "because."
Thus, "Why did you fling your math book over the school wall and then attempt to climb over to retrieve it, cheered on by your classmates?"