Adventitious Carols 3: The Army and the Navy

the army and the navy
when they are both full blown
of all the branches up in the wood
the air force plays the clown

o the rising of the sun
and the setting of the moon
somewhere round christmas time
people wake up around noon

the army bears the title
the navy's all at sea
always looking down upon the wood
the air force up a tree

Dryshod

There's something comforting about dryness. If you shake hands with someone, you don't want a clammy grip; if you are out walking, you don't want wet socks. I always have a warm, dry grip; I had a boss who had a problem with clamminess. When I was in the army, I remembered the advice of numerous veterans from millennia past and stocked up on foot powder. It was a habit I would never lose, keeping my feet dry.

I remember one afternoon in China, a trip that encompassed Shanghai and regions around. We had a cold day and it rained a lot. Everyone was somewhat wet. Back in the bus, I whipped out a bottle of foot powder and began to methodically dust down and dry my feet and socks. Foot powder is designed to absorb huge amounts of water.

My colleagues watched me with alarm, consternation, or incredulity. Some who thought they knew me well put it down to my usual lack of reasonable behaviour. Some were just amused.

But I was happy. My feet were dry. My socks were drying out. Everyone else was looking at and feeling their own wet feet. I offered some to the Iron Doc. He chuckled in his trademark way and accepted. He asked, "Do you always carry this around with you?" and I told him the story of my army life.

With the usual slightly mocking look, the Amazon took some. In that moment, as she rubbed the stuff in between her toes, I knew that dryness had won again.

Latrine

I had a really odd dream last night. It was all about my toilet-cleaning experiences while in the Army. Least said, soonest mended.

But the funny thing was that my old platoon sergeant's face and voice made guest appearances. And in that dream, he was saying something like, "The word 'latrine' has nothing to do with 'worship', you moron!"

Then the scene shifted to a meeting room that some people know altogether too well. In that meeting room, rounded rattan chairs have been known to cradle large-bottomed vessels to sleep, as they dock like sleepy barges on the banks of the stream of consciousness... whoops, almost docked myself there.

But the funny thing this time was that there was this guy who was going on and on and on in the most moronic way about short-term goals and long-term goals and stretch goals. And I was getting really angry with him, for some strange reason, and my blood pressure was rising and I felt my heart rate go up, and I drew out an ivory pointer which I just knew was a deadly weapon capable of taking out the most moronic foe with a blast of lightning... and I woke up, my heart pounding in the early hours of the morning.

Strangely enough, the 'latrine' part stuck in my mind. No, I don't have a toilet mind; but I do have an etymological mind. You see, latreuo in Greek means 'I worship'. But the word 'latrine' comes from the Latin, and is related to lavator, 'one who bathes (or washes)'. It's from the same Latin root as 'lavatory', 'a room in which one bathes (or washes)'. So...

Yes, Sergeant! 'Latrine' has nothing to do with 'worship', Sergeant! I am a moron if I think so, Sergeant!

Heh.