Remember the good old days of hitchhiking?
I can't say I do as I only have second hand information. Besides an instance or two when it was clear for all to see that I was stranded, and a few occasions at a time I was becoming weary of walking up a steep incline after getting rolling drunk, if I was walking I found it obtrusive for people to offer me a lift.
A man who can take care of himself will have his footsteps directed to the nearest tavern. People are friendly that way. At the tavern he will be fleeced of everything he has on him. People are friendly to the tavern owners primarily.
Some ladies working at the tavern will pout at you and tell you they're not for sale. If you are bent in the theological department you might offer one a high price simply to find out what kind of lady they are. But they are likely to tell you on the next occasion that as you were drunk when making the offer it doesn't mean anything.
I believe that a man of his word sticks to what he says particularly when he said them in a drunken condition and there were reliable witnesses. But I haven't discovered how to tell a reliable witness from an unreliable one. I believe it possible for a man to make promises to himself when he's stoned. But these are no doubt similar to resolutions such as giving up the habit of smoking.
We therefore come to the idea that being a smoker is a good analogy to what we were taught about being a sinner when we were being taught that romantic love requires lust.
Now, joe-bloggs-burg is not the safest place to walk, besides that you'll be offered lifts by questionable people you've met. The fact is that taverns are often the only sensible place to get a drink, or to have a chat with a stranger. I don't know about you but I never listened to the advice about not talking to strangers. I'd usually finish my first drink, and then pass a general remark to see if anyone around me is capable of a substantial conversation.
The tavern I became a regular at wasn't one when I first started going there. It defranchised about the time it became preferable to consider a smoker as worse than one who, for example, starts to undress in a pub.
It then came about that the regulars who were related to the ladies of the establishment expected preferential treatment. Not to say that they were particular about the laws pertaining to such relations that are forbidden by the Pentateuch (I don't recall offhand if those books bother to mention such an obvious thing as a father-daughter relationship). I'd only think about making an exception for one cousin, but I can only make guesses as to what she thinks about smoking nowadays and the whether she has anything to feel guilty about.
Years after the place became a tavern, I was asked the simple question by a seemingly honest but very depressed man the whether I could be sure I was not chatting to, and sometimes attempting to chat up, people who were more or less closely related to me; in his confused way, then, he was asking me the whether I could be sure I wasn't at that very moment speaking to an alien.
I prefer to think of better times than when creatures were making the foolish attempt at capturing my heart for the sake of their own vanity.
But, as in highschool I was embroiled in the previous generation's arguments about a question-mark-strumpet (or at best, the inadvisability of chasing after women who had left the country), who was to be judged with a different set of parameters than the same thing in my generation; and as, for a brief period of time I thought I was amongst people after my own kind, but later discovered their only joy was to remind me of a friend I lost; and as it has generally been suggested to me that the state of marital bliss is such that brings married people to spend their lives trying to tell single people that the life alone is also okay, I generally have the only option of picking highlights from a mixed bag of experiences; saving for some fun I shared in spite of me, with sheets of paper.
I might use graphic language to describe how we got the labels right, but I only learnt postscript the following year.
I imagine it would have resulted in an argument had the order of events been otherwise; which would have been one of the shorter arguments of my life. It is not good to brood on calculations you made with friends when you were fully capable of having made those calculations alone. But I lost the power to consider a few dozen days of my life as part of a closed chapter, no less than I lost interest in making boxes out of yoghurt containers when I discovered that people were expecting me to continue knocking my head (against the wall and against the trees, for example).
It became important for me to put aside my various projects to think about these days before postscript started to give me headaches (as well as things which don't quite fit the description of operators).
Which is also to think about highschool, and people I might have interacted with there but probably forgot their name (I didn't get class photos after primary school, except for my final year), because I came to consider school as a place we had to go for the sake of the architect. On reflection I discovered that our school was designed by a wise architect who ensured that those who went for a bit of us-time under the stairwell at least learnt about triangles.
Our school wasn't so bad after all. One of the oldest teachers, who had no children herself, took the class wherein we were told about the importance of behaving like mothers and fathers instead of little boys and girls on the one (and possibly only) matter of doing that which would make us actual mothers and fathers, before we could see a future for our children.
But this in turn reminds me of one who unfortunately did not notice a razor blade branded with the name of Queen Victoria which allowed people to shave off no less than a thousand years from their ancestry. Strange to say, we are not given much information from the hair of the dog called Britain what those hairy people did with razorblades in their own homes. Strange to relate, if the option is not given to a man to have a woman younger than him, under him, he might give a red card to the people who are telling him to shave his face and go about in shorts.
Some people suggest to tall men that they might be leg models. Technical men know that it's inevitable they'll be asked to help another man with his equipment, no matter what they're doing for a living.
I'll practice giggling like a girl so long and let you know how that works out.
As to hitchhiking, it does seem to be a thing of the past. I mention it as no-one seems to be documenting the abc's of our formative years. Nowadays few would deny that hitchhiking is about the best way of meeting a psychopath, that can be invented.
Filling a few minutes of silence with some advice for what any Christian would do when they come across pictures of ladies who ran away from home--which is always blamed on the parents and not the attractions--who might stop an eighteen wheeler by showing a leg, I recall that South Africa doesn't have trucks that big (the preference for another word in place of the word lorry reminds me just how much America is in us even if we didn't watch TV until we started talking funny).
Maybe I'll shave after all. We men can get a condition, for which I don't recall the name, which has us stroking our beards. Which can lead a reasonably sane person to keeping just a bit of facial hair about the lip.
But we don't want to lead reasonably sane people to the thought of close-shaven highwaymen stopping carriages with their legs. My girl (who is a part of my personality, who returns to the introduction of the Divorce Law for just about every blessed annoyance we've encountered since we began to contemplate the law) is carrying a blunderbuss and shoots to kill, be it a highwayman or something which gets otherwise sane carriage drivers to stop for them.