The Ned Wood Archive

The missionary mystic of peace/love

They also had this place near there where you could get metaphors.  Another carryout.  We called it The Metaphor Counter, naturally.  It was somewhere round Nicolson Square as far as I can remember.  I guess they set up there for all the kids over at George Square. If you were writing an essay or something, you just rolled over to the Metaphor Counter and ordered yourself a metaphor.  Of course, you had to buy something to eat before you got one.  Then, as you were paying for your chips or whatever, you’d get a metaphor from the guy serving.

We went there a few times when I was staying in that hotel on Mayfield Gardens.  We’d always order a couple of these really long sausages.  And chips.  That was before I was a vegetarian.  This guy served us.  He had thick black hair, black 5 o’clock shadow, and a navy sweater.  He said:

“Did you ever see grey battleships cut each other at a party?”

I knew he was talking about the big tenement blocks around the city.  Notice he didn’t say dirty grey battleships, which would imply that they could ever get cleaner.  He just said grey, which is what all of the tenements were.  Sandstone, weathered grey.  Smoke stained grey.  Not all of the tenements would cut each other.  Some were indifferent, some passed each other like ships in the night, but these particular ones knew each other and studiously ignored each other.  They turned their backs on each other, even at the most sociable of gatherings.  Yes, I knew what he was talking about.  It was a warning to all of us to find ourselves more welcoming accommodation.  Not that you could imagine any of the blocks doing more than just nodding to their acquaintances as they passed.  Sober reverence was what you got if you were lucky, like two middle-aged English gentlemen who find themselves at the same hotel when travelling on the continent.  A nod toward each other as they sat down for breakfast.  Perhaps a word, but no more, at the end of their stay, almost certainly regarding the weather.

“They’re analogies not metaphors,” says Pete.

“You think so?” says Gav.

“Don’t look at me,” I say.  “I failed English O Level.”

“No way,” says Gav.  “Everyone passes English.”

“Yeah,” says Pete.  “And it was easier for you.  The English language hadn’t got as many words to learn back when you took it.”

It’s true.  I passed everything apart from English.

“What, you passed French but you couldn’t even pass your own language?” says Pete.  

So, is it metaphor or analogy?

“I’ll tell you what it is,” says Pete.  “It’s an allergy.  You failing English.  You’re allergic to adjectives and adverbs.”

The next time we go, the bloke with the black hair and the 5 o’clock shadow says: “It’s an intricate weft of multicoloured fabric.”

I liked that one.  It sounds like he’s talking about humanity and he’s hinting tartan.  But he’s really talking about the Old Town.  The closes and wynds are the weft that crosses the more obvious warp that is the Mile.  Up and down and in and out.  The weft adds the interest.  The spice that flavours the town.  

You could have a lot of fun at the Metaphor Counter.  But what you’ve got to work out is: What is the Metaphor Counter a metaphor for?  Then again, maybe it isn’t a metaphor.  Maybe it’s just a way to fill up another page, a way to get the word count up.  Maybe it’s a plot device.  At some point later in the book, we’ll all go back there at a critical point in the narrative when my inspiration has dried up, and Wesley Crusher will be there to solve my problem.  Hey, maybe it really existed and it just happens that I decided to tell you about it now.  You know, I didn’t make all of this up.  Maybe I did.  Maybe it is a metaphor after all.  How about serendipity – something that turns up in unexpected places?  Maybe I’m saying that everyone knows the answers to life’s questions, even the guy running the chippy.  Maybe I’m saying that his gems of wisdom are the junk food of the brain.

“They’re metaphors,” says Gav.

“What do you know?” says Pete.  “It isn’t even your language.”

Next time we went, the guy gave us our sausage and chips and said:

“Mascara tears fall down across her cheeks.  But can you tell whether they’re tears of joy or tears of sadness?”

We’ve all been down town in the rain and seen the streams of grey water blurring the view.  We’ve seen the streaked buildings and smudged roads.  We’ve seen the drizzle-smeared buses gallantly waiting for passengers.  We’ve seen the occasional lonesome tourist on Princes Street trying to enjoy the damp.  And we’ve seen how this city shrugs and moves on.  Hiding its joy or sadness under a mask of indifference.

“Is it just metaphors?  What about similes?” asks Gav.

“Similes are like rain,” says the bloke behind the counter.

He means they’re as common as muck and you don’t want to ask for them cos you might not get what you want.

And another time we went back, just me and Pete, and when we got there, we saw this cat playing with a mouse across the square.  The mouse was already dead, but that didn’t stop the cat from batting it back and forth to try and get some life out of it.  After that, I didn’t feel hungry.  At least, not for sausages.