Skallagrigg

This post is - more or less - about communication (but may get side-tracked several times along the way. Does anyone really know what they're saying, or more importantly - know what image the listener/reader is receiving?)

There was a time when long range communications were carried by foot/camel/horse/ , mostly short, specific, concise .. then by wire, controlled, had strict rules, and were easily understood by specialists [not by me, mind you, the code - dot dot, dash dash - a fascinating subject in itself] - had to look for the following - i.e.

.... . .-.. .-.. --- [sorry, can't get them on the same line] (please don't ask me to keep in step - it's difficult enough to stay in line* -- oops, something else from a magpie mind)

Perhaps these will be more familiar

[example only] ... --- ...

Then, of course, technology advanced to voice along wire - then to voice over the "wireless".

Then, suddenly, technology took a step backwards and made "typing" available to all ..
[how do i know what i think, until i write it down .. and then re-think, edit and re-edit to make it clearer .. then re-think ..heh. ]

Anyway - all that is not what i began to write about.

Once upon a long time ago, had the opportunity to drive a taxicab.

Was never "aggressive" or "assertive" enough to make much money out of it. Was in the days before GPS tracking, and everything was controlled by radio and - hopefully - some sense of "trust". There were many times when I would be stationed outside or near a location when a "call" would come through - but the job went to the "quickest finger" on the radio button, wherever they might be "in reality". But that is by the bye.

It eventually dawned on me that there was one particular job that was "called out", once a week, on a regular basis, so would station my cab near it and wait - be first "on the button".

It was to transport a rather fat, ungainly chap - and his wheelchair - to the Royal Adelaide Hospital.

This continued for several weeks. Would arrive at his doorstep, negotiate him and his wheelchair into the cab. "How ya goin'?", I would ask. "F..FFyNgh. G..Goongdh!", he would struggle to reply through dribbling spittle; so mostly we left it at that.

I, in my innocence and ignorance, initially assumed that he was going to the hospital for treatment of some sort.

As time passed, and the trips became regular .. we began to form some sort of "mutually understandable" "conversation" .. THEN, much to my surprise - found out that he wasn't going to the hospital for "treatment". He was, in fact, Consulting Neurosurgeon, recently stricken by a stroke, battling to re-form his life; and, each week, was giving tutorials to new students.

[click the title. No, not written by the gent in this story. A "must read" book if one is prone to pre-conceptions.]





*coined (new minted?) more or less by Ashleigh Brilliant

[2.30pm - this post has been edited 12 times .. so far .. heh.]