I was never a promising athlete at school, but the Dear gift of the gab apparently throbbed in my veins, and eschewing softball and netball, I went for drama and debating.
It must have been my training at my very proper girls’ school however, that I can safely say I always allowed my opponents in debate to have their say without the interjection of my own opinions, or indeed derisive asides. One, after all, did not want to incur the wrath of the Debate Mistress.
I therefore sit and cringe when I listen to the TV. I say “listen,” as it is pointed at Sir in our computer room, and so my ears pick up various bits and pieces of horse racing with intermittent snippets of golf, game shows, old movies and the odd sit com. Can you say A.D.D.? That’s my Sir.
In the morning he will glom onto Fox News – a more politically biased network I am yet to want or find – and I overheard a debate between Geraldo and a bunch of women. Well it might have been one or two women, but it sure sounded like more.
A question would be posed. An answer would be started, and then it was on for young and old. No one drew breath enough to hear the response, they all shouted over each other so that the poor listener – that would be me – was none the wiser at the end of the tirade as to who’s side whom was on, so to speak.
I realize this also happens on shows like “The View.” Start off with a simple sentence, and let’s see which verbose woman can out-shout her colleagues over the pros and cons of five-inch heels. Take a political debate, and I want to stand up, my bosom bristling with indignation (can bosoms bristle, I wonder?), and clap my hands with all the authority of an enraged Headmistress and call the offending parties to order.
What’s the point in asking a question if you’re not prepared to listen to the answer, I ask you?
I like to think I have a very logical mind, and if I’d had it in me then, I might well have become a lawyer, thence to smite nasty little perps with my verbal tongue lashing, knocking judges off their benches with my irrefutable prose, and having false witnesses and assistant district attorneys paling with my rapier-like rapid fire cross examinations.
Come to think of it, I like to think I would make a great judge. A Hanging Judge. I would have those contemptuous of my court clapped in irons in the bowels of the courthouse. Talk over me, and it would be “off with his head,” as I wave my flamingo croquet mallet and hedgehog croquet balls at the miscreant.
But you can bet your bottom dollar, I would give him the courtesy of allowing his plea to be heard, without interruption.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org .