What’s the number, mate? What’s the number?

Diary of the last six hours

7.47am

The government has looked into my runny nose and it has Excellent News.

8.57 am

Lynn Grieveson at Newsroom has been looking into the data and she has comparatively good news that seems to be not yet reaching the back of the room where people are still writing opinion pieces urging us to unyoke public health questions from economic ones.

9.07am

Here’s a job for someone. But not me, sorry. The photo above shows our daughter back when she caught her first snapper. She has already in her life caught more of them than I have and she’s vegan.

I do have a fishing tackle story, though, and if you hold it up to the light the right way it also works as an allegory for people insisting they have a better idea than the epidemiologists, and who want to shunt the public health caution to one side and give us back the economy the way it was I find this highly inconvenient to the making of money and honestly how long, is this going to go on forever, frankly even COB end of the month is highly unacceptable.

I mean, don’t we all. Who doesn't want to get back to something resembling normal?But our present options are:

• really bad

• catastrophically bad

• don’t even go there without a MAGA hat bad

  and

• least bad

I tend to the favour last one, even if it still entails quite a bit that is far from good.

Anyway, let’s see if the allegory helps. This is a story I wrote ages ago. It never made it to print, and it really feels like the time has come for the tale of my mate Rick and the Rich Dude Who Knew Better.

12.37pm. some Friday in 2005

The customer is not always right. My old friend Rick (not his real name) owned a sporting goods shop, which he had decided to close. He arrived in town to oversee the final three weeks.

Among the throngs hunting out a bargain was a dude with a money market vibe.

He had his eyes on a very pricey salt water fly fishing reel. All the fruit on it, worth, oh, $2500.

Your guys upstairs told me $1200, he said to Rick, what’s the price? 

Well, said Rick, it’s $1200. 

Yeah, but what’s the real price?

No really, $1200; the guys have given you a good deal. 

Yeah, but I can get it on the Internet for that, he said. 

Well by all means, said Rick, get it from the Internet.  

Nah, nah, what’s the real price he asked again; what’s the number?

Honestly mate, Rick said, it’s $1200. 

Nah, you can do better than that. What’s the number, mate? What’s the number?

Rick stared at him for a moment. A small smile spread across his face as he considered his options. The shop was closing, this man would not be a customer again, and he really didn’t care for his attitude.

He looked him square in the eye, stepped forward, leaned into his face and commanded in a slow, measured and quite loud voice: Fuck off.

The customer’s head snapped backwards as if hit: What did you say?

The store now was still. Everyone was looking at Rick and the man with the reel. Rick’s smile widened a little. You heard me, mate. Fuck off.

The customer put down the reel with all the fruit on it, looked around indignantly at the watching faces, and slunk towards the door.

The staff looked towards Rick with a variety of expressions that all said: there’s no containing you.

Rick grinned back at them and said: hell, I lasted a whole week.