But, of course, such a man would have to have a vast
knowledge of affairs. He would have to know,
for instance, how one buys string. In the ordinary
way one doesn’t buy string; it comes to you,
and you take it off and send it back again. But
the occasion may arise when you want lots and lots
of it. Then it is necessary to look for a string
shop. A friend of mine spent the whole of one
afternoon trying to buy a ball of string. He
wandered from one ironmonger to the other (he had
a fixed idea that an ironmonger was the man), and finally,
in despair, went into a large furnishing shop, noted
for its “artistic suites.” He was
very humble by this time, and his petition that they
should sell him some string because he was an old
customer of theirs was unfortunately worded.
As far as I know he is still stringless, just as I
am still waiting for somebody to do something about
the cistern.
Christmas Games
The shops are putting on their Christmas dress.
The cotton-wool, that time-hallowed substitute for
snow, is creeping into the plate-glass windows; the
pink lace collars are encircling again the cakes; and
the “charming wedding or birthday present”
of a week ago renews its youth as a “suitable
Yuletide gift.” Everything calls to us to
get our Christmas shopping done early this year, but,
as usual, we shall put it off until the latest possible
day, and in that last mad rush we shall get Aunt Emily
the wrong pair of mittens and overlook poor Uncle
John altogether.
Before I begin my own shopping I am waiting for an
announcement in the papers. All that my paper
has told me is that the Christmas toy bazaars of the
big stores are now open. I have not yet seen that
list and description of the new games of the season
for which I wait so eagerly. It is possible that
this year will produce the masterpiece—the
game which possesses in the highest degree all the
qualities of the ideal Christmas game. The unfortunate
thing is that, even if such a game were to appear
in this year’s catalogue, we should have lost
it by next year; for the National Sporting Club (or
whoever arranges these things) has always been convinced
that “novelty” is the one quality required
at Christmas, the hall-mark of excellence which no
Christmas shopper can resist. If a game is novel,
it is enough. To the manager of a toy department
the continued vogue of cricket must be very bewildering.
Let us consider the ideal Christmas game. In
the first place, it must be a round game; that is
to say, at least six people must be able to play it
simultaneously. No game for two only is permissible
at Christmas—unless, of course, it be under
the mistletoe. Secondly, it must be a game into
which skill does not enter, or, if it does, it must
be a skill which is as likely to be shown by a child
of eight or an old gentleman of eighty as by a ’Varsity
blue. Such skill, for instance, as manifests
itself at Tiddleywinks, that noble game. Yet,
even so, Tiddleywinks is too skilful a pursuit.
One cannot say what it is that makes a good Tiddleywinker,
whether eye or wrist or supple finger-work, but it
is obvious that one who is “winking” badly
must be depressed by the thought that he is appearing
stupid and clumsy to his neighbours, and that this
feeling is not conducive to that happiness which his
many Christmas cards have called down upon him.
