Scallywag

Bricks and mortar make a house, but the laughter of children makes a home.

~ Irish Proverb ~

Psst! This is a Secret

February 6th, 2012 ~ Est. reading time: 2 mins, 32 secs

This is a secret, okay?

Secret? Okay, I’ll tell you. Sharon is going out with Mark on the weekend, even though Mark doesn’t know it. He’s planning on dating his sister’s friend’s cousin, Aimee, who doesn’t know either. Trouble is, Aimee is Sharon’s best friend and she knows Sharon wants Mark to go out with her. Meantime, Mark is two-timing his friend’s girlfriend who knows Sharon too, but doesn’t know Aimee…” 

Got that? No? Me too. I admit I don’t understand the half of it. But that’s what makes up the vast bulk of scandalous secrets. Many are mostly froth with the odd burst of bubbles.

You have to be in the mood for secrets. Otherwise, who cares? There’s enough to know as it is. Like how to wash garments marked “handwash only” in the washing machine, where to find a replacement screw before “that thing” breaks completely, and which button do you press to get the microwave to defrost a frozen cup of coffee (don’t ask).

My problem is that my head is so full of foolish factoids and fascinating findings that one more secret is just one more responsibility. So I’m not sure I really want to know if they are busting up or not, or whether the secret is truly out. More than likely, I assume my disinterest is some predictable guy thing. Blame it on my brain and the narrow mountain pass swing-bridge excuse for brain tissue connecting the two sides. Compared to the female superhighway link joining the hemispheres of female brains, we men haven’t got a hope. So if there’s a secret worth sharing, it better take a ticket and join the queue. Because, in true male fashion, every single thing has to be attended to “one at a time.”

But seriously, secrets aren’t what they used to be simply because you and I are being bombarded by them. Every day the rising rush of information coming our way is becoming a news avalanche. One more secret barely rates a mention. Unless of course, it’s personal.

Find out something about people you know well and suddenly, the world’s presses seem to stop. Relevance comes down to significance. The more the secret means to you, the more likely you’ll give your knitting the flick and snap straight to attention.

In my case, abruptly jumping upright with anything resembling knitting needles could cause me serious physical damage. Besides which, my ability to knit is only limited by my inability to see wool without a white cane. Though at least I can create charming woolen cobwebs in case you need some…

My greatest asset for receiving secrets is that I have a brilliant head for forgetting. Ask me not to tell a soul and I won’t because I’ve promptly forgotten whatever it was that I wasn’t meant to say. Simple. It’s the other end of having to have a long memory for telling lies (which, incidentally, I am pathetic at). Trying to lie to Ruth if she demanded to know whether I ate her chocolates would have me offering a shaky, stuttering “No” with my head nodding in agreement. As a liar I have to confess I’m an utter failure. Actually, that’s meant to be a secret. But then you’re probably too distracted with other stuff to notice.

In the end it comes to this: each secret can be savory and sweet. Or, it can come out terribly sour. Choose to tell sweet secrets and you make the world a better place. While the rest… well they just don’t bear thinking about, much less said.

Feegs

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