HENDERSON'S EPIGRAMS

Henderson loved to dabble with epigrams of his own invention. I was his one real friend and had been so for years. An example of his idiocy is best illustrated by a rail journey I took with him during the depths of last winter. Late afternoon saw a clear sky and a roseate tinge from the fading light. I faced the direction of travel. I was looking forward to spending a pleasant three hours in convivial conversation. That was a forlorn hope. Henderson started squirming with discomfort after only a few minutes of travel.
‘These seats are like a purgative,’ he said ‘best in small doses.’
I looked out at the ghostly landscape. It comprised miles and miles of farmers’ fields, populated only by the odd horse, cow or sheep, wandering about bemusedly. Henderson took a packet of aspirin from his pocket and regarded it resolutely.
‘I am a hypochondriac. Being so makes my head ache.’
The snow was lying more heavily thereabout, and the locomotive slowed noticeably as we swept northwards. Henderson was looking intently at the lit windows of a housing estate that lay in the shadow of the railway track. He spoke gravely:
‘Looking through people’s lounge windows cannot be restricted solely to the voyeur, for this is one of life’s very few true pleasures.’
I read a magazine. The colours were harsh and jangling, and leapt at me from the page, so I put it down. Henderson reflected for a moment, and then gave vent to an opinion, delivered in a slow drawl that he imagined was the sole province of Dr Samuel Johnson.
‘The upper-class is the backbone of society,’ he said ‘but it now finds itself with a pronounced curvature of the spine.’
Tiny flakes of snow started to fall. Some of them rested momentarily on the outside window ledge of the carriage, before melting into oblivion. Henderson regarded them briefly.
‘Between today and yesterday, there is tomorrow,’ was all he said.
I was silent for a long time, reflecting upon my hopelessly lowly status within the grand scheme of things. Henderson was quiet, too, gazing out into inky blackness. Eventually, he spoke:
‘I cannot stand solitude – it’s so noisy.’
‘Start a proper conversation, then. I’m listening.’
‘I dream of fulfilment,’ Henderson said, sadly, ‘but in reality I could never afford it.’
‘For once, I can see the logic of your argument,’ I replied. ‘We all live out our humdrum lives, wishing for something, hoping for something, anything, to turn up to enrich our pernicious purpose on this earth, but we know in our hearts that it’s a case of ‘the other man’s grass.’ If any of us were to bite the bullet, we probably know it’s a leap too far into the unknown. Isn’t that what you’re saying?’
Henderson took several seconds to compose his thoughts before he replied, portentously:
‘I cannot stand the bore – he is so earnest. He spills facts like bird-droppings. He, and they, should be left to fester whence they fall.’
‘Oh, stuff it up your jumper!’ I replied and picked up my magazine.