Carnivorous Cow

The division of labour had always been quite clear - the butler made the tea, the Cow made the bed. The Cow teased, the butler tolerated. The butler provided pleasure, the Cow - an unending stream of Boolean questions. It seemed natural, uncomplicated, unquestionable.

Until the advent of The Braai.

It had been quite simple in Kleinmond - nationality took precendence over gender - but on the Weskus it became more complicated. It wasn't a braai. It was a Weber.

The butler had been a sociologist in a previous life. Weber was part of the canon. And just like you can't take Weber out of Sociology, so you can't take the Weber away from the sociologist.

And so the Cow found herself in the kitchen, scratching in the back of the fridge for the beers, pondering the scale of the cosmic shift.

But not for long. As soon as she approached too close to the kettle, the Butler appeared. "Would you like some tea?" he asked sweetly. The Cow looked up. "Not right now, thanks," she smiled, holding up the beers. "I'm just getting the bottle opener for these."

"Look at this!" chuckled Gramsci. "The Girl With A One-Track Mind wants to trot off to the Big Apple for a while, to get away from introverted British men!"

The Cow paused. The "Big Apple" conjured up in her mind - simultaneously - an enormous new 17 inch MacBook Pro with shiny new features, and the Ann Summers logo. She wasn't sure which was more erotic - but her comedown was almost instantaneous when she realised Gramsci was referring to New York city. "Whyever would she want to do that?" she asked.

Gramsci shrugged. "She finds English men's approach to dating half-hearted, claiming they can only relate to women when they're drunk. But she reckons American men are more open minded. Less into soccer."

The Cow reflected. None of her English lovers had been soccer fans, so she'd clearly not been fishing in the same ponds as Zoe Margolis. But then, she'd never met an American man who'd made her consider ripping her clothes off and jumping him, either.

"Well, if that's what she wants..." the Cow sighed. "Though I'm sure she'll soon change her mind. "How much bland, unironic, uncritical consumption can a woman handle, anyway? She'll soon realise there's more to life than hollywood smiles and spin."

"So you reckon English men are better?" Gramsci asked, provoactively. "David Beckham notwithstanding?"

The Cow hesitated. She tended to view her lovers as individuals, rather than national prototypes. "Better than whom?" she asked warily.

Gramsci shrugged again. "Local men?" he suggested cautiously. He was pretty certain there must be some locals in the Cow's past.

"Well," said the Cow, "unless one does a proper study, with comparable sample sizes under some kind of comparable condition, it's pretty much down to anecdotal preferences. And, of course, what one chooses to remember."

"And?" persisted Gramsci.

The Cow smiled. "There are some pretty good local contenders, but the title has to go across the waves."

"Imagine!" Carnivorous Cow harrumphed to Gramsci. "Destabilising the tea room, indeed!"

Gramsci cowered under the keyboard. This was not one of those winnable debates. Besides, he'd heard the Cow argue vehemently - albeit on different occasions - that burkahs were the ultimate symbol of female liberation, and of female oppression. He knew that if there was such a thing as a "Correct Opinion", it would never be the one voiced - or agreed with - by any male who happened to be present.

"What is he proposing?" he asked.

The Cow shrugged. "Something more formal than No Dress Code at all. Something that covers tummies. And legs, I suppose, since it appears to have been a short skirt that destabilised the tea room!" She sighed. "He did say he thought Islam was right on this one - so it could be anything from hijab to burkah, perhaps?"

Gramsci chuckled. Cows were odd-shaped enough without burkahs. He couldn't imagine one successfully negotiating the stairs dressed thus. Not to mention the peripheral vision problem a niqab would pose for those wide-spaced eyes.

The Cow sighed again. "It's quite tragic," she lowed, "when erstwhile progressives slip into the comforting conservatism of middle age! Next he'll start advocating name badges and bowties, like they wear down in Bremner!"

Gramsci paused. "I wonder what he'd make of your recreational attire?" he muttered. "That even had the butler protesting!"

The Cow shrugged. All the postcards en route to Germany reporting bovine nudity in the Touw River were no doubt keeping the post office in business. Yet somehow that attire was unlikely to manifest on Campus. There was simply no way she was going to stand up in front of a fashion blogger or a gym blogger with unironed bits of cowhide exposed.

"Maybe that's what it is," Gramsci laughed. "Prof Ritalin is not really concerned about destabilisation. He's worried about conformity! If tummies become the dress code, he'll have to follow suit... so to speak?"

The Cow blanched. The thought of the collective Bremner tummy on display was terrifying. "Luckily it will never happen!" she sighed. "What would they pin their name badges to?"

The Cow read recently that males were losing testosterone. On a collective, rather than individual, level - it appeared that the average testosterone titre amonga defined age population was lower now than it was two decades ago. David Beckham was merely a harbinger. Masculinity was indeed under threat.

Meanwhile, the scenario was playing out on an individual level, too. Mr Timberland lost his remote.

Forced to channel surf using fingers and buttons on the tv set itself, the exercise became too much and he landed up watching Sex & The City reruns. And enjoying it.

The Cow shook her head sadly. The Metrosexual might be dead, but masculinity's longevity was by no means assured. What if, she shuddered, Mr Timberland arrived on Campus one day... in a pink shirt?

The Cow was trotting through the Arts Block when she saw a sign for Weight Watchers. Not an omen, nor a portent - though there were enough of those on Campus - but rather an ordinary notice-kind-of-sign.

Which made her wonder: why did the Arts Block need Weight Watchers? Were Arts staff heavier than, say, Beattie staff? Than Maths staff? And the students? Was the building in danger of collapse, requiring a lighter load? Had the maximum load capacity on the lift been exceeded once too often?

It was all most puzzling.

And then, as she emerged into the sunlight on the other side, the answer struck her: