Carnivorous Cow

The Cow was in a thoughtful mode when Bronstein wandered in. "I might get to Italy after all," she informed him.

"Oh?" Bronstein looked up, perplexed. "But I thought that the Italian Consulate had not even accepted the courier's packing, delivering your passport and kilograms of other requested, supporting documents?"

"Correct,"  nodded the Cow. "Why they ask you to go through all that performance, merely to ignore the submission when you finally get it all together, is beyond me! Obviously they don't want visitors from SA, but they might get them whether they want them or not!"

"How so?" asked Bronstein. "As I understand, they've tightened up access to non-EU citizens throught the Schengen states."

"Ah," the Cow mused, "that's the political world. But nature doesn't respect political boundaries!"

Bronstein scratched his head. "You'll have to explain that," he sighed. 

"Well, tomorrow CERN is set to fire up the Large Hadron Collider, right? And, soon enough, they'll be colliding the particles!"

"And then we'll all be dead!" squeaked Bronstein. "Even the Italians!"

"Tsk, tsk!" clucked the Cow, irritated. "It's neither a nuclear holocaust nor the end of the world. The end of the ignorant, confused world as we know it, perhaps, but not the end of the world completely!"

"But what if they do recreate the Big Bang?" Bronstein asked nervously. "Then we'll have a new Universe, and what will happen to this old one?"

The Cow rolled her eyes. "They're not recreating the Big Bang!"  she sighed impatiently. "They're simulating conditions instants after the Big Bang! They're trying to create, or find evidence of, dark matter!"

"Is this the WIMPs vs MACHOs thing? That the WIMPs might actually win?" Bronstein asked, confused.

"Perhaps," chuckled the Cow. "The results are sure to be interesting. But I'm wondering, if they do manage to create a teeny, tiny, weeny little cutey-pooty small black hole... what will happen?"

"The earth will implode?" suggested Bronstein.

"Unlikely, if it was that small," shrugged the Cow. "More likely it will suck more than Electrolux, and we'll all find ourselves being slowly, inexplicably, drawn towards Switzerland."

"Until everyone has their very own cuckoo clock!" chuckled Bronstein.

"And their ears ring with yodels,"  agreed the Cow. "But how far we get will depend on many factors, including where we start from."

"So?" Bronstein looked confused.

"We just need to do the calculations and make sure that we're in a direct line to land up in Italy, en route to Switzerland, and positioned far enough away that we stop there and don't land up in the fondue pot!"

The Cow phlummmphed down onto the couch and grimaced. "All that time, effort and expense," she muttered ruefully, "just to return to status quo ante!"

Bronstein looked up mournfully. "But Gramsci was so looking forward to the trip," he protested. 

"Me too," admitted the Cow. "The home of some fine Renaissance art, some interesting architecture, some important music and, of course, fast cars. Plus an opportunity to visit the source of the home language of Gaudeamus!"

"The song that caused all the trouble!" sighed Bronstein.  "Haven't you had enough of trouble?"

The Cow paused. It had been a rather trying time. The consulate in Manchester refusing to assist a poxy foreigner whose temporary residence on the soggy island was sanctioned by a stamp in the passport rather than An Offical Visa; the consulate in Cape Town being helpful up to the point of the arrival of the precious application parcel, and then refusing to accept it despite it conforming to spec in every possible way; the complete lack of communication from either the courier company or the consulate as to what the reason behind the "exception" might be; the run-around trying to secure the return of the parcel, given that the time window for the visa application to allow the trip had now elapsed; the high levels of stress and suffering generated on all those around, with the cloud ofuncertainty hovering for so long before finally breaking out into a dark, angry downpour.

 "At least it was only a downpour, and not the storms that pounded Cape Town," shurugged the Cow. 

"Or the tremors still to be felt," added Bronstein.

The Cow looked up, perplexed. "What tremors?"

"The rumblings stirred up by the coronation," Bronstein clarified.

"Hmm," mused the Cow.  "You mean the bit where the New-Ruler-Appointed-On-A-Transformation-Ticket cast despair among the Designated Groups by publicly rebuking a black NRF Chair for daring to Speak The Truth To Power? Or the bit where he angered the anal by using the term 'intellectually irresponsible' instead of the more contextually appropriate 'politically irresponsible'? Or the bit where those located outside of Toad Hall were essentially put in their place and told that 'privileged information' was the remit only of Isengard?"

Bronstein chuckled. "Quite possibly all of the above," he twinkled. "I guess the fall-out remains to be seen!"

The Cow sighed. "Wouldn't it be nice," she suggested, "if instead of renaming a Senate Room from which he was barred, they'd chosen to honour Prof Mafeje by commemorating that very act of dissent that blocked his gaining access forever to the Senate Room?"

"Yes!" agreed Bronstein. "Just think how inspired generations of students to come - from marginalised groups past, present and future - would be to plunge into the shiny, new, Archie Mafeje swimming pool!"