The S Word

Alf speaks to an anonymous man at a beach kiosk. They exchange several sentences within my earshot. As I wander down the slipway, I am amazed that there has been no mention of the S word as yet. I miss the final bit of the conversation and turn to see the man laughing heartily with his head thrown back. Alf fills me in on what he considers to be his best line at the moment, “She brought me here to die.” Thanks for encouraging that one, kiosk guy. Still, on the bright side, no S word.

Wherever we go, the word crops up. It is been said to a Social Security clerk, rabbited to restaurateurs and declared while driving a carload of Island Games players home from the airport. I completely understand that after a lifetime of work in his specialist field, the word is bound to crop up. The thing is, it crops up really early in a conversation. I mean Alf can go from “Hi. How are you?” to “I used to collect bull semen.” faster than one can say premature articulation. There is no requirement for a “What do you do for a living?” in between. It needn’t have crossed their minds. As I await the moment of the icebreaker, I am used to registering high on the AAA scale. Easily, I reach between 7 and 8 depending on my perception of the listener. The word “collect” is a worry. It is said as if he went out searching for it with a bag in his hand, as I do my sea glass. One lovely beach side lady responded amusingly that what he did for a hobby was up to him. So, perhaps unexpectedly for those who don’t know him, I give you the S word….. semen.

Alf was a farmer, specialising in artificial insemination of cattle. It was all around us growing up. The nitrogen tanks built to store ampules of pedigree semen were used to chill shrimp at my parent’s parties. Fruit from the orchard was frozen in long plastic gloves, tied off at the shoulder. It wasn’t uncommon to happen upon the odd artificial cow vagina in our utility room where one might more usually find a pair of wellies. The large company vehicle in the drive spelled it all out in no uncertain terms.

A friend from work books her first driving lesson during her lunch hour. She foolishly tells us it will be happening, so naturally when the time comes we rush to the window to watch her pull away. On her return, she claims that having us all watch her in that way must have made hers the worst first driving experience ever. I immediately raise one arm and two eyebrows and stare at her doubtfully. I’m sorry, I say to her confidently. I am certain that this perverse accolade belongs to me. Alf gave me my first driving lesson at sweet sixteen. I drove his mobile laboratory which he used for the processing of bull semen. Dependa-Bull Semen Collecting Services read the large letters on the outside of the camper style vehicle. He claims if I can drive it, I will be able to drive anything. It is a test of my character, not just my ability to drive. I am horrified, but I will hide it. I must fail neither test and I do not. I am gratified after telling my tale that my work friend sympathetically allows me to keep my title. As an adult, I have had a lot of mileage from that anecdote. I retell it to our CEO at a staff party one day. It is the only time I have seen him laugh with tears rolling down his face. He semi-recovers and asks if I had queues of boys running after the vehicle yelling “Stop, stop! I want to make a deposit!” I add this line to my story in future tellings. I try to capture his Belgian accent which emphasises the “de” in deposit which I feel is a quirky little enhancement.

If, on our island you meet a man who throws the S word into a conversation before it feels comfortable, you are probably speaking to Alf. If not, please send me their contact details so I can arrange for them to meet up and discuss such matters…. preferably deep in the forest.