Dear God, I need to tidy the room where I sleep. I don't remember when last I had a cold with sniffling, but it seems to me it was some time ago. And it must be at least months, because a careful archeological excavation reveals a layer of tissue papers that I have to call "puss filled cavity man." And his generation clearly had an aversion to Cowry Shells, because lo I have searched for the Cowry, and there he was hidden by one of those little piles of tissues that imagination inclines to dismiss as a potential for future usefulness, a valuable resource that becomes a blind spot in the day to day, and therefore invisible. But more important, why have I searched for the Cowry? The answer I have decided is in the word "grand-fatherliness." Which is an ill-defined condition I might soon share with a new being.
This Cowry was no artifact washed ashore for sunblocked beachcombers to find. This creature was taken alive from his shell. I know this because years ago I was taught how it was done. You don't boil him, because that can distress his value. You put a hook in him, hang him from a line. Time and sunshine does the rest. And a long time ago the reason you do this made perfect sense. Probably still would if it made the difference between money and a "thank you" to the Cowry for supper and money but no "thank you" to the Cowry for supper. Which I suggest is about as 'grandfatherly' an example a person should ever allow himself to get. Otherwise there is an inclination to draft constitutions. A moronic holding of truths, so well summed by the expression "Get off my lawn!" or "Tidy your room!" And I have outlived three most venerable grandfathers, so I know what I am talking about.