Cross a lion with a kitty cat and you have a very dangerous and unpredictable feline whose courage and fortitude are surpassed only by its attitude. Never “cross” a cross cat! Crossing a theoretical or specified line, however, can be equally hazardous to your health.
Ask any married fellow with a penchant for braais, beers and “brus”. “Do that kiddo and you’ll see what will happen,” he heard. A line crossed at peril.
A warning shot across your metaphorical bow promises terrible consequences. Rather consider the Rubicon! Caesar did!
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Check out the consequences. As I tentatively, with a quivering hand and sweaty brow, pour my fourth glass of wine, a rare occurrence, my blurry peripheral vision reads the signs and analyses the body language of the person who sits alongside. Amazing what you can deduce out of the corner of your watery eye when your life depends on it.
In fact, even close observation of the back of a person’s head can provide a world of life-saving information. If you are going to “chance your arm”, be prepared. It’s nice occasionally, to be caught with your pants up!
A Brazilian footballer once declared, when the ball is on the other foot, “o que fazer?” What to do? Life is criss-crossed with lines, mostly red. On the flip side, crossing certain lines denotes commitment and resolve.
For some, stepping into the void of the unknown, turning back is both impossible and occasionally, undesirable. Onwards and upwards! During World War 2, the French had the Maginot Line, and the Germans had the Siegfried Line.
The Americans had the Mason-Dixon Line, the northern most boundary of active slavery in the United States. The Maginot Line was 750km of fortifications created to halt the German invasion. It didn’t work.
The Siegfried Line was almost parallel to its French counterpart, also known as the Westwall. Its purpose was to provide a formidable defensive guard-rail against attacks from the West. Lines of one kind or another exist everywhere.
A commuter once philosophically mused that one could defeat constipation merely by riding a taxi. That was his red line. Better than the constipation that is the Hormuz Straits!
Rather be irregular, regularly. There’s an old story that you have no doubt heard, but, for the sake of a good yarn, it’s centred around some nuns who crossed a psychological red line of fear and rode a really hectic roller coaster.
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