The boss was an overweight middle manager who lived for finance sector luncheons. That morning he had been to see a doctor and was told a terrible truth; he would need to cut back on heavy food or start exercising.
Well, cutting back wasn’t an option so, instead of going to a gym like any sensible person, he decided to take up running. In fact he decided to take up running that day. He also decided that we would all be joining him.
His PA spent the morning making fliers and stapling them around the office. Everyone rushed to read one.
“The McIntyre Group Run for Fun! 1st prize - The afternoon off!”
There was a collective groan.
“But we don’t have our running clothes,” someone said hopefully.
At that moment the boss jogged out of his office wearing $1,000 worth of over stretched running gear.
“Get the defibrillator ready,” someone whispered.
“Just run as you are people,” the boss declared in his most commanding voice. “We’re only going around the block.”
We lined up outside with white shirts untucked or skirts held up above knees.
“GO!” The boss boomed.
He led the way and the rest of us trailed behind half-heartedly.
We must have been quite a spectacle because a small crowd had gathered along the edge of the street. They stood silently with their mouths agape.
One bystander called out “Hey! Where are you all running to?”
“The bank,” the boss grunt-shouted back.
“Macintyre’s?”
We all nodded and kept going.
10 seconds later the bystander and a bunch of other people had overtaken us at speed.
By the time we got back to the branch there was a line of anxious customers queuing around the corner.
The bank had to be shutdown after that. The boss’s finance sector luncheons were over.
I hear he has never been healthier.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
My Favourite Sound
Rufus wakes me by pushing his dog food bowl across the tiled floor. The sound is meant to create a pavlovian response; I can almost feel him smile as I prepare his breakfast.
After breakfast I head to the bathroom for my morning shower and the sound of water falling into water. The note deepens as the floor pan fills.
As we leave the house the front door knocker bounces, brass on brass, and the door clicks closed behind me.
Then there’s the coffee shop. Tapping, grinding and steaming all merge together into one word. If you translated that word into English it would be a hearty ‘good morning!’ Some days it’s so loud I put my hands over my ears. The barista laughs at me; a warm friendly espresso laugh.
I sit outside the café and slowly sip my morning coffee. Nearby people rustle the business pages and talk in serious morning tones. Rufus sits quietly at my feet. He likes biscotti and eats it open mouthed for full crunch effect.
The pedestrian crossing buzzer sounds like a crazy cartoon creature. Rufus leads the way and people swish past us noiselessly.
Automatic openers rattle glass doors. Voices echo in the foyer and hard heels clip and clop on marble floors.
A pleasant ding. Rufus and I head up to 8, three dots, I’m already thinking about work. People are quiet in the elevator but you can still hear then.
The receptionist says a polite “hello” to me and a gusty “Hi there fella” to Rufus. We head into my office.
And there it is; the source of my favourite sound – my Braille writer. I love the snap it makes as it creates. I put on my headphones and transcribe.
There’s nothing like reading a good book in silence.
After breakfast I head to the bathroom for my morning shower and the sound of water falling into water. The note deepens as the floor pan fills.
As we leave the house the front door knocker bounces, brass on brass, and the door clicks closed behind me.
Then there’s the coffee shop. Tapping, grinding and steaming all merge together into one word. If you translated that word into English it would be a hearty ‘good morning!’ Some days it’s so loud I put my hands over my ears. The barista laughs at me; a warm friendly espresso laugh.
I sit outside the café and slowly sip my morning coffee. Nearby people rustle the business pages and talk in serious morning tones. Rufus sits quietly at my feet. He likes biscotti and eats it open mouthed for full crunch effect.
The pedestrian crossing buzzer sounds like a crazy cartoon creature. Rufus leads the way and people swish past us noiselessly.
Automatic openers rattle glass doors. Voices echo in the foyer and hard heels clip and clop on marble floors.
A pleasant ding. Rufus and I head up to 8, three dots, I’m already thinking about work. People are quiet in the elevator but you can still hear then.
The receptionist says a polite “hello” to me and a gusty “Hi there fella” to Rufus. We head into my office.
And there it is; the source of my favourite sound – my Braille writer. I love the snap it makes as it creates. I put on my headphones and transcribe.
There’s nothing like reading a good book in silence.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Black Marketeer
Selling arms to the enemy isn’t strictly legal but war covers over a multitude of sins. The company I was working for was selling to both sides of the market and making a killing.
My wife and I were not given to excess but we lived well in war time, better than most anyway. My extra income meant we had more time together; often we would walk along the beach as the sun went down.
“The clouds are red ribbons.” She was particularly pensive that evening.
“You love ribbons,” I replied, glad she had finally spoken.
There was silence for awhile and then she said suddenly, “Do you ever think of the dead?”
“To be honest I try not too. This is war; people die.”
She was quiet as we made our way back to the car.
I knew what she was thinking and frankly I couldn’t bear the idea that she thought ill of me. We had enough money to make it through the war and so I decided to retire.
The next day I told my boss I was leaving the business. He responded by threatening me, saying that if I ever exposed the racket he would destroy me.
“I just want to retire in peace,” I replied calmly.
I raced home, eager to tell my wife the news.
The front door was open and I heard a burst of gun fire – you can tell a lot about a weapon from its sound.
And she was dead, of course she was dead.
Selling arms to the enemy isn’t strictly legal but war covers over a multitude of sins.
My wife and I were not given to excess but we lived well in war time, better than most anyway. My extra income meant we had more time together; often we would walk along the beach as the sun went down.
“The clouds are red ribbons.” She was particularly pensive that evening.
“You love ribbons,” I replied, glad she had finally spoken.
There was silence for awhile and then she said suddenly, “Do you ever think of the dead?”
“To be honest I try not too. This is war; people die.”
She was quiet as we made our way back to the car.
I knew what she was thinking and frankly I couldn’t bear the idea that she thought ill of me. We had enough money to make it through the war and so I decided to retire.
The next day I told my boss I was leaving the business. He responded by threatening me, saying that if I ever exposed the racket he would destroy me.
“I just want to retire in peace,” I replied calmly.
I raced home, eager to tell my wife the news.
The front door was open and I heard a burst of gun fire – you can tell a lot about a weapon from its sound.
And she was dead, of course she was dead.
Selling arms to the enemy isn’t strictly legal but war covers over a multitude of sins.
Friday, December 05, 2008
The Truth of the Orb
How it came to be referred to as the ‘Orb’ is not known. What is known, what is oft repeated, is how the Orb came into my father’s possession.
The story starts with a journey; a pilgrimage to a distant land.
“The land where legends are born,” my father would say with a faraway look in his eye.
My father bought a ticket and crossed the ocean. He crossed alone and in silence keeping his distance from other pilgrims making the same voyage. He chose to believe that his path was the only true path. This wasn’t a game for him. This was his life, his passion, his one belief. This was his only goal.
“A goal makes all the difference son – always remember that.”
My father marched from landfall to towns centre. He blocked out the chanting and praying that filled the air. He ignored the trinket sellers that accosted him at every footstep.
“Faith isn’t a song or a toy son. Faith is food for the soul.”
The crowd was surging towards the holy ground and my father was dragged along in the flow.
Once there he prayed with uplifted arms and tears in his eyes. And as he prayed a shrill whistle pierced the silence and the Orb flew through the air straight into his hands; a gift from God himself.
Now the Orb sits in a shrine in a small corner of our house. Father says that one day it will all be mine. But, to be honest, I’m more of a rugby man.
The story starts with a journey; a pilgrimage to a distant land.
“The land where legends are born,” my father would say with a faraway look in his eye.
My father bought a ticket and crossed the ocean. He crossed alone and in silence keeping his distance from other pilgrims making the same voyage. He chose to believe that his path was the only true path. This wasn’t a game for him. This was his life, his passion, his one belief. This was his only goal.
“A goal makes all the difference son – always remember that.”
My father marched from landfall to towns centre. He blocked out the chanting and praying that filled the air. He ignored the trinket sellers that accosted him at every footstep.
“Faith isn’t a song or a toy son. Faith is food for the soul.”
The crowd was surging towards the holy ground and my father was dragged along in the flow.
Once there he prayed with uplifted arms and tears in his eyes. And as he prayed a shrill whistle pierced the silence and the Orb flew through the air straight into his hands; a gift from God himself.
Now the Orb sits in a shrine in a small corner of our house. Father says that one day it will all be mine. But, to be honest, I’m more of a rugby man.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The 15th Annual Intergalactic Space Race
Mr Stanthorpe had made an incredible discovery.
“Egad!” he shouted.
His cat opened its eyes, blinked twice and went back to sleep.
Mr Stanthorpe sat peering through precariously perched half-glasses; in front of him was a picture of a corkscrew.
“Could it be so simple?” he muttered.
He leapt from his chair starting a cascade of books that didn’t stop until he was well out of the room. In the kitchen he ripped open the second draw and pulled out a wooden handled corkscrew. Then he raced to the bathroom and retrieved a slightly rusty razor blade.
“Needs to be sharper but should do the trick,” he murmured.
The rest of the evening was spent sharpening the razor and welding it to the end of the corkscrew. The resulting contraption looked lethal but Mr Stanthorpe seemed pleased.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed.
The next morning he sprang out of bed and made his way to the local showgrounds. The 15th Annual Intergalactic Space Race was about to begin.
Two shiny space rockets stood gleaming in the morning sun. One rocket steamed and spluttered while the other stood in imposing silence.
Excitement levels grew as the start of the amazing race drew near. But excitement soon turned to disappointment; neither rocket made it through the stratosphere. The inventors left the stage looking dejected.
Mr Stanthorpe made his way to the microphone.
“It’s quite simple really,” Mr Stanthorpe stated. “I make a tiny hole in space with this,” he waved his gadget in the air, “and I’ll be sucked through the hole, straight to another world.”
The crowd of lab coated rocket scientists roared with laughter.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” The crowd fell silent as Mr Stanthorpe performed a complicated twisting movement with the device.
“Did it work?” he asked the judge.
“I’m afraid not Mr Stanthorpe,” the judge replied.
He looked befuzzled and replied, “Who is Mr Stanthorpe?”
“Egad!” he shouted.
His cat opened its eyes, blinked twice and went back to sleep.
Mr Stanthorpe sat peering through precariously perched half-glasses; in front of him was a picture of a corkscrew.
“Could it be so simple?” he muttered.
He leapt from his chair starting a cascade of books that didn’t stop until he was well out of the room. In the kitchen he ripped open the second draw and pulled out a wooden handled corkscrew. Then he raced to the bathroom and retrieved a slightly rusty razor blade.
“Needs to be sharper but should do the trick,” he murmured.
The rest of the evening was spent sharpening the razor and welding it to the end of the corkscrew. The resulting contraption looked lethal but Mr Stanthorpe seemed pleased.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed.
The next morning he sprang out of bed and made his way to the local showgrounds. The 15th Annual Intergalactic Space Race was about to begin.
Two shiny space rockets stood gleaming in the morning sun. One rocket steamed and spluttered while the other stood in imposing silence.
Excitement levels grew as the start of the amazing race drew near. But excitement soon turned to disappointment; neither rocket made it through the stratosphere. The inventors left the stage looking dejected.
Mr Stanthorpe made his way to the microphone.
“It’s quite simple really,” Mr Stanthorpe stated. “I make a tiny hole in space with this,” he waved his gadget in the air, “and I’ll be sucked through the hole, straight to another world.”
The crowd of lab coated rocket scientists roared with laughter.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” The crowd fell silent as Mr Stanthorpe performed a complicated twisting movement with the device.
“Did it work?” he asked the judge.
“I’m afraid not Mr Stanthorpe,” the judge replied.
He looked befuzzled and replied, “Who is Mr Stanthorpe?”
Monday, November 17, 2008
50 Colour Pages
School was out. The Highbury kids piled into a red, loaf-of-bread shaped bus. We were going home.
I wore a blue two button shirt with a collar, shorts that showed off my bony eleven year old legs and roman sandals. I was swinging on the overhead handrail and Simon was sitting down the back reading a comic.
Okay, so it wasn’t just any comic; this was the Buster Annual with 50 colour pages. I would've given a months pocket money for it – if I'd earned pocket money that is. Simon’s parents probably gave it to him as a happy Tuesday present. Yeah, I was jealous.
Anyway, there I was swinging away on that chromed handrail. I was wondering if a man’s legs need to be long enough to reach the ground if he is swinging in the air. I couldn’t work it out so I kept looking over at Simon and thinking about that comic book. Did I mention it had 50 colour pages?
Simon wasn’t the most attentive kid in the classroom but boy, you should have seen him with that book.
I dropped off the handrail and went and sat next to him.
“Wow!” I said “Wow!” Okay, so I said 'wow' twice.
“Is that the Buster Annual with 50 colour pages?” I knew it was.
Simon didn’t look up.
I had to get off at the next stop anyway so I cast one last longing glance at the Annual and swung out the door without using the steps.
Simon didn’t come to school the next day, or the day after that. After a week someone asked the teacher where he was. We were sitting on a tripped out stripy mat at the time and I remember the teacher going all serious and saying that Simon had been in an accident about a week ago and he was very unwell in hospital.
That didn’t explain why he was still on the bus every day reading that comic though.
Did I mention it had 50 colour pages?
I wore a blue two button shirt with a collar, shorts that showed off my bony eleven year old legs and roman sandals. I was swinging on the overhead handrail and Simon was sitting down the back reading a comic.
Okay, so it wasn’t just any comic; this was the Buster Annual with 50 colour pages. I would've given a months pocket money for it – if I'd earned pocket money that is. Simon’s parents probably gave it to him as a happy Tuesday present. Yeah, I was jealous.
Anyway, there I was swinging away on that chromed handrail. I was wondering if a man’s legs need to be long enough to reach the ground if he is swinging in the air. I couldn’t work it out so I kept looking over at Simon and thinking about that comic book. Did I mention it had 50 colour pages?
Simon wasn’t the most attentive kid in the classroom but boy, you should have seen him with that book.
I dropped off the handrail and went and sat next to him.
“Wow!” I said “Wow!” Okay, so I said 'wow' twice.
“Is that the Buster Annual with 50 colour pages?” I knew it was.
Simon didn’t look up.
I had to get off at the next stop anyway so I cast one last longing glance at the Annual and swung out the door without using the steps.
Simon didn’t come to school the next day, or the day after that. After a week someone asked the teacher where he was. We were sitting on a tripped out stripy mat at the time and I remember the teacher going all serious and saying that Simon had been in an accident about a week ago and he was very unwell in hospital.
That didn’t explain why he was still on the bus every day reading that comic though.
Did I mention it had 50 colour pages?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Journey Down to the Sea
The path leads him along hilltops before taking him down to the sea. It has been a tiring journey but the man has savoured every moment.
Secluded is this beach, and shingly not sandy. The man smiles at the sparkling sea and lets the fresh air straighten and soothe him.
He says, “Hello my friend, it has been too long.”
The sea replies with its rhythmic voice, “Wash sea wash.”
“I was in a rage that night but you were stronger - do you remember? You gave me a new name; a secret name.”
The sea is resplendent in its blue robes; a noble king.
“You gave me a new and ancient name.”
The man is quiet - the sea waits.
“You gave me an ancient name and I found strength in it.”
The mans breathing starts to rhyme with the rhythm of the sea.
“You gave me a strong name. When problems came I remembered the name you gave me.”
The sea seems thoughtful, “Wash sea wash.”
“Problems came and I was alone."
The sea is a friend that listens.
"When I was alone the ancient name was my strength.”
Once more the man is quiet and the sea waits quietly with him.
“I could have died that night, the night you gave me the name.”
The sea is a gentle sage.
“My life was so full then and I couldn't see it. Now my life is finally empty, those I loved have gone before me."
The old man stands silently looking at the sea. Finally he walks slowly into the water.
On this coast the sea is south.
The man turns south.
Secluded is this beach, and shingly not sandy. The man smiles at the sparkling sea and lets the fresh air straighten and soothe him.
He says, “Hello my friend, it has been too long.”
The sea replies with its rhythmic voice, “Wash sea wash.”
“I was in a rage that night but you were stronger - do you remember? You gave me a new name; a secret name.”
The sea is resplendent in its blue robes; a noble king.
“You gave me a new and ancient name.”
The man is quiet - the sea waits.
“You gave me an ancient name and I found strength in it.”
The mans breathing starts to rhyme with the rhythm of the sea.
“You gave me a strong name. When problems came I remembered the name you gave me.”
The sea seems thoughtful, “Wash sea wash.”
“Problems came and I was alone."
The sea is a friend that listens.
"When I was alone the ancient name was my strength.”
Once more the man is quiet and the sea waits quietly with him.
“I could have died that night, the night you gave me the name.”
The sea is a gentle sage.
“My life was so full then and I couldn't see it. Now my life is finally empty, those I loved have gone before me."
The old man stands silently looking at the sea. Finally he walks slowly into the water.
On this coast the sea is south.
The man turns south.
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