fiction

Rudyard Kipling’s how-to of selfless Victorian stoicism adapted to the meet the demands of modern life. With apologies to Kipling and all those who like the original. If it’s any comfort, so do I.

This is fiction.

Geoff had a problem, a big problem. He had been blissfully unaware of it until his partner, Steff, brought it to his attention. 

He was too wary of confrontation. He wasn’t direct enough. And this meant he didn’t sell himself and he let people walk all over him.

Her observation didn’t come from nowhere. In an ideal world Geoff would never say anything to upset anyone. Better to offer someone an awkward gesture and let them fill in the gaps.

So when Colin, the next door neighbour, parked across their driveway Geoff would knock on the front door and say, “Hi, Colin. Sorry to bother you, but do you think you could, maybe, y’know?” Letting Colin guess what he meant. 

Colin would impatiently grab his keys, marching to his car as if he were the injured party. This got the car moved with no hostile exchange – Perfect, everyone’s happy, thought Geoff.

Geoff had taken a similar approach at his interview for a promotion last Tuesday. Mike’d asked, 

“Geoff, you’ve been with us for 12 year, the last six leading the product return team. Why do you think you’re ready to move up?”

“Well, y’know, I read the job description and I think I can do it. And, well, I thought I should put myself forward, to give you an option.”

“Right. Do you think you have what it takes to coordinate product returns teams across multiple sites, maybe even working across county borders?”

“Yes, I have run my own team for 6 years and have been involved in drawing up coordination plans, some of which involved coordinating with Sheffield and even into Barnsley.”

“Excellent. And do you think you are the best man-person for the job?”

“I do feel I could do the job well, yes. But the best man-person for the job? That’s a tricky one. There are millions of men-people in the world, and also other people. Some of them are bound to be better than me in some respects, aren’t they?”

“So are you’re suggesting we should look elsewhere? Broaden our search, like?”

“Not exactly. I’m just saying that if you did, you are almost certain to find someone better than me. It’s a matter of statistics,” said Geoff, pulling his ear, one of his wide repertoire of awkward gestures.

And with that Mike sank into a moment of reflection, before wrapping up the interview.

“OK, Geoff. We’ve heard enough. We will be in touch.”

Geoff returned to his desk, feeling uncertain. But this uncertainty didn’t last long. Within an hour an email titled “Your application” landed in his inbox.

“Dear Geoff,” it said, so far so good. “Thank you for your application. After some internal discussion we have decided to broaden the scope of our search. I hope this is not a disappointment to you.”

It was, in fact, a deep disappointment to him. 

It became even more of a disappointment after he told Steff why he was pulling his ear after breakfast the next morning.

“‘You’re almost certain to find someone better!’?” Steff shrieked. “Geoff!? You’re meant to be selling yourself, not offering statistical insights.”

“I was right, though, wasn’t I?” Geoff said, shrugging.

She told him, no he wasn’t right. She also told him Colin next door wasn’t bothered about statistics and that was why he was a success and had a big car that he constantly parked across their driveway.

“Your inability to stomach confrontation explains why you are a self-sabotaging failure,” she said, slamming the door behind her, leaving Geoff thoughtfully massaging his ear lobe over his half-finished bowl of muesli.

On the other side of the door Steff leant against the doorframe. She felt awful, shocked at what she’d said. Had she gone too far? 

“No, no, it had to be said,” she thought, straightening up. “It was for Geoff’s own good. I was harsh but fair. And, anyway, what could possibly go wrong?”

Two weeks later Geoff stood in the dock of a magistrates court, blinking, not quite able to believe it.  He faced three counts of public affray, one of anti-social behaviour and one of criminal damage against a motor vehicle.

“Geoffrey Edward Winstanly Hodges, do you have anything to say in mitigation?” said the magistrate presiding over the case.

Geoff pulled his ear, shrugging and bowing his head.

“Please, Mr Hodges, might I ask you to make an audible statement, for the court record.”

“Sorry, your honour. All I can say is that I am truly sorry for the undoubted distress or damage I caused. It troubles me very much.”

He looked over to Steff in the crowd.

“I did it to prove to someone very special, and everyone else, that I am how I am normally because I believe it is the best way for me to be, not because I am afraid.” 

“I believe you have, indeed, proven your point most decisively, Mr Hodges, albeit at substantial cost. And I am sure your statement of regret will be of some small comfort to your victims. I hope you will now revert to your previous blameless pattern of behaviour. Despite this I must sentence you to two weeks of community service and issue you with a fine of £900 as a penalty for the distress you caused,” the magistrate told the court, banging his gavel. “Court dismissed.”

Geoff turned to leave the stand, looking over at Steff who looked back smiling, unable to suppress a mix of pride and excitement rising within her.  ■

This is fiction which came out of a cliche connected to the situation, rather than from real life.

I bundled into the back of the black cab across from the Royal Free Hospital Hamstead. It was a welcome refuge from the autumn downpour.
“Where to, mate?”
“Croydon Central, please. Let’s see if the rain stops.”
“Right you are,” the driver said, prodding his meter before pulling a slick u-turn to catch the lights.
The diesel chugged amiably as I tried to wipe the rain from my face with a soaking jacket arm. I caught the driver watching me in the rear-view mirror.
“Wet out there, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
Some backseat yoga allowed me to dry my face with a shirt tail. That would have to do. I tracked London’s streets as they moved behind fogged windows. Then it came.
“You’ll never guess who I had in the back last week?”
After the day I had, I was hungry for the distraction. Let’s not waste it, I thought.
“OK. Sure. Was it George Clooney?”
“No.”
“Kofi Anan?”
“No.”
“Michael Palin?”
“No. Not Palin. You’ll never guess.”
“John Cleese.”
“No, none of the Pythons.”
I thought for a moment.
“Kevin Keegan?”
“No, not Keegan”
“Kriss Akabusi?”
“Chris Aka-who?”
“A 400m runner, on TV every now and then.”
“Oh, him, no, not unless I didn’t recognise him.”
“So he is at least a possibility?”
“I don’t really know him but I think I’d know if it was him, if you know what I mean.” I didn’t but kept silent. The key message was he wasn’t giving any ground. “You’re not supposed to guess, you know.”
That wasn’t going to stop me trying. I thought for a moment, his eyes searching me, grinning triumphantly. I struck back with a volley of guesses.
“Al Gore?”
“No.”
“Melinda Gates.”
“No.”
“Bill Gates.”
“No.”
“Sarah Palin?”
“No.”
“Edwina Curry?”
“No.”
“Andy Murray.”
“No.”
And, with that, I found I was spent. There were no people left in the world whose names I could think of.
“Yes, you were right. It seems I can’t guess who you had in the back of your cab last week…. Ever,” I conceded.
We were entering Kentish Town high street. I remembered buying stuff for our tiny flat over the newsagent. We argued over coat hooks and bought two of each. So much of the detail was forgotten of those times, but not the feeling of something beginning.
“You want me to tell you?”
“Pardon me?” I said, brought back into the cab.
“Do you want me to tell you who I had in the back last week?”
Oh, he was back on that again.
“I tell you what. Can we play a different game, for a change? Can you guess if I want to know who was in the back of your cab last week?”
“Alright. Yes you do?” he ventured, smiling.
“Sorry, but that’s not right. Try again.”
“I hardly need to, do I?”
“You see, you guessed. I win my bet and you win yours. Everyone’s happy. Right?”
“There’s no need to be like that,” he said, muttering under his breath and calling in to base on his radio.
I wiped a small porthole in the fogged window. Euston Station, I’d waited for her that day for three hours when she first visited. 2004, was it? Or was it ‘05? Since then she’d joined me in London, we’d married and moved south of the river and two kids had appeared. Both our father’s had died. Then a lump on her scan and within days–now, today–she had been kept in after exploratory surgery. What did this mean? Was it the end?
“See the match this weekend?” asked the taxi driver. You had to admire his persistence.
“The match? You mean a football match?”
“Yeah, the derby, Chelsea-Arsenal.”
“Guess.”
“There’s no need to be like that, mate! I’m only trying to make conversation.”
“Sorry. I know. I know it helps pass the time.”
“It helps pass the time. And take your mind off things.”
“Yes, it does. I tell you what, guess what am trying to take my mind off: shock, worry or grief?”
His eyes darted over me in the rear-view mirror for a moment.
“Grief?”
“No, not grief, not at this stage, just shock and worry.”
The cabbie nodded.
“Sorry to hear, mate. Don’t you mind me. You sit back.”
Time passed, the engine chugging dependably. I looked at my watch. The kids would be with her sister, expecting both of us.
“Where do you want dropping?”
“Just near the station, please, mate. I need a walk.”
We chugged on, the windows clearing now, the rain passing and finally stopped. We came to the station, my drop off. I paid in cash, waving away the change.
“You want a receipt?”
“No, thanks. Oh, yes, who was it?” I asked, as I pulled the handle to get out. “In your cab last week.”
“Maggie Philbin.”
“Damn it. I was gonna say her.”
“Ha. Course you were! You take care.”
“And you.”
And he pulled off and I began walking, working out what I was going to say when I got home to my sister-in-law and to the kids.
“It’s no big deal. It’s just a precaution. Everything’s going to be fine,” I whispered to myself as I walked. ■

This is fiction. There’s more here

“Where’s Wally?” demand the covers of dozens of Martin Handford’s picture books. This has gone on long enough. The question we should ask ourselves is, “Why?” What is the purpose of locating Wally? What is in it for us?

 The same question might be asked of the four other characters the same author demands we locate, namelym Wizard Whitebeard, Woof, Odlaw and Wenda.

Does complying not simply making us complicit in what is likely to be an unlawful surveillance campaign, an infringement of privacy at least, if not civil liberties? 

If any of them are activists, might we not be imperilling their civil rights? Or, if they were covert agents of the state, we might be undermining delicate counterterrorism operations.  Why rely on human agents for automisable surveillance tasks if not to condition Wally’s fellow citizens to see themselves as part of the machinery of mutual surveillance.

If we discount the clear wider social concerns, is the Wally phenomenon not encouraging an unhealthy personality cult and normalising mass stalking.

It is also outmoded. In this digital age the whereabouts of Wally and his cohorts would be more efficiently found using artificial intelligence techniques. 

For all its shortcomings and dangers AI can already be used to free us from robotic uses of our intelligence for more creative ones. We should take full advantage. Our kids should be honing their Javascript rather than wasting their time with a routine image recognition task.

Another hypothesis is that the Wally-seeking imperative is posed by the character Wally himself. If this is the case, should we not be concerned by his ceaseless demand for our attention?

 Psychologists will tell us that the demands to be seen and pursued are typical of someone who reliant on constant affirmation. Who but a rampant narcissist would keep up this attention seeking charade for nearly forty years?

Let’s be cynical for a second: What better way would there be for an egomaniac in search of biddable acolytes than to induce an unquenchable need to find their leader’s likeness in any given scene.

  We should, finally, recognise that, after nearly four decades, Wally’s location has proved to be of no material importance. It is high time we accept this and stopped concerning ourselves with it.

In doing so we might ask ourselves: Who made us responsible for finding Wally anyway? Surely he has friends and family who can look for him? We should rest assured somebody else will find him if necessary.

And, if not, he can just stay lost. He has all the necessary tools to navigate and make himself known. Could he not simply instagram selfies with geolocation like the rest of us?

Finally, I must ask, would Wally search for us if we were lost in a large crowd? I think not. I for one would need to see signs of reciprocation before investing more time in searching for him. ■

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None of the characters in this story is a real person, other than the pianist.

Winnie the Pooh meets William Blake, with apologies to Blake and A. A. Milne