Never Forget

Part of Dumbo's lack of self-esteem and crippling sense of inferiority lay in the fact that the rest of the Circus performers purposely ignored the elephant in the room.

Schlechten Tag

The news was stunning at first, but eventually Kevin managed to come to terms with the information.
However Caroline, his wife, found it all the more disturbing as time went by.
In the end she felt she was left with no choice other than to end the relationship and move on with their two young children, Simon and Abigail.
How, she rationalised, could she live with the man responsible for one of the largest genocides in the history of mankind? 

For Kevin’s part, he rued the day the Past Life Regression therapist told him he was the re-incarnated soul of Adolf Hitler.


In row three sat the New York Ballet’s prima ballerina.
Just behind her, leafing through the pages of a worn paper back - the lead singer of the world’s most successful rock band.
Across the other side of the aisle, staring blankly out the window, the twenty five year old medical student who recently made headlines after receiving the Nobel prize honouring her revolutionary work in the field of cancer research.
It’s amazing who you almost meet on the bus.

Not so Mellow Yellow

There was nothing wrong with it necessarily. 
Nothing obviously offensive or challenging. 
Nothing to make you squirm or recoil.
It just looked…wrong.
The same way a dog dressed like a person is wrong.
Or ketchup with scrambled eggs is wrong.
Or thinking that ketchup with scrambled eggs is wrong. 
Maybe you like that.
Who am I to tell you what to eat and in which combination?
He was in his fifties, big bellied and sporting tight trousers.
The ‘wrong’ part? Yellow T-shirt.

Goddam yellow t-shirts.

'The Martins'

Growing up in the sixties, Mr. Martin had always loved The Beatles. John, Paul, George and Ringo. Especially their Sgt. Pepper era.
So much so, that he named his first born son George, after the band's famous producer.
This didn't bother young George Martin, but as he grew older and began to assert his own tastes and move away from those of his parents, an element of resentment grew inside him.
Instead of embracing music, as his father had, George became passionate about classic sports cars.

How this would effect his young son Aston in years to come, was yet to be determined.

Out of Date

- Slightly tough around the edges, but still edible.
- If you eat it before 6pm today, you should be OK.
- You’re taking your chances with this one.
- Cook it through at least three times to be sure.
- If you close your eyes it could taste like chicken.
- I wouldn’t.

 The new ‘Truthful Labelling’ of their nearly out of date produce was proving a little too honest for ‘Crazy Deals’ customers.

O Tofu

Calling all Canadians 'nice' is like labeling all Bulgarians 'shit stirrers'.
No doubt there are many shit stirrers of Bulgarian origin, but that doesn't necessarily mean each one is.
In the same way, there are many 'nice' people in Canada...but not all.
Not too many protective parents would react badly if their beloved daughter arrived home with a beau on her arm and announced "Mum Dad - this is Chet. He's Canadian".
It probably wouldn't register as anything in particular.
She might as well say "This is Chet. He's tofu".
Not often will you hear said "Those Canadian bastards" or "I'm sick to death of those bloody Canadians".
Usually the word Canada provokes a blank stare.
Like tofu, you're quite unlikely to think about it too much.
Unless you actually live in Canada, the same applies.
Canada - the tofu of nations.
That's how Canadians like it. They're not really too bothered about being noticed. Not interested in making a big fuss.

And that was the argument Chet's defence team planned to use in court that day.


All I wanted was to be noticed.
To be appreciated.
I just wanted someone to recognise what I could do. Acknowledge it.
Someone to invest in me.
To say that what I do is amazing.
To pay attention when I say something.
To not be invisible.
Somebody to shout my name loudly.
To be backed up and supported.
To think of me kindly and fondly.
To say "Well done", "Good stuff", "That's great".
To not ignore or overlook me.
To not forget me.
Someone to smile when they hear my name.
To be encouraged and inspired by my presence.
To want to hear my words.

Someone other than me.

Not on the Curriculum

Running at speed in his bare feet through wet fields on a dark October evening.
His breath hot and loud. Lungs bursting, blood deafening in his ears.
It was not how the inhabitants of the small farming village imagined the headteacher of their local Boys Comprehensive school to behave.
The chasing horde of local angry parents gave little thought to the tragedy of the situation.


In November 1941, my grandfather met Bing Crosby.
Yep, the singer and actor Bing Crosby.
As I've heard it told, Mister Crosby walked from the hotel reception across to the bar where my Granddad sat, nursing a scotch and soda.
They spoke for no more than half a minute. Smiling a little and ending with a genuine laugh.
They shook hands and nodded before Bing walked away and out the door into the cold New York night.
That Winter Bing Crosby recorded 'White Christmas' and went from fame to super-stardom.

I never met my Grandfather.


The letter* was received **and immediately*** had an effect****. Please*****come to the window******and look at all the stars*******.

* written  
** in the morning  
*** within seconds   
**** not 'affect'.   
***** it pleaded   
***** it continued

Dr. Adams

Doctor Adams had a certain way with patients. Young or old, it didn't matter.
It wasn't the air of trust he emitted or the sense of calm that followed him as he ambled purposely about his surgery.
It wasn't the decades of experience wrapped inside that aging, silver haired skull of his. Nor was it his mild eyed look of compassion.
No, it was the phrase he employed with every single person, that made him different: 
"We're all going to die".
Simple and pure.
No dates, no times, no manner - just that one fact.
The great leveler.
We're all going to die.
Once heard and accepted, something remarkable happened.
His patients stopped worrying about sickness and began concentrating on well-being.
Being well.

The pharmaceutical companies disliked Doctor Adams.

International Incident.

I could have sworn he said 'Collection'.
Blank stares between us. Awkward moment.
That definitely did sound like 'Collection'. But it couldn't be. Why would he ask that when I'm standing right in front of him?
He stopped cooking and locked his eyes onto mine.
My obvious confusion. Not with understanding of the word itself, but of it's meaning.
I had ordered the food - my favourite, Jalfrezi with Peshwari Naan - and stated over the phone that I would pick it up. And here I am.
Of course it's for collection. Why else would I be standing here?
And hence my confusion and his, now increasing, frustration.
"He said 'collection", the lady seated in the waiting area to my left said.
I know. I know.
It had gone on too long and I really needed to answer.
"Yes, that's right - 'Collection'".
His visual contact with the female translator and subsequent eye rolling, confirmed that he felt the issue lay with my insensitivity to his accent and proud heritage.

I bet he'll forget to include the complimentary mint sauce.

Social Media.

Things were never going to end well for Alan in his new job at 'Yahoo' after he offered to 'Google' a query.