Shocks and surprises

What is life but a serious of surprises and shocks! You’d be minding your own business and happily strolling down the street when you decide to stick your hands in your pockets and are surprised to find a collection of coins or notes that you didn’t know you had. Or you’d lazily lay on your sofa and press the buttons on your remote control when you suddenly come across a classic movie that you didn’t know would be broadcast today! Some surprises are pleasant and some are shockingly painful.


My family never stop surprising me. There I was the other day, returning from work, with my shoulders hunched, my tie loose and my spirits (as often are after my tube journey) down. I did what I normally do when I reach my house, I lightly tapped on the outside of my living room window so that someone would open the front door. I have my own keys but I refuse to use them. I’ve been working all day and the least I expect my family to do for me is open the front door.


My four year old daughter came running to the door and started talking to me through the letter box. She was very excited and kept on saying ‘dad, dad, I have something to tell you’! I patiently asked her to let me in first then tell me whatever it is she wanted to share with me. She said (with a touch of irritation I felt), ‘but it’s very important’. I, again, and with fatherly love oozing from every part of my being, asked her to open the door.
‘Don’t you want to hear what I have to tell you?’ she asked.
‘Of course I do, daddy’ I tenderly replied.
‘ It’s very important’ she said.
‘I know, daddy. But first you have to let me in’
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘Know what?’ I absent-mindedly replied.
‘I really have to tell you’ she said.
‘Open the door’ I said.
‘Don’t shout at me’ she said.
‘I’m not shouting, daddy. Come on darling, please let daddy in’ I said.
‘You never listen to me’ she said.
‘I’m sorry’ I said, ‘let me in’.
‘Last week you promised to buy me chewing gum but you never did’ she said.
‘Stop talking to me through this letterbox and open the door’ I said.

She moved away from the door and started crying. I knew she was not going to let me in unless I heard her story first. I apologised and asked her to tell me.

‘Granddad is dead’ she said!
‘Which Granddad?’ I quickly asked.
‘Mummy’s dad’ she said.
‘REALLY’ I said (half shocked at his supposed death and half relieved it was not my father she was talking about).

‘Yes’ she confidently replied.
‘Mummy must be really sad’ I said, ‘open the door and let me go speak to her’.
‘Mummy is on the phone’ she said.

I started thinking about the endless phone calls we’re going to get and the non-stop visitors, and I almost died myself.

‘Open the door’ I said.

She finally opened the door and ran in to announce me. I followed her to the bathroom where my wife was helping my three year old wash his face whilst holding the phone to her ear. She was having a sort of serious conversation. In fact, it looked so serious that she only acknowledged my arrival with an empty nod and carried on repeating the words ‘I know’ and ‘that’s life’. I panicked! I stood facing her with a solemn look on my face. I hoped that my already hunched shoulders and dejected spirits would convey my feelings. There was no need to fake sympathy.

She kept looking at me as if I was doing something wrong or was not supposed to be standing in front of her at such a difficult time! Could it be that I would have to fake my feelings after all?

I put a hand on my waist and looked at the floor as I despondently shook my head from side to side. My four year old aped my moves and my three year old laughed at us. The wife hastily ended her phone call and asked me what the matter was.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad’ I said.
‘My dad?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry’ I repeated.
‘Why?’ she philosophically asked!
‘We’re all going to die one day’ I comfortingly said.
‘My dad is dead?’ she excitedly shouted.
‘Sorry sorry’ I whispered as I attempted to give her a caring hug. She pushed me away and repeated the words ‘my dad is dead!’.

Her eyes were open wide and they were looking straight at me. She didn’t know that her dad was dead. This was genuine shock. I felt sorry for her and tried to hug her again. She pushed me away and repeated those four words ‘my dad is dead!’. I so wanted to make things better and tell her that he was not dead and that this was just a joke I made up. But it was not a joke. It was true, my four year old told me. MY FOUR YEAR OLD!

I looked at my four year old, I looked at my wife, I looked at my four year old again. It suddenly dawned on me that I’ve been had! My wife looked at both of us and seemed to understand. She looked a bit hesitant as she asked ‘did SHE tell you that my dad was dead?’

‘Is he not?’ I said.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think he is’ she dismissively replied.
‘Well who told her that your dad was dead then?’ I defensively asked.
‘Why don’t you ask her’ she accusingly replied.

I looked at my four year old. She started crying and blamed her six year old sister. We all ran to the living room and clustered round the six year old who was busy watching a cartoon on TV.

‘Did you tell your young sister that her granddad was dead’ I shouted.
‘Which one?’ she innocently asked.
‘How many sisters do you have’ I said, ‘this sister’ I pointed at the four year old.
‘Which granddad is dead’ the six year old coolly asked.
‘Your mother’s dad’ I said.
‘Oh! I never liked him’ she said ‘I like your dad better. He always buys us sweets’.
I softened up and had an idiotic smile on my face as my wife barged in and shouted ‘You don’t like my dad?’

‘I don’t like him as much as daddy’s dad’ answered my favourite six year old.

‘Even if you don’t like him, that doesn’t mean you can spread rumours about him being dead’ shouted my wife.

‘What’s a rumour, dad?’ asked my wily six year old.

I was about to explain the meaning of the word rumour but my wife overrode me and shouted ‘Why did you say your granddad is dead?’

‘I didn’t, you did’ said my six year old.

‘You didn’t tell your sister that her granddad was dead?’ I gently asked her.

‘NO’ she replied.

We all looked at the four year old. She started crying. As we both tried to tell her off for telling lies we heard the three year old scream. He flooded the bathroom.

D E A T H !

I think I’m dying. It’s not a joke. I really think I’m dying.

I’m not sure what it is I’m dying of but I suspect it may be food poisoning! Three days ago, I had a takeaway. It was the only meal I had all day. It was a delicious meal and as I was eating it I was telling myself that I should have takeaways more often. But, three hours later, I was sat in the toilet (and on it) groaning away like a man holding his middle finger and trying to extricate a stuck ring! My stomach feels very tender, my back hurts, my thighs ache, I keep trying to stop myself from vomiting and I feel dizzy.


The food poisoning may kill me but it’s really not the reason why I think I’m dying. One of the real reasons for my imminent death is the shortness of breath I keep having every time I go to sleep at night. This has been happening for years but, lately, it got even more uncomfortable. You see, I’m the type of person that can not go to sleep with any lights on in the room. I have to sleep in total darkness or I don’t sleep at all. Therefore, every night, when I go to bed, I have to completely bury myself under the covers. But when I do, I feel claustrophobic and struggle for breath. On nights when I’m very tired I only need to hide under the covers for five minutes before I completely fall asleep and then, naturally and unconsciously remove the covers away from my face. However, I’m now getting old and my reflexes are not as good as they used to be! Where in the past when someone threw a punch at me I’d arrogantly (and quickly) crouch, touch the floor and then uppercut them all the way to Guatemala, I now merely touch my knee before breathlessly poking them on the chin. Before you start shaking your head and wondering what has that got to do with my sleep let me tell you that the answer is EVERYTHING. Just think about it for a minute, if my reactions have become that slow when I’m conscious and fully awake can you imagine how bad I am when I’m sleeping? What if one day, after I’ve covered my face and finally fell asleep, I forgot to take the covers of?

This is what happens to all those people that die peacefully in their sleep you know. I don’t want to die peacefully in my sleep. I don’t want to make the grim reaper’s job easier! In fact, I suspect that Mr Reaper despises this type of death. He probably considers such people a second-rate sort of corpse. I’m a man of principle, I want to amount to something in life and would also want my death to count. Accidental suffocation is not something I’d want to go to my grave with. Besides, I don’t think it’s a peaceful death at all.


Still, I know I’m dying. I’m not talking in a hundred years time when I’m a toothless old man. I’m talking today, next week or if I’m lucky next month at the latest. I’m not paranoid or a hypochondriac. I’m a reasonable, practical man. And when a reasonable, practical man finds a boil on his head a reasonable, practical man has good reason to fear death!
I found it whilst having a shower. Just as I put the shampoo on and started to happily shove it about the greying hair, I felt a sting! You see, on average, I frequently feel a sting in one part of my body or another as I’m having a shower. But that’s usually because I’m a clumsy person that walks into things and accidentally scratches his hands or legs. I only find out about these scratches when I’m having a shower and applying the shampoo, soap or shower gel. To feel a sting in one’s head is something totally different though. How in the world did I manage to accidentally scratch my head? I don’t even have long finger nails; I eat them all away with worry about being suffocated in my sleep.


This was a big boil. It was like a tiny volcano right in the middle of my head. It was gently spitting out hot lava and I felt its sizzling stings. I am going to die, I know I am. When this boil finally bursts and all my intelligence turns into yellow puss I’m going to fall asleep and forget to take the covers off my head!


I’m not sure if all of this is related, and I’m afraid to ask a doctor lest he confirm my looming death. But I get these headaches! I’m talking real, painful and blinding headaches. Sometimes I blackout for split seconds; usually when I’m trying to touch my knees and poke someone’s chin. I see lightening in my eyes and hear thunder in my ears. Whenever that happens I try to hold my breath and wait for the MOMENT. It would be great to say that at that time I lament the whimper and wish for the bang, or sit and do a hamlet-like soliloquy. But, truly, and I have to tell the truth now because I may die at any minute, all I say to myself is that: I’m going to die. Oh. My. God! I’m going to die. I’m GOING to DIE!


The wise people I spoke to all told me that everyone dies one day. But if I’m going to die I want it to be a special thing. I want people to talk about it in years to come and see how heroic I was. But no, I don’t want to die in a war or anything like that. Because what guarantees do I have that my side would win the war if I stormed the enemy’s front lines and died fighting? What if my death becomes nothing but the desperate actions of a glory-hunter? I don’t want to die in that way. In fact, I don’t want to plan my death. I want it to just happen. I want it to be peaceful. I want to die with an upset stomach, a blinding headache, scratches all over my body and a big dripping boil in the middle of my head. Nevertheless, I suspect that this is not going to happen. I already have all these problems and I’m not dead yet! Maybe my in growing fingernail is what will tip the scale!

Plastic Ducks!

The other day, on my way home from work, I got on the train and luckily found myself a seat. I settled down for a quite journey home and started to read my newspaper. After five minutes of reading, my eyes started to hurt so I put the paper down and started to daydream.
I was thinking of work, home, friends and the latest actions of the Tamil Tigers (which I read about in my newspaper). I wondered how those fighters live their life and if they too take the train home after a long day at the office. I smiled at my silly thought. I shook my head and started thinking about the monsoons they get in that part of the world. Was it the season for monsoons? Do people really have to walk waist deep in water when there is a monsoon? I started thinking about having a nice hot bath. This lead me to think of plastic ducks! I always wanted a plastic duck but could never tell where one purchases one from. I imagined myself in the bath with two plastic ducks. I smiled at my stupidity again. I shook my head and continued to look ahead while I continued smiling. I noticed the lady sitting opposite me piercing me with evil looks!
Did she think I was smiling at her? I panicked. Looked away. Looked at her again. She was still giving me evil looks! I tried to smile at her, she rolled her eyes and exhaled in irritation! I was offended by her wishful presumption. Did she really think it’s my habit to get on trains and look at ugly women? I shot her a quick glance to confirm that she was ugly. She wasn’t. She was beautiful. Extremely beautiful. I wanted to have another look. Why in the world was I thinking of Tamil Tigers when I could have been staring at all this beauty?
I started thinking of a way in which I could look at her without offending her or seeming like a fool. All the tricks and plans I thought of were not good enough. Well, apart from the one involving the train overturning and her fainting in my arms giving me all the time in the world to sit there staring at her unconscious pretty face.
The train stopped and many people got on. There were no more seats to be had so they all had to stand. I tried to steal a glance at the pretty face but the standing people had partly covered her. I could only see one eye and it was still giving me evil looks. I was offended again. Does she think I’m some kind of pervert? Does looking at the beauty of a clear blue sky or a child’s smiling face or even a rose make me a pervert? We all love looking at pretty things and I shouldn’t be given evil looks when I do so too! I decided to punish her by not looking at her again. I lifted my head up and started looking at the ceiling of the train and daydreaming again about my plastic ducks.
I noticed that the person standing in front of me was another woman and that she was smiling back at me! I blinked at her a couple of times and she started to flirtingly play with he hair! I decided to look away from her. I did. I saw that evil eye narrow! The pretty girl was smiling at me. I blinked. She looked at the girl standing up, looked back at me and then smiled. I looked at the standing girl and saw that she was still smiling at me and playing with her hair. I was confused. What do all these smiles mean?
I decided to avoid all this confusion and close my eyes. For fifteen minutes, I was peaceful and even managed to have a quick nap. Somebody in the other end of the carriage was talking loudly on their mobile phone. I opened my eyes and instinctively looked at both girls. They were both smiling at me now!
I started to panic. Why were they smiling at me? I looked at the zip in my trousers but there was nothing wrong there. I wiped my face then looked back at them. They were still smiling! Oh God. What if I farted loudly in my sleep and didn’t know about it? What if the whole carriage heard it and I was the only person unaware of my shameful lapse? I started to panic. I screened the whole carriage and tried to make eye contact with everyone. Nobody was paid any attention to me other than the two girls! Could it have been a quiet fart unheard by anyone else but those two girls? My stomach started rumbling and I coughed loudly to hide the further evidence of my crime.
There was nothing I could do but pretend ignorance and pass the rest of the journey without looking at those girls. I took my mobile phone out and pretended to write a text message. It shook my hands so I let it fall to the floor as it started ringing. I jumped down to pick it up and banged my head against the pretty girl’s knee. She laughed. I apologised. She smiled at me and covered her face giggling! I tried to pay her back with an evil look but only managed a desperate apologetic half wink. She straightened in her seat and carried on smiling back at me. I looked at the standing girl and she was also still smiling at me.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of my plastic ducks. Even they were smiling at me! Ever the optimist, I tried to convince myself that people smile when they see a clear blue sky, smiling child or even a rose! The train stopped.
An old lady got in and smiled at me as she stood to the side. I smiled back at her and settled back in my seat. I felt her still looking at me so I had another glance. Now she was giving me evil looks too! What is it with all these women? Why are they giving me smiling and evil looks? Ah! Maybe the old lady was trying to tell me she wanted to sit down? I almost got up and offered her my seat. I thought about the standing girl and wondered if she too was smiling at me because she wanted my seat! If I offer my seat to the old lady the standing girl is sure to be upset. I don’t want to upset her. I don’t want her to hate me. I’m a nice guy really. All I wanted was to get on the train, find a seat and go home. Why is life so depressingly complicated?
The train stopped and all three women got off! I was relieved and contently sat back and exhaled. As the doors of the train shut and it started moving I noticed that this was my stop too!