Sunday, February 22, 2015

Return to Sender

When I was younger, I regarded growing older (and eventually dying- even though I hadn't fully comprehended the concept back then) as a gradual but very specific process. It involved going to a specific place which, at least to my very specific ten-year-old mind, was like an enormous library, and on each trip returning something. 

Every day, I imagined, the getting-older people would enter the building, approach the large reception desk behind which sat a very kindly old person of indeterminate age, and they would receive boxes of various sizes to put things in. Imagine the security check at the airport, except in my version there would never be a queue; and the items, once in the box, were never returned. There was always some nice calming music playing in the background. Nobody really spoke; it was a silent and solemn place, but not a sad place. People would just arrive in a steady stream, place their things in these boxes, and as soon as this wordless transaction was complete, they would be on their way again; a little older, a little lighter, a little bit closer to the end. 

What would go in the boxes? This was where my imagination took a slightly bizarre turn. Nothing physically went in- it was a mostly ceremonial process, almost like a rite of passage. For example: The ability to hear went in, but ears didn't. The ability to walk went in, but legs didn't. Memory went in, but the brain itself didn't. 

The other thing about this process was that while some of the timing was pre-determined, everyone who turned up could actually choose to keep some of the things they had originally come in to return. This is a strange detail, I know, but it is my imagination after all. No-one really knew they could do this though, so it all came down to how badly they wanted it. 

So while there would be some who came and returned everything they had at the first time of asking, others would hold on to the things which mattered most to them. I reasoned that this was why some people seemed to change almost overnight- it was because on their first visit they'd asked for the biggest box and packed it all in. In had gone the smiles, never to be seen again, and so too empathy, imagination, sometimes even faith and hope. They had emerged from out of that library as emptied-out shells of their former selves, with nothing left to live for. 

So why am I talking about all this now? It's because my 97-year-old grandmother recently made a few more trips to this place. A few more trips, a few more things given back. A few steps closer to being fully returned. But more important than what she gave back, is what she chose to keep. Yes, she gave up her eyes a good few years ago, but she kept the child-like wonder, she gave up her teeth, but not her laugh. She gave up almost all of her strength, but not the will to live. 

Which is a very good thing, because even after all the lights go off, I will still see her face, with that unmistakable twinkle in her eye, and the kindest, most beautiful smile that no box, library or imagination could hope to contain.

Wednesday, February 04, 2015

Baguette Man

Just around the corner from my office, there's a sandwich shop where all baguettes unsold by 3:30 in the afternoon are reduced to one pound. As someone who regularly has a late breakfast and a run at lunchtime, this arrangement suits me perfectly because I can head down after a shower and grab one (or two) still-fresh sandwiches at less than half price. There have been very few occasions when I've reached there around that time and the 'All Baguettes 1 Pound' sign hasn't been in the window. This might be because they've either sold out already, or the owner is optimistically holding out for a few more full-price sales. (In case you're wondering- in case it's the latter, I happily pay- if only to avoid bad baguette karma. It's the worst.) 

Overall though, this seemed to be good example of something capitalism got right- the owner sells out his stock, (hopefully) makes a decent profit, I enjoy an exceedingly cheap (and relatively healthy) lunch; everybody's happy. For a few weeks everything was great, until I noticed other people had caught on, and one man in particular I started to come across on a regular basis. Probably in his mid-forties, he was always smartly dressed, and always came in soon after the sign appeared. The first couple of times, I thought he might be passing by; probably picking up some spares for a late meeting in his office. It soon became clear though - this was no drifter or chancer. His visits had gone past the point of regular and become routine. 

While I didn't mind at first, I couldn't help but get a little annoyed as time went on. It wasn't really because he was buying up the lot, because there would always be a couple more left, but because he seemed to be picking up all the baguettes with the best fillings, and regularly buying three. Three?! What kind of person eats three baguettes at three-thirty? He was always unfailingly polite to the owner, and a couple of times when I stood behind him in the queue, he turned around and smiled at me before he walked out. Despite my best attempts, he was generally hard to dislike, which annoyed me even more. 

The more I saw him, the more I fed the annoyance, and the stronger it grew. Until two days ago, when it finally disappeared once and for all. While I normally walk down the street in the same direction as that man, I don't usually look up from my newly-bought baguette. On Tuesday, I did look up. And looked straight at him. I watched as he crossed over to the other side of the road, and handed his three baguettes to three homeless people huddled together on a stone bench. 

Maybe the lesson is to look up more, look down on people less. There's almost always more than what meets the eye, isn't there? I guess I still have so much more to learn. 

As for Baguette Man, he's my new hero. Batman isn't half as cool.