Water Cooler Talk Redux

All The Time In The World

We were sitting in the sun eating our sandwiches. I was sitting right in front of some church doors, blocking the way, stopping people from finding salvation.
"I envy you," he said, "I don't have any time."
I looked at the lunchtime crowd scattered around the church grounds, making the most of this rare appearance by the sun. There had probably been graves here at some point, now there were people eating Big Macs.
"I can't read a book, I can't watch a film, I can't rest for even a minute," he said.
I took a bite of my sandwich. The sun was strong.
"Don't get me wrong," he continued, "I love my wife and I love my kids. I just don't have any time, you know, you can do what you want..."
Oh, yes, I have time to think, lots of it. Time to think, to analyse, to dissect. Time to think about what I want.
"Yes, I'm very lucky," I said as I watched a family walk by.

Wobbly As Heck

I spoke to my grandmother today. She’s 90 odd and lives far away.
I asked her how she was.
She said, "I'm wobbly as heck."
Wobbly as heck.
That's a pretty good summary of just about everything.
Except maybe a mountain, or an elephant, or other really big solid things. Otherwise, I think it's a pretty good summary of just about everything.

My Mother Would Like A Moustache

‘My mother would like a moustache,’ said the girl. She was speaking in French and had braces on her teeth.
'Quoi? Pardon?’ I said.
‘My mother would like a moustache,’ she repeated. I looked back and could see her mother smiling from the doorway of the café.
Then I remembered that I was wearing a fake moustache. We were all wearing fake moustaches, all eleven of us, as we sat around the table drinking beer. One of us was also wearing a wig and a pink tutu. Given this, her question didn’t seem so bizarre after all. We gave her a packet of spare ‘taches and she went back to her mother to try them on.
We had descended on this sleepy French village to play boules. We had appeared like bandits out of the surrounding hills, all moustachioed up, to raid their petanque square and drink their beer. Soon we would move on, to eat good food, drink fine wine, and continue celebrating our friend’s upcoming marriage. Burial of the life of a young man they call stag celebrations in French. This young man I’ve known since I can remember anything, and I was here not to bury but to praise him. Love finally caught up with him and here he now was with a moustache, a wig and a tutu.
The girl reappeared with her mother; they were both now wearing moustaches. Her mother owned the café. We took photos and drank and laughed and cheered.

Water Cooler Talk

One Starving Child Can Really Spoil Your Whole Day

I had a bad day at work last week. A real bad day.
It was one of those days when your feet get knocked out from under you. When you question why you are there. When you wonder why you bother.
I was hunched over the desk, squinting into the glow of the monitor, typing numbers and letters into documents. I was pushing the rock up the mountain. The phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling from the other side of the Atlantic, he wanted to update me. Fifteen minutes later, I felt confused and beaten and empty. Somehow, I’d taken a big step backwards. The rock had rolled all the way to the bottom.
I sat there stunned. I’d been slapped in the face, punched in the stomach, kicked in the teeth. I sat there and wondered why I was sitting there. For what? For what?
On my way home, I bought a bottle. It was red and rough and obliging. I drank glassfuls and felt sorry for myself. I sank. One of the few things I had had turned on me. I sank lower.
I tried to distract myself, switched on the box, and then I saw the starving children. I saw the skin, the bones, the flies, the tears. And I couldn’t feel bad anymore. I had no right to. Another of the few things I had had been taken away.
Damn those starving children.

Finding God At The Bottom Of A Cappuccino

"There are miracles every night," he said.
I looked at the card.
"Last night, a woman in a wheelchair walked again," he said.
I looked at the card again. Every night from 7pm except Mondays. I guess even miracle makers need a night off.
"Really?" I said.
He was thin, well dressed and had a slight accent. He had sat down next to me, nursing an espresso, and talked about the weather, then about himself, then about god. I don't know why he picked me. I was drinking a cappuccino and looking out of the window, killing the Sunday afternoon. Maybe I looked lost, maybe I looked as if I needed saving.
"I don't believe," I said.
"You should come and see," he said. "There are miracles every night."
Except Mondays. There are no miracles on Mondays. There are no miracles most nights.
"Every one can believe what they want," I said and gave the card back. I finished my cappuccino, said goodbye and walked out into the sinful world.
I mean, Jesus, if God's trying to get me to believe he should at least send a hot nun.