Tagged

“Soon we're going to do a little exercise, but I'll introduce myself first.” The Presenter said into his microscopic head mic, his nasal twang reverberating off the walls and the ceiling. I wouldn't have come if I knew it was going to be a 'Stand up, jump around, and wave your arms around' American-style of coaching; an audience shouting “Yeahs!!” and punching their arms in the air. I was slap-bang in the middle of a row, there was no escaping. I inwardly groaned and slumped in my chair.
What was he saying? Blah, blah, blah... My focus became fixed on the mic which looked like an irritating fly about to be swallowed. It moved with his jaw; up, down, up, down, oops he nearly bit it! I suppressed a giggle and continued to flinch from the squeaky feedback. What was he going on about anyway? I studied the leaflet, which had been left on my seat. I was attending on behalf of my boss and I hadn't bothered to check the details, apart from confirming the date, time, and location. It was so last-minute, I hadn't even had time to alter the reservation, so a name badge was now pinned to my chest which said: Dean Roberts, MD of All But A Few Limited, written in squiggly marker.
On the flyer, the Presenter winked smugly back at me; his finger pointed at himself as he speech-bubbled, 'Let me help you! You won't regret it!” His strike-a-pose looked forced and unnatural, like he needed the toilet. When men need to go, do they stand differently? I wondered. Women wrap their legs over, under and around, or stoop lower to the ground. Whatever, it certainly wasn't doing him any favours. I read the blurb alongside it:
Meet Connor Manning, (Con-Man to his clients), an aspiring author and small online business leadership coach. Gifted in helping fledgling businesses test the market and achieve their goals. See his famous 'Pigeon Technique TM' for yourself and use it to target your customers. Join us for this one-day event and learn from the Pigeon Master!
*Coffee and refreshments are not included.
Just another ridiculously expensive and useless seminar, where you join a pyramid scheme and pay more; sign up to their mailing list, buy their motivational books, and reserve your place on their next course.
“Everybody up on your feet!” The Presenter commanded.
What!? There was a rustle of coats and bags being thrown on the floor and legs brushed against chairs. I hastily got to my feet. I didn't want to be the last in the room not standing.
“Now turn to the neighbour on your left and state your name and tag.”
Eh, tag? What have I missed? The person to my left grabbed my hand and shook it.
“Hello Dean.” He said peering at my badge, “I'm Matt and I have Conduct Disorder.” I stared at him flummoxed. “It's my tag. I'm a misbehaver.” He explained helpfully, “What's yours?”
“I don't have one.” I replied nervously. My thoughts swirling, drowned out by the sound of voices excitedly chattering like monkeys.
“Oh, sure you do. Everyone has a tag.” Matt reassured me. “See that man over there, he has ADHD and the woman next to him has OCD, I got pally with them earlier.”
As we resumed our seats, Matt whispered conspiratorially, “Everything's easier with a tag. They explain who you are in so many ways and allow you to people filter. They're awesome!”
The Presenter was talking, “Ladies and gentleman, you have just learnt the first step in the Pigeon Technique. Tagging people and products is an essential form of business currency.”
A thought just occurred to me. I tugged on Matt's shirt sleeve, “ I'm a Vegetarian.” I stated proudly in a hushed tone. “Does that count?”
“There you go!” Matt said congratulating me on the back, “You've just tagged yourself!”

Troll

“I'm a Troll fol-de-rol, I'm a Troll fol-de-rol, I'm a Troll fol-de-rol, and I'll eat you for supper.

Trip-trap, trip-trap; Hop and skip, hop and skip; Hippety-hop, hippety-hop;
Over the rickety bridge!”
The Troll's rich voice sang out as three Billy Goats nimbly followed him. They couldn't understand his language and of what he was singing, so they playfully skipped with the 'Trip-trap' bit as he led them in a procession down narrow, overgrown alleyways. In Goat earlier, the Troll had conveyed he would help them find their way; said he knew a lush green meadow where they could graze. Fooled by his benevolence, the trio chose to go with him.
As the Billy Goats hopped and skipped, the Troll thought of supper. It had been a long time since he had lured three goats across, and what fine, healthy specimens they were! They weren't like the Billy Goats Gruff he had tried to trick all those years ago; each was medium-sized with a white fur coat and two tiny pointed horns. 'Innocent triplet kids', the Troll thought smacking his lips, 'I won't end up in the deep, fast flowing river.'
“Three mouthfuls for supper!” He boomed as his protruding belly let out a stream of loud gurgles, “Not long now my friend.” He whispered to it, patting it through his thin cotton shirt.
Meanwhile, the three Billy Goats chased butterflies or munched on the leaves of alleyway plants, which they chewed with squinted eyes and distasteful expressions, and then spat out. They play-fought one another, cursed in Goat and begged for water, but the Troll paid no heed and continued to lead them on. They exited one alleyway and entered another; they followed the Troll's steady plod, until all three skidded into him, one after the other.
“Why have we stopped?” The middle triplet kid said to his brothers.
The Troll overheard, directed his gaze straight ahead and said, “That there is the rickety bridge, over which lies lush green grass and clover.”
Two feet away, a ancient wooden bridge swung over a fast flowing river, which the Billy Goats noticed as they approached was rotten in places; some planks were missing, some were eaten away. The youngest triplet kid shivered all over, while the eldest only yelled “Water!”, and hippety-hopped to the river's edge to quench his thirst.
“Pah! Pah! Tastes like scum! Dirty pond water!” He rasped, clearing his throat repeatedly.
The Troll seemed unimpressed with his behaviour. He clenched his fists, “You want over, I'm the toll-keeper.” He said as he stepped onto the bridge. It creaked and swung under his weight and only steadied itself when he planted his feet in its centre.
“Pooh! Pooh! We're not scared of an ugly, fat Troll!” The eldest kid taunted, pushing his younger brother forward.
The youngest triplet kid shakily trip-trapped across the first half of the bridge. He met the Troll with his head down and quietly said into his chest, “You're not a very nice Troll.”
The Troll laughed, clutching his belly, which allowed the youngest kid to skitter passed him.
“Who's next?” He rumbled.
The middle kid with a more certain trip-trap approached him, gently head-butted his stomach and addressed it with a string of unflattering words: “Fat, pudgy, pot-bellied, roly-poly, tubby...” The Troll was surprised so the middle kid managed to easily slip past him.
Now the eldest triplet kid trip-trapped firmly towards him,“You're pathetic!” He sneered. “You live alone. You have no friends. Nobody cares about you.”
The Troll burst into a flood of tears, and as he cried the eldest kid roughly shoved passed his legs and crossed the rest of the bridge. Reunited with his brothers, he shouted, “No supper for you! We're Billy Goats Grunt and the Gruffs taught us Trolling!” And with a united bleat, they skipped into the lush green meadow.
The Troll was so upset by this verbal attack that he never tricked another billy goat again.

102



Grandfather's hand

If my dad's father were alive, he would 102 tomorrow. Born three years before the First World War and taking part in the Second as a Radio Operator in the Signal Corp with The Royal Sussex regiment. He died before I thought to ask about his experiences, and if I had I imagine he would have remained stolid. Outwardly unemotional and impassive; that's just the type of man he was. Silent on events he'd undergone; feelings weren't shared, they were private. He was steadfast and dependable in his dealings with family. Quietly firm and practical in equal measures. His generation wasn't demonstrative, but there was gentleness; in his own way he cared. Like father, like son, these traits infiltrate and are passed on. The stiff, upper lip; the British reserve.
My grandfather wasn't the cuddly type, but his heart was warm. He wasn't one for many words, his actions said it all. I think he liked being useful. Most of my memories centre around his willingness to collect me after school, water our plants and walk our dog. With both my parents in full-time work he was instrumental. A proper gent always dressed in a tweed jacket and matching trilby hat with a fondness for tobacco. A lean and upright man with leathery skin and yellow tinted fingers. I still remember the smell of his tweed and the haze of smoke that lingered permanently about him. His voice had a crackling quality, similar to a wireless, with his native Bermondsey accent creeping in, which he put to good use telling me occasionally to “Shut up!” Nothing was allowed to disturb the snooker or cricket. But he was also kind and playful – dressing in a plastic fireman's helmet while I splashed in our paddling pool.
We weren't aware of his illness until the final stages; another matter he kept to himself. I'm sure I must have visited him in hospital, but I don't recall being told he had passed. One day he was there and the next he wasn't. His funeral was the first I ever attended and if my recollection serves me right I was scared. A little girl in a velvet dress, not really sure what was happening and who all these people were. Why were they dressed in sober dark colours? Why were they coming back to our house? My dad's side of the family were more than ten years older than my mum's, which meant there was a generational gap, a marked difference in manner. After this notable event, I retained a fear of death; that my grandfather might appear in his house. He didn't but I continually spooked myself.
102 is a grand age which he couldn't hope to aspire to, but if he had been without terminal cancer would he have wanted to? To have lived through ten decades? I don't think it's a question you yourself consider. If the will is there, you carry on. Some people have a zest for life, a stubborn determination to live; others intent is not so strong, which makes me think we have to get rid of this 'old' attitude. Ageing changes your appearance, but it's not limiting, and those that have the good fortune to remain free of ailments have more energy than I myself profess to have. My only regret is that I didn't have more time with him; that I didn't get the chance to appreciate him better. What would have I done with the extra time? I would have tried questioning him, but I already know that this plan would have been futile. I've been left with the impression that to understand him I'd have had to admire him like an oil painting: attend to his body language in different circumstances, and in contrasting lights closely observe his features.
Age does not form or alter your character; whatever age you confess to own, you are continually learning, and other people's experiences are valuable. Youth does not hold the answer to everything but then neither does wisdom.