Thursday, December 29, 2011
The show is about to announce a winner. I think my champion will win against the other person, neither of whom I know or care anything about.
There is a man in a short blue raincoat standing in the darkness outside my front door. He carries a clipboard and what appears to be an ID tag flapping across his breast on a string.
He hails me and asks: if I use oil or gas to heat my home? I ask why ? and he smiles and says not to worry, he is not selling anything.
He repeats the question with the breeziness of the totally programmed.
I ask his name; he says it does not matter, it is of no account.
I say, I have to close the door if he will not tell me who he is or what he wants.
But, he walks away into the night leaving me with an opened door and a confused mind.
The show is over when I sit down again and I don't know who won.
And I don't know what oil or gas wanted, either.
I ask around, but nobody else saw him.
I wonder if I dreamt him, this man with no name and nothing to sell who called to my home from the darkness when I least expected him.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
He is delaying the check-out queue at a discount supermarket.
His trolley has a number of groceries in it, sufficient unto the needs of an older man, which he is, and thin with it, a thinness that an east wind could pass by without too much interference.
He says he was told, two days ago, that a new stock of pyjamas would be in today. He is here now with an earlier purchase to be attended to by someone, anyone.
That others are delayed by him is of no consequence to the pursuit of perfect pyjamas.
The check-out girl is from a country where English is not the first language. Even if it was; she still could not understand his next comment.
"I need different pyjamas today," he tells everyone.
Some people nod in understanding. Pyjamas can be important to a contented life.
The girl says she does not know when new pyjamas will arrive and he may have his money back if he likes?
He accepts the offer for he says he needs a larger pair of pyjamas for two women.
One pair for two women?
He leaves then with refunded money in his pocket in quest of right-sized pyjamas; leaving the check-out girl bewildered, and the rest of us reviewing our own lifestyles.
Something is missing.
And he never even says Happy Christmas as he wanders out into the air.