That's a great picture of him! He looks really pleased with the cake, and patient while you're taking the picture. Which is sort of where the story below comes from I think -- less about five, and more about that picture (but five is in there at the end!) :) Happy fifth birthday, Miles!
Five Monk was the wrong word for him, really. He was spiritual, sure, and he was an aesthete although he seemed to give that word shades of meaning that the dictionary omitted. He lived apart, even though he had a small flat in the city centre, tucked away behind a pedestrian precinct and a small shopping centre, that had to either cost a fortune in rent or be worth a fortune to sell. He exercised and claimed to know a martial art that no-one had ever heard of; wikipedia claimed there were only 14 practitioners in the country and not that many more in the world. He ate well, but not in any way that drew attention: no declarations of veganity or bold broccoli statements; no carnivorous tendencies that stood out from the crowd; no strange herbs and powders imported from distant countries. He glowed, but he claimed that came from an accident as a child and had a certificate to say that it wasn't a medical concern. It was only a faint glow anyway, and you had to meet him early in the morning before all the office lighting was turned on to see it anyway. But there was something about him that set him very slightly apart and made you wonder if being a better person would make you more like him. And you sort of felt you wanted that. He smiled at the receptionist one Tuesday afternoon and assured her that could do his own job and mind reception for her for the last two hours of the day. She, dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep and not enough makeup from being overtired now, thanked him effusively and darted off to the hospital to see her husband before he could change his mind. He sat down, changed accounts on the reception laptop, and started to review the monthly sales figures with a beatific countenance. When the two men burst in, wearing brown knitted balaclavas and waving guns around like it was America, he pressed the security alert switch before they'd even focused on him, and was standing up as though he was about to go to the toilet before they realised what was happening. "Sit, Mister," said one of them, his voice sounding either female or prepubescent. "You're going nowhere." "We don't allow firearms in the office," he said courteously. "If you'd like to set them down here I'll provide you with a receipt each and you can collect them when you leave." "Whuh?" "You'll find the heating is adequate as well and won't need your headgear." "Sit down! Sit down and shut up! This is a robbery and you're going to get shot if you open your mouth again." The only witness to this was Judy, who was on her way to the photocopier and happened to glance into reception as she reached the door to the photocopy room. She says that one moment he was standing by the desk and the next he was standing between the two men with them both in a headlock. She swears, to this day, on the graves of her grandparents and the lives of her children, that he didn't move across the intervening space. She insists that he teleported. "Change of plan," he said, sounding as though he were addressing toddlers. "No robbery today, you leave your guns at reception, take your masks off, and leave the building like respectable citizens." One of the intruders grunted in what might have indicated resistance. "Or we shall see how long it takes you to learn how to fall properly," he continued, serenely. "The drop from the window is a little over five seconds. Are you quick learners?"
2 comments:
That's a great picture of him! He looks really pleased with the cake, and patient while you're taking the picture. Which is sort of where the story below comes from I think -- less about five, and more about that picture (but five is in there at the end!) :)
Happy fifth birthday, Miles!
Five
Monk was the wrong word for him, really. He was spiritual, sure, and he was an aesthete although he seemed to give that word shades of meaning that the dictionary omitted. He lived apart, even though he had a small flat in the city centre, tucked away behind a pedestrian precinct and a small shopping centre, that had to either cost a fortune in rent or be worth a fortune to sell. He exercised and claimed to know a martial art that no-one had ever heard of; wikipedia claimed there were only 14 practitioners in the country and not that many more in the world. He ate well, but not in any way that drew attention: no declarations of veganity or bold broccoli statements; no carnivorous tendencies that stood out from the crowd; no strange herbs and powders imported from distant countries. He glowed, but he claimed that came from an accident as a child and had a certificate to say that it wasn't a medical concern. It was only a faint glow anyway, and you had to meet him early in the morning before all the office lighting was turned on to see it anyway.
But there was something about him that set him very slightly apart and made you wonder if being a better person would make you more like him. And you sort of felt you wanted that.
He smiled at the receptionist one Tuesday afternoon and assured her that could do his own job and mind reception for her for the last two hours of the day. She, dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep and not enough makeup from being overtired now, thanked him effusively and darted off to the hospital to see her husband before he could change his mind. He sat down, changed accounts on the reception laptop, and started to review the monthly sales figures with a beatific countenance.
When the two men burst in, wearing brown knitted balaclavas and waving guns around like it was America, he pressed the security alert switch before they'd even focused on him, and was standing up as though he was about to go to the toilet before they realised what was happening.
"Sit, Mister," said one of them, his voice sounding either female or prepubescent. "You're going nowhere."
"We don't allow firearms in the office," he said courteously. "If you'd like to set them down here I'll provide you with a receipt each and you can collect them when you leave."
"Whuh?"
"You'll find the heating is adequate as well and won't need your headgear."
"Sit down! Sit down and shut up! This is a robbery and you're going to get shot if you open your mouth again."
The only witness to this was Judy, who was on her way to the photocopier and happened to glance into reception as she reached the door to the photocopy room. She says that one moment he was standing by the desk and the next he was standing between the two men with them both in a headlock. She swears, to this day, on the graves of her grandparents and the lives of her children, that he didn't move across the intervening space. She insists that he teleported.
"Change of plan," he said, sounding as though he were addressing toddlers. "No robbery today, you leave your guns at reception, take your masks off, and leave the building like respectable citizens."
One of the intruders grunted in what might have indicated resistance.
"Or we shall see how long it takes you to learn how to fall properly," he continued, serenely. "The drop from the window is a little over five seconds. Are you quick learners?"
Greg - hah, he was very good about letting us finish singing happy birthday before blowing out the candles.
You know, I think I like this guy. I would happily read more stories revolving around him :)
Post a Comment