Let Go

On the way home from work on Tuesday, I witnessed a tragedy.

It was a gloriously sunny day. A mother and her child were walking along the pavement. The mother was holding some shopping bags. She was also holding what was obviously a recently-purchased balloon.

It was one of those helium-filled foil balloons in the shape of something interesting. I think this balloon was in the shape of a crocodile. I imagine it was bought for the child. Children, on the whole, are more interested in balloons than adults are (though there is the occasional exception).

He was happy, that child. He had a balloon. His mother was happy, because her child was happy. The sun was shining, the crocodile was floating, I'd finished work, and everything was right with the world.

But then, suddenly but really slowly, the balloon somehow detached itself from its ribbon and began to float away. The mother had been rearranging her bags. This jostling must have set the balloon loose.

The crocodile was free and flying. Neither the mother nor the child had noticed.

But I had noticed.

What could I do? The moment the balloon had unshackled itself, it was all over. You can't put the genie back in the bottle (or "lamp"). You can't re-string a crocodile. 

I wanted to help. I really did. But I was too far away. Even if I'd have sprinted and dived (dove? diven? Dave?), there was no way of me catching it.

I could have shouted something. Maybe I should have. But it was all happening so fast. Even a quick "Hey!" would have been no good. She would have been confused. I could have simply shouted "Balloon!", but that might have been taken as praise rather than a warning.

The chance floated away.

Of course, as with the death of a family member, the true tragedy did not come at the moment of departure, but the moment of realisation.

The mother looked at the ribbon. She realised the crocodile was missing. She was confused. Had it stuck to her back? Had it accidentally got trapped in one of her bags?

The child realised too. Where had it gone?

They both looked back where they'd come from. That's what you do if you lose something. If you drop a cardigan or snowboarding magazine, you retrace your steps. It will be on the floor.

But balloons don't work that way. A lost balloon is lost forever. You can't retrace those steps unless you have a big ladder and climb like the dickens.

They looked back. They looked forward. How could this have happened? Just now they were in a helium-filled haze of happiness. Now the symbol of their joy had vanished into thin air.

I couldn't watch. It was too much to bear. I could have told them where the balloon had gone, but what good would that have done?

"Up there!" I heard the child exclaim. He must have looked up to see the celebratory reptile receding into the afternoon sky. And there was nothing they could do.

I don't know what the aftermath was. I hope the child was philosophical about the whole thing. The mother must have been quite put out. Those balloons are expensive. Would she have gone back to the party shop? Would she complain about a lax knot-job? Would the shop staff believe her, or would they think she was taking part in some inflatable extortion scam?

I hope it was all amicable. I hope the mother found solace. I hope the child wasn't upset. I hope the lack of balloon didn't have a lasting impact on their day. I hope that, when they turned up to whatever party they were going to, carrying only a ribbon, they were greeted with sympathy and cake.

More than anything, I wonder what that balloon is doing now.

Perhaps, in the sky above Jericho, a similar small child was sitting, bored on a plane, when out of the corner of her eye she spotted a crocodile fly past the window.

"Dad! I just saw a crocodile!" she might say.

"I believe you," he might reply. Then he'd take her hand in his, and she'd realise that their new life in England was going to be all right after all.

***

I now have two balloon anecdotes where not much happens. One more and I've got an Edinburgh show.

Let Down

And it's over.

I am no longer a juror. Luckily, my status as a conjurer is unaffected.

After one and a half days of intensive sitting, I'm all finished. I don't have to fight the urge to divulge any juicy details, as I have no details. I was on a jury briefly, but didn't even get to hear what the charges were.

Still, the bonds I formed with my fellow jurors will last a lifetime. That woman I spoke to twice will probably come round to ours for Christmas. The man to whom I made a garbled quip will be godfather to my first child.

I've served society, and all it cost me was a few hours of my time. And an £80 "premium justice" charge, which now that I think about it seems a bit extreme. Maybe I'll go back to question the Head Law Cashtaking Officer that I met in the car park, and ask him if there was some kind of mistake. Hopefully his dog is feeling better.

On the way home from court on Monday, however, I received a gift worth far more than any number of eighty poundses:

AN ANECDOTE.

These come along rarely, so you should feel very humble. Remember, this isn't like a normal person's anecdote. Nothing interesting happened in terms of interaction between physical objects or beings. Most of the content of this anecdote takes place inside my own head. A lot of people wouldn't even consider this to be an anecdote. They'd refer to it as an "insignificant memory".

But for me, it's gold dust.

Now lean back, open your mouth and blouse, and prepare to be covered in glittery fascination-powder.

***

After my day of waiting and trying not to make eye contact with people, you might think I'd want to go straight home. But no. I went to buy a bunch of flowers and a balloon.

I'm not just saying that because I want you to think I'm generous and thoughtful; it's integral to the story. Well, not the flowers. But there's no point in concealing everything, is there? I'm not advertising my generosity and thoughtfulness, but I don't want to deny the facts.

I was buying the flowers and the balloon for Lucy, to celebrate the completion of the story she's been writing for the past five years. It's a (146 chapter) piece of Harry Potter fan-fiction.

Now, I'm sure a few of you have rolled your eyes after reading that. Well, stop it. It's time to end the stigma of fan-fiction.

Shakespeare wrote fan-fiction.

There. Point proved.

Anyway, Lucy's story is epic and beautiful, full of original characters and ideas, and is a proper piece of writing. I don't even know what that means, but it's true. It must be worthwhile, as she studied English at OXFORD UNIVERSITY.

I've started describing this with various layers of double-bluff irony, so it's now an unwieldy lasagne. Let's just say, it's genuinely a very impressive achievement. If you like Potter, or are willing to accept a reality of potions and wands, you should read it.

She's attracted quite a following online. You can read some of the comments from her acolytes. I think she might be able to start a cult (as long as Rowling's lawyers don't intervene).

That was a tangent. This anecdote wasn't supposed to be about Lucy's genius, but about my generosity and thoughtfulness.

No wait, not that. I'm modest. The central thrust of my story is not about me being amazing. That is merely a supplementary thrust.

The central thrust (and forgive me if I've used the word "thrust" too many times) is about me buying a balloon.

Thrust.

I'd already bought the flowers (lilies - because one of the main characters in the fanfic is Harry's mum Lily [ME=THOUGHTFUL]), so for my balloon needs I went to the party shop near the Covered Market.

I had in mind a simple congratulations balloon: the kind you see wrapped round the neck of a student who's just completed their finals, covered in glitter and whipped cream, with a turd as an anchor. You know: the usual way of indicating academic success.

I don't know how widespread this tradition is, but when I was a student, you had to mark the end of exams by being doused in a variety of fluids. Balloons are the icing on the cake. It's all part of letting the wider world know that another awful graduate is about to enter society - so hang on to your savings. This boozed-up, garlanded twat will be running the world shortly.

(I decided to retain my integrity by remaining a powerless twat)

My, my. Another diversion. Sorry about that. Then again, I read a Katherine Mansfield short story during my waitathon, and the narrator digressed all the time. So it must be art.

Still, I should get back on track. This anecdote isn't about graduate disgust, or how generous and thoughtful I am, it's about buying a balloon.

The party shop near the Covered Market is small. It's small upstairs and small downstairs. The stairs are small. The walls are lined with plastic hilarity, and when it's busy, the shop is impossible to navigate. There's nothing worse than a full shop. Unless it's a full party shop.

Think about how awful the customers must be. They're people who find the idea of trick arrows and fake noses funny, but have too little imagination to create anything themselves. So they have to buy a cheap, expensive, factory-built replica of spontaneous humour.

And a moustache. Because moustaches are funny.

(I don't really hate those shops or those people. That paragraph just leaked out of me, like the rubbery air in a £7.99 whoopee cushion.)

Luckily the shop was empty when I went balloon shopping. Unfortunately, the shop was empty.

It was just me and a bored looking student behind the counter. "Need any help?" she asked, judging the length of my beard.

"No thanks," I said. A mistake.

I was already quite hot from the flower trip and the smart jacket and the thrill of gavel proximity, and felt a bit flustered. I looked around the shop at the many balloons floating about. I just wanted a nice "congratulations" balloon, but nothing fit the bill. There was a champagne glass, lots of birthday ones, one in the shape of a Mexican oar (untrue)... The one "congratulations" balloon on show was about four feet wide. I didn't fancy struggling with it.

I was overcome by indecision. This happens to me sometimes, even if I'm only trying to choose a breakfast cereal. I become paralysed.

I was there for minutes, vainly moving my eye from balloon to balloon, back and forth, taking nothing in. The shop woman was watching me. Probably. For all I knew.

I'd left it too long to ask for help. She'd given me the chance early on, but that was years ago. I was desperate. The lilies were wilting.

In the end, I chose the least bad option: a plain purple heart. It didn't have much relation to celebrating or finishing a story, but it does share a name with a military decoration. That's good, right? To be honoured by your country? Even if it's not your country?

"Can I have one of those purple heart balloons, please?" I asked the shop woman.

She begrudgingly obliged. She'd just got out a purple heart to inflate when I suddenly realised what I'd been missing. I hadn't been able to make eye contact (after my extensive training), so hadn't realised that there was a WALL of congratulations balloons behind her.

Congratulations balloons as far as the eye could see. Every possible shape, size, colour, font. Congratulations written in extinct languages, congratulations spelled out in pictures of me, balloons proclaiming "Congratulations on finishing your story, Lucy!".

It was like Ollivander's magical land of assorted congratulations balloons ("The customer doesn't choose the balloon, Mr Fung. The balloon chooses the customer.").

I noticed these, as the shop woman was about to inflate my meagre purple heart. At this point, my internal monologue piped up. We have a love/hate relationship, him and I, He's always keen to point out my errors, and I'm totally impotent to act upon them.

As she inserted the helium nozzle into the heart balloon, my inner monologue said:

"OK Paul. Just tell her that you've changed your mind. Tell her that you'd like one of those other balloons. Come on. Now's the time. She won't mind. it won't make any difference to her. ... OK, well she's inflating it now, but I'm sure it's still fine. Just say you want a different one. Come on. You're leaving it a bit late here. ... Now's the time. Say something. Say something! You could have the balloon of your dreams! Don't just stand there! Hey! Paul! Hey!"

All the while, I was just staring at the purple heart and doing what I always do in shops: sweating and smiling.

That's my combination. I sweat out of embarrassment and smile to let everyone know I'm a thoroughly decent human. Sweat and smile. People will like you. Be amiable. Be moist. Don't worry about getting what you want, just get out of the situation with as few raised eyebrows as possible.

"Hey! Paul! Say you've changed your mind! Hey!"

She handed me the purple balloon. I thanked her and left the shop.

I may have been hot with a disappointing balloon, but at least I could hold my head high. In fact, the balloon made it easier to do so.

The purple balloon was fine anyway. Unsatisfying things are often the most satisfying of them all.

It's currently floating in our living room, possibly getting its tail in the electrics and causing a massive fire.

To sum this anecdote up: I bought a balloon.

However generous and thoughtful (and humble) I may be, I'm just an ordinary human man. An ordinary man with an underwhelming balloon.

An underwhelming balloon and an anecdote.

An underwhelming anecdote and a hell of a lot of problems.

And now, dear reader, I bid you farewell from the bottom of my purple heart. I hope that in the future, other innocuous events will occur. I will be happy to share them with you.

[ME=GENEROUS]

"You're an idiot."