Carrying the Can

Ginger Rogers graffiti logo with Carrying the Can text

It seems that many of us like, or even crave, attention. Why else would we see grown people on TV offering themselves for mass scrutiny through the eating of assorted insects, or people working their socks off to receive publicly bestowed awards? This is to say nothing of little children who dance and run and play instruments, with the incentive of gaining praise and honour, and sometimes even a certificate or medal or tube of Smarties.

Anastasia (not her real name) was not immune from this human trait but, like other shy and shrinking violets, she needed to think carefully about how to achieve both fame and anonymity. It was an interesting problem.

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The Misadventures of Cuthbert – The Couch’s Layer

Cuthbert, now twenty-one, had grown out of his gawky youth and now was slightly bordering on the podgy side.  This was partly due to the amount of time he spent on the couch.

“Hi Cuthbert, you’re home early?”

“Hi mum, what’s for tea” he replied avoiding answering the question.

His mother looked at him shrewdly,  “Did Mr Evans give you the afternoon off then?”

He was rumbled and he knew it.  “Yes, this afternoon and every other afternoon,”

“Oh Cuthbert, you’ve been sacked again, what’s that, about the tenth job in a row?”

“Aw mum, let’s not talk about it now, Star Wars is on in a minute.” 

“You’re just like your father!”

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Widow’s Peak

“This is it!” announced Gav proudly from the clifftop, phone in hand as he live-streamed a video on Facebook. “Widow’s Peak, fabled secret Point-Break. Six foot and clean.”

We charged towards the sea, a rainbow rabble of surfboards, hooting all the way. The wave swelled, glinting in the morning sun and rising like the excitement in our bellies.

None of us were experienced surfers. We were just a bunch of kooks from London on a stag do, but we copied what the locals were doing.

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The Big Wave in Little England

Technician with police car in background

Mack ground his cigarette with the toe of his wingtip shoes, pulled down his fedora and rucked his collar up against the lashing rain.

“Of all the places I coulda ended up,” he grumbled, “I had to land in this two-bit joint.”

He looked at the body lying on the pavement, a pool of blood surrounding the exit wound. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the back of the victim’s head. From the inside.

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