OK. This might seem like randomly leaping into the deep end. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I was inspired by a little drawing I came across earlier and attached to a sample of my dreadful poetry.

So. Not completely random.

The original idea, by the way, can be found Here

Upon being asked to Euthanise Another

People live far too long. Some of them, anyway. So it is inevitable that this request will be put to you at some time or another and it is best to be prepared.

Believe it or not, the first expectation others have when putting the idea into your head is that you will attempt to talk them out of it. So, in the short term at least, try to keep your enthusiasm in check.

Likewise, with laws in most states still marooned in a superstitious and religious quagmire it is best not to openly advertise your services in this regard. Suggesting it to a loved one before they ask is also considered not de rigueur. It is always best to ensure that the other party really does want to give it a try before going ahead with the job. This can be achieved with a few probing questions.

“So, let me get this straight. You want me to kill you, right?”

“Yes please.”

“Righto, then.”

Time is of the essence. The safest option is to do it there and then. With any delay you can be assured that word will get around to other friends and relatives. And the last thing you want on the big day is a crowd. Because somewhere amongst the spectators might be someone not entirely in agreement with the plan. And that could spoil everything.

There are a million different methods by which you might usher a loved one into the hereafter. A quick internet search will reveal a surprising array of simple and inexpensive recipes to humanely bring things to a close. My only advice on the matter is not to be overly theatrical about the whole thing. If the coroner stumbles across a scene reminiscent of a medieval torture chamber there are bound to be questions. The sort of questions that might render your outpouring of grief at the subsequent funeral a trifle unconvincing.

Euthanasia is an act of love. You should always ensure that your selfless gesture is to be reciprocated. Insist on proof. Once you and Aunt Betty have settled on a date and an agreed termination technique it is time to ensure that all the required paperwork is up to date.

“You have a final will and testiment typed up, I assume, dearest relative?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

Upon asking another to Euthanise you.

It is not the done thing to change your mind at the last minute. Screaming out to hospital staff as another is nervously poised over your bed with pillow in hand might be tremendously funny at the time but may not seem so to the one who has taken on this solemn task with the very best of intentions.

And, regardless of your sudden apparent change of circumstances and renewed lust for life, they are bound to go ahead with it anyway. At the first possible opportunity.

I wrote this for my pal Cyranny. I bother her a bit with silly rhymes inspired by her own ACTUAL POETRY, which can be found Here. I thought that I might post it just as a means of keeping record of it because it represents a change in style that I might pursue at some time in the future. It is not quite as silly as most of my work, I think.

Or maybe it is.

****************

In a grey world

The colour

Fading with every day

Of her absence

And wondering

In every way

How I might love her

And beg her

To stay

In this vacuum

With our breath

Taken away

By beauty

And the things

We can’t say

It may make more sense with reference to the inspiration

This is the ACTUAL POETRY

 

Having just launched this idea I realised that I already had something lying on the cutting room floor to get the ball rolling. It actually comes from a response to somebody (for the life of me I can’t remember who – sorry) expressing their objection to the essentially meaningless question above. So I am just repeating myself.

 

Upon asking the question, “how are you today?”

Don’t do it.

This simple and well-intentioned neighbourly query is an open invitation to misery.

For there’s always a risk that the asking of this silly question might entice an answer. An honest one.

Like, “Well …. I’m glad you asked. As a matter of fact I was diagnosed with terminal cancer this afternoon and I have six months to live.”

The only way to deal with this awkward and inconsiderate reply is, of course, to respond with, “Goodness me. That’s rotten luck. I suppose, then, that I shouldn’t take up any more of your time,” and move quickly to the other side of the street. Any delay could be critical. The slightest hint of interest shown in this person’s unfortunate medical condition will quickly escalate the situation into one within which you remain a captive audience to intimate details of blood tests, ultrasounds and unpredictable bowel movements. It is amazing how much precious time a condemned person is willing to waste boring someone else to death.

Worse still is the possibility that this irritating hurdle of self-pity may be looking for emotional support. As you step to the right to make your hasty escape your nemesis may step to the left to block your egress and say something to the effect of , “Please, I just need to talk. I’m so terribly lonely. My husband ran off with his secretary on Tuesday and I have no-one. I need a shoulder to cry on.”

This is when things can get really tricky. Obvious (and time-limited) carnal possibilities have been implied but I would warn you that, however tempting, reacting instinctively to them may lead to disaster. Your well meant gesture of comfort may, after the fact, be misinterpreted as having ‘taken advantage’.

Dying people cannot be relied upon to keep secrets.

No matter how attractive this person may have been and however mutually beneficial the brief encounter may have seemed you are bound to feel pangs of remorse as you casually scan the death notices whilst sipping on your morning coffee 6 months later. You may even feel an obligation to attend the funeral. If this is the case be warned that the very first person you will meet at this sombre event may be her husband. This unfaithful rogue will, by now, be displaying a good deal of remorse himself (simply for the sake of appearances) and may leap on the opportunity of leaving a final favourable impression with the deceased by breaking your nose in front of the gathering of mourners. You can expect, furthermore, that other emotional family members might succumb to the temptation of displaying their own grief by kicking the shit out of you as you lie there bleeding on the floor.

One innocent but ill-advised question has left you not only with a hefty hospital and dry-cleaning bill, but also as the universally despised focal point of an entire community.

“How are you, today?”
Don’t ask.

Upon answering the question, “How are you today?”

When bumping into a vague acquaintance strolling down the street it is only polite, in the first instance, to give the standard reply, “Very well, thank you,” and continue walking.

If, however, this idiot keeps consuming valuable oxygen on a regular basis with the same inane line of enquiry it is best to nip it in the bud without delay.

“Well,” you can say, “I seem to have developed a nasty fungal infection right here,” and point ostentatiously at your groin. This will normally do the trick but if the annoyance has not quickly moved on it is time to start enthusiastically disrobing as though to provide further detail. An inconvenience, to be sure, especially in the Main Street on a busy Thursday morning, but you can be confident that any further questions will be more carefully considered.

 

 

 

I started this blog, not so long ago, as a receptacle for my ever growing collection of creative writing failures. But, even at the rate that I can turn out rubbish, it has been difficult to maintain direction and momentum. I felt that it was time to refocus it a bit. And to give it a greater purpose.

It occurred to me that I was not, in fact, defined by creative failures. To view me through this narrow lens would be to see only the tip of the iceberg. For I have, over an astonishingly tedious lifetime, failed at so many other things. It is time to recognise the painful value of failure. It is time to give something back.

On the long highway that is life one is regularly confronted by pot holes. Some are only minor cavities that hold a few raindrops of discomfort and merely splash a little mud on the tyres whilst others are great chasms providing refuge for bottomless reservoirs of misery that result in broken windscreens and permanent stains on the paintwork. It is not always easy, on a dark night, to tell the difference.

But rest assured that I have seen them all. Some of these potential hazards are surrounded by high fences and flashing lights. Armed guards standing in front of huge warning signs printed clearly in a dozen different languages deter anyone but an utter moron from standing even close to them.

Yet I have managed to fall into every single one.

The positive side of this is that, via the resultant wealth of accumulated knowledge, I can now provide guidance for those of you younger than me (i.e. all of you) in what to look for along the road in terms of the traps and perhaps even provide the occasional hint at possible methods of escape.

Areas of interest might extend from the minor irritations (persistent attacks of the hiccups/a dislike of carrots) to unmitigated disasters (infectious terminal illnesses/marriage)

What I had in mind was a sort of ‘Dear Brutus’ column to which people might address their queries or provide some answers of their own to life’s mysteries. It is intended as a prompt mechanism within which anyone can provide the prompt and anyone can respond to it.

Some examples of what I mean might be:-

Dear Brutus,
Last summer holidays Nathan, our precocious 9 year-old, constructed a fully operational intercontinental ballistic missile in the garden shed. It seemed like just a bit of harmless fun at the time but more recently he has begun playing old recordings of Wagner over loud speakers late into the night and the neighbors are beginning to complain. He has taken to referring  to my husband and I collectively as ‘the proletariat’. Should we be concerned?

Or

Dear Brutus,
My husband’s erotic obsession with Elizabeth, the Queen of England, is beginning to impact on our marriage. What are the basic ‘do’s’ and ‘don’t’s’ of murdering him in his sleep?

That sort of thing.

Let me know.