Herbert and the Wallpaper... Once there was a house. An impossibly old house. From the outside one wouldn't realise immediately exactly how old it was. It sat like a squat square cake at the end of the street. Two ordinary floors, with a grey slate roof covered in moss. Its walls peeling ancient whitewash like icing that had long since dried up and become in-edible. Four ordinary sash windows, wood frames rotting to mush like melting chocolate. Each cracked pane of glass blocked by dirty brown net curtains obscuring any possible view inside. The house that Herbert had been born in. He rarely opened its black front door. Usually he only ventured out on a Tuesday morning to make his weekly trip to the corner shop. Bread and milk and a small bit of cheese was all he needed, apart from his pipe tobacco. He liked to keep thin; needed to keep thin. His knees creaked like the ancient flaking door whenever he opened it and he was always careful to scour the vicinity to ensure that no one could see into his hallway. His neighbours were so used to his hermit-like existence that it was as if he and his house didn't actually exist. The house was simply a part of the landscape that they walked past on the way to the next busy thing in their busy lives. They ignored his small rocky front garden; all unkempt weeds and dandelions. They didn't notice when he twitched the upstairs curtain to watch them, hoping that no one would come near. It was July when he decided, the air was warm and Herbert knew it was time. Time for his excursion to the high street. The same trip he made every year. Sometimes he made the trip two or three times a year if he felt brave enough. The same trip he had made over and over for the last fifty years. Fifty years, that was how long Chislehurst's Ironmongers had been trading on the high street. Before this he had had to take bus to Shrumpton. For years he took that dreaded bus. He hated it because it meant he had to converse with more people than he felt comfortable with. He hated buying the ticket from the conductor, especially if it were a girl. Before the bus he could remember hitching a lift on a hay cart and he had hated that too. He had been so much younger then. Chislehurst's was much more satisfactory, and he had been delighted when it had opened. He could walk there and Mr Chislehurst himself always served him with no fuss or bothersome questions, and, over the years, Chislehurst had come to know the kind of wallpaper that Herbert liked best. Usually a nice patterned flock; always some kind of classic pattern with repeating flowers, maybe lilies or a nice fleur de lis. Chislehurst always knew the right kind of thing. And Chislehurst knew that none of that fancy new ready-mix paste was ever going to be good enough. So Herbert almost felt good as he turned the corner to the high street, although he didn't allow himself to smile. That could wait until the decorating was done. Annoyingly his trolley wheels were squeaking loudly, he should have oiled them, years of rust attracting attention from everyone he passed. The trolley was big, it needed to be, but he had nowhere else to keep it except the back garden where inevitably the rain ate away at its joints like arthritis. So he grimaced at every face that stared at his squeaking progress. Grimaced to ward them off. The noise and annoyance of it was so distracting that he didn't notice the new blue sign above the door as he chained his trolley awkwardly outside the shop. Once inside though he couldn't help but notice that something was wrong. Very wrong. The counters and shelves were all in the wrong place. Where was the tool section? Where were the bins where you could buy individual nails or screws? Where was the grass seed and rubber gloves? Where were the light bulbs? And most importantly where was the wallpaper? He stood confused for a moment, scratching his head and wondering if he had entered the wrong shop by mistake. "Can I help you?" said a young boy in a bright blue shirt. He had a rectangular badge with his name. 'Brian, happy to help,' it said. Herbert stared at the badge. “Where is Chislehurst?” he asked, "Sorry?” said Brian, "Chislehurst? Where is he?" Another man approached. "What seems to be the problem?” he asked and smiled a fake smile. Herbert looked at his badge; 'Eric, happy to help,’ it said. "If you are actually ’happy to help'” said Herbert, "then you will find Mr Chislehurst at once,” "Ah,” said Eric, "I am sorry sir, but I'm afraid that Mr Chislehurst passed away eight months ago..." “Oh...” said Herbert, "We have revamped the store since ’DIY-4-ALL’ took over,” continued Eric, “many of Mr Chislehurst’s old customers seem to like it. What is it you are looking for?” “Wallpaper," said Herbert, “Oh yes, I can show you our catalogue,” “Catalogue?” said Herbert, “Yes, we don't keep wallpaper in stock in our high street stores, but from the catalogue you can order anything you like from our online store and we can deliver it right to your door, free of charge...” “Deliver?” said Herbert. He was confused and feeling hot. “...or you could always visit our out of town superstore, where they have a wide selection of papers,” said Eric, “Oh...” said Herbert, Eric showed him the catalogue. He flicked through the pages not knowing what to do. Delivery would mean someone coming to the house, but he simply couldn't bear the idea of trying to find some ridiculous out of town shop. That would mean a taxi ride. It was all so unacceptable. Too much change, and he hated change. He turned the pages quickly. Most of the designs were hideous to his eye. Geometric patterns and terrible colours. Cheap tat, simply hideous. In end he felt he had no choice, he would just choose a simple red flock with stripes. Pretty much the only suitable thing in the whole damn catalogue; he had already spent to much time out of the house. Chislehurst's demise had well and truly flustered him. Herbert paid and Eric arranged the delivery for the next Wednesday. Which meant a whole week of fretting about it for Herbert. Wednesday came and Herbert spent the morning nervously waiting, shoulders stooped, just inside his front door. It was two in the afternoon before the dreaded knock finally came. He hesitated and then looked through the letter box. Standing there was another man in the same stupid bright blue shirt. He couldn't see if he had a badge. “Just leave it there!” he said through the slit, “Err...sorry mate but you gotta sign for it,” said the man, Slowly he opened the door and stuck his face in the small gap. The man showed him a clipboard and pointed to where he needed to sign. He would have to go outside. Quickly he opened the door a bit further and squeezed his thin frame through the gap, before shutting it sharply behind him. Herbert signed with the blue pen the man gave him. The same annoying bright blue of his shirt and his badge. ’Dave, happy to help’ it said. “Where’s my wallpaper?” said Herbert, “It's on the van, we’ll bring it in for you,” said Dave, “Oh no,” said Herbert, “you can't possibly come in,” “You're having a laugh aren't you?” said Dave, “you ordered seventy rolls! We can't leave it here on the path, it'll get ruined, it's gonna rain in a bit! Old fella like you, least we can do is give you a hand lugging it in. Terry! Get unloading!” Herbert was dumbfounded, flustered even, he hadn't thought of this eventuality. Not knowing what to say he just stood there and before he knew it Dave and Terry were bringing the plastic wrapped rolls of wallpaper down the path. His heart was pounding, it felt tight in his chest and he began to struggle for breath. Dave squeezed past him quickly and pushed open the door. Except that Dave couldn't open the door very far, so he pushed harder and, even though he wasn't an especially big man, it was a very tight squeeze for him to get in, what with armfuls of wallpaper. Once inside Dave was stuck. He tried to go further into the hallway but found that he was wedged in even tighter. His unshaven face pressing against the dark green fleck of the wallpaper. He realised with a start that the whole hallway was less the six inches wide. “Hey Dave! I think this bloke’s having a heart attack” called Terry from outside... ***** The policeman was stood in Herbert's kitchen. Well as far in it as he could get from the back door. His body squashed against the lilac pattern, cheeks rubbing against the flock. It was hard to breath the gap was so tight. The other policeman was stood outside. “This is bloody weird,” said the first one, unable to turn his head, “You're telling me!” said the second, “It's like no one’s ever taken any wallpaper off the walls. There must be hundreds of layers of the stuff filling every room,” “The neighbours say they hardly ever saw him, bloke at the DIY shop said that he was asking for old Chislehurst, remember him, the old Ironmongers,” “God he must have been wallpapering for years,” “And then some!” said the second policeman. The first policemen got down on his knees by the kitchen counter and crawled out under the overhang of layers of wallpaper and back out to the garden. “How on earth are we going to find out who his next of kin are?” he said, “We’ll have to get someone to rip all that paper down to get in there, or get someone very thin to go in! Heart attack didn't you say?” “Oh he ain't dead,” said the second policeman, “just in hospital,” “Oh...” said the first... ***** The young doctor sat down by the bed and held Herbert's wrinkled brown hand. “The police were just here,” she said. Herbert just looked the at ceiling. He was frightened of women, especially young and impossibly pretty ones. “They told me about your house,” she said wrinkling her nose, Herbert could see her out of the corner of his eye. He wondered what it meant when someone wrinkled their nose. “Anyway,” she continued, “your tests are back, and surprisingly you are incredibly healthy. Well for a man of your age. Exactly how old are you Herbert? I hope you don't mind me asking, it’s just it doesn't say in your notes,” “I am one hundred and ninety-seven next birthday,” said Herbert, still not daring to look her straight in the eye. She laughed and squeezed his hand. “Well I never!” she said, “I have never seen a fitter man of one hundred and ninety seven years of age!” She laughed again. Herbert didn't like her laugh, it felt like she was laughing at him. He couldn't tell. “Anyway, I think we will get you as right as rain soon enough. If I didn't know better I would say that you simply just had a bit of a shock. But by the look of you, you could do with feeding up a bit, you are awfully thin,” Herbert looked at her, his eyes wide. “No!” he said, “I like to be thin,” “Well, we’ll see about that,” she said as she stood to leave. She hesitated. “One thing,” she said, “I’m curious, and I just have to ask, is it true what they said about your house?” “I’ve always liked wallpaper,” he said, looking at the ceiling...

The Goldfish and the Button; a story of the unexpected... Once upon a time there was a fish out of water. Well, to be perfectly honest it wasn't exactly a fish; more of a human being. But this particular human being had the same suffocating feeling that a goldfish might feel if it should happen to fall out of it’s proverbial bowl. That is if goldfish really have feelings, one can never tell, not without some kind of brain transference mechanism where you could actually experience what it is like to be a goldfish. But, as ever, I digress. Anyway, even the least imaginative of us can probably imagine what that might feel like for a goldfish. That is exactly what our human being felt. His name was...well I suppose his name is unimportant, as what is really important to us in this story is the feeling he had and what caused that feeling. That kind of panic feeling induced by knowing that unexpectedly are somewhere you shouldn't be; the goldfish flapping helplessly on the floor. The floor; a vast unknown and unfamiliar space. Our human being, like all living things, was a creature of habit. He knew, or at least he thought he did, which side his bread was buttered, and usually he knew that if he dropped said slice of bread, jam and all, that it would land butter side down. It was the way of the world and even the misfortune of having to wipe sticky jam from the parquet flooring was something to be expected, part of the natural order of things, like gravity itself or the tide of time. Such is the force of habit that it makes the world seem ordered, as if we can actually expect there to be a plan. Now, as the enlightened among you might realise, there is a flaw in such thinking. And the flaw is this; if there is a plan to our minuscule lives it must surely involve change, for the one thing that lots of us human beings forget to expect is, of course, the unexpected. It was an ordinary tuesday evening when the unexpected event happened that made our human being feel like a fish out of water. The TV was on, as it always was, although our man was barely paying attention to it as he was carefully sewing a plastic pearly button back onto the cuff of his favourite white shirt. It was the shirt he intended to wear the next day when he met his boss; a meeting, he hoped, that would lead to a much deserved pay rise. He had certainly earned it. Well, at least that's what our man thought. He had worked at the company since college and now it was ten years later and he had been on the same dismal pay grade for the last four years. Our human being rehearsed the conversation to himself as he sowed. The conversation he would have with the grumpy boss man in the big office. He would be brave and tell the boss man that he had always met his targets, always been on time, never had a day sick and never ever rocked the boat. He held the pearly button between his fat fingers and looked at it in the light of the lamp. It seemed luminescent and happy. He smiled to himself at the thought that an inanimate object like a button could be happy. "I am happy," said the button, That was the moment our human being first experienced the feeling of being a fish out of water; the panic of the goldfish on the floor. The shock of the feeling made him jump up and drop the shirt, he pricked his thumb on the needle and the button fell and rolled under the coffee table. Now most of us might think that he probably thought he was imagining things, which, in this situation, would seem entirely natural. Buttons can't talk after all. But strangely, perhaps due to the goldfish feeling that he had, this event was so unexpected, so unnatural, that it never occurred to him that perhaps it was just in his mind, perhaps he had imagined the button to be speaking. He truly believed that the button had said that it was happy. Strangely he felt curious, as well as apprehensive. He knelt on the floor, sucking the iron tasting blood from his thumb. Placing his face sideways on the parquet he looked at the button under the table. Could it actually be that it was smiling? The two holes designed for thread were like eyes and the small curved recess in its circular shape seemed like a smiling mouth in the shadows. “Did you say you were happy?” said our human being, not really truly expecting a reply, "Yes, I have never been happier,” said the button, "Oh my goodness,” said the man, “you can actually talk!” “You know that he is going to fire you tomorrow don't you?” said the button, “What?” said the man, He gently picked up the button and held it up to the light studying it’s face, "I said you are going to get sacked tomorrow, you know...due to ’cutbacks’” "Oh,” said the man, “I didn't expect that...are you sure?” “The fact that you didn't expect it is the best part,” said the button, “What do you mean?” “Well...I didn't expect to fall from the cuff of your shirt the other day, but when I did it was amazing,” “I don't understand?” said our flapping goldfish, “It's simple,” said the button, “I am happy because for the first time I had to embrace change, embrace the unexpected. No longer was I tied to your shirtsleeves, suddenly #life was an adventure. I was actually free. And to be free is to be happy,” “Isn't it scary? Not knowing your place? Isn't a button supposed to be on a shirt?” “A button can be on a shirt, or a coat or even a cardigan!” said the button, “Oh...” said the man, He placed the button on the mantlepiece, turned off the TV and sat to think about it. He sat there, a fish out of water, for most of the night. The next day he went to work as usual. Except it wasn't quite as usual. He wore his favourite crisp white shirt but because there was no button on the cuff he wore his cuffs undone and he didn't even bother to put on a tie. The girls in reception stared. It was unexpected and instead of sitting at his desk he went to straight to the boss man’s office and opened the door without even knocking. “Yes, it's true...” he announced, “I am a goldfish,” “What?” said the boss man from behind his big and important desk, “I am a goldfish and this bowl is far too small for me,” said our man, “Are you actually bonkers?” said the boss man, “No,” said the man, “I am finally happy and I quit!” Outside on the street, the man smiled to himself. He was going to enjoy being a fish out of water. And so it was that the goldfish and the button travelled the wide world and had many delightful adventures together, always embracing the unexpected around every corner. In fact they lived happily ever after because, as the moral of this story says, if indeed there is one, the happiest of people are those who embrace the unexpected. For change, as they say, is the only thing that stays the same. Of course, the fish out of water may, in fact, drown as it flaps in the air. Or it may perhaps be rewarded with a fancy new fish tank or pond to swim free in. Such is #life, there are always risks to the unexpected, as the goldfish and the button found out when they encountered the shark. But that, as they say, is another story...