The Boy Who Wanted to Sing - a short story

There once was a boy who wanted to sing. When he was very small, and I mean VERY small, he heard the birds singing and, as he was too small to talk, he thought, "That's lovely - I want to do that" and he gurgled happily.

Time passed and he grew a bit bigger and, when he was by himself in the garden, he used to join in with the birds and that made him very happy. One day, while he was happily singing to himself and playing in the garden, his big sister passed by and said, "Stop that. That sounds silly."

"But I like to sing," said the boy, "it's what I love to do most."

"Well don't," said his nasty sister. "You're not a singer. Only singers sing and people will only laugh at you."

"But I want to be a singer - that's all I want to be." He said.

"Well you're not and you never will be. I'm bigger than you and so I know better." said the boy's sister, horribly.

The boy was sad.

He went to school and learnt to read and write and learnt to add and subtract and even how to divide and multiply and was very good at them all - actually, his writing was always a bit messy. He had a secret though and that was that he still wanted to be a singer and when he was by himself he would sing and was happy then. Walking home from school, across the golf course, he would sing beautifully - but only when there was no one else there.

At night, when all the family were watching 'Coronation Street', he would sit in the kitchen and listen to songs the radio (it used to be called the wireless - even though it had a wire and a plug but this is not the story so forget about that). Sometimes, if he knew the song on the wireless and if the telly was turned up loud enough so he wouldn't be heard, he'd join in and sing along.

One day, his mother asked him what he wanted to be when grew up and he told her his 'secret'.

His mother was kind and told him that he should really think about doing something else - maybe plumbing - because you'd have to be really, really good at singing to do it for a job. She did ask him to sing though but he got embarrassed and put his head down and said, "Not yet."

One day, at school, the teacher told the class that they were going to start a choir and went round the class, listening to the children singing a scale, one at a time - ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah. "This is my chance to get it right." The boy thought and he wanted to so much, he wanted to too much and, when it was his turn, he tried hard, he tried too hard and, while he didn't actually turn into one, he sounded awfully like a frog.

"No. No good." Said the teacher and the boy was sad and all the way home from school he sang, "ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah." - beautifully - by himself.

He grew up with his secret, listening to songs on the radio. He was very exited when he heard a band that was from near where he lived. He heard them more and more. He read about them in the papers and saw them on the television too and he watched them become world famous. Encouraged, he saved and bought an old guitar and tried to learn how to play it. One day, he was going to be a singer - he knew it.

He grew up, finished school and got a job taking photographs and he was good at it too. He met a beautiful girl, his Princess. They got married and had three children. They were a very happy family and when the, now grown up boy was on his own - in the shower or driving in his car - he would still sing but because being a Daddy is quite a lot of work, he didn't think too much about being a singer any more.

When his children were growing up, he tried to teach them that they could be whatever they wanted to be. He told them that if they believed in themselves, they could do anything they wanted to. The oldest wanted to be an astronaut - his friends said that was silly but he knew his dad said he could be if he believed it. He's an astronaut now by the way. His brother is an artist and the baby, his sister is a famous ballerina - but that's jumping way past the end of the story.

Sometimes, even while they were a happy family, the Daddy would feel a bit sad because he knew that there was something missing. One day, the Mammy asked him what was wrong and he told her that, while he loved taking photographs - it wasn't what he wanted to do - all his life.

"What do you want to do?" she asked him.

He told her his secret. "I want to sing - maybe even make up my own songs and sing them"

"Oh, don't be silly." She said, "You can't sing, you're not very good at the guitar and you don't even write postcards! Why don't you just be happy being a photographer?"

The Daddy got sadder.

More time passed and the children grew up. The Daddy still used to sing - in the bath and in his car and the Mammy remembered her dream was to be an actress and became one and one day the Mammy and the Daddy knew that they couldn't live happily ever after together anymore and so the, much older, boy went to live somewhere else.

He was lonely but his guitar was a good friend and he spent a lot of time playing it and singing by himself.

One day, he was singing so loud that he didn't hear a knock on the door. The man knocking was from Africa and was knocking at the wrong door but he knocked again - a bit louder. When he knocked the third time, the boy (we'll still call him that) heard and answered.

Dembe Sowe was as black as coal and as tall as a tree. His hands were as big as feet and his feet were like skis. He stood at the door in his rainbow coloured coat with a drum on his shoulder and asked, "Dat you makin' dat sound? Is good man."

He was looking for some people who used to live on the street and who'd said, "Come and stay with us if you ever come to Ireland." He came in and had a cup of strong coffee and talked with the boy for hours.

The boy told his story and how he couldn't sing when anybody was listening and Dembe thought a while and then said, "You know, in Africa, everybody sings. We don't think, 'am I a good singer? am I a bad singer?' We just sing - all the time"

He explained that in most African languages, you couldn't say, "I am a singer, or I am a builder or a photographer."

"This is because 'I am' means 'I am' and nothing else. We say, 'I make pictures' or 'I build' or 'I sing' and everybody does their best and enjoys it. You want to sing, so sing - I like to hear you sing and other people will too. Bring your guitar onto the street and some people will listen and enjoy and some won't but follow your heart man - follow your dreams and be YOU - that is what is important. When you do that, then you are on the right road for you and you can only do good."

Dembe stayed for a few days and drank an awful lot of coffee - strong and black. He said that he needed it to stay as black as he was.

The boy heard what he said and, a few weeks later, nervously brought his guitar to the city and sang - sang his best and loved it. Nobody told him he was silly and some people even gave him money.

A few weeks later, he wrote a song - about following your heart and then another and another, and in less than a year, he'd made a record and made lots of friend who love music, and even travelled to Africa to thank Dembe Sowe for his advice.

These days, he's a little bit famous and will pass on Dembe's advice to anyone who'll listen. He's pretty happy, most of the time and writing songs and stories. He even wrote this story and maybe he'll live happily ever after, after all.

Autumn Games

Having a dog who needs a daily walk, I've enjoyed this long late autumn and seen on or two leaves leave the mothership.

My dog is a retriever/collie cross and, while she brings things back, she would much prefer to collect them than give them up. Throw a ball and, unless you have another one - maybe even a squeaky one, you won't get the first one back.

'Pinball up a tree' is a game we've jointly come up with. I throw the first ball as high as I can up into a tree - preferably not a Deodar Cedar as they seem to steal balls - Clara will watch and listen while the ball bounces about in the tree and usually catch it in the air, dropping the other one at the last possible second and we start again. All incredibly boring t oread about even if you like dogs.

Last week I thought I'd disturbed a wasps nest as, when the ball was making it's way down, it seemed to be surrounded by about 100 flying things. As these came nearer and I prepared to make a hasty exit, I realized that they were what I called 'helicopters' when I was a kid - and when my kids were small. Maple or sycamore seeds that had been waiting for a ball to hit their branch until now.

Axe Murderers

I recently joined Couch-Surfers. I’d heard about it a couple of years back and thought ‘What a great idea’ but not having a couch to call my own, soon forgot about it. A couple of months ago, my brother suggested it would be an interesting way to spend my one night in San Francisco in January. So I joined.

I’m currently living in a house best described as a ‘work in progress (or process depending on how many forward and backward steps are being taken at any given time). I do have a comfortable couch that morphs into a double bed at the touch of a button – a few kicks help too. Since joining, apart from the usual friends and friends of friends who are just passing through, I’ve had 3 couch-surfing (CS) requests and two actual CS-ers.

Several people I’ve mentioned CS to expressed reservations. While they find it an interesting concept, they wonder if perhaps this is an ideal way for Axe Murderers to find their next victim. This is such a common response, it leads me to wonder is why it’s always ‘Axe Murderers’. Why not the Reverent Green with a lead pipe? Or even that wicked Miss Scarlet with a rope or a nylon stocking. The list of ways to bump off your host – or even vise-versa – is endless so why are Axe Murders getting such bad press?

Alive and well after two CS encounters so far – granted, Maria, (pictured above with my dog) is still here and may yet produce the axe – I’m finding that people I’m meeting through the site are people who think outside the box and travel without needing to know the destination. There is only one final destination for us all and if we live lives focusing too much on that fact, maybe we’re living half-lives.

If you are thinking of CS-ing, check out the site. View some profiles. CS members give information about themselves, their situation – comfortable couch, big friendly dog, smoke cigarettes constantly, couch not available Jan-Mar as will be traveling etc. etc. Other CS-ers can post references on their profile positive and otherwise and, as far as I’m aware, if you are an Axe Murderer, you have to post it on your page

Swine Flu Fever...

Got the sniffles? Swine flu. Got a tickle in your throat? Yup. you got swine flu too. Whether you feel a little bit tired, you've got a headache, or you're just a little bit bored, swine flu is the only possible diagnosis today.

Recession is the mother of opportunity folks. Fortunes can be made by introducing a new name for the same old ailments. New vaccines, new preventative measures and lord knows what else. Swine flu certainly seems to have captured the imagination of the masses. Shit. People can now scare themselves into coming down with it, aided and abetted by the whole machine that is the miracle of modern medicine.

If it had been called 'Slightly Worse than Last Year's Flu flu' and originated in, say, Scunthorpe instead of Mexico, would it have been quite as sexy. I don't think so.

Yesterday, stopping at a filling station to pick up a pack of cigarettes - like vitamin C, a great swine flu deterrent - did you ever meet a pig who smoked? - I was horrified to see the most blatant opportunist practice I've come across in a long time.

Being in a recession, the cost of washing a car has tumbled and, here, it was five euro. All very reasonable but surely 7 euro to wash your hands is taking the piss.