Let’s Not Be Risk Averse

He stared at the pallid corporate faces and clicked to slide four. He had done this presentation to middle managers within this organisation for over five years. He recognised their types without even having to think.

‘The Head Nodders’, showing their agreement and attempting to engratiate themselves with the presenter. ‘The Serious Faces’, pulled to show how hard they were concentrating and taking it in. The ‘I know all this, did it at business school,’ sitting back in their chairs glancing round smiling to intimidate the others.

This presentation was all about taking risks, thinking differently, encouraging new ideas and new approaches – ‘Let’s Not Be Risk Averse’. A sentiment echoed in all major corporates. ‘We need new ideas, we need our staff to innovate, we want innovation, we don’t fear risk.’

Of course it was all bollocks and he knew it. The large corporates were totally risk averse. They wanted safe predictable profits. Let the smaller companies take the risks, ‘if it works we can copy it or buy them out’ was the mentality.

Slide ten of the PowerPoint clicked on. He turned to look at the words and read them to the assembled

Why not go out on a limb? Isn’t that where the fruit is? ~Frank Scully Reader

Yes, risk taking is inherently failure-prone. Otherwise, it would be called sure-thing-taking. ~Tim McMahon




Many great ideas have been lost because the people who had them could not stand being laughed at. ~Author Unknown

He turned back to them and stared. In the silence they stared back at him. Who was he giving this lecture to?

He reached for the mouse and clicked out of the presentation mode. He opened up his email account and started a ‘new message’, filled the ‘To’ box with the name of the Chief Exec and ‘cc’d’ the Head of HR.

As they watched he typed his resignation letter and pressed send. Thirty Middle Managers all tried to understand the message behind this action, how it fitted in the presentation. Even after he had taken his jacket and left the room they sat, waiting to be told the presentation was over. They weren’t going to take a risk.

The Gun

His heart was beating too fast. He took deep, slow breaths to try to try to slow it down and steady his shake. He stared at the gun, inside he was a mixture of hate and fear.

This was something he had to do. He had to keep this quiet, he couldn’t risk her finding out, the consequences were too terrible to consider and he couldn’t go through all that again.

It was as if in slow motion as his arm reached out and his fingers curled around the gun’s handle. His finger brushed the trigger and he paused. He had one go, one attempt, if he messed this up there was no going back.

He turned. The room was quiet, deathly quiet as though it was preparing itself. Finally, when he felt he was ready, he picked up one half of the china dog and ran the nib of the glue gun carefully around its broken edge.

Holding his breath again he put the gun down, lifted the head of the hideous dog and held it tight against the neck. He left it as long as he could before removing his hand and seeing the complete dog in his hand.

He stared at the hideous ornament his eyes focused on the join. It was almost invisible, his mother would never know. He was safe. Finally he breathed out and swore to himself that he would never play football in the front room again. No, he was never going to put himself through this again. There would be no more little 'accidents'.

He placed the ornament back on the shelf within the slight ring of dust that marked its original position. Finally he smiled, turned and saw the slight whisp of smoke coming from the scorched top of the wooden dining table where the hot glue gun sat weeping and accusingly.

The Hill

They sat near the door holding hands. They were silent, comfortable in each others company. Childhood sweethearts now long retired with a life of warmth and love behind them.

As the bus reached their stop and they began to stand he held her arm to help as he always had. Stepping off the bus they thanked the driver. Some of the younger passengers raised their eyebrows with the thought ‘why thank the driver, it’s just her job’. They were from a different age.

Slowly they walked down the streets they had known from their childhood. Memories flooded of their young selves. As they turned the corner they heard the noise of the playground. The evocative sound of primary school children with their unfettered joy, lives with little burden other than who is playing with whom as they once had been.

They sat on the bench and talked of their past as they gazed out over the field opposite the school with its contoured hills. The woods at the edges where they had spent so much time, at first innocently but subsequently experimenting and learning about each others bodies. Seventy years has passed but their fascination with each other survived.

The sun arced in the sky moving their shadows. Parents arrived to pick up their offspring. Conversations filled the air, arrangements made, gossip exchanged but all halted by the sound of the school bell signaling the end of the day.

Then the rush as the young and excited run to find their parent and the noise level jumps as days are explained and hopes for going to a friends house for ‘tea’ are negotiated.

The younger ones have already crossed the road and are rolling down the hill accompanied by giggling and shouting. Parents shout for them to come back and don't be so silly

Within an hour all is quiet, all the youthful energy departed and the last teacher gone.

‘Where did it all go?’ she says

‘The children?’ he asks

‘No,’ she smiles squeezing his hand, ‘the years.’

She opens the catch on her worn handbag. He looks down and sees the envelope from the hospital that first brought them the news. Alongside it is the bottle which she removes and turns to him.

‘Ready?’ she says

‘Ready,’ he replies.

Counted out into each others hands the little white tablets shared evenly, an echo of their lives.

Moments later they look into each others eyes. She sees him smile, a smile she has known all her life.

‘What?’

‘Do you know I wouldn’t change a single moment,’ he says and then his smile breaks into a broad grin.

‘What now?’ she asks with the affection brought from years of knowing what a grin like than means.

‘How about it, one last time, one last time, just as we began?’

‘You’re a silly old fool, she says standing and taking off her coat then laying it over her handbag. ‘A silly old romantic fool and I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

At the top of the hill they lay down and held each other. Then rolled, rolled down the hill their eyes locked together and giggling. Giggling as the years and their lives drift away.

The Door to the Past

'And this,' the voice said, 'is the door to the past.'

'I'm frightened to go through,' she said

'You are already in there,' it said with a comforting tone.

She knew that voice but couldn’t place it, but she knew she felt warmed by it.

She stepped through the doorway and saw herself at her birthday party. She couldn’t remember her age, five maybe six? She saw herself laughing as she opened the present. She remembered what it was before her young self had got the wrapping paper off. It was that doll.

The party faded and a new vision, it was her aged fifteen with Chris her first real boyfriend. Oh my god, she almost blushed as she remembered what this was. It was her first real kiss. ‘Please don’t fade away, please don’t…’

Too late, now it was her driving her first car. Wait, that was quite recent. She could hear her friends giggling in the back and Karen sitting next to her shouting ‘Selfie’

Before it could fully fade the voice spoke again, ‘back through the door now.’ Over the fading noise of her friends she remembered how she knew that voice, it was her mother. A bright white light blinded her eyes and she was confused, her mother was dead.

She heard a male voice shout ‘clear’ then a jolt and then the sound of a single note

The voice spoke again

‘Mr Flint? Mr Matlock Flint?’

I walked into the office, glanced out of the dirt-streaked windows then rounded my tattered desk before flopping back into my grubby chair. The day started as it always did.

There was no use asking my secretary for a coffee to kick start the system and help reduce the pounding in my head. I haven't got a secretary, haven't had one since the work began to dry up and that was almost three years ago.

I pushed the chair away from the stained leather-top desk and put my feet up onto its surface knocking a pile of papers to the floor in the process. I muttered a blasphemy under my breath. My shoes had seen better days and one let in water when it rained but I didn’t have the money or energy to get them repaired.

Finally I got up and went over to a dented metal four drawer filing cabinet and pulled open the second down. I reached inside and lifted out a half bottle of scotch. What little sun that could make its way through window grime illuminated the bottle showing it was empty.

The bottle was thrown toward the metal bin and I let out an expletive at the top of my voice. As silence descended and a sense of utter frustration filled me I heard a light cough from behind me.

I turned to face the door and saw what could have been a vision produced by my desperate mind. The vision spoke,

‘Mr Flint? Mr Matlock Flint?’

I just about managed to stop myself from falling back and muttered back a response ‘Who’s asking?’

‘Forgive me for just barging in but your secretary wasn’t at her desk and I needed to see you.’

I pointed to the seat the other side of the desk before realising it held a stack of unfiled papers. Without even a pause she lifted the pile onto the desk and sat. She crossed her legs in that way that instantly shows breeding in one simple graceful move.

I sat and pulled my chair nearer to the desk. One of the wheels snagged in a rip in the carpet making what should have been a smooth elegant movement a jerky desperate shuffle. Once I had settled myself I leant forward and asked ‘How can I help?’

‘It’s a mess,’ she said quietly, her eyes glancing down to her lap, ‘A real mess. A friend told me that you might be able to …….’ She paused and glanced up at me. I melted, I’d do whatever I could to sort this little lady’s problem out.

‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ I said in as calm a voice as my body could muster.

‘I think it’s easier I show you,’ she said reaching into her handbag and lifting out some Polaroids that she pushed across the desk. I wanted to take them from her hand, to be able to touch the milky white skin but instead my fingers dragged on the grubby leather.

I sat back and turned the first photograph over. Even though I’m a professional I think she saw the instant reaction in my face. I tried to steady myself as I looked at the other seven.

‘Well?’ she asked

‘You’re right, it’s a mess, a real mess.’ I had seen scenes like this all my working life but this, this was almost indescribable. I paused and looked at the photos again and let my mind think. Finally I spoke again.

‘I might be able to sort this out. I might be able to clean up your …… mess.’

‘But the stains,’ she said.

‘Leave that to me, I might have friends who can help there. Now let’s talk about my fee.’

It felt good to be back in work, I was a Tile Grout Troubleshooter and never truly alive unless I was grouting

The Little Wooden Cockerel

The little wooden cockerel stared at his little wooden legs and sighed. Without hinges at the knees he just couldn’t walk. He sat in the sunshine and puzzled as to how he could resolve this knotty issue.

The shadows cast by the bright sun of his wooden legs were sharp and clear on the ground. As he looked at them he began to hatch a plan as to how he might solve his ingrained problem. He just needed to be able to see his legs in more detail.

Using the tips of his wooden wings he carefully took out one of his shiny glass eyes and held it in front of the other to use as a tiny magnifying glass. As the sun danced through the lens he could see where and how he might just be able create knees.

The sun’s sharp rays danced and focussed on his wooden legs as he thought and pondered. In fact it was only the smell of burning that awoke him from his reverie. The Little Wooden Cockerel wanted to run from his burning legs, wanted to scream from his little wooden beak but it was too late.

Within a matter of moments the little wooden cockerel was just a pile of ash. Sometimes life isn't kneesy.