Simon K. Jones of Norwich is a good writer. I should probably recommend him and, if he recommended me, I certainly would recommend him. Maybe I’ll recommend him anyway, out of pure selflessness. He does paid subscriptions and some of his readers have unsubscribed and he says it’s a bit hurtful, but he likes writing and so he can deal with it. I get unpaid unsubscribes, and it still jars, because no one ever tells me why. I mean, they could write and say because it’s bollocks and it would be the one comment I would wholeheartedly agree with them on (which might actually cause them not to unsubscribe after all).
I do it too, to be frank—unsubscribe from things I’ve subscribed to—and I may even do it to him one day, Simon K. Jones of Norwich.
Something catches your eye and you mosey over to it, and, next thing, you’ve pushed open the door and are in the blast of hot air that says, welcome to our emporium, and a well-meaning but officious busy-bee of an assistant is at your elbow, “How can I help you today, sir?” “Just browsing, thank you.” Then they eagle-eye you from across the counter, and you know that, even with all the security cameras festooned around the place, you are being watched. Sometimes, I even stay and look at things I really don’t care about, just to convince the assistant that I have genuinely examined, and duly considered, the entire array of wares that are to human view displayed. Perhaps even a quick thank you as I open the door to leave. Maybe a white lie … “You don’t seem to have my size,” “I was looking for it in …” (searching for a colour you know they don’t have) “… puce.” “We can get it in for you,” you hear as the door gently closes behind you, and you feel bad. As bad as when you refuse a beggar 50 cents at the lights. As bad as when you take the package of UNICEF Christmas cards and don’t make a donation. Yes, that bad.
We know in our bones that our one challenge as we step out of bed in the morning, every morning, is to cause as little hurt and harm as we can over the course of the day that is breaking. And we know in our hearts that we will likely fail.
That, or we don’t give a damn. Frankly.
So, the ones who slink out because it wasn’t in their size are going to be truly sorry, Si. And the ones who don’t give a damn … are not worth giving a damn about.
If you can hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which says, “Hold on” … did I quote it right?