Writer's Notebook

This week's Sunday Scribblings topic is Brave. I set out to have a little linguistic fun with this topic but then got carried away by my fantasy. Hope you enjoy it, anyway.

Brave decided it was about time to do a little shopping. It had been some time since Brave had been seen in public and a little company would be welcome right now. After all, what was the point of being brave, if there was no one there to appreciate you. Of course, the first thing that was needed was to find someone Brave could personify. Watching the passers-by Brave soon decided to chose to become a man. This would be a much greater challenge as the proportion of female braves was evidently far larger. Having made this decision he walked up to a shop he'd never seen before. It was an intriguing place which sold specialist menswear for different activities. The first floors were filled with items required for various breathtaking and dangerous activities such as scuba diving, bungee-jumping, and even mediaeval jousting. But Brave quickly realised none of these would do, they were all far too adventuresome and so obviously brave. If he was to be a true light in the darkness, he would have to pick something far less obvious. The fourth flour, reserved for professional clothing, provided him with what he wanted. As he stopped in front of the white baker's coat, images of flying rolling pins, all heading for different parts of his anatomy flashed through his mind. His decision was taken. If ever there was an activity designed to show one's bravery, then here it was.

Next he went down to the store's basement which contained an assortment of verbs designed to accompany any activity. He soon found the more obvious ones: kneading, mixing, beating; hesitated over praying before deciding it might come in handy in case of emergencies, before also picking up a few less obvious ones like crying (in case he had to peal any onions), tippling (well-known for its courage boosting properties) and consorting (a cure-all for many a scrape). On his way to the cash desk he even found a packet off 'unusual and assorted adverbs' designed to spice up any regular activity.

Exiting the shop Brave made his way across the road and down the narrow alley leading to the estate agent's. After all, if he was to take to baking, then he was going to have to find a place to do this. He want to look over what was available. The most obvious was simply to pick a kitchen. But Brave was never one for the obvious. As he made his way from agent to agent, each one lauding very volubily (had Brave actually realised that this word was actually his very first creation he would have been very excited, but alas...) the particular object they had on offer, he soon came across a summer camp-site. Surely, this would be an excellent place both to practise his newly-acquired talents, as well as to let his bravery brighten the lives of so many people without his having to boast. In minutes, he had acquired the site and set off for the art gallery where he hoped to pick up several identities for his endeavour. On his way, however, his eyes fell on a small, copper plate advertising the services of the local psychologist. Maybe, he thought to himself, I could pick up a few personal identities here, and then go on to the art gallery for the others.

A quick glance at his watch and Brave slipped quickly through the door. Yes, he was in luck. The psychologist was with a patient and the secretary was still on her lunch break. It didn't take him long to find the patient records on the computer and he left with three identities safely tucked inside his briefcase. The first, was that of one Walter Mitty, whose dreams and fantasies suited brave to down to his toenails. From now on, he would become Walter. The second was that of a young lady who vacillated at the drop of a hat from fervent admirer, to ardent hater. This was Walter's philanthropist streak coming out. If she could only see him at work, then all her pent up hatred would melt away like butter. And he already knew which picture he would buy to incarnate her. He had often walked past this picture of a dark, beautiful lady and it seemed as if her eyes would follow him every time he did so. Nothing more reassuring than that, when you're up to your neck in dough and trying to find the cake tin at the same time. The third identity was that of a little boy who refused to eat whatever was given him. If his parents offered him spaghetti one day, he would insist on carrots and cabbage. Were they to offer him carrots and cabbage, then he would want spaghetti. The ultimate challenge for Walter's culinary skills.

And so we see Walter, striding expectantly (don't forget that packet of assorted adverbs he picked up) towards the railway station, in his briefcase the picture of his beloved Mona and another of a man feeding five thousand people all at once. He was so taken up with dreams of bravery, that he never noticed the screaming sirens, nor the shout of the security guard pointing out to the police that the thief was over there about to escape into the railway station. But he certainly needed all the bravery he could muster as a few weeks later, the judge sentenced him to five years of prison food.