Ideas for writing come from the strangest places. An aroma, a tune, a news item, a venue, or even a particular meal might bring to mind a memory which results in an idea. The other day it was the face of a child who looked very like a boy I was at school with forty-odd years ago. I don't remember his name, yet do recall how his unpopularity did not diminish his annoying enthusiasm one iota, nor did it stop an extraordinary claim which I recalled the instant I saw his doppleganger.
I recall the autumnal chill in the air when this odd individual insisted if, after visiting the upstairs toilet and flushing, you didn't reach the bottom of the stairs before the flush finished you would die. Nothing was offered as to the means of our potential demise nor how this had failed to kill off the entire population before we were in on this fascinating snippet. Despite the utter absurdity of this statement there were those who chorused "Yeah?!"
Most likely the chap grew up to become a plumber, possibly working for Dyno rod. Undoubtedly he is still plunging headlong down staircases in the hope of reaching the bottom in an effort to delay meeting his maker for a while longer.
All this brought to mind by the face of a child who must have been left wondering what he had done to attract the attention of some greying fellow with a notebook.
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