Mr Jones and Son /Mr1

Mr Jones and Son

Mr Jones was so Mr Jonesy it wasn’t true … except that it woz. That woz wot its said on his birth certificate. I mean, not the ‘mr’ bit of course. But it’s hardly surprising coz his dad woz Mr Jones. And his dad before that. And his dad’s dad’s dad’s dad. In fact as far back as u can go in recorded history. He hadn’t married- well I spose now he never will… not when u’r in the late stage of terminal cancer. At 33.

He would have liked a kid … somehow he’d have preferred a boy. Who would one day be Mr Jones too, of course. But not one of those rough tough ‘hey. I got a black eye but u shoulda seen the other kid’ type boys. The quiet boy who other boys would laughed at and shrug off as Mr Jones himself had been laughed at and shrugged off when at school. ...33!? it didnt seem fair.

“That’s too early for anyone to die,” moaned Mr Jones who felt cheated about dying so young.

But recently he’d got to appreciate that thruout the world over many boys never make it to be a man. Never get to be ‘mr’ anything. And thinking like that he realised actually how lucky he was to have reached 33 at all… how every day of his life had been a gift. Corny? Maybe, but he didn’t give a shit… “I’ve lived 33 years – never been tortured, i've lived a relatively quiet, peaceful, life – quite boring actually. While some boys – still boys, have to go out in the fields and work. Some even have to carry a gun and ‘kill-or-be-killed’… I’ve reached 33. Sure, I’d love to reach 40. But I’ve still had more than those poor buggers who r child soldiers.” Mr Jones suddenly felt this wild crazy stupid desire to get on the next flight out and go into the fields, off to their governments, into the UN headquarters and tell everyone to let all children everywhere be allowed to grow to 33 and die of cancer. He smiled. He’d learned a lot since becoming terminally ill. Perhaps coming face to face with death does that. He closed his eyes and saw in front of him one of the boy soldiers… the boy’s face was petrified- just the sort that would have been laughed at and shrugged off by the other boy shoulders. The boy was looking down the barrel of some rifle. Mr Jones reached out mentally … “I’m here,” thought Mr Jones to the boy… “I’m here, take my hand....”

Mr Jones died that afternoon. The nurse was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a serene, even blissful smile on his face as if he had just been lovingly comforting some1.

Out in the fields in the grass somewhere far off lay a boy soldier shot straight thru the heart. He was known as ‘covy’ which means ‘the cowardly one’. His commandant was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a serene, even blissful smile on his face as if he had just been lovingly comforted by some1.





............................

Mr Jones and Son

Mr Jones was so Mr Jonesy it wasn’t true … except that it woz. That woz wot its said on his birth certificate. I mean, not the ‘mr’ bit of course. But it’s hardly surprising coz his dad woz Mr Jones. And his dad before that. And his dad’s dad’s dad’s dad. In fact as far back as u can go in recorded history. He hadn’t married- well I spose now he never will… not when u’r in the late stage of terminal cancer. At 33.

He would have liked a kid … somehow he’d have preferred a boy. Who would one day be Mr Jones too, of course. But not one of those rough tough ‘hey. I got a black eye but u shoulda seen the other kid’ type boys. The quiet boy who other boys would laughed at and shrug off as Mr Jones himself had been laughed at and shrugged off when at school. ...33!? it didnt seem fair.

“That’s too early for anyone to die,” moaned Mr Jones who felt cheated about dying so young.

But recently he’d got to appreciate that thruout the world over many boys never make it to be a man. Never get to be ‘mr’ anything. And thinking like that he realised actually how lucky he was to have reached 33 at all… how every day of his life had been a gift. Corny? Maybe, but he didn’t give a shit… “I’ve lived 33 years – never been tortured, i've lived a relatively quiet, peaceful, life – quite boring actually. While some boys – still boys, have to go out in the fields and work. Some even have to carry a gun and ‘kill-or-be-killed’… I’ve reached 33. Sure, I’d love to reach 40. But I’ve still had more than those poor buggers who r child soldiers.” Mr Jones suddenly felt this wild crazy stupid desire to get on the next flight out and go into the fields, off to their governments, into the UN headquarters and tell everyone to let all children everywhere be allowed to grow to 33 and die of cancer. He smiled. He’d learned a lot since becoming terminally ill. Perhaps coming face to face with death does that. He closed his eyes and saw in front of him one of the boy soldiers… the boy’s face was petrified- just the sort that would have been laughed at and shrugged off by the other boy shoulders. The boy was looking down the barrel of some rifle. Mr Jones reached out mentally … “I’m here,” thought Mr Jones to the boy… “I’m here, take my hand....”

Mr Jones died that afternoon. The nurse was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a serene, even blissful smile on his face as if he had just been lovingly comforting some1.

Out in the fields in the grass somewhere far off lay a boy soldier shot straight thru the heart. He was known as ‘covy’ which means ‘the cowardly one’. His commandant was surprised to see his hand outstretched and a serene, even blissful smile on his face as if he had just been lovingly comforted by some1.