Last Wednesday I watched, in comfortable amazement, a man sprint after a child of about five or six years of age who was wandering down towards a stream. The young boy wasn't making much ground on his elder and I don't think he would have been able to scale the four foot fence surrounding the surprisingly glistening park pond, but his father was obviously deeply concerned that he would bound over it like Colin Jackson chasing a back-to-school speedo model.
A very careful parent I thought, I doubt that child would have the swimming ability, nor the body fat, to keep afloat in a stream with such an unruly current. However, when he returned carrying the little boy he said to the mother, sitting smoking a cigarette that looked as though she had rolled with Vaseline covered boxing gloves on, 'He was going for those swans. They would've broken his arms'.
At first this seemingly irrational fear of Her Majesty's finest poultry dish struck me as an absurd worry - the man stood in the bush shaking a fist rapidly in the direction of the child would have been higher on my list of concerns - but then it struck me like a rubber fist in a steel glove;
I'm a worrier too.
I worry that when I walk past someone with an umbrella that they'll randomly thrust one of the corner bits in my eye, blinding me.
I worry that when I'm walking along the street and a bus drives past I'll be sucked into the road and crushed by a malevolent HGV.
I constantly worry that while I'm slagging someone off in the pub that they'll walk in behind me, or worse, I'm somehow accidentally ringing them in my pocket.
I'm worried that my constant fear of going bald will cause me to go bald.
I worry my sister is in fact my mother and the last 26 years have been a charade played out to save the blushes of a plastic catholic family falling apart at the seams.
I also worry that one day I'll try and lift something really heavy in the gym and shit myself.
But mostly I worry that my sister is my mum.
I worry that every time I get an erection and don't use it that it might have been the last erection I can ever get, like I've got some kind of phallic built-in obsolescence.
I worry that when I throw a cigarette down a drain that it will be full of gas or something and blow up.
I worry that my girlfriend will slip in the bath, rub up against the shower curtain the wrong way and get pregnant.
I worry that when I'm stood at Victoria station that out of the huge black abyss will come a horde of zombies. But not even proper zombies but the shit ones in 28 days later that can run. I worry that despite stories of the amount of adrenaline my body would produce in such an occurrence would mean that I could jump up to the ridge above and climb up to daylight, that that is complete bollocks and I could never jump that high, and secondly, what if they'd installed those spikes to stop people climbing on things and to fuck up pigeons legs with on the bar, and I jump up and pierce my hand on them, and I'm hanging there spinning round like a fucking human kebab and the zombies are eating me from the feet up and I can't move?
I worry sometimes when it's really, really busy on the train and I'm by the doors that a bit of my body will be forced out of the train and the door will slam shut on it. I'm worried that a) it could just be my arm or my leg and the train will drive off and drag my arm or leg along the tunnel reducing it to nothing more than a bloody stump, or b) that it's my head and it'll slam so hard that I vomit up my brain.
I worry when I sit next to really old people on public transport that they might die and roll or collapse on to me so I can't even just ignore it and let someone else find out.
I used to worry about walking under scaffolding and a window above exploding outwards and covering me in glass - but then it happened. As it turns out I was overreacting.
I worry about Global Warming (not enough to recycle or turn lights off during the day), an asteroid hitting the Earth a minute after I get a commissioned by BBC 3 to write a sit-com set in the Boer War, eating green crisps, walking over three drains, stepping on the cracks, on crack, for the craic. I worry whether the one time my mum doesn't play the lottery her numbers will come up, then I worry that even if she did play would she still give me any money after 'The Incident'.
All of these things are pretty unlikely to happen. But 'the chances of anything coming from Mars, are a million to one, but still they come'. If 'They Came From Uranus' has taught us anything, it's that irrational fears are only irrational until a swan breaks your arm.
A very careful parent I thought, I doubt that child would have the swimming ability, nor the body fat, to keep afloat in a stream with such an unruly current. However, when he returned carrying the little boy he said to the mother, sitting smoking a cigarette that looked as though she had rolled with Vaseline covered boxing gloves on, 'He was going for those swans. They would've broken his arms'.
At first this seemingly irrational fear of Her Majesty's finest poultry dish struck me as an absurd worry - the man stood in the bush shaking a fist rapidly in the direction of the child would have been higher on my list of concerns - but then it struck me like a rubber fist in a steel glove;
I'm a worrier too.
I worry that when I walk past someone with an umbrella that they'll randomly thrust one of the corner bits in my eye, blinding me.
I worry that when I'm walking along the street and a bus drives past I'll be sucked into the road and crushed by a malevolent HGV.
I constantly worry that while I'm slagging someone off in the pub that they'll walk in behind me, or worse, I'm somehow accidentally ringing them in my pocket.
I'm worried that my constant fear of going bald will cause me to go bald.
I worry my sister is in fact my mother and the last 26 years have been a charade played out to save the blushes of a plastic catholic family falling apart at the seams.
I also worry that one day I'll try and lift something really heavy in the gym and shit myself.
But mostly I worry that my sister is my mum.
I worry that every time I get an erection and don't use it that it might have been the last erection I can ever get, like I've got some kind of phallic built-in obsolescence.
I worry that when I throw a cigarette down a drain that it will be full of gas or something and blow up.
I worry that my girlfriend will slip in the bath, rub up against the shower curtain the wrong way and get pregnant.
I worry that when I'm stood at Victoria station that out of the huge black abyss will come a horde of zombies. But not even proper zombies but the shit ones in 28 days later that can run. I worry that despite stories of the amount of adrenaline my body would produce in such an occurrence would mean that I could jump up to the ridge above and climb up to daylight, that that is complete bollocks and I could never jump that high, and secondly, what if they'd installed those spikes to stop people climbing on things and to fuck up pigeons legs with on the bar, and I jump up and pierce my hand on them, and I'm hanging there spinning round like a fucking human kebab and the zombies are eating me from the feet up and I can't move?
I worry sometimes when it's really, really busy on the train and I'm by the doors that a bit of my body will be forced out of the train and the door will slam shut on it. I'm worried that a) it could just be my arm or my leg and the train will drive off and drag my arm or leg along the tunnel reducing it to nothing more than a bloody stump, or b) that it's my head and it'll slam so hard that I vomit up my brain.
I worry when I sit next to really old people on public transport that they might die and roll or collapse on to me so I can't even just ignore it and let someone else find out.
I used to worry about walking under scaffolding and a window above exploding outwards and covering me in glass - but then it happened. As it turns out I was overreacting.
I worry about Global Warming (not enough to recycle or turn lights off during the day), an asteroid hitting the Earth a minute after I get a commissioned by BBC 3 to write a sit-com set in the Boer War, eating green crisps, walking over three drains, stepping on the cracks, on crack, for the craic. I worry whether the one time my mum doesn't play the lottery her numbers will come up, then I worry that even if she did play would she still give me any money after 'The Incident'.
All of these things are pretty unlikely to happen. But 'the chances of anything coming from Mars, are a million to one, but still they come'. If 'They Came From Uranus' has taught us anything, it's that irrational fears are only irrational until a swan breaks your arm.
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