8:47am Monday 18th August 2008
By The Scribbler
This is very pleasant,” said The Scribbler, relaxing in the Garden Magic event in Centenary Square. “Water features, greenery... it’s like being in the countryside, but right in the heart of the city.”
“And the best thing about it,” said Thelma Gusset (promounced “Gussay”), the fragrant women’s editor of the T&A, and your humble columnist’s paramour, “is that there are no rats. mutated or otherwise.”
She was referring, of course, to the frankly outrageous events of recent weeks which had seen The Scribbler visited by a gigantic rat with telepathic powers, who had ultimately been whisked away by aliens in a flying saucer.
“Did all that really happen?” asked Thelma, enjoying a few moments of rare sunshine in the August rain. “Or did we imagine it?”
“Who’s to say?” said The Scribbler lazily. “Who’s to say that our entire lives haven’t been imaginary? Why, there could be a parallel universe somewhere in which a couple of bored journalists are sitting at their desks actually making all this up. We might be mere fictions.”
Thelma grunted. “Well, I wish they’d write me a couple of dress sizes smaller.”
“And I wish they’d write me a few quid better off,” said The Scribbler. “But that’s the point. We are not masters of our own destiny. We simply blow in the breezes of other people’s whims and fancies.”
“My, you’re in a philosophical mood,” said Thelma, as the clouds gathered again. “What’s brought this on.”
“Oh, probably that Policy Exchange report earlier in the week,” said The Scribbler, deftly bringing the subject around to a topical matter to give himself a reason for existing. “You know, the one that suggested Bradford is beyond redemption and that we should all give the place up as a bad job and move down south.”
“Tosh,” said Thelma. “I’m Bradford born, Bradford bred and I fully expect to be Bradford dead and buried.”
“Though not for a long time yet, I hope,” said The Scribbler. Thelma gave him a kiss in a rare public display of affection.
But The Scribbler was warming to his subject. “But that’s just what I mean,” he said. “We merrily go on with our lives, thinking we’re doing the right thing, and then some bunch of boffins come along and say that you’re doing the wrong thing and should give it up as a bad job. It’s all rather disheartening.”
“Oh, come on,” said Thelma. “It’s not like you to get your knickers in a twist over something like that. People are always putting Bradford down. We’re used to it. Bradford bounces back all the time.”
The Scribbler shivered at the memory of people dressed as bears, talking up Bradford (Younger readers should ask their parents). “I suppose so,” he said. “But I wish they’d go and pick on someone else for a change. Why does it always have to be Bradford?”
Thelma gave him a cuddle and they watched the fountain for a bit. “Perhaps because we have what they don’t, and they’re jealous,” said Thelma.
“Oh, and what would that be?” asked The Scribbler.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “You. You’re the best asset this city has. I know we don’t appreciate you all the time, but you’re one of Bradford’s best. No-one loves the city like you do, and no-one gets so little reward.”
The first raindrops began to fall, but The Scribbler didn’t mind. People might be intent on pulling Bradford down, but he was sitting in pleasant surroundings with the woman he loved. Let them have a go if they wanted to, he was happy. Perhaps Thelma was right. Perhaps things were picking up a bit...
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