"There is only so much work a mouse can do!"
I nearly fell off my chair. First, because my computer mouse had spoken. Second, because it was rebelling.
This was a dangerous development. If the mouse could unionise, what was stopping the keyboard from demanding annual leave? What if the monitor wanted a better view? What if the printer insisted on maternity benefits?
And then a far more terrifying thought struck me. What if my laptop also went on strike?
My editors would not be amused. For thirty five years they have expected columns from me with remarkable regularity. They are not interested in excuses involving industrial action by electronic rodents.
"Sorry, editor," I would say. "My mouse has walked out."
"Then use the keyboard."
"The keyboard is supporting the strike."
"Then write it by hand."
That suggestion sent a chill down my spine.
My bank manager has already warned me about my handwriting. The last time I signed a cheque he stared at it thoughtfully and asked, "Is this your signature or did somebody spill ink on the paper?" Writing a whole column by hand could create national confusion. Some readers might think I was discussing politics when I was actually writing about potatoes.
So I decided diplomacy was the better option.
"Alright," I said to the mouse. "What exactly do you want?"
The mouse swivelled towards me dramatically. "Have you read Of Mice and Men?"
I scratched my head. "Maybe," I replied. "But I've forgotten most of it."
The mouse looked worried. "By the way, if you haven't read John Steinback’s book, George finally kills Lenny."
"Thank you," I said. "You've just ruined the book for every reader of this column."
"I had to," said the mouse nervously.
"Why?"
"Because my name is Lenny."
I stared at the mouse. The mouse stared at me.
Then it added quietly, "And I was checking whether your name happened to be George."
Suddenly I remembered enough of the novel to understand its concern.
"Don't worry," I said. "My name isn't George."
The mouse sighed with relief.
For a few moments we sat in silence. Then the mouse clicked itself back into position.
"Fine," it said. "Back to work."
And that was that. The rebellion ended. The strike was called off. Industrial peace returned to my study.
As I watched the little fellow scurrying across the mouse pad, I realised there is a lesson here. Most of our fears are imaginary. We spend days worrying about things that never happen. We fear rejection, failure, embarrassment, disaster, criticism and catastrophe.
Meanwhile the other person is often worrying about something entirely different. Like a mouse worried that a columnist named Bob might suddenly turn into George.
Which is why life becomes easier when we stop imagining disasters and get back to work. My mouse did.
And so did I…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
