TIDY

There once was a boy who was told to clean the steps outside his front door. So he set to work sweeping and tidying each step at a time until not a trace of dust or dirt remained on these steps which he had taken so much trouble over. Now, by comparison, the pavement directly below the last step seemed awfully grubby to this boy’s mind. He gave it a quick flick of the brush and turned to go inside. But what was this? Out of the corner of his eye he caught or rather the grubby paper caught him and rooted him to the spot. Step by step he lowered himself to where the article lay wasting before his eyes. With a quick almost violent action he seized the object and crushed it in his hands. He held his breath not wanting to be contaminated by the smell of it though in order to remove it from sight he had to get closer to it then he thought propper. He cast his head this way and that trying to bathe it in the freshness of the early morning air far removed from the dirt he now held in his hand. But what was this? For off down the road there was a semblance of litter taking up the energy of the wind as it blew it back and forth. Hurriedly the boy ran to where the litter was tickling his attention. With broom in hand he swept at it ferociously. It moved and then stopped. Again he pushed it moving a little further forward away from the house where he lived. Of course the litter was still in sight. So he pushed again, ran to where it was now, cursed and pushed again.


Down streets he travelled at each turn accumulating more and more litter until he was a tiny figure pushing a mountain of litter in front of him.

Gradually the pile got so large that he could no longer avoid people or buildings in his travels. So they came along for the ride resigned to the scrap-heap at the end of that straw broom that shot ahead of the small boy like an accusing finger. At home his parents shook their fingers in turn wondering what mess the no good for nothing had got himself into this time.

Finally the boy found himself outside the city. Only at least half the city by now was on the end of his broom. He was desperate by now to find a quiet place to sit down. To breathe in fresh smells and take in the colours of nature. But it wasn’t to be.


To this day the boy still walks around restless but if you see him I would advise you to take that broom from his restless hands. For until he is free of it truly he is a prisoner to the chaos and disturbance which it is a broom’s task to seek out and which it will undoubtedly find, whichever way it goes.