and other stories by Jonathan Griffiths

It Grows on Trees

My name is Nelson.  Nelson Eric Kidman.  Nelson is the place I was conceived.  Eric is an uncle who drowned thirty-eight years before I was born and Kidman is the name of a grandfather I’ve never met.  He ran off when Dad was only a few days old.  That’s a hell of a lot of history for an eleven year old to carry around.

SAD JOKES

Have you ever noticed that jokes are always funny? Well, they’re meant to be. Why don’t we have sad jokes? I’m serious. There’s a standard format for all jokes: there’s a set-up – or story – then there’s the punch line – which is funny. Why don’t we have punch lines which are profound, poignant and a little sad?

Like, there’s an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman go into a bar and the barman says, ‘My father used to beat me. But abusive childhoods are quite common in the hospitality industry.’

It’s just an idea.

No, it’s really just another way to deflect attention from my life gurgling down the plug hole.

an excerpt from The Road Behind

Sex

“At the lights at Boundary Street, she moved to the front seat so I could massage her spine. I started at her neck. By Mona Vale Road, I’d reached the small of her back and was feeling a stirring in my loins. ‘That’s not too hard is it?’ I asked. She shook her head.
By Telegraph Road, I’d reached her coccyx and was headed for territory beyond the jurisdiction of the Chiropractic Society. My fingers slid between her buttocks as we turned off the Highway. She unzipped my fly and opened her mouth.
‘I always wondered why this road was called Bobbin Head,’ I said. She replied but I didn’t catch the words. I dropped her off, thinking maybe I’d gone too far – but it was only by a few metres.”
Excerpt from Going Places – THE BITS THAT DIDN’T FIT