Photos are forbidden

It was her final gift on his 70th Birthday. He hadn’t the heart to use it for almost a year. But now he was ready. It was time to live once more.

He couldn’t wait to try it out. An Olympus camera complete with lens set, digital clarity, capable of storing thousands of slices of life. Smiling he put on his coat, pulled on his cap and shuffled out the door. Stopping only to check that the door was locked, he walked with a new energy setting off along the waterfront.

He paused as he took the camera from the bag slung over his shoulder, and placed it around his neck. Hanging there like some monstrous plastic and metal growth. He quickly fired off a couple of shots over the Marina. Boats and launches in various states of repose on the water. Adjusting the settings to take a portrait of a fig strangled tree at the edge of the park. He flicked the camera between manual and automatic, trying everything he could think of.

It was half an hour before he arrived at the water park. It was spectacular. A canvas of rainbow colours, pipes of every size spraying fountain and florets of water. Milling around, screaming with delight were scores of young children. Their joy plain to see, the laughter infectious.

He quickly changed lens and started taking pictures, the kids running through the water, the intricate structures of metal and water. Splashing and jumping through the movie being played out before him. The kids all wet in their multi coloured costumes, grinning from ear to ear. There were even kids without costume, in total abandonment, un-phased by their public nudity.

He was suddenly aware that people were watching him. Was there something wrong?

He looked behind him and to the sides, aware that some parents were pointing at him, shouting, accusing.

He froze. He was an old man taking photographs of kids in a water park – my god they thought he was a pervert!

He stammered ‘No, No, it’s not what you think!’ and hurriedly took the camera from around his neck and stuffed it into the bag hanging at his side, hiding it from sight, removing any offending evidence. He turned slowly and made his way back towards the footpath, back in the direction of home. There was urgency in his pace; the limp that had hampered his walking for years was gone. What was happening?

Only yesterday he had ventured outside for the first time in weeks. He had been handing out sweets to the local toddlers outside kindergarten. He always had a pocket full of sweets and took the time to stop and talk with the children, he loved making them laugh. They knew him and loved putting their hands in his pocket, rummaging around trying to find their favourite sweets.

One of the teachers, or perhaps it was one of the school ground helpers had raced across and smacked the sweets out of his hand, had taken the sweets from the children and thrown them across the grass. She had screamed, spat out the words “Piss Off” and had rounded up the kids and moved them back to the school yard – She had threatened to call the police.

He’d been puzzled and hurt by the woman’s action, unsure of what was going on?

Suddenly it became clear –‘My God they think I’m a pervert, a bloody paedophile!’

With the tears welling up he opened the door and headed down the hallway to his bedroom. Taking the camera out of the bag he smashed it to the floor hoping to destroy the digital records, stop the hurt.

Later that evening a sad lonely man weeps as he once again reads his wife’s obituary. He places the closed photo album on the floor beside his chair. He takes a long draught from his mug of tea. No milk, two sugars and liberally laced liberally with Paraquat.