Once upon a time there was a friendly giant. He wasn’t actually a giant, it was just that everyone else was very small. The giant lived in a nice house in a lovely area on the outskirts of town. He had a good job, working for a company that made pillows, duvets and comforters. His job was quality control, plumping the pillows, sniffing the comforters, stuff like that. He’d worked there from young adulthood and was now coming up to retirement. He was happy with his lot. He had plans to travel when he took that final cheque and the big card (that would no doubt look very small in his hands) covered in signatures saying ‘All the Best’ or ‘Missing you already’ or ‘Farewell ya big Lumox’ and so on. He looked forward to getting in his gigantic van, the one he’d carefully adapted to take a bed in the back, along with a small stove, a portaloo and an awning for sleeping outside when the weather was fine, and just heading off down the road with no particular place to go. He wanted to see more of the island. He wanted adventure. 

Unfortunately this story was one of those stories that marked a major change of pace with the word unfortunately. In the giant’s case, the mole on the top of his head that he hadn’t paid enough attention to over the years turned out to be malignant melanoma. It had spread everywhere, too advanced for treatment. The retirement card turned out to be a Get Well Soon card. But he didn’t get well. He died a year after diagnosis. Everyone (or at least a good majority) of the people he worked with came to the funeral. His coffin was strapped on the back of a flatbed truck, his grave dug by a JCB. 

It rained.