The Doer of Things

‘Who are you?’ said Harry.
‘I am the Doer,’ said the man, ‘of Things!’
‘The Doer of Things?’ said Harry.
‘That’s right!’ said the man.
Harry looked the man straight in the eye. ‘But what things,’ said he, ‘do you do?’
The man returned Harry’s look with one that was as forceful as it was not a cheese sandwich. ‘Do you,’ said the man, ‘question my purpose in being here?’
‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘I question not so much the existential nature of your being,’ he continued, ‘but rather I ask,’ he elaborated, ‘just how far one can stretch such a vague notion?’
‘What vague notion?’
‘You!’ said Harry; ‘being the Doer of Things!’
‘But I haven’t even started yet!’ said the man.
‘On what?’ said Harry.
‘On explaining all the Things I can Do!’
Sigh, sighed Harry. ‘Okay go on then,’ he then said.
‘Well,’ said the man, after taking a breath that was as deep as it was not a pound of plums, ‘and this is by no means the exhaustive list, you understand.’
‘Go on,’ said Harry (who was becoming exhausted just thinking about it).
‘Well,’ said the man once more, ‘I can do round things, square things, purple things, green things, high things, low things, big things, sm--’
‘Whoa there!’ interrupted Harry.
‘What?’ said the man.
‘What kind of list is this?’ said Harry.
‘It is a list of all the things I can do,’ said the man.
‘No,’ said Harry, ‘it is not.’
‘What do you mean?’ said the man.
‘What I mean,’ said Harry, ‘is that it is not so much a list of all the things you can do,’ he continued, ‘but rather it is a list,’ he elaborated, ‘of all the types of things you can do.’
‘Are you questioning the efficacy of my list-making skills?’ said the man.
‘I am beginning to question my point in being here,’ said Harry.
‘You know what else I can do?’ said the man.
‘What?’ said Harry (in a let’s humour the man what harm can it do? kind of a way).
‘I can do this,’ said the man…
And with a wave of the arms and a muttering of some incomprehensible syllables and not so much as a by-your-leave (so to speak), Harry disappeared in a puff (as it were) of smoke.
‘Ha!’ said the Doer of Things, smug as you like, as he sat back in his throne and looked up at all things Upward. ‘I am the Doer of Things!’ he then said, ‘and there is no thing I cannot do!’
- which wasn’t entirely accurate, in that he was no Alan Titchmarsh when it came to growing rhubarb, but there’s no doubting it sounded dead impressive.

[ fin ]