Part of being an adult is knowing when to move on.
It can sometimes be a painstaking process because nobody wants things to end (that is unless it’s a certain house-esque particular room-based saga that will not be named for obvious reasons). An end is a sad time for all, a process which we are all prepared for at an early age and yet somehow still never manage to master it. What a sombre time to be alive.
Mr R. Brek died eleven years ago. I know this because it’s printed on his box. He has remained with me for all this time through now three job changes, two relationships and one pandemic (he was the emotional rock I needed when I was at my lowest). I don’t feel as though it is right to keep going though: he has served his purpose, he has provided a friendship that has never been in doubt and for all of this I think it is only fair that he is lain to rest. As in lain to rest for good now, properly. Over a decade and I’m still metaphorically flogging his corpse. This is not how you treat friends.
Goodbye Mr R. Brek, you will be missed.
7 comments on “The end of an era”
Farewell to Mr R. Brek, or “the Brekster” as I very rarely thought of him.
It seems a shame that he’s not being recycled. You know, the circle of life and all that.
If it’s any consolation I put his cardboard feace in the recycling and scattered his “ashes” for the birds to feed and possibly choke on. The bin picture was staged.
That’s a massive consolation. I feel like I am at peace now, or he is, or something. I forget how it works. But the main thing is that he died doing what he loved.
I stage everything these days: deaths of much-loved Beans characters, slut-drop road trips, organisational orgies and bat mitzvahs. If you need something staged then I’m your man.
I’m starting to wonder if anything you do is for real.
Wait. No. The fluffy trousers thing you used to do was far too real. I wish that was only staged and the danger I faced was simply a fiction.
So… so what you’re saying is that it’s fluffy trouser time when we hit the Brid’ in September / October time? Gotcha mate. I’ve got your covered.
I don’t know if I can handle you, in fluffy trousers, in the confined quarters of a small static caravan.