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His name is Gilbert Smythe, and it's the poor lad's first day on the job. Since six-thirty a.m., the somewhat inauspicious time of his arrival at headquarters, he's allowed eight school-aged children to try on his hat, given a much-interrupted talk about road safety to a group of people who had recently had their licenses revoked for dangerous driving, and consoled a woman hysterical about the disappearance of her parrot Perky.
Now, he is facing the most difficult part of the day.
It is his unavoidable duty to return home, and give his parents and friends (not to mention that beautiful blonde girl from next door) a detailed description of his job. When he had left that morning, he had been filled with delusions of heroism and grandeur. At the very least, he had expected a car chase or an attempt on his life. Unfortunately, his friends appeared to have laboured under that same impression; in fact, he had perhaps encouraged them. What was he to say now?
Gilbert, because he has been well brought up, decides (with his heart in his impeccably polished boots) to tell them the truth. He enters the room full of proud friends and relatives, and, in plain English, tells them all about Clarissa, the mauve-haired woman whose cat had been stuck up a tree, and the little boy who had needed “Mr Plod” to help him find his Mama. He doesn't speak with any pride about his job, he endures the endless jests from his alleged friends, and eventually he slips away, his ego bruised and his self-esteem in tatters. One of the crowd notices him sulking in the corner, and thinks she can guess the reason why.
Gilbert's pensive reflections are interrupted by a soft voice. “You're such a hero, Gil,” the voice says in his ear. Gilbert looks up. He has never been called “Gil” before, and he isn't sure that he likes it. When he sees Claudia, the blonde girl from next door, he looks around frantically for a large hole to swallow him up. None appears, and he sighs, ready to take yet more jest.
“Hero,” he snorts. “Some hero.” Perhaps if he acknowledges his pathetic day himself, she will treat him a little more kindly.
“You are some hero,” she insists, and, to his surprise, she seems to be in earnest. “Sure, you didn't climb down any lift shafts or dismantle any bombs, but I think that today, you were a hero.” Now he is utterly confused. He has decided, however, that he likes being called Gil. “It's the little things that matter, Gil. Maybe a fatal road accident will be averted tomorrow because today, you gave that talk on road safety. How are we to know?” She pauses, then repeats, “It's the little things that matter.”
I think she was right. Gilbert was some hero.
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