He’s got a stick, a perfect stick, and he’s poking around on the beach, trying to tempt a crab out of it’s burrow. The crab just scurries deeper into the fine yellow sand, leaving a perfectly cylindrical hole.
“It’s a hammering stick” he says as he starts whacking a rock with vigour. “Look, I’m hammering, I’m going to break the rock!” He breaks the stick.
His wail can be heard above the crashing waves, the waves that are too dangerous to swim in. His wail can be heard above the deafening crickets in the pine trees, the crickets that sound like chainsaws. “MY STICK”.
“Never mind, we’ll find you another stick.” “But it won’t be as good” he sobs noisily. “How about his one?” “S’not straight enough.” “Or this?” “It.. it.. it… doesn’t have a sticky out bit at the side.” He ratchets the wailing up a notch “I want my stick back.” “What about this nice one? It’s just right for hammering.” “It’s too thick and that bit sticks out wrong. I WANT MY STICK BACK.”
He collapses on the sand a picture of misery, with red rimmed eyes. Nothing will ever replace his perfect stick. His life might as well be over.
Then, spying something beside him on the sand, “Oooh look! A cuttlefish!”