Rob's Blog; Lower your expectations

Short Story: Trudy

2011-03-02T16:06:00.000-08:00

Trudy had her head down, eyes fixed on the pavement as she hurried back from the off licence. Some evenings your microwaved lasagna just cried out for an extra bottle of wine. The wind cut through the February night and she pulled her long coat around her, managing to rip the handle off the thin plastic bag in the process. She cursed as the bottle clunked on the paving stone but it didn’t break and she stooped to retrieve it. Small mercies.
It was when she stood up again that she realised she was outside the restaurant. Their restaurant. Their first date. And of course their last one when he had ended it, eight months and three days later.
She absently ran her hand through her wayward hair as she looked in, past the ghost of her reflection, remembering… Italian food, bottle of Lambrusco, charming smile.
That was at first, he had tried the same smile when he broke up with her and she had thrown a glass of that frigging Lambrusco into his face for his trouble.
Her eyes widened.
“She’s in there!” the wind took the words from her chapped lips.
That was Suzy! Dark hair in a pony-tail as she sat with her back to the window. What a little cow. Did she have any idea of what she’d done, how she’d ruined Trudy’s chance of happiness? Of course she didn’t. What the fuck did Suzy know? Consigning someone to the realms of on-line dating and desperate flirting at office socials? Not a pigging clue about that have you? Too young, too thin, too bloody pretty to know any better.
“Enjoy it while it lasts honey. In another ten years you’ll be older, fatter and plainer.” The wind didn’t take it all away this time and a couple going inside glanced warily at her.
Now was the time. She pushed the door open and marched in. The air inside was thick with the aroma of pasta and sauce reminding her of how hungry she was despite her mission. The place was busy even for mid-week, filled with conversation and the chinking of cutlery and glasses. She had time to see that nothing had changed; a cock-eyed Sophia Loren in a big red hat rendered by some struggling artist (possibly aged twelve and a half) still stared at her from behind the maître-d’s station, the fake beams were still hung with fake vine leaves, the same tables were candlelit by the same wax-spattered Chianti bottles.
Negotiating her way past the loaded dessert trolley in the aisle, she kept on the blind side of Miss Perfect.
She’d rehearsed this soundlessly in her head as she stared out of the train window in the mornings or unseeing at the television in the evenings. She would be calm and give her a smile, then she’d quietly demand to know what sort of person would steal someone else’s true love, how such a person could live with themselves after doing that, whether the guilt would keep that person awake at night. Then she’d call her a fucking bitch and be done with it.
She strode up to the table, and took a breath.
“Enjoying your wine Suzy? Stood you up has he?” she said loudly
Suzy turned round, glass in hand, eyebrows raised.
“Excuse me? My name’s not Suzy.”
“Ah.” Trudy replied, spinning on her heel “Carry on.”
Under her breath she called her a fucking bitch anyway for good measure.

Dear Mavis...

2010-09-25T11:14:00.000-07:00

Dear Mavis…

Noted film critic, screenwriter, serial-knitter and sexual deviant Mavis Butterscrape solves your film-related queries & personal problems
***********************************************************
David Addison of Crouch End writes…

Hi Mavis
Do you think Bruce Willis is actually too old to be an action hero but everyone is too scared to tell him?

Mavis says…
Ah, Bruce, what a lovely dear, dear man. Few people know how much he relied on me in those early days. “Die Hard” was originally going to be “Fry Lard” a gritty drama-documentary about a northern fish & chip shop owner before I intervened. It was me that made him wear one of the late Mr Butterscrape’s vests throughout 100 minutes of cinema as a forfeit from a late night game of strip poker. But to answer your question sweetie; No. Bruce is still as believable as ever in the hero’s role. Who can forget him as the tough detective in “The Last Boy Scout”, the tough gangster in “Last Man Standing” or the tough astronaut in “Armageddon”. Such versatility! He’ll always be with us; just like Heath Ledger would have been if I hadn’t lent him those pills for my rheumatics to help his back.

Samuel Smythe of Purley emails…
Dear Mavis,
I very much enjoyed going to see “Meet the Spartans” at the cinema and…

Mavis says…
Can I just stop you there dear? No advice to give, I just wanted to stop you. Thanks.

Sarah Gumm of Shanklin, Isle of Wight writes…
Dear Mavis
I just wanted to write and say how much I enjoyed “Star Wars” which came out at my local cinema last week. Some people were frightened by the flickering lights on the screen (or the magic picture as we call it) and ran screaming into the sea, but those of us that stayed had a lovely time. With your insider connections do you think it’s too much to hope that they’ll make a great sequel to it?

Mavis says…
Yes dear, I think it is.

George Dinkle of Aberystwyth crayons…
Hello Mavis
The worst film I ever saw was “Vanilla Sky”. A film about row upon row of people staring blankly for an hour and a half with loads of talking in the background. Occasionally one of them would walk out and come back with popcorn but that was all the action there was. Rubbish! There should be a law against Tom Cruise being in movies. I didn’t even recognise him in this one, the little weirdo.

Mavis says…
Are you sure you weren’t facing the wrong way at the cinema dear? There is actually a very well-enforced law that prevents him being in movies unless his character is laughably arrogant, which I think works very nicely.

Marvin Fidgely of Milton Keynes types…
Dear Mavis
This month I attended “Swedish week” at my local cinema with high hopes, especially as films by the noted erotic director Ingmar Bigman were being exhibited. Imagine my dismay when, not only did that turn out to be a mis-print, but I had to sit through the whole of “The Seventh Seal” in my mac. If it wasn’t for my slight chain-mail fetish it would have been a wasted evening. If the BFFC rated all films with a simple percentage to show the average ratio of clothed vs. naked flesh then I wouldn’t have been put in this embarrassing position.

Mavis says…
I agree with you totally dear. If they’d have made the effort I wouldn’t have taken my aged mother to see “Schindler’s Fist”. I should have known something was up when it was in colour; mainly pink as I recall. Mind you “Hayley Potter and the Philosopher’s Bone” was a nice surprise.

Biting Satire

2010-05-12T15:06:00.000-07:00

Greetings all. I’m not much of a satirist but the case of Paul Chambers really got my goat. And I don't even own a goat. There but for the grace of god, I thought, go me & a lot of other people.

News story here: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/twitter-joke-led-to-terror-act-arrest-and-airport-life-ban-1870913.html
Expert Legal Opinion here: http://jackofkent.blogspot.com/2010/05/paul-chambers-disgraceful-and-illiberal.html

Anyway, by strange coincidence I was poking around in the Home Office when I saw a letter on that very subject & nicked it to show you all. And by “all” I mean the three people who might read this.

Dear the Head of the Crown Prosecution Service,

Hello, I’m Theresa, and I’m the new Home Secretary.
Firstly, thanks for the thought about making Hashtags a Class-A controlled substance; good to see you have your finger on the pulse!
As you know there’s been a bit of a hoo-hah this week about you prosecuting a man for making a joke on Twitter and then the judge finding him guilty of sending a menacing communication.
I’m sending some proposals to the press. Have a read of them can you & let me know what you think? I’ve kept the language simple as I know you don’t always “get” this sort of stuff.

Dear Newspaper Editor
Problem
The case of Paul Chambers this week has brought an age-old dilemma into sharp focus. When is a joke a harmless piece of tomfoolery and when is it a threat to our security?
In the aftermath of 9-11 a lot of things changed. Anyone who thinks that they can make jokes in the same manner as in the carefree days when the free world was kept safe under the heel of a benevolent British Empire, is sadly deluded. The terrorists are deadly serious, so we must be twice as serious as that if we are to combat their ever-present threat.
I appreciate that a minority of people have a need for levity and in a democratic society like ours we shouldn’t demonise them with names or labels. But if these slackers want to play the fool they must recognise that it is their responsibility to be careful with their humorous japes, so that they don’t trigger security alerts or upset anyone.
The menace is not from the jokes themselves as Des O’Connor has proved. The very real problem is the incorrect use of jokes by unqualified people.
Humour, wielded incorrectly, can be a dangerous thing and dangerous things cannot be allowed to remain in the hands of the general public without legislation and control.
Solution
I propose to introduce a Comedy Licensing Scheme. Anyone who considers him or herself a Comedian will need to apply for such a licence. Once the Comedian and their immediate family have passed the police background checks, then they will be allowed to ply their trade. There will also be provision to issue temporary licences such as may be required for someone needing to make a best man’s speech or who will be going with friends to the pub and feels the need to amuse them.
But where, I hear you cry, should this trade in foolishness by plied?
The internet, to which literally thousands of people have uncontrolled access, is no place for something as potentially dangerous and offensive as a joke.
Suitable premises will thus also need to be licensed. Within these premises, jokes can be told by licensed Comedians on the understanding that their audience is fully aware that they are listening to humour and not to terrorist threats and so should not get all alarmed and what not.
Amnesty
Obviously, in recent years the illusion of freedom that has been fostered by the internet has tempted a lot of people to express opinions in the form of sarcasm, puns and other such flippancy. We do not wish to prosecute innocent people, no, seriously, we don’t, stop laughing.
There will thus be an amnesty period so that people can hand in any Tweets, Facebook status updates, Blog posts or seaside postcards which they may have allowed into the public arena but which now they realise were in poor taste and that they should be utterly ashamed of.
Don’t let them win!
The Comedy Licensing Scheme is necessary but one thing is still paramount. We mustn’t let the terrorists win, and we can only do that by not letting them change our way of life.

Lots of love

Theresa

P.S. Thanks for all that money you gave us. David sends hugs.

What do you think Head of the CPS? If the press give me permission then I’ll let Parliament have a vote on it, so watch this space!

Short Story: The Man in the Dark Suit

2010-03-27T14:48:00.000-07:00

Still sitting in his armchair, Dave bent over and lifted the box from the floor to his lap. The cardboard was dusty; the brown packing tape that had once sealed the lid had aged and withered, allowing it to half open. He could see a dark piece of the material from the clothes that he’d hastily stuffed in there all those years ago. He opened the lid fully and began to carefully pull them out and pile them on the arm of his chair.
He paused at his task, head cocked to one side. A noise? The familiar sound of the floorboard in the hall creaking under a foot. Loud in an otherwise silent house and very familiar. During the daytime you could jump on it wearing roller skates and it might emit a squeak. At night if you touched it with your sock it would creak like the front door of Castle Dracula. Was Holly up? If she was then she was moving like a ninja. Normally she couldn’t get out of her bed without her little feet thumping on her bedroom floor and likewise down the stairs. Nothing more, no stealthy footsteps, no small voice whispering “Daddy” in Holly’s conspiratorial way as if her and him both being out of bed was a big secret. He sat there for a while pondering…
Still he didn’t move, staring at the half open door and the darkness of the hallway beyond. He became aware he was holding his breath although his heart wasn’t thumping in any sort of alarm. He let it out silently and waited some more. Something had made that floorboard creak and he was damn well going to wait quietly until he found out what. Nothing was going to tell him though. Now that he was listening he could hear all the sounds the world made when no one was paying attention. Outside the very faint rumble of traffic from the motorway a mile distant, the muffled sound of next door’s television, the clunk of the fridge as it made some more ice, the knock of a radiator pipe expanding, the ticks of the door hinge. the door hinge christ the door was opening why was the door opening? The lounge door opened and stayed open. It took maybe two seconds from half open to full and all he could hear was the shush of the carpet as the bottom of the door brushed past it
If he’d been sitting quietly before, he was a study in paralysis now. Apart from his heart beating nineteen to the dozen he was motionless. what the hell was that what the hell was that what the hell was that jesus christ.
Nothing came in the door. He didn’t get any tingling, didn’t suddenly see his breath plume in icy air. Everything was the same as it ever was. Except the door had opened and nothing had done it.
He waited for events to transpire. The house resumed its quiet conversations. Across from him and to the right was the sofa. he’s on the sofa the sofa he’s on the sofa. Once a shining example of what nothing to pay until April 1st could get you. Now after a few years of pummelling and drinks spillage it was a saggy blue heap. It wasn’t in his field of vision, staring as he was at the door, but he suddenly knew there was a dead man sitting on it. His stomach plunged downwards. His eyes widened and swivelled around. He could just get the edge of the sofa into his peripheral vision. If he wanted to see properly he’d have to turn his head. But moving anything would give his position away in the ethereal game of hide and seek. With his eyes at their furthest traverse he could see a leg in a pair of dark suit trousers and a white hand resting on a knee. Then the hand moved and millennia of hunter-gatherer instinct snapped his head round to follow it. Like a flash photo he saw the man fully. Suit jacket spilled out across the sofa, leaning forward slightly, head turned to look at him, jaw tilted upwards. The hand was no longer on the knee, it was pointed at him in accusation. All that came to him later, all that he was really aware of was that he had no eyes. oh sweet jesus christ it’s him it’s him he has no fucking eyes. Where there should have been whites, corneas, eyelids there was only darkness.
And then he was gone and Dave was alone again. His breath whooshed into his lungs and, still motionless, he sat staring into space, eyes wide, mouth agape, fists tight clenched. Then he was bolting for the downstairs toilet to lose his dinner.

Short Story: Repeater

2009-12-18T14:04:00.000-08:00

He was falling. There was a drumming noise, then a louder thump and he jerked upright. His hands swerved the car back out away from the hard shoulder. That had been a bit close for comfort! He grinned and shook his head. Another war story to tell the guys. The BMW swept on along the M4 heading for Reading and all points west.
He glanced sideways but Jane slept on, head propped against the passenger window. He also stole a quick glance at the back seat but in the darkness he could only see the grey smudge of Colin’s face as he snuggled against his little sister. If only they’d get on so nicely with each other when they were awake. Charlotte was three and he was eight, just at an age when “girls are stupid!”. She doted on her big brother who tolerated her sometimes and got her to steal biscuits for him. One time she…he was drifting again. He shook his head more forcefully and took a hand off the wheel to massage some life into his eyes.
It struck him that all the cars in front had pulled away from him. As he looked ahead the last set of red rear lights in the distance winked out and was gone. He glanced at the speedo, ah, he was only doing sixty. That would explain it; everyone else was racing to get to where they were going. No one did less than seventy when the road was clear. Except drunks and people who were really tired! He put his foot down a little, he’d be as tired at sixty as at seventy, but at least he’d get to Jane’s mum’s a bit sooner and be able to have a rest. Not that he’d get much rest between putting the kids to bed and suffering his mother-in-law’s fatuous questions on how the job was going, how was the garden, how Jane seems tired blah blah blah. He’d probably fake a headache and go to bed early, sleeping on that bloody concertina of a pull-out double bed. What a joy to look forward to.
Tired, tired, tired…he really should pull over and ask Jane to drive. But that would mean stopping the car and admitting defeat. He’d said generously that he’d drive them to her mum’s and dismissed her suggestion of breaking up the journey. If she got the kids ready and fed he’d come home from work, have a quick shower and they could go straight away. A clear demarcation of roles; him the provider and driver, she the mother and packer. Just as it should be – ha ha.
Hence it was past 10pm and he was dog-tired in charge of a motor vehicle. The motorway looked like the road in one of those old arcade games, where you had to steer the car left and right. The plastic car was static while the road rolled on a belt underneath it, twisting this way and that. He smiled at the memory; summer holidays on the South Coast, his mum admonishing him not to waste all his time on the machines, his dad winking and slipping him a few 10 pence pieces. He remembered the dim interior of the arcade, spotted with coloured lights, the wall of noise from fruit machines paying out, bells dinging, the crackle of fake machine-gun fire & the roar of fake engines. Stepping into the cool from the baking hot seafront pavement to…again the falling sensation and again he snapped his head up, as adrenalin coursed through his bloodstream.
He noticed that there were no cars behind him either, couldn’t see any lights in the mirror at all. He looked at the speedo again. It showed seventy. He must have pulled ahead of the cars behind but not enough to catch up with those in front yet. To give himself something to focus on, he played with the fog lights to see how they looked, then tried to see them lighting up the road behind him but couldn’t. He moved the dial that adjusted the angle of the headlights and watched the beams slowly rise and fall as the white lines rushed beneath them.
He turned the stereo on softly and adjusted the balance forwards so that the rear speakers didn’t wake the kids. He cursed himself for taking the CD magazine out of the boot & into the house to reload it but forgetting to put it back in again before they left. So now he only had the radio. Reception was terrible. He had to turn it up to hear anything and then when he did there was a crackle of static and he quickly flipped it back down again so as not to wake anyone. Because he was well outside London all the presets gave him was hiss so he manually clicked up through the FM frequencies searching for something to keep him awake. He got a couple of snippets of traffic news about traffic delays, an accident and lanes closed but didn’t hear which motorway was affected before it broke up into static.
The dashboard clock glowed 10:30pm. He liked that green glow, liked everything about the BMW actually, the comfy seats, the way the engine sounded so smooth but roared with controlled power. The fact that it was a BMW and not a Ford. It’d been the first thing he’d bought when he’d got the promotion to Area Manager. Joan (had he thought Joan? Who was Joan? Jane you fool!) had said to take the Ford they’d offered and spend the money saved on the house, but screw that. He was the one earning that money and he had to drive around to do it. He bloody well wasn’t going to do it in a Ford Fiesta. The little surge of anger kept him alert and he remembered the argument about new bathroom versus new 3 series. He’d had to buy a few bunches of flowers to get him out of that hole. But it was worth it wasn’t it? This was a great car. It said something about you, about who you were in the world. He remembered the first time he’d driven it down the road to their house, fresh from the showroom…Huh! This time he gasped aloud as he bolted awake and kept the car on the straight and narrow.
He drummed the steering wheel and wondered how far it was to the next junction, surely not too long now. Ah, and here was a junction. It appeared out of the night, sodium lamps gleaming overhead like a landing spaceship, everything orange. Orange and still. Not a car in sight. Not on the sliproads, not on the flyovers.
The lamps passed overhead and he was through the glare into the darkness beyond. Tiredness swept over him again and he felt his eyelids getting heavy. Maybe he should wake Joan after all. Instead he opened the window a crack to get some fresh air, but closed it quickly because of the wind noise. He tried pinching his leg which hurt, but not enough to prevent his thoughts drifting to when he was playing cricket last season and got hit in the thigh by a leg break that had turned more than he’d expected. Now that had hurt! He’d had a dead leg for ages and the bruise had been all shades from yellow to purple. Charlotte and Callum had been fascinated (Callum? Colin! Hah.) and kept asking how much it hurt and wanted to prod it, while Daddy called out in mock pain….His head fell forwards again and properly scared him. Wow – his heart was beating fast. Surely that was enough to keep him going? If he could only get to the Bristol junction then he’d be off the motorway, and there’d be roundabouts and traffic lights and other exciting stuff to keep him awake.
He could also casually pull into a garage & get a coffee or something. All garages were effectively rubbish coffee shops come convenience stores these days weren’t they? Even this far out of London that should hold true shouldn’t it?
Now hang on, weren’t there some services along here anyway? He gazed ahead expectantly. Come on….must be somewhere. The gods were smiling on him, here came a sign. “Services 6m”. Six miles, 70 mph that was….he tried to do the maths in his head, well, slightly less that six minutes. No problem.
He reached across to Jane and squeezed her arm. “Hey hon, I’m going to stop for the loo and a coffee”. But she was so deeply asleep she didn’t respond.
Six minutes took ages and he was feeling leaden again when the 1 mile warning sign went past. There was a sheep-shaped helium balloon tied to it. Ha ha – just like Jeff had done for Greg’s stag do. Every meeting point and landmark had had a sheep balloon attached to it. That had been some weekend. The turn off appeared, illuminated in orange and with an attractive pile of dustbin liner bags strewn by the side of it. Something furry lay in the sliproad, but he went over it too quickly to see.
He indicated (to no one) and pulled off, following the car park signs. Oh for crying out loud! No cars, no lights. The place was deserted. It was bloody closed! Was it not 24 hours then? Or were they renovating it or something? Didn’t they normally put signs up for that sort of thing? Bloody hell. No flipping coffee. Flipping hah! He had used to swear like a trooper, but the kids had put paid to that. He had converted most of the bad words into less satisfying equivalents. Flipping. Sugar. Holymoly. His favourite was Count.
He drove slowly through the empty car park, his headlights reflecting in the blacked-out sheet glass at the front of the building, where by all rights there should be clean toilets and hot coffee. Well anyway, he was here – he could at least stretch his legs.
Stopping the car, he reached up and moved the switch of the overhead light so it wouldn’t come on when he opened the door. Switching the headlights down to sidelights he left the engine running as he quietly opened the door and stepped out. He only half shut it behind him, afraid that the clunk might wake Jane or the kids.
The night air was cold & fresh after the warmth of the car and his breath plumed around him. He breathed deeply, rubbed his eyes and looked up. Above him the streetlights were dead and beyond them stars dotted the sky. They never saw stars back in London, too much light pollution, but as a boy his dad and taught him most of the constellations. He stared upwards for a few seconds searching for the Plough and the Pole Star, but he was out of practice and nothing looked familiar. He looked around him instead. The car parking area, divided neatly by white lines & concrete bumpers contained no cars. Grassy banks, small trees and woodchip flower beds all in night-time shades of black, separated the services from the surrounding countryside. The petrol station, over towards the exit, was a dark unlit hulk. The motorway beyond it was an orange fuzz in the sky. He walked across the pavement to the doors of the services. His reflection, a tall, pale man in suit jacket & trousers approached him until they met and he cupped his hands to his face and looked through the glass doors.
Inside…well inside there was nothing. He could see only darkness. Emptiness. No shops, no displays, no signs. The building was just a shell. He’d been right – they must be doing some serious renovations. You’d have thought with that kind of effort going into it that they’d have marked up the road signs to let people know. He walked round the side of the building out of sight of the car. There was traffic noise, like a rushing wind, but it was distant. They must have closed the motorway or something, there was no way it would normally be like this. Anyway… he glanced around once more then unzipped his fly and had a pee on the dark grass next to the paving. The sound as it puddled in the earth was unnaturally loud in the quiet night and he sprayed it around to keep the noise down. He finished up, and stood for a moment longer looking out at the trees at the back of the service area silhouetted against the marginally lighter sky. Was the traffic noise coming from that direction? It was hard to tell. It sounded like it was in the direction of the motorway, but it must be from another road. Weird.
Oh well, whatever. He turned and walked back to the car, idling quietly by the kerb. That was one good-looking car. He rarely got the chance to stand outside and admire it, he was always on the inside or walking to and from it in a hurry. In the darkness its red paint looked black & glossy. The sidelights stopped him seeing whether Jane was awake or not. He held his hand up to block them, looking over the top of it. For a second it was as if she wasn’t there at all, then he could make out her shape in the passenger seat.
He eased himself back into the car and checked everyone was still asleep. Colin and Charlotte were leaning against each other, half out of their car seats, dead to the world. Jane was leant against the passenger window, head turned away from him. He pulled away, following the exit signs past the deserted petrol station and out onto the motorway. No need to accelerate fast to get back onto it as it was still empty. Jane slept on, the road unrolled before him out of the dark, he switched the radio back on. Static, but he hit the auto-scan button and it diligently searched through the frequencies for him. It paused every now and again when it found a station but only got snippets of poor reception and so continued scanning. They all seemed to be eighties stations that it caught & then lost, which was a shame – most of his favourite songs came out of the eighties, when he’d been a teenager copping off with girls, trying to get into pubs and clubs with his mates. What a crack that had all been, all soundtracked by the likes of Frankie, Depeche Mode & Bronski Beat. You didn’t get stuff as good as that anymore. Mind you he didn’t have a life as good as that anymore! Tied down with job, wife and kids. The chances of going out, getting lashed & chatting up totty were non-existent. Plus all his mates were in the same boat, so if he did have a chance he’d be on his own.
The tuner found another couple of possibles, one was even playing Depeche Mode but none were strong enough signals for it to stick with them. Then it stopped, catching a plummy voiced announcer in mid-sentence “…has been closed in both directions following a serious accident. Police don’t expect the carriageways to be re-opened for several hours. Traffic is being diverted at all junctions and tailbacks are reaching…” the static cut back in suddenly & he turned it down.
Well that explained everything. The cars ahead of him had all sped away while he’d been parked at the services, those behind were caught up behind the accident. Jen slept on next to him, oblivious to all the drama. Colin was quiet in the back, which was a relief. When he got going they could really drive him mad. It was like the little pest knew that while he was driving he was immune to the consequences of his actions.
Once or twice he had punished him for his misbehaviour after the fact, smacking his butt and making sure he knew who was the boss. Sparing the rod did indeed spoil the child in his opinion. Not that you were allowed to beat kids with rods! The flat of the hand did fine. But despite Colin’s tears and pleas at the time of the spanking, he knew that he’d forget it the next time there was the opportunity to play up. Joan was never any help with discipline, it was always up to him to be the bad guy, while she made apologies for daddy being so cross. Christ, he only got cross because of Colin’s behaviour! But try explaining that to a hysterical five year old. Joan was on about having another child, but he was resisting. One was trouble enough.
The road continued to unwind & tiredness crept over him again. It was all that there was, the tarmac, the white lines streaking underneath the car. For a moment it was as if he was completely alone in the car. He looked straight ahead & Jen wasn’t in his periphery vision at all. Then he turned his head to look and of course, there she was. He reached behind him into the back seat and felt the blanket that Connor was wrapped in and his bony little knee underneath it. He smiled and relaxed a bit – getting jumpy.
He was dimly aware that the radio was clear again and he increased the volume to listen to Level 42. Another favourite. It must be 80’s night out here in the sticks. Another junction passed by and then there was another 6 miles to the services sign. He nudged Jane & asked if she wanted to stop. No reply still, she really was out of it.
The 1 mile sign had a sheep balloon attached to it. A frown creased his face and he slowed right down as he passed the slip road exit. The same pile of dustbin liners sat near the turn. He stared open-mouthed out the passenger window; the furry lump in the road turned out to be a rabbit. He felt the blood drain from his face.
No, no, no. This was silly. He’d had a long day, he was tired and out of sorts. It just looked the same. They all looked the same anyway. It couldn’t be more then half an hour and he’d be at the hotel & could get a decent night’s sleep before the conference started. He patted the briefcase on the seat next to him like a talisman.
He was falling. There was a drumming noise, then a louder thump and he jerked upright. His hands swerved the car back out away from the hard shoulder. That had been a bit close for comfort! He grinned and shook his head. Another war story to tell the guys. The BMW swept on along the M4 heading for Reading and all points west.

A Trip to the Park

2009-11-17T15:33:00.000-08:00

I wanted to capture this little moment in my life. It’s nothing really. A trip to the park with the kids, but it was simple and it was fun. Laugh out loud fun, and I can never get enough of that. I always feel “these days” like I’m wound tight inside. Tensed up. Kind of like a firework with the fuse lit. Waiting for something to set me off. Little things like the moments in the park kind of set me back to zero. So that screws up my firework metaphor; it’ll have to be a timebomb. No because that counts down to zero. Alright, alright I’m a strain gauge. It’s an engineering thing. Bit of wire, the more it is stretched, thinner it gets, higher resistance to current, blah blah. High number bad, low number good. I hope you’ve got that. Sorry to take so long. Frankly if you’re still with me at this point I feel a close affection for you. Perhaps we should hold hands.
It was a Sunday, the day after the “worst storms of the year” had lashed Southern England. I can’t remember who woke up first. Probably Jasmine, who is five nearly six. She’s normally up at 7-ish. After years of conditioning (thanks kids) I am up at that time too. So we normally end up in our dressing gowns on the sofa watching Tom & Jerry. Jasmine has Special K for breakfast (“with sugar!”) and so do I (“did you remember to put sugar on mine daddy?” “Yes, lots”) and we munch away. Tom & Jerry gives way to Scooby Doo.
At some point Jen comes downstairs. Jen has toast with butter.
Scooby Doo gives way to Spongebob. We watch television, we drink some tea. They have Sheepy (a stuffed sheep with big eyes that their aunt gave them) on the rug and give him a haircut. It’s not his first and he is nearly bald. All their soft toys are named after a pattern. Sheepy, you’ve met. There is also Sealy, Penguiny, Rabbity & others. I try to keep the kids quiet so as not to wake their mother. I am at the computer, laughing at Twitter & pretending the people on it are my friends. Then I notice that the sun has come out. It is a nice day.
“Shall we go to the park” say I? “What a good idea Daddy” says Jen, all grown up.
So we get dressed, I get a towel (to wipe the rain off the swings). Mum is unavoidably woken up by this process, but it’s after 10 so my work there is done anyway. Mum gets a glass of juice (I get Jasmine to get it for her – bless). And then there is much sister to sister discussion about bringing Sheepy along. Other lesser “–y” animals will also attend. I make it clear that I am not carrying any of them even if they get tired – I have been there before. Sheepy is placed in his own rucsac with other animals in pockets.
How shall we get there? Roller blades are currently their favoured form of transport. They can both ride bikes, but mostly its skates. Fine by me.
After about 40 minutes of preparations they are ready. Normally I’d be saying “Come On!” a lot. But no hurry today. I am all sweetness & light.
Off we go. I have money & phone & kids. I am loaded for bear. It is a lovely day. The sunshine is making all the wet surfaces sparkly. Jen shoots off on her skates, Jasmine, less confident, holds my hand. Me & her run down the hill after Jen. There is giggling.
We stop at the newsagents. I was thinking about getting a newspaper to read at the park, but I don’t. One because I won’t have time to read it and Two because the news always depresses me or makes me cross. @StephenFry said he hadn’t read a newspaper in years. And if it is good enough for him… So no paper. I buy a Mars bar, king of sweets, for me and a Froggit chocolate bar each for the kids. I would let them choose and/or buy with their own money, but if I did we wouldn’t get out of the shop before dark. So I buy the sweets and then give them the bum’s rush out the door. Jasmine is cross because I didn’t let her choose. She does her trick of saying “I don’t want to go”. But she has skates on and when I pull she has to come Muh-ha-ha. She snaps out of it (phew…) and we continue onwards.
On the cul-de-sac to the park they hang on to my hands and I run down the road towing them. There is giggling.
The park is a acre or so of flat grass, with a tennis court at one end and a small play area at the other. They change out of skates into shoes. The play area is ours. No other parents have noticed the sunshine perhaps. Or they think it too wet still. I, however, know where my towel is. Jasmine uses it to clean off the roundabout. It is a metal, green about 4 foot across with 4 seats on it. It is mean & vicious.
If I go on it, after about three revolutions I am ready to vomit. Jennifer and Jasmine cannot go fast enough. I spin them & they hang on. I go to sit on the bench and eat my Mars. Jennifer gets off and then tries to get back on and gets belted in the ear by one of the seat handles. There, there, you’ll be fine. I complain that she is getting my t-shirt wet & there is giggling.
The best thing I the park is the “swing”. I say “swing” in apostrophes. It is a 4 foot diameter rope basket suspended by a chains from a universal joint. Two big orange metal struts rise from the ground and arch over into a V shape and it is from these that the swing is suspended. Multiple children can lie in the basket or stand in it & hang on to the chains. It can swing and spin any which way whoever is pushing it chooses. So it is me doing the pushing. Jen lies down, Jasmine who is crazy, stands up. I push and spin them. There is giggling. I am allowed about a thirty second break every now and again before the “Da-a-d!” cry goes up and I need to push again. There is a lot of butt-wiggling from Jasmine in a “you can’t smack me!” vein. I do my best to smack her butt. There is much giggling. My kids know no fear and we try and swing the basket hard enough to touch the struts. It gets to a few inches away, enough to worry Jen, who has her face hanging over the basket. Jasmine lies down too and I’m launching them with more G than a shuttle mission. At one point I thought we were going to do it. The rim of the basket (luckily not the bit with Jen’s face hanging over it) must have been inches away. We’re all laughing fit to burst in a surviving a near-death experience way.
Then mum turns up with news that we all need to be at the pub at mid-day for a friends birthday lunch. This is not bad news as friend has kids for ours to play with, but it sounds the death knell for our swing basket experiments. Mum goes off to meet the friend and we dial it down.
I point out to them that this is November & yet it is warm. The sky is a deep cornflower blue with a few cirrus clouds. I point this out to them too. They are non-plussed by nature’s beauty as only the under-tens can be. One more go on the killer roundabout. They stand hanging on to the post in the middle this time. I spin it like I’m told. It is fast. Jasmine loses her grip and flies off the edge. Gets a decent graze on her tummy and extra points for the best injury of the day. There there etc. soon forgotten.
So there you have it, a little slice of my life captured for me to look back in years to come and get nostalgic about. If you read this far then you’re probably related to me. I’d like a Playstation for Xmas please.

Short Story: Marking Time

2009-11-10T12:56:00.000-08:00

“Your go Cyril.” prompted Harry. Cyril looked a moment longer at the dominos cupped in his hand, then placed his double. His unsteady fingers knocked Alf’s five and three.
“Sorry” he said “Must be getting on.”
“It comes to us all” grinned Harry, chattering his own domino onto the table, his hand jittering artificially.
“They have tablets for that.” said Alf and they broke into laughter.
In the highbacked chair in the corner Reg stirred in his sleep and moaned aloud, making the other three glance over and quieten down.
“There but for the grace of god…” muttered Harry, nodding at Reg’s slumped form.
“Hope not” said Alf “I’d prefer just to go quick.”
“He’s alright.” chided Cyril “Much better lately.”
“If you say so.” Alf replied. “He was making a lot of noise last night.”
“He’s alright.” repeated Cyril. Reg was his friend and he worried about him.
The three players sat in mismatched armchairs around the dilapidated card table, their dominos making an erratic path across the moth-eaten green baize. The living room itself had also seen better days. Even with the windows open in high summer it smelt vaguely of boiled cabbage, as if their meals had impregnated the place. The rug by the empty fireplace was worn flat by the passage of feet and years. The walls were painted an institutional green at the bottom and dull beige at the top. Nonetheless the bay window overlooked a country road, woods and green fields. They liked the view. All that green. It was the best thing about the place. The only decoration on the walls was a framed painting showing a farmhouse in deep winter. It always reminded Cyril of growing up on the farm in Sussex. He rubbed his tired eyes, thinking of the mornings of his childhood; leaving his warm bed before dawn to do his chores, his hands getting cold sweeping the freezing yard.
His hands were cold now, despite the heat of the summer. He turned his dominos onto the table and kneaded one hand with the other.
“I feel like an old man.”
“We are old men you fool.” replied Harry irritably, “Bunch of bloody children round here compared to us fogies.”
“Yes, but...” Cyril persisted, “I’m an old man in a world that’s getting younger.” They looked blankly at him. “See what I mean?”
“I’ve got no idea what you mean ‘old man’ !” said Harry.
“Alright” Cyril turned towards Alf, “I mean… when was the first time you saw a motor car?”
“I must’ve been twenty-two?” said Alf.
“Right. And now they’re everywhere.”
“Yeah? So what’s your point?” said Harry.
“Nothing. That things move and we stay the same. You don’t notice and then suddenly everyone’s younger than you… like the lads who rolled up with the dinner. No idea what we’ve seen, what we’ve done. To them we’re just old lags.”
“Suddenly is right. They roll up and we roll over.” Harry agreed, soberly.
Cyril went on, “I’m sure they laugh at me when my back is turned. Just another old geezer losing his marbles.”
“We had no running water at our house” Alf offered.
“Ha! We had indoor plumbing!” said Harry.
“So why are you slumming it with us now Mister High and Mighty?” said Cyril.
“Just ‘cos I’m heir to the Russian throne, don’t mean I can’t still be mates with you commoners.” Harry deadpanned.
“Idiot!” laughed Alf. We ain’t your mates, we just want your money. Come on Cyril!”
Cyril laid and the game continued. Distracted, he played a while longer then said, “And another thing. When I was a lad, women were wives and mothers. Now they’re out at work, they’re all political, and no one’s happy. I don’t like that.”
“Bit late for you to do anything about that isn’t it mate.” said Harry “You’re stuck here for the foreseeable future. Or ‘til you pop your clogs.”
A whistle blowing outside interrupted him.
“ ’Bout time” said Harry and as one they rose from the table. Alf swept the dominos into their box and stuffed it into his pack. Cyril carefully woke Reg and they all shrugged into their kit. As they tramped out into the bright courtyard, now filling with men and waiting trucks, Harry clapped Cyril on the shoulder. “Tell you what pal, if we’re off up near Ypres again you won’t need to worry about getting much older.”

First Post

2009-11-06T14:16:00.000-08:00

This is the first post in my blog. This is the one where people write, what shall I write? They probably express their hopes and fears for the future too. I'll do that later. This is more like a test.