They had grown up on opposite sides of the street.
Billy was a tough kid; always bruised or bleeding; forever up a tree or down a manhole. He couldn't walk to school without some adventure befalling him on the way. He was never on time, always dishevelled and permanently cheerful.
Sam was quiet. He wore glasses, always fastened the top button of his shirt, stopped and knelt in the street to straighten his socks. He didn't have many friends, spent most of his time inside and his favourite location was up to his eyebrows in a book, preferably an encyclopaedia.
No-one would have dreamed they'd become friends. But they did. In the most surprising of ways.
Billy was surrounded. The boys encircling him were big, mean, angry. Whatever it was he had done to upset them he was not about to get away with.
As Sam approached, his legs jelly and his heart pounding - threatening to burst out of his chest - pushing his specs up his nose; they had started to laugh. Sam had gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. With steely gaze and gritty determination, he had walked straight past them and around the side of Billy's house. The sniggering petered out to be replaced by noises of confusion and disbelief, and then more snorting and giggling.
Suddenly, with a war-cry nobody could fathom, Sam careered round the corner, garden hose in hand, shooting a violent jet of water into the midst of the throng. They had never moved so fast and in minutes the gang had dispersed, leaving only a very sodden Billy curled up on the floor in fits of hysterical belly laughter.
Sam never walked home alone again. And Billy was (generally) on time. A mis-matched pair if ever there was one; their friendship was cement.
Friday 29 August 2008
A Gift
It wasn't so much the disappointment that floored her. It was the total lack of awareness. How? How was it possible to spend - no - throw away so much money on something so utterly uncoveted?
Shoes. I mean, really. Who buys anyone else shoes? It's a little like buying underwear for someone other than yourself - pointless, unwinnable, wasteful.
And it was the same every year:
Shoes. I mean, really. Who buys anyone else shoes? It's a little like buying underwear for someone other than yourself - pointless, unwinnable, wasteful.
And it was the same every year:
What would you like darling?
Actually, I've really got into Fine Art lately... Maybe a book about that?
And oh! Look! A t-shirt.
Why bother? Seriously... Why ask in the first place? You put your mind to a helpful answer to have it discarded instantly in favour of... What? Something from the bottom of the 'present cupboard'; an outfit that will make you look twenty years older and at least six months pregnant; a cheese grater?
And the really grating (did you see what I did there?) element in all this is the all-pervading sense of ingratitude you feel on opening the beautifully-wrapped dross; the outrageously flamboyant show you have to put on in order to disguise the fact that you are, once again, bitterly disappointed.
Note to self: I shall never be a mindless purveyor of presents.
Thursday 28 August 2008
On Second Thoughts
It wasn't immediately visible. He extended his neck as far as he could, his eyes screwed up against the glare. The sun bounced its reflection off the water in blinding shards of sprinkled light as the waves lapped gently against the hull of the boat.
They had planned a lazy afternoon in a deserted cove; the sandy beach stretching far beyond the line of sight. Nobody ever came here. Ever.
Which was the problem.
Had she not stumbled against him. Had he not been teasing her, dangling the key over the edge. Had they not collided and giggled and toppled...
If he couldn't find it, they'd have to radio for help. If they radioed for help, there would be one hell of a furore. His future in office would be questionable and her reputation... well... It would be in shreds.
The afternoon delights they had had in mind were forgotten. She was screeching and howling, hurling abuse at him, and he was there, leaning precariously over the edge of the boat, looking for the key.
It occurred to him to query, in that ridiculous and vulnerable position, precisely what it was he had seen in her in the first place. Glancing back over his shoulder at this hysterical harridan, all he saw was a costume and war-paint. There was very little of natural beauty or grace. Everything was studied, polished, veneered, manipulated.
Unbidden, the image of her floating face down in the brine bobbed across his mind's eye to be rapidly dismissed as a luxury he couldn't afford. One thing was for certain: he wouldn't be calling her after today.
He found himself thinking fondly of his wife; something that hadn't happened in an age. She had not matured badly, considering the number of children she had managed to produce, but somehow she had little time for her appearance. Or for him, truth be told. He was surprised to discover he was looking forward to getting home.
And there it was! Glimmering between two rocks at the bottom of the crystal ocean; not too far down; just out of reach. He grasped a net and fished around for it, almost lost it, caught it, brought it to the surface.
Instantly she was smiles and coyness, full of apologies and endearments. It washed off him; left him cold.
Wouldn't it be nice to think he wouldn't do it again...? Wouldn't it?
They had planned a lazy afternoon in a deserted cove; the sandy beach stretching far beyond the line of sight. Nobody ever came here. Ever.
Which was the problem.
Had she not stumbled against him. Had he not been teasing her, dangling the key over the edge. Had they not collided and giggled and toppled...
If he couldn't find it, they'd have to radio for help. If they radioed for help, there would be one hell of a furore. His future in office would be questionable and her reputation... well... It would be in shreds.
The afternoon delights they had had in mind were forgotten. She was screeching and howling, hurling abuse at him, and he was there, leaning precariously over the edge of the boat, looking for the key.
It occurred to him to query, in that ridiculous and vulnerable position, precisely what it was he had seen in her in the first place. Glancing back over his shoulder at this hysterical harridan, all he saw was a costume and war-paint. There was very little of natural beauty or grace. Everything was studied, polished, veneered, manipulated.
Unbidden, the image of her floating face down in the brine bobbed across his mind's eye to be rapidly dismissed as a luxury he couldn't afford. One thing was for certain: he wouldn't be calling her after today.
He found himself thinking fondly of his wife; something that hadn't happened in an age. She had not matured badly, considering the number of children she had managed to produce, but somehow she had little time for her appearance. Or for him, truth be told. He was surprised to discover he was looking forward to getting home.
And there it was! Glimmering between two rocks at the bottom of the crystal ocean; not too far down; just out of reach. He grasped a net and fished around for it, almost lost it, caught it, brought it to the surface.
Instantly she was smiles and coyness, full of apologies and endearments. It washed off him; left him cold.
Wouldn't it be nice to think he wouldn't do it again...? Wouldn't it?
Relief
They checked in separately.
They were far enough from home for it not to matter, but old habits... Their routine had become somewhat calcified.
She stepped into the ancient, creaking lift with her tattered old bag and pushed the button for the third floor. As it whirred into action, she rummaged for a mirror in her handbag, reapplied her lipstick and pinched her wan cheeks into life. Using her wall-length sepia reflection, she bolstered her chest back into position and smoothed her skirt over ageing hips. Her heels were too high, her make-up too garish, her hair too youthful. She ran her tongue over her teeth, hitched on her smile and teetered out of the elevator.
As she followed the numbered arrows screwed onto dated flock wallpaper, her mind settled briefly on the question of her presence here, now. Was it really just habit? Had it become a necessity? What had happened to the urgency? Why did she feel she was carrying out a chore?
She swiped the key-card through its reader and the light switched from red to green. Fleetingly, she remembered the days of big metal keys and over-sized fobs. Patting her hair one last time, she pushed open the door and, with a bounce she didn't feel, trotted chirpily into the bedroom.
He had been there. The bed was crumpled, the window open, the complimentary bottle of water open.
On the pillow was a note, scrawled in pencil on hotel stationery:
"Sorry love. Can't do this any more. It's been fun."
And in the place of a signature:
"We'll always have Bognor...."
They were far enough from home for it not to matter, but old habits... Their routine had become somewhat calcified.
She stepped into the ancient, creaking lift with her tattered old bag and pushed the button for the third floor. As it whirred into action, she rummaged for a mirror in her handbag, reapplied her lipstick and pinched her wan cheeks into life. Using her wall-length sepia reflection, she bolstered her chest back into position and smoothed her skirt over ageing hips. Her heels were too high, her make-up too garish, her hair too youthful. She ran her tongue over her teeth, hitched on her smile and teetered out of the elevator.
As she followed the numbered arrows screwed onto dated flock wallpaper, her mind settled briefly on the question of her presence here, now. Was it really just habit? Had it become a necessity? What had happened to the urgency? Why did she feel she was carrying out a chore?
She swiped the key-card through its reader and the light switched from red to green. Fleetingly, she remembered the days of big metal keys and over-sized fobs. Patting her hair one last time, she pushed open the door and, with a bounce she didn't feel, trotted chirpily into the bedroom.
He had been there. The bed was crumpled, the window open, the complimentary bottle of water open.
On the pillow was a note, scrawled in pencil on hotel stationery:
"Sorry love. Can't do this any more. It's been fun."
And in the place of a signature:
"We'll always have Bognor...."
Wilfulness
"Where has he gone?"
The rising panic in her voice was palpable. Heads turned. Idle curiosity overcame etiquette as people stared openly.
"He was just there! Where has he GONE?"
Her hands were in her hair, pulling at it; her eyes suffused with blind terror. She stood on the promenade, rooted to the spot but the conflict in her body was all too evident. Split down the middle: should she run and search, or stay where he had last seen her? Her face was agony to behold.
As the realisation dawned on those closest to her, people started whispering, pointing. One utterly insensitive man was even heard to pronounce: "Really! She's making a bit of a fuss..." To everyone else, though, the situation was hideously reminiscent of a recent, news-making disappearance. Her name was on all lips.
She had begun to grab the shoulders of passers-by, looking wildly into their faces and beseeching them to recall a sighting. She was gabbling a description: five years old, about so high, blue eyes, sandy hair, stripy shorts...
It must have been about five minutes before a rather bewildered looking small boy was dumped unceremoniously into his mother's grasping, outstretched arms. He had just wanted to get to the paddling pool; where was the harm in that?
She sank to her knees, clutching him to her beaten chest, and sobbed.
I looked around. Not a dry maternal eye in sight. There, but for the Grace of God...
The rising panic in her voice was palpable. Heads turned. Idle curiosity overcame etiquette as people stared openly.
"He was just there! Where has he GONE?"
Her hands were in her hair, pulling at it; her eyes suffused with blind terror. She stood on the promenade, rooted to the spot but the conflict in her body was all too evident. Split down the middle: should she run and search, or stay where he had last seen her? Her face was agony to behold.
As the realisation dawned on those closest to her, people started whispering, pointing. One utterly insensitive man was even heard to pronounce: "Really! She's making a bit of a fuss..." To everyone else, though, the situation was hideously reminiscent of a recent, news-making disappearance. Her name was on all lips.
She had begun to grab the shoulders of passers-by, looking wildly into their faces and beseeching them to recall a sighting. She was gabbling a description: five years old, about so high, blue eyes, sandy hair, stripy shorts...
It must have been about five minutes before a rather bewildered looking small boy was dumped unceremoniously into his mother's grasping, outstretched arms. He had just wanted to get to the paddling pool; where was the harm in that?
She sank to her knees, clutching him to her beaten chest, and sobbed.
I looked around. Not a dry maternal eye in sight. There, but for the Grace of God...
Dejection
She sat on the cold, deserted beach, her legs tucked into her chest, arms folded around them, chin on her knees. The sky was the grey of ancient white laundry and equally crumpled.
Not a soul in sight.
The damp of the sand seeped through her jeans and numbed her, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes, pools of washed-out blue, reflected the churning uneasiness of the disgruntled sea. The gently insistent breeze toyed with loose strands of her hair. Unacknowledged, a tear travelled slowly over the curve of her cheek, through the dip below it and off the sharp edge of her jaw. It disappeared into her sodden sleeve. How long had she been there?
Throughout the morning, dog-walkers came and went; unrecognised, unsaluted. More than once was curious attention cast her way, only to be dismissed again as the next distraction loomed. As midday approached she was once again alone, only the neglected lighthouse on nearby cliffs for company.
She had begun to shiver. It didn't seem to cause her much concern. Not once did her eyes leave the horizon. What was she waiting for?
As the sun began its descent into the sea, she seemed to wake a little from her reverie. She blinked a few times and slowly, painfully, extended her legs along the sand. In a lazy sweep, she stretched out her arms and arched her back, pointing her toes. Awkwardly, unsteadily she raised herself to her feet and shuffled, head bent, out of sight.
Tomorrow?
She would do it all again.
Not a soul in sight.
The damp of the sand seeped through her jeans and numbed her, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes, pools of washed-out blue, reflected the churning uneasiness of the disgruntled sea. The gently insistent breeze toyed with loose strands of her hair. Unacknowledged, a tear travelled slowly over the curve of her cheek, through the dip below it and off the sharp edge of her jaw. It disappeared into her sodden sleeve. How long had she been there?
Throughout the morning, dog-walkers came and went; unrecognised, unsaluted. More than once was curious attention cast her way, only to be dismissed again as the next distraction loomed. As midday approached she was once again alone, only the neglected lighthouse on nearby cliffs for company.
She had begun to shiver. It didn't seem to cause her much concern. Not once did her eyes leave the horizon. What was she waiting for?
As the sun began its descent into the sea, she seemed to wake a little from her reverie. She blinked a few times and slowly, painfully, extended her legs along the sand. In a lazy sweep, she stretched out her arms and arched her back, pointing her toes. Awkwardly, unsteadily she raised herself to her feet and shuffled, head bent, out of sight.
Tomorrow?
She would do it all again.
Wednesday 27 August 2008
Impossible Questions
Do dinosaurs eat metal?
Erm... I suppose, had they been around at the same time, they would probably have had a go. Yes.
How long would it take to get to Mars?
I don't know honey.
A year?
I don't know. Really. I have no idea. Ask your father?
Mum?
Hmmm?
Space is infinite kilometres long, isn't it?
Yes. It is. Oh. Listen. Your father's adding something. Sorry, darling? Ah. He says "and wide, and deep."
If you looked at it, it would go round and round into a circle, wouldn't it?
Erm. Your father says some people believe it's the shape of a figure 8...?
Can I have an egg, a glass of water and some salt?
Oh God. Erm. Not just now. An experiment? Let's try it later.
Mum?
Yes, honey?
Listen to this: Quick is long and long is quick. Do you get it? Do you know what it means?
Sorry baby. I haven't a clue.
Can I have a battery?
What for, sweetheart?
I'm going to make a motor. I just need a battery, some paper, some sellotape, scissors and string.
Darling, I'm not sure that will work.
Can I play Road Burners on the computer? Arthur had nearly an hour yesterday, so I get nearly an hour...
You know, they say the average four year-old asks an average four hundred and sixty-seven questions a day.
In our house, they're usually all before breakfast.
Erm... I suppose, had they been around at the same time, they would probably have had a go. Yes.
How long would it take to get to Mars?
I don't know honey.
A year?
I don't know. Really. I have no idea. Ask your father?
Mum?
Hmmm?
Space is infinite kilometres long, isn't it?
Yes. It is. Oh. Listen. Your father's adding something. Sorry, darling? Ah. He says "and wide, and deep."
If you looked at it, it would go round and round into a circle, wouldn't it?
Erm. Your father says some people believe it's the shape of a figure 8...?
Can I have an egg, a glass of water and some salt?
Oh God. Erm. Not just now. An experiment? Let's try it later.
Mum?
Yes, honey?
Listen to this: Quick is long and long is quick. Do you get it? Do you know what it means?
Sorry baby. I haven't a clue.
Can I have a battery?
What for, sweetheart?
I'm going to make a motor. I just need a battery, some paper, some sellotape, scissors and string.
Darling, I'm not sure that will work.
Can I play Road Burners on the computer? Arthur had nearly an hour yesterday, so I get nearly an hour...
You know, they say the average four year-old asks an average four hundred and sixty-seven questions a day.
In our house, they're usually all before breakfast.
Tuesday 26 August 2008
Judgment Day
Did I get it right, Lord?
I tried so hard to get it right.
I know I didn't speak to you every day, but I've always had a bit of a problem with one-way relationships... I made every effort to hear you. The noise down there was deafening.
Perhaps you could have spoken just a little louder?
I know I didn't adhere to every rule. I did attempt to, but they're awfully strict. It would have taken super-human strength. And I'm just me. I don't do super-human. Sometimes I struggle with human.
Would you have had me do things differently? Were the things I thought right actually wrong? Was I misguided? Misled? Did I abuse your creation? Did I abuse myself?
I found it terribly difficult to relate to those hard-and-fast speeches from people whose lives had little if nothing in common with mine. Even those you call your spokespeople... It was a little like talking at a mirror. It didn't aid my position much.
Would it help to have a new guide-book, do you think? Something a little more modern? A little more helpful to your people down there now? A word or two of encouragement, perhaps? A little less fire-and-brimstone? I did find, during my time down there, that softly-softly was quite an effective approach. Do you think you might give that some thought? Not that I want to teach you to suck eggs, you understand. I just sometimes wonder if you are all that... in touch?
Have I over-stepped the mark? My mouth does tend to run away with me. Sometimes my mind doesn't keep up and I find myself in a bit of a predicament. I certainly wouldn't wish to offend. It's just that, you know, I'm fresh from down there and I do understand a little how it works. Of course, I'm not trying to imply that you don't! It's just... oh dear. You see? I do talk too much.
Shall I just pop through there, then? Is that where you want me? Or... is it towards that waiting-room I'm headed? It is? Oh. OK. Erm... How long do you suppose I'll be waiting?
Ah. Until I ask no more questions? I understand. I'll work on that then.
I tried so hard to get it right.
I know I didn't speak to you every day, but I've always had a bit of a problem with one-way relationships... I made every effort to hear you. The noise down there was deafening.
Perhaps you could have spoken just a little louder?
I know I didn't adhere to every rule. I did attempt to, but they're awfully strict. It would have taken super-human strength. And I'm just me. I don't do super-human. Sometimes I struggle with human.
Would you have had me do things differently? Were the things I thought right actually wrong? Was I misguided? Misled? Did I abuse your creation? Did I abuse myself?
I found it terribly difficult to relate to those hard-and-fast speeches from people whose lives had little if nothing in common with mine. Even those you call your spokespeople... It was a little like talking at a mirror. It didn't aid my position much.
Would it help to have a new guide-book, do you think? Something a little more modern? A little more helpful to your people down there now? A word or two of encouragement, perhaps? A little less fire-and-brimstone? I did find, during my time down there, that softly-softly was quite an effective approach. Do you think you might give that some thought? Not that I want to teach you to suck eggs, you understand. I just sometimes wonder if you are all that... in touch?
Have I over-stepped the mark? My mouth does tend to run away with me. Sometimes my mind doesn't keep up and I find myself in a bit of a predicament. I certainly wouldn't wish to offend. It's just that, you know, I'm fresh from down there and I do understand a little how it works. Of course, I'm not trying to imply that you don't! It's just... oh dear. You see? I do talk too much.
Shall I just pop through there, then? Is that where you want me? Or... is it towards that waiting-room I'm headed? It is? Oh. OK. Erm... How long do you suppose I'll be waiting?
Ah. Until I ask no more questions? I understand. I'll work on that then.
Flutter By
Toughened.
Calcified.
Indissoluble.
Beneath the lumpen membrane I am formed.
This chrysalis shields my exquisite splendour from the waiting world.
Anticipation mounts. Will I fly? Can I fly? Will I take to the wing and soar, ever higher, the sky my only constraint?
Or will I emerge to be devoured by a creature more voracious than I? My life snuffed out, cut short, annihilated; just as I am on the verge of discovery.
My armour provides both shield and prison. My mind squarely divided. Flight? Concealment?
Is it worth it? This struggle? This battle for beauty and freedom?
Just for a day?
Calcified.
Indissoluble.
Beneath the lumpen membrane I am formed.
This chrysalis shields my exquisite splendour from the waiting world.
Anticipation mounts. Will I fly? Can I fly? Will I take to the wing and soar, ever higher, the sky my only constraint?
Or will I emerge to be devoured by a creature more voracious than I? My life snuffed out, cut short, annihilated; just as I am on the verge of discovery.
My armour provides both shield and prison. My mind squarely divided. Flight? Concealment?
Is it worth it? This struggle? This battle for beauty and freedom?
Just for a day?
Tough Love?
It didn't take much to make him angry. Just a word, a look, an object out of place.
She spent so much of her day on tenterhooks. Did I get that right? Should I try that differently? Dare I say that out loud?
He always said he loved her afterwards. Cringing on the floor, head in her hands, knees in her chest, bruised and sore, crying quietly (any louder would have set him off again), he stroked her hair, dressed her wounds, called her sweetheart, said he'd die without her.
When the baby came along she had nine blissful months of peace. He showed a side she had not seen since before their courtship. It proved her downfall. It gave her false hope. It made her believe she could recapture it. She never did.
The Law didn't help. After the first hospitalisation, they took the baby away. They housed him safely with a family who already had four children, who would take care of him, show him the kind of love that would make him whole, healthy. She fought tooth and nail to get him back, of course, but as long as she stood by her man, or knelt by her man, or crumpled by her man, there was no winning.
She was trapped: trapped by her love for a man who would, eventually, kill her.
Her son? He went on to fight for the rights of the victims of domestic abuse. He saved many broken lives. All but the one he was powerless to effect.
She spent so much of her day on tenterhooks. Did I get that right? Should I try that differently? Dare I say that out loud?
He always said he loved her afterwards. Cringing on the floor, head in her hands, knees in her chest, bruised and sore, crying quietly (any louder would have set him off again), he stroked her hair, dressed her wounds, called her sweetheart, said he'd die without her.
When the baby came along she had nine blissful months of peace. He showed a side she had not seen since before their courtship. It proved her downfall. It gave her false hope. It made her believe she could recapture it. She never did.
The Law didn't help. After the first hospitalisation, they took the baby away. They housed him safely with a family who already had four children, who would take care of him, show him the kind of love that would make him whole, healthy. She fought tooth and nail to get him back, of course, but as long as she stood by her man, or knelt by her man, or crumpled by her man, there was no winning.
She was trapped: trapped by her love for a man who would, eventually, kill her.
Her son? He went on to fight for the rights of the victims of domestic abuse. He saved many broken lives. All but the one he was powerless to effect.
Monday 25 August 2008
The Maze
Tell me what you dream?
Of fires and dungeons. Of corridors and stifling darkness. Of smoke and heat. Of airless doom.
Tell me how you feel?
Tired and cold. Shaky and nervous. Sick and hopeless. Terrified and lost.
Tell me where you're going?
Nowhere fast. To hell in a handcart. Over the hills and far away. To the darkest corner of my soul.
Tell me what you think?
You think I think? How do you expect me to think? How can I think? God! You want me to think?
Tell me what to do?
Do nothing. Do everything. Do something. Oh. Do what you want.
Tell me how to help?
Go away. No. Come back. Leave me in peace. No. Talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me anything. Talk to me. No. Don't talk to me. I don't know. Help?!
Tell me... Tell me... Tell me where you are?
I'm here. I think I'm here. I think I'm still here. Yes. I'm still here. And I will stay here. And life will go on.
Of fires and dungeons. Of corridors and stifling darkness. Of smoke and heat. Of airless doom.
Tell me how you feel?
Tired and cold. Shaky and nervous. Sick and hopeless. Terrified and lost.
Tell me where you're going?
Nowhere fast. To hell in a handcart. Over the hills and far away. To the darkest corner of my soul.
Tell me what you think?
You think I think? How do you expect me to think? How can I think? God! You want me to think?
Tell me what to do?
Do nothing. Do everything. Do something. Oh. Do what you want.
Tell me how to help?
Go away. No. Come back. Leave me in peace. No. Talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me anything. Talk to me. No. Don't talk to me. I don't know. Help?!
Tell me... Tell me... Tell me where you are?
I'm here. I think I'm here. I think I'm still here. Yes. I'm still here. And I will stay here. And life will go on.
Tree Whispering
Did you ever look at the trees properly? I mean, really, truly, properly?
Did you ever lie on your back, your head resting on your hands, and just look up?
What did you see?
Did you see the leaves dancing on the breeze, branches swaying as one with the wind, leaning gracefully with one another, making their own whispering music? Never knotting, catching, tangling, damaging one another, but brushing gently past their companions, kissing shoulders as they pass by.
If you lay there long enough, did you see? Did you see how the eddying currents whip them all to the same state of frenzied excitement and yet, even then, they are as one in their movement? They jostle and haggle and prance and turn and then, just as suddenly, they are still, peaceful, spent.
We have a lot to learn.
Did you ever lie on your back, your head resting on your hands, and just look up?
What did you see?
Did you see the leaves dancing on the breeze, branches swaying as one with the wind, leaning gracefully with one another, making their own whispering music? Never knotting, catching, tangling, damaging one another, but brushing gently past their companions, kissing shoulders as they pass by.
If you lay there long enough, did you see? Did you see how the eddying currents whip them all to the same state of frenzied excitement and yet, even then, they are as one in their movement? They jostle and haggle and prance and turn and then, just as suddenly, they are still, peaceful, spent.
We have a lot to learn.
Alphabet of Confusion
Anguish, agony, argument;
Bewildered, bent, broken;
Cruelty, callousness, calumny;
Divisive, derisory, devastating;
Excitement, electricity, escalation;
Fear, fervour, fantasy;
Greed, gluttony, gallows;
Hearts, horror, hallowed;
Inspiration, irony, invaded;
Jove, jewelled, jaded;
Kisses, kindness, kinetics;
Love, longing, legacy;
Morbid, memory, mired;
Nostalgia, need, neglect;
Open, overt, optimistic;
Pleading, potent, palpable;
Queer, queasy, quiet;
Restored, revived, reanimated;
Silent, supine, sapped;
Trust, terror, torpor;
Unbidden, uninvited, undenied;
Viscous, vitreous, vilified;
Wanton, wily, wilful;
Ex... Ex... Ex...
You, yours, youth;
Zenith.
Bewildered, bent, broken;
Cruelty, callousness, calumny;
Divisive, derisory, devastating;
Excitement, electricity, escalation;
Fear, fervour, fantasy;
Greed, gluttony, gallows;
Hearts, horror, hallowed;
Inspiration, irony, invaded;
Jove, jewelled, jaded;
Kisses, kindness, kinetics;
Love, longing, legacy;
Morbid, memory, mired;
Nostalgia, need, neglect;
Open, overt, optimistic;
Pleading, potent, palpable;
Queer, queasy, quiet;
Restored, revived, reanimated;
Silent, supine, sapped;
Trust, terror, torpor;
Unbidden, uninvited, undenied;
Viscous, vitreous, vilified;
Wanton, wily, wilful;
Ex... Ex... Ex...
You, yours, youth;
Zenith.
Tuesday 12 August 2008
Time
They said they wept the day they dropped him off. They pulled into a lay-by and wept. They said they held one another in the front of the car, sobbed hot tears on one another's shoulders and then drove on.
He was ten.
We are in this world for such a short time. Some of us are committed to a shockingly brief stay. Each moment with someone you love is precious. When that moment is gone you cannot get it back. We may claw at the past with greedy fingers, trying to reclaim some of its lost magic. We want to be the person we were. We hang onto vanity and fewer wrinkles. We may even clutch a fervent desire to change an action, a thought, a time, a place. We restrain it there, in our minds, just behind our eyes, through every waking hour of every sleep-poor day and, if it is sufficiently powerful, it follows us into our dreams.
Unfinished business. Baggage. Lack of closure.
What happened to living for now? Yesterday is gone - of that we can be certain. Tomorrow may not come - of that we must be aware. So now. What of now? THIS IS NOW.
Why? Why did they take him? For such heart-ache, for such pain, for such a small boy?
Because it was fair.
For his future.
Who kissed him goodnight and smoothed his hair before sleep? Who patched up his knees and held him through his tears?
Who asked him if it was fair?
He was ten.
We are in this world for such a short time. Some of us are committed to a shockingly brief stay. Each moment with someone you love is precious. When that moment is gone you cannot get it back. We may claw at the past with greedy fingers, trying to reclaim some of its lost magic. We want to be the person we were. We hang onto vanity and fewer wrinkles. We may even clutch a fervent desire to change an action, a thought, a time, a place. We restrain it there, in our minds, just behind our eyes, through every waking hour of every sleep-poor day and, if it is sufficiently powerful, it follows us into our dreams.
Unfinished business. Baggage. Lack of closure.
What happened to living for now? Yesterday is gone - of that we can be certain. Tomorrow may not come - of that we must be aware. So now. What of now? THIS IS NOW.
Why? Why did they take him? For such heart-ache, for such pain, for such a small boy?
Because it was fair.
For his future.
Who kissed him goodnight and smoothed his hair before sleep? Who patched up his knees and held him through his tears?
Who asked him if it was fair?
Saturday 9 August 2008
Life Lesson
A car pulled up outside the house.
A small girl threw open the door and hurtled inside.
Her mother, switching off the engine and gathering up her younger daughter and their belongings, closed the door thoughtfully behind her. She looked bewildered. And a little worried.
Upstairs, the little girl lay on her bed sobbing. Her heart-rending cries shook her whole body and created tidal waves on her mattress. What could have broken her little world at just four years old?
Her mother's footsteps on the stairs were slow and mechanical. She had a baby on her hip and another in her belly. She was tired.
The bedroom door was closed. She knocked softly and let herself in.
Depositing the little one on the floor by a pile of soft toys, she sat gently on the edge of the bed and laid a tender hand on her daughter's back to still the weeping.
"What is it pet lamb?" she asked tenderly. "Was it so awful, school? Did you have a terrible time? Didn't you like your teacher? Didn't you make nice, new friends?"
Through juddering intakes of breath, her big new schoolgirl attempted to control herself and speak.
"It's not that," she whimpered.
"What then, darling? What is it?"
Alice sat up on the bed, straightened her uniform, squared her shoulders and looked her mother in the eye. In spite of her apparent composure, her next words were a wail:
"I'm in love and I know he'll never love me!"
School sucks.
A small girl threw open the door and hurtled inside.
Her mother, switching off the engine and gathering up her younger daughter and their belongings, closed the door thoughtfully behind her. She looked bewildered. And a little worried.
Upstairs, the little girl lay on her bed sobbing. Her heart-rending cries shook her whole body and created tidal waves on her mattress. What could have broken her little world at just four years old?
Her mother's footsteps on the stairs were slow and mechanical. She had a baby on her hip and another in her belly. She was tired.
The bedroom door was closed. She knocked softly and let herself in.
Depositing the little one on the floor by a pile of soft toys, she sat gently on the edge of the bed and laid a tender hand on her daughter's back to still the weeping.
"What is it pet lamb?" she asked tenderly. "Was it so awful, school? Did you have a terrible time? Didn't you like your teacher? Didn't you make nice, new friends?"
Through juddering intakes of breath, her big new schoolgirl attempted to control herself and speak.
"It's not that," she whimpered.
"What then, darling? What is it?"
Alice sat up on the bed, straightened her uniform, squared her shoulders and looked her mother in the eye. In spite of her apparent composure, her next words were a wail:
"I'm in love and I know he'll never love me!"
School sucks.
Thursday 7 August 2008
Mistaken Identity
He rushed into the kitchen, breathless with excitement. His hair was wild and his eyes huge and brilliant. His cheeks flushed, trousers damp around the ankles, hands flailing wildly. He must have been about four years old and something had just changed his life.
He couldn't speak. He gulped for air. He looked at his mother. Expectation was high.
"What is it darling?" she asked.
The words tripped and tumbled over each other like puppies at feeding time. He stopped, took a deep breath and started again. Just as quickly, but with marginally more sense, he started to speak again.
"It's just I... oh, MUMMY!" his eyes were imploring, beseeching. "It's no good. You'll never believe me... But it's TRUE!"
"Darling! What? Tell me!"
He took another gulp of air and tried again.
"I just... oh, Mummy..." his shoulders drooped in despair. His head hung down, eyes looking up at his mother. "You won't believe me."
"Please, sweetheart. Tell me. What is it?"
He squared himself once more. Puffed out his chest. Forced himself to take his courage in both hands and present it to his bewildered mother.
He rushed out his words, almost as though thinking too long would block them again.
"I just saw a pterodactyl in the garden. It crashed into the field!"
An internal struggle began for his mother. Laughing now would crush his little spirit. And yet, he was right. She couldn't believe him. Her face remained smooth and calm, not a flicker of her mind's battle was betrayed. She answered him calmly.
"Show me, darling."
He took her hand and led her into the garden, down the hill, to the gate.
There, in all it's glory, was a microlight.
Guy was, thankfully, unharmed. A little bit of Tom, however, died that day.
He couldn't speak. He gulped for air. He looked at his mother. Expectation was high.
"What is it darling?" she asked.
The words tripped and tumbled over each other like puppies at feeding time. He stopped, took a deep breath and started again. Just as quickly, but with marginally more sense, he started to speak again.
"It's just I... oh, MUMMY!" his eyes were imploring, beseeching. "It's no good. You'll never believe me... But it's TRUE!"
"Darling! What? Tell me!"
He took another gulp of air and tried again.
"I just... oh, Mummy..." his shoulders drooped in despair. His head hung down, eyes looking up at his mother. "You won't believe me."
"Please, sweetheart. Tell me. What is it?"
He squared himself once more. Puffed out his chest. Forced himself to take his courage in both hands and present it to his bewildered mother.
He rushed out his words, almost as though thinking too long would block them again.
"I just saw a pterodactyl in the garden. It crashed into the field!"
An internal struggle began for his mother. Laughing now would crush his little spirit. And yet, he was right. She couldn't believe him. Her face remained smooth and calm, not a flicker of her mind's battle was betrayed. She answered him calmly.
"Show me, darling."
He took her hand and led her into the garden, down the hill, to the gate.
There, in all it's glory, was a microlight.
Guy was, thankfully, unharmed. A little bit of Tom, however, died that day.
Wednesday 6 August 2008
Self (ishness)?
"I feel trapped," she moaned. "Shackled."
"But why? What did I do?"
"It isn't you. It's me. I don't know who I am any more. I don't even know who I was. Have I ever been me? It's agony, this confusion. I can't stand it. I have to go."
"But there must be something I can do?"
"There isn't. If there had been, we'd have seen it before now. If love can't save us, nothing can."
"But surely... I mean... What will...? Can't...? God! There must be a way!"
"Please. Don't make it harder. I am already shredded. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do."
"But where will you go? What will you do? How on earth will you survive?"
"It's a new beginning. I have to shed the past and concentrate on my future. I have to find myself. I'm sorry. Really, I am. I never meant to hurt you. You never changed. You're lucky. You'll always be you. I have to be positive. I have to believe that I will continue to exist. Or start existing, even."
"So you never existed with me?"
"I didn't say that. Some form of me did. And was happy for a time. It isn't you. It's me. You mustn't blame yourself. Hate me. HATE me, if it makes it easier."
"It doesn't."
"Given time..."
"Don't!"
"There's nothing more to say then. I have to go. I do love you, you know."
"DON'T!"
"Goodbye."
But what...
about...
ME?
"But why? What did I do?"
"It isn't you. It's me. I don't know who I am any more. I don't even know who I was. Have I ever been me? It's agony, this confusion. I can't stand it. I have to go."
"But there must be something I can do?"
"There isn't. If there had been, we'd have seen it before now. If love can't save us, nothing can."
"But surely... I mean... What will...? Can't...? God! There must be a way!"
"Please. Don't make it harder. I am already shredded. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do."
"But where will you go? What will you do? How on earth will you survive?"
"It's a new beginning. I have to shed the past and concentrate on my future. I have to find myself. I'm sorry. Really, I am. I never meant to hurt you. You never changed. You're lucky. You'll always be you. I have to be positive. I have to believe that I will continue to exist. Or start existing, even."
"So you never existed with me?"
"I didn't say that. Some form of me did. And was happy for a time. It isn't you. It's me. You mustn't blame yourself. Hate me. HATE me, if it makes it easier."
"It doesn't."
"Given time..."
"Don't!"
"There's nothing more to say then. I have to go. I do love you, you know."
"DON'T!"
"Goodbye."
But what...
about...
ME?
Tuesday 5 August 2008
Playdough
Okay.
I have the secret.
It's not difficult. Are you with me?
You take one saucepan.
Lemme see! Lemme see!
Climb up here then, on this chair. Can you see now? Good.
You take one saucepan.
The big one! Use the big one! It's so shiny!
Okay. I'll use the big one. So. Ready?
You take one saucepan.
I can see my face! It looks sooooo biiiiiiiiiig... And a bit... wobbly...
Ahem. Ready? I'm starting now. Can I get past the first bit? Good. Okay.
You take one saucepan. And some measuring cups.
They're so COOL! Can I see? Can I hold them? Wow! They all fit into each other! Can I have them in my room?
No. So. We have a saucepan. And some measuring cups. Next? Next we need our ingredients. You take...
What are ingrediments?
The ingredients are what you put in the pan. So. Ready? Good.
You take two cups of flour.
Can I do this bit? It's sooooooo messy. One cup. Two... oops. Sorry....
That's okay. We'll use the dustpan and brush later. Do we have two cups in there? Good.
And one cup of salt. I think I'll do that one, if that's okay with you. And four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Oh yes, that's right. We need the measuring spoons.
Oh! They're so CUTE! They're even smaller than the cups! Can I have THESE ones in my room?
No. If you're really lucky, I'll get you your own for Christmas.
So. We have two cups of flour, one cup of salt, four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Next we need two tablespoons of oil. I think I'll do that one, too, if that's okay with you. Pass me the oil. Gloopy, isn't it?
Can I have some oil for Christmas, too?
What would you want with oil? Anyway, you can always use mine.
So. Two tablespoons of oil. Next we need two cups of water. You can do that bit. Can you reach the tap? That's good. Now, turn it... gently! Never mind. What's the good thing about water?
It dries.
That's right. So. Two cups please.
Now. What colour would you like your dough to be?
Purple.
I should have said. You can pick a colour from any of these bottles here.
Green, then. Please.
Okay. I'll put a big splash of that in the saucepan. Now, we heat it on the stove. Can you see? Careful! It gets very hot. We stir it and stir it. Isn't that messy? Slowly, slowly. It's heating up and mixing together. Isn't that a lovely colour. It's kind of beech-leaf green, isn't it? Can you see it's not so sticky now? It's coming together and now, now that it's not shiny any more, that means it's not gooey either. You can poke it with your finger, like this, and it doesn't stick. That means it's ready. Are you ready to play with it?
Sweetheart?
Where did you go?
Darling?
Ah. Well.
Sleep well sweetie-pie.
I have the secret.
It's not difficult. Are you with me?
You take one saucepan.
Lemme see! Lemme see!
Climb up here then, on this chair. Can you see now? Good.
You take one saucepan.
The big one! Use the big one! It's so shiny!
Okay. I'll use the big one. So. Ready?
You take one saucepan.
I can see my face! It looks sooooo biiiiiiiiiig... And a bit... wobbly...
Ahem. Ready? I'm starting now. Can I get past the first bit? Good. Okay.
You take one saucepan. And some measuring cups.
They're so COOL! Can I see? Can I hold them? Wow! They all fit into each other! Can I have them in my room?
No. So. We have a saucepan. And some measuring cups. Next? Next we need our ingredients. You take...
What are ingrediments?
The ingredients are what you put in the pan. So. Ready? Good.
You take two cups of flour.
Can I do this bit? It's sooooooo messy. One cup. Two... oops. Sorry....
That's okay. We'll use the dustpan and brush later. Do we have two cups in there? Good.
And one cup of salt. I think I'll do that one, if that's okay with you. And four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Oh yes, that's right. We need the measuring spoons.
Oh! They're so CUTE! They're even smaller than the cups! Can I have THESE ones in my room?
No. If you're really lucky, I'll get you your own for Christmas.
So. We have two cups of flour, one cup of salt, four teaspoons of Cream of Tartar. Next we need two tablespoons of oil. I think I'll do that one, too, if that's okay with you. Pass me the oil. Gloopy, isn't it?
Can I have some oil for Christmas, too?
What would you want with oil? Anyway, you can always use mine.
So. Two tablespoons of oil. Next we need two cups of water. You can do that bit. Can you reach the tap? That's good. Now, turn it... gently! Never mind. What's the good thing about water?
It dries.
That's right. So. Two cups please.
Now. What colour would you like your dough to be?
Purple.
I should have said. You can pick a colour from any of these bottles here.
Green, then. Please.
Okay. I'll put a big splash of that in the saucepan. Now, we heat it on the stove. Can you see? Careful! It gets very hot. We stir it and stir it. Isn't that messy? Slowly, slowly. It's heating up and mixing together. Isn't that a lovely colour. It's kind of beech-leaf green, isn't it? Can you see it's not so sticky now? It's coming together and now, now that it's not shiny any more, that means it's not gooey either. You can poke it with your finger, like this, and it doesn't stick. That means it's ready. Are you ready to play with it?
Sweetheart?
Where did you go?
Darling?
Ah. Well.
Sleep well sweetie-pie.
Lines of Communication
It starts well.
It fizzles along the tubes, leaps over the synapse-chasms, snaps into the consciousness and lurks on the tip of my tongue...
I open my mouth to speak.
And the fog descends.
I babble.
It was once so clear but now it is murky. Something has, with lumpen feet, stomped through the middle of the crystalline pool and churned it into mud.
I stammer.
My head hurts. The words are hanging, suspended in my brain, out of order, out of synch, jangling against one another. With sharp edges.
I stutter.
My tongue is a shovel, my words are a pit and I am digging deeper and deeper. And it is not what I mean. I talk myself around in a circle until I spin dizzily back into the hole. How can I expect you to understand what I have so dismally failed to explain?
I give up.
The fog clears and the pain dissipates.
Cuppatea?
It fizzles along the tubes, leaps over the synapse-chasms, snaps into the consciousness and lurks on the tip of my tongue...
I open my mouth to speak.
And the fog descends.
I babble.
It was once so clear but now it is murky. Something has, with lumpen feet, stomped through the middle of the crystalline pool and churned it into mud.
I stammer.
My head hurts. The words are hanging, suspended in my brain, out of order, out of synch, jangling against one another. With sharp edges.
I stutter.
My tongue is a shovel, my words are a pit and I am digging deeper and deeper. And it is not what I mean. I talk myself around in a circle until I spin dizzily back into the hole. How can I expect you to understand what I have so dismally failed to explain?
I give up.
The fog clears and the pain dissipates.
Cuppatea?
Escuchame
Qu'est-ce que tu veux?
No entiendo. Lo siento...
Quels sont tes besoins?
Me hablas en una lengua extrana...
Je ne comprends pas. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?
Es que no me entiendes... Te hablo y me miras asi... no me conoces...?
Tu me parles, mais qu'est-ce que tu dis? Je n'ai aucune idee... Tu ne me connais pas?
Que necesitas? Cuales son...
Il me faut apprendre ta langue, je crois. Je veux te comprendre.
Creo que me hace falta hablar tu idioma. Quiero entender.
Let's start now.
No entiendo. Lo siento...
Quels sont tes besoins?
Me hablas en una lengua extrana...
Je ne comprends pas. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?
Es que no me entiendes... Te hablo y me miras asi... no me conoces...?
Tu me parles, mais qu'est-ce que tu dis? Je n'ai aucune idee... Tu ne me connais pas?
Que necesitas? Cuales son...
Il me faut apprendre ta langue, je crois. Je veux te comprendre.
Creo que me hace falta hablar tu idioma. Quiero entender.
Let's start now.
Monday 4 August 2008
Saturday Sweets
We sat in silent anticipation. In the sitting room the excitement was palpable. The sounds of fiddling and concocting, rustling and pouring came from the kitchen dresser.
And the cry went up:
"Eyes closed! Hands in your laps! Little backs straight!"
We sat in a regimented line on the sofa. Eight little eyes squeezed shut. Eight little hands on eight little knees. Four little backs poker-straight.
And the ritual continued as every Saturday before, and many after.
Deprived of the sense of sight, we felt the egg-cup deposited in our hands replete with its precious load of jelly tots, smarties, jelly babies and dolly mixture.
Eyes open we surveyed our prize. Each of us had a singular method of proceeding: one shovelled every morsel straight in and gulped a gooey mixture of sticky sweetness; another savoured each one slowly, allowing the last to dissolve completely before moving on to the next; the third saved them for later, allowing the possibility of gloating to come into play; and the last... she ate a few, saved a few and, invariably, gave a few away.
Life is a little like Saturday Sweets... Which one are you?
And the cry went up:
"Eyes closed! Hands in your laps! Little backs straight!"
We sat in a regimented line on the sofa. Eight little eyes squeezed shut. Eight little hands on eight little knees. Four little backs poker-straight.
And the ritual continued as every Saturday before, and many after.
Deprived of the sense of sight, we felt the egg-cup deposited in our hands replete with its precious load of jelly tots, smarties, jelly babies and dolly mixture.
Eyes open we surveyed our prize. Each of us had a singular method of proceeding: one shovelled every morsel straight in and gulped a gooey mixture of sticky sweetness; another savoured each one slowly, allowing the last to dissolve completely before moving on to the next; the third saved them for later, allowing the possibility of gloating to come into play; and the last... she ate a few, saved a few and, invariably, gave a few away.
Life is a little like Saturday Sweets... Which one are you?
Shrouded in Mystery
What does it mean?
It's all Greek to me. Or mythology. Or magic.
You wave your wand and... pow! It's there. I see it. As though for the first time.
I can't begin to understand. The cerebral cogs click and whirr and overheat. Smoke issues from my ears as my eyes mist over with the exertion.
Don't talk to me now! I'm trying to hold onto a thought. But it's a slippery little sucker. And it's gone.
Too many books. Too many ideas. Too much history.
My head like a carpet bag stuffed with needles and wool; some balls intact, others unravelled and tangled; some garments started, nothing finished; requiring time, effort, willingness and very nimble fingers to make sense of the mess.
Time I have got. Effort I will put in. Willingness abounds. (Like Yoda I will speak).
Anyone got any scissors? Or failing that a good dictionary?
It's all Greek to me. Or mythology. Or magic.
You wave your wand and... pow! It's there. I see it. As though for the first time.
I can't begin to understand. The cerebral cogs click and whirr and overheat. Smoke issues from my ears as my eyes mist over with the exertion.
Don't talk to me now! I'm trying to hold onto a thought. But it's a slippery little sucker. And it's gone.
Too many books. Too many ideas. Too much history.
My head like a carpet bag stuffed with needles and wool; some balls intact, others unravelled and tangled; some garments started, nothing finished; requiring time, effort, willingness and very nimble fingers to make sense of the mess.
Time I have got. Effort I will put in. Willingness abounds. (Like Yoda I will speak).
Anyone got any scissors? Or failing that a good dictionary?
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