The Right to Speak

With a wood-carved sea horse, approximately twenty-one inches in height, balanced on my left palm, I now speak to you.

“These kind of councils don't happen very often, and I don't have the kind of wealth, beauty or intelligence (nor anyone that would swear to it falsely or even say that I own these modestly) that would overrule this ancient custom, though in years to come I foresee it being abandoned. The young don't appreciate time-honoured rituals. Or laws, come to that; lawless mob.

Yes, the young amongst you, I see your shocked faces, but it's true. You don't respect your elders, their opinions, nor the laws of our land. You show some reverence here, but personally I think you're biding your time; plotting behind our backs.

I know we're a lot of crusty old-timers, in age or thought or both, but tradition – the continuance of it- has so far won out. And all of us here, on the board, cast our vote or abstained, so why complaint? We all had a hand in the outcome.

Yes, yes, you'll get the chance to challenge me, or agree with me, when I've finished.

You, over there. Yes, you, young man – put your arm down. This isn't a classroom; I'm not a teacher. Wait your turn if you have a speaking slot; if not, you'll have to apply for one, at the back there, or convince someone else to give theirs up for you.

Please, if you're new – promoted from within or from outside – read the handbook. There are rules. As you will know if you've chosen to accept the invitation to join us there are procedures, so don't be a fool and don't read them.

You'll never get anywhere here, or in life, if you come in too hard. You must win allies. Dissent is no good on the benches if you have no influence in the inner sanctum.

I should know – I was young once. With fire in my belly.

Again with the faces. What? Does that surprise you? A woman who speaks like a man, pragmatically, with less emotion. You can, you know, when you look back.

But it's not of this I wish to now speak. I had my day to rage and try to effect change. Though I never, so I thought, made protest for protest's sake. The power to speak, then, would have been wasted, when women were given fewer opportunities to do so. For if you want a slot you have to make your case. Make your argument, your points for or against, convincing, or the issue you wish to raise a pressing or a compelling one. Then those that attend will want to listen, will want to attend to your words as well as the tone and rhythm of them.

Women are luckier in their endeavours to manipulate, with words, since their voices can be soothing and melodic, and stirring. Men, I think, struggle more. They talk of action, action in real terms, whereas women talk of it less yet inspire it.

But pick your battles. Carefully. Wisely. Only engage in those you believe in, not those you don't have the heart for. Nor those you know instinctively aren't worth the fight and will bring only pain and bloodshed, no reward.

The weighing up is the most important part. Don't, if you're young, be too reactionary, and don't, if you're past the flush of youth, just debate and stall.

Hear these words, even if they're coming to you from afar. From long ago, so forward are you in the future. They will, I think, still stand. Perhaps, knock some lost, some forgotten sense into you.

Where order's established, there's more common sense and far less pantomime.

But what right have I to speak my mind? Just this wood-carved sea horse I'm holding, as you see before you, which as you know represents our origins, for we hail from sea people, brought to shore as the legend goes by Neptune's horses.

That is all.

I went through the usual channels, as I've always done, to address you today, just to say Eleutherostomia is a right I support and hope we continue to observe, according to our traditions.”

Picture credit: The Return of Neptune, 1753, John Singleton Copley (Source: WikiArt).

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Piggy and Ralph

July 2018. A fresher and cloudier day than those gone before but there are signs that it will soon burn off. And the temperature is rising.

I'm in a park with three companions: two, two legged and one, four, though this morning he's a little unsteady. One of his back legs keeps slipping, but otherwise he seems happy enough with his tennis ball clamped in his jaws. Dropping it, then chasing after it on his extension lead; dropping it and then forgetting it as he's found another smell that's more enticing, so that his master has to retrieve the ball and place it in his trouser pocket for safe keeping, or at least until George wants it again. He tells you by woofing and looking imploringly at you, though he does the same when he wants biscuits.

I've never been to this park before. It's more than a park, really, with pathways under trees and a large green space, with benches, and a fenced-in picnic-play area for families. There's a small café, too, with indoor and outdoor seating. And across the road, from the entrance, there's a lavender field, which very recently has broken into bloom.

We take a paved path, under trees, George leading his master, with myself and another, in conversation, behind, when from the left hand side, two schoolboys burst, cutting across us and the track. Chasing each other, weaving in and out of bushes and trees, in glorious flight with smiles plastered on their faces. Both have on white shirts and grey shorts; only one has a striped school tie fastened round his head. “It's Piggy and Ralph” my companion said.

We all laughed because it was true. In an instant, of it being said, that's who they became. There, right before my eyes was Ralph chasing Piggy; and then, a moment later, Piggy lumbering behind, trying to catch energetic Ralph up.

We saw them them a few times, always the same, one following after the other. Except when they tried to get into their navy blue school mini-bus, but, on finding it locked and unattended, raced off again into the greenery.

After that, they disappeared. Just as abruptly as when they had first come into view. There was no sign of them on the open common; just little dogs frolicking and telling each other off with high pitched barks.

No other schoolboys showed up. No unruly tribe in a state of undress, or one with a painted mask to set himself apart from the one with the tie. No gaggle of them either with a teacher or an authoritative figure. Strange, that. I thought so at the time, but didn't remark on it.

It wasn't, to my knowledge, World Book Day. So it was just two boys being boys, which, weird as it might be to say it, was good to see.

But to have two book characters suddenly materialise was, well, interesting, as well as thought-provoking, particularly since it wasn't all that long ago I read Lord of Flies.

Was this going to happen from now on?

Had I been on the Downs when horses were being exercised, I wouldn't have been at all surprised if knights of King Arthur had arrived, as that had occurred lately. The scene transmogrified before my eyes, but that, I realised, was my imagination - it didn't then develop into a live re-enactment. No, this occurrence was certainly not that. I wasn't immersed in anything but the walk, and the scene, itself, didn't transform, magically, just for me i.e. I wasn't the only one to see them.

No, this was an overlap of realities as the park with its stone paths and parched grass remained exactly as it was. Piggy and Ralph chose to make themselves manifest for some reason, perhaps desiring a change from their island territory to this rather more inhabitable, and gentrified, park. Perhaps their bus had broken down...in an updated version of the tale, and the others were scattered somewhere... although the bus looked to me in fine condition: no obvious dents to its body or scratches to its paintwork.

I would think of that possibility though, wouldn't I? Anyhow, my modern reworking was further flawed when I saw the bus leave...with nobody on board...

Picture credit: Piggy and Ralph, Lord of the Flies, 1963 film.

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Callisto

I was once a nymph. Then a bear, before almost being cut down by a javelin, and then turned into a constellation, which I've been for many years now.

I once roamed forests, now my place is fixed in the skies, where if spied from the northern hemisphere I never disappear below the horizon. I never get to plunge in the ocean's baths. Instead, from my ox-drawn wagon, I watch the Hunter, my old companion, bathing with her virgin nymphs, and giving chase to and shooting wild beasts.

Although I only shine at night I'm here all the time, wheeling in this wagon.

It's my penance, I suppose, though it has kept me safe from Artemis' and Hera's further vengeance. I should have known better than to be seduced by Father Zeus, even disguised, which then disgraced me, in his daughter's eyes; she, who has taken a vow of chastity and only accepts virginal attendants.

But Zeus! How could I have been so blind! He does this all the time: beguiles, in disguise, daughters of gods and mortal wives of king-like men to lie with them. These Olympian gods, they all act the same! Dazzle you with their gifts and good looks, and whisper their sweet nothings into persuadable ears.

Had I been an ordinary woman or a queen, wedded or betrothed, my eventual condition might have been overlooked, welcomed even. A child of Zeus' planted in me would have, in all likelihood, been accepted as his own by my husband, so great is Zeus in men's hearts.

But no, I had to conceal this pregnancy. And then bear him, discreetly, under a tree, and walk away. Though my secret, at the time of his birth, had already been revealed. By my sisters, who had noticed, over some months, my figure changing.

And then Artemis was angry with me. At me! Just because I'd laid with somebody, not because I was, very obviously, then, with child. It didn't matter that my seducer was Zeus, nor that I'd been tricked since he'd taken on the likeness of another. She's all about purity, the goddess of the hunt, and in her eyes I had sinned; I was a fallen nymph.

So, I was ousted. Left to fend for myself in the forest. On berries and grubs. And river water. No manna from the gods. Though my belly continued to swell to bursting point.

Zeus, it seemed, had also abandoned me, and would not be roused. Perhaps his gaze had been turned in another direction...or he was trying to pacify Hera, because I know this much she was told. And it wouldn't have been by almighty Zeus. No, she would have found out by some other way. Either from a winged messenger, or from Artemis herself. Those two plotted, I'm sure.

But Zeus, as always, saved the day. Stepped in at the last moment to foil that pair. After years of being persecuted as a bear.

The baby was a boy. A son, a son of Zeus, Cronus' son, and my mark of shame. I don't know what happened to him, though I've heard it tell since (you hear everything up here) that he was the man that was going to shoot me with a javelin before Zeus intervened: flung me far, far away from Hera's long-held wrath.

I've heard my son was also flung, at the very point he would have thrown his lethal javelin. Selene, the radiant goddess of the moon, when she rose one night, told me that (though she shouldn't have) he was turned into a minor star.

We don't shine alongside one another. I'm not sure I'd recognise him even if we did, not as the son I bore, all those years ago. Mother and son, as we are, were, then, never destined to cross paths. To know, maybe even grow to love, each other. And I've never longed for that meeting.

I wonder if Zeus, for all his wisdom, was right. I'm pleased he saved the boy from anything else Hera might have planned. But me? Would it not have been better if I'd been shot, then forgot, rather than live out this deathless sentence?

These four spoked wheels spinning, spinning, spinning through the nights. And rolling on, more slowly, though the days.

Picture credit: Callisto on Jupiter's chariot, ceiling decoration from 'Sala di Galatea', Baldassare Peruzzi (source: myartprints.co.uk).

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

According to Legend

My mother forgot, in her long labour and subsequent tiredness, to perform a crucial rite, and so it fell to my nan, her mother; and she, though resourceful in the circumstances – I lay in a bassinet, checked on by nurses, in a special baby unit – only managed to touch the tiniest spot of tender flesh with blessèd water, dropped from a phial. The lightest of fingers brushed my forehead, and then the sign, the sign of the cross , was made, in plain sight of starched-uniformed nurses and white-coated doctors.

The medical profession once believed, really believed (I don't know what they believe now) they were also gods (and goddesses), and behaved as such, so, maybe, this ritual, carried out on unconsecrated hospital grounds was fitting; particularly since they had delivered me, safely though prematurely, into the world.

My mother, numbed with exhaustion and already thinking what new hell have I entered into? whilst I, an angry, shocked red and screaming bundle with a mass of dark hair, was whisked away. My hands curled into fists, my mouth open in wail: take me back, right now! to that pale, depleted woman, with people fussing round her.

An exaggeration but then I don't remember and so I'm using my imagination here.

And so Nan came. With her holy water. It might have seemed imperative to carry out this duty to her first-born grandchild. If it's true. But would it matter if it wasn't? It's the story I've been told (okay, okay some of it), but I have no reason to doubt their word, that of my nan or those told to my mother and later passed on to me.

I was never going to be baptised, officially, by a man (it would likely have been a man then) in vestments, since my parents did not adhere to that, nor any religiosity or superstition, but Nan might have felt, due to my early, drawn-out birth and her catholic faith, it was required, and therefore couldn't wait.

I have wondered since, however, what good, if any, it's done me. Has it kept me safe? Or in her haste, has it been the undoing of me?

The sign of cross meaningless, just a placebo effect (blasphemy! blasphemy!) because the water's the thing. In which to gain immortality, or immunity, you need to be dipped into, head to toe, or perhaps, if you're a baby, bathed in. Thereby, any places untouched are vulnerable to injuries and ailments.

Just as Achilles' mother, the sea-goddess Thetis, discovered, to her cost, too, because with it came the loss of her godlike son, swift Achilles. The legend goes that in his infancy, she'd plunged him in the River Styx and neglected the heel, by which she held him by, and it was there that later the fatal arrow of Paris found its mark, in vengeance for his brother, Hector, which then led, in part, to the dark swirling down to shroud his eyes. For the Fates and Apollo had a hand too. As did Zeus, the King of Gods, who'd nodded his assent and allowed his downfall to be planned.

Due to learning this I've wondered: could this explain why, from the back of the skull down, I suffer complaints or wounds? The holy water only caressing the spot where later a lock of hair would rest, and so migraines when they come grip the sides and back of the head, never across the forehead.

And growing up, I had all the common childhood illnesses, in quick succession, as well as annual bouts of tonsillitis and wheezy coughs. At night, too, I endured calves that burned and were taut with pain. I've suffered sprains, a damaged right toe, a left ankle that gives way and knees that crack. As well as eczema and a non-malignant lump. I have a weak ear and my eyes, a while ago, lost their natural ability to see distance, which is an irony I laugh at for my star sign is that of the Archer. I should have been a goat.

But I have been hit on that spot, the very spot where I assume the water dropped, with a workman's tool: a hammer wielded by my then Herculean three year old cousin. I was seven and all I got was a nasty bump. So perhaps, that place is invulnerable after all.

Picture credit: Thetis dippping Achilles into the River Styx (design for antique cameo brooch). 

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Fur of Gold

I own a fur of gold, one that cannot be put on or taken off, that cannot, like a garment, be loosely draped round shoulders, then later thrown aside when it gets too warm, too stifling to wear.

What could this fur be?

It cannot be seen at all times of day – in the dark of night nor when skies turn grey, unless a god – in fury or exaltation – lights them up, with blinding flashes and tremendous forks, thrust to the ground like weapons.

What could this fur be?

In summer it helps to keep me cool, in winter warm, but cannot protect against a blazing sun or chill north winds. Or rains that come, light and sharp, to sprinkle crops and saturate the earth. My flesh where covered by this golden skin is always visible, and vulnerable.

What could this fur be?

To be perceived it has to wait for Dawn to mount her glowing throne. Or for candlelight or unnatural light to pick it out; I'm not sure about the moon. Only if that light is steadfast is its full effect on view, for all to see.

What could this fur be?

In light, any shade of light – low-beamed or bright – individual hairs, brushed flat or raised, seek distinction. Some short, some long, some wiry. A few dark, some bronze, most gold. And soft when stroked, like the pelt of a young animal, or fuzz on a peach.

What could this fur be?

Robed, it's as if I've been dipped in gold, face to back. A fine gold dust for the front and gold leaf for the back, from the shoulder blades downwards, and only stopping before the tail bone. And so creates a gold-tipped torso, which Pallas Athena, the queen of plunder, might envy.

What could this fur be?

All below that point, beyond the coccyx, is smooth, smooth as marble, and the same tone of that stone, too, and shot through with thread veins of purple and blue. Royal colours. The buttocks, thighs, calves, ankles and feet unshielded by fur of any sort.

What could this fur be?

It is though light to wear, not strong; nor does it suggest it could be, like chain-mail or armour, if worked right. It would never prevent a spear or arrow piercing tender flesh, nor a sword ripping through the body.

What could this fur be?

But it can be plucked and trimmed. Or shaved. Stripped away and burnt. Though the regrowth may come in more prickly than down-like, as well as, possibly, a dirtier shade of gold that cannot be polished by the sun's rays.

What could this fur be?

A fur like this is hard to find; and yet not prized by any that admit to being in possession of such a wondrous coat. Though those darker in colouring say those fair in skin should thank the gods, any gods they can think of, that may have had a hand, in weaving it for them.

What could this fur be?

The gift of a golden fleece can mean you're favoured among the gods, or that one particular god champions (and defends) you. But if you've been so blessed then you're closely observed and dealt out tests as well as spoils, all whilst Father Zeus gazes down from his ridge on Ida.

Could this fur be that?

A splendid coat won. In battle or plunder. Loosened from a felled, and rare, beast with a fur as brilliant as golden wheat-fields when the sun's set high, and rewarded by immortals to mortals, to mark them out.

Could this fur be that? The sun rays, the sharpest eyes in the world say not.

Then, what in the world could this fur be?

Hirsute. 

Picture credit: Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer, 1907, Gustav Klimt (source: WikiArt).

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

And So it Begins

I live in terror of the years ahead.

I try not to let that thought slip in, to catch me off-guard. If it does I push it away and concentrate on the day, the day as it unfolds, because if I don't I'll crumple. Just for a moment, though long enough for my face to end up looking like a sodden tissue. You know, like one of those thin and silky single sheets pulled from a cube or rectangular box that sit on a reception desk or coffee table, and are proffered to clients, or guests, to blow their nose or wipe away a mascara smudge. And disintegrate, when wet or used too roughly, into nothing; shreds. That then leave white tufts on clothing which you keep finding and picking off, seemingly forever. That exercise in itself, should you be somewhere where such a tissue might be offered, is enough to stem the waterworks though perhaps not a sniffing nose.

I prefer handkerchiefs myself, those dirty, germ-spreading cloths that doctors now so despise, because they're softer and perfect for cleaning specs. Knickers work just as well, better even, but you can't really, for decency's sake, carry a pair on you, or you'd die of public mortification if you forgot and unearthed an old cotton bikini, from your handbag, to give your glasses a rub; polishing each lens as if raising a genie. But at home, they serve. As does the back of a sleeve for a snotty nose and wet piggy eyes.

I did not, however, launch upon this subject to discuss knickers or tissues. Or the usefulness, multi-purposefulness of long sleeves, and apron hems.

And being terrified doesn't always result in tears, it means worries and fears; fears of what I will have to confront. Fears that will come to pass, not those that might or might not happen. Fears that were once far away but have now moved closer. Like a fairy tale that begins happily and gets grimmer.

You've very wise (I can sense that about you) as yes, you're right, there's plenty I'm not (yet) saying; I'm delaying, because well, it's both selfish and hard. The fear, that paralyses me before it's even occurred, is greater than people realise. And besides, I don't tell, preferring to brush it under the rug that creeps across the living room floor, since it's something we will all have to find our own way through, at the appointed hour (as Death decrees it), unprepared.

Nothing prepares you for loss. Actual loss. The reality of it can't be compared to the contemplation of it, and yet contemplation is all I have. At this present hour. And that leads to fear. That this loss, when it comes, will be too great for me to bear. An only child, finally (and entirely) alone. With no other to help me shoulder my grief.

It's not for that I live in horror of: being lonely, because that would be really self-absorbed and my own company has never been an issue; it's the loss of that triangular relationship – parents and child – or the dynamics of it changing from that to one parent and child. It's the loss of them: one and both.

Because it's reached a stage when, although my parents are in reasonable health, it's more possible for it to happen. For a decline to appear. For a slowed downwardness to be evident. For their age to be more noticeable. To them and me.

Mostly, it's a subject I think about and only broach flippantly. So it feels weird being more candid here. And especially since I know they'll read this, though they're aware my mind leaps ahead, magnifies fears that haven't yet arrived, or can only be spied, as a dot, on the horizon. I'm not addressing this here to cause them worry. No, my aim was to communicate the bond and the anguish that will occur when it's severed, but I find the words to do so have deserted me. The years that remain will never be enough, nor as ripe with childlike unconcern, so that like Agamemnon I'm sorely tempted to utter a similar brutal order, to the heavens: My parents – I won't give up my parents; except old age has already overtaken them in this house. Time, my time, with them is running out.

So then, though it's wrong, I invite Sleep, then his brother, Death, to take me first, or just as soon as I've repaid those years of parenting, support, counsel and friendship.

Picture credit: Sleep and his half-brother Death, 1874, John William Waterhouse.

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Editor

I can never write short messages. Shortish, but hardly ever a line or two. How people do is a puzzle, because I see white space and want to fill it. And a line, even if that's all that's necessary, doesn't seem to cut it; there's too much space aching to be filled with witty, unnecessary remarks or a fuller description.

What's ironic is that I feel that need less in conversation – do people still make that these days or have we all turned monosyllabic?- since there, I rarely feel that same urge; the silence stands for itself, sometimes awkwardly but more often comfortably, or in a that's my cue to leave or resume the task I was doing before, even side by side a fellow worker.

Sometimes there just are no words. So why doesn't that occur when I'm talking to a page to myself, mostly, or talking to someone – a friend or relative - via a page, a page of type for one pair of eyes, or for countless pairs, with no idea of their shape or colour? With the latter, I just hit 'publish' and barely give a thought as to who its readers might be. And what they might look like, facially.

The urge also don't occur with walls. Painted walls. And decorations for, I mean. As there, I'm happy to let them breathe i.e. to have some almond-white space around the framed hangings. To let them make their own statement and not be too crowded, get lost in a forest of other images, or have to get up close-to to really see. I prefer standing back, appreciating them and getting their full measure from afar, by standing in an open doorway or learning casually against a door frame. And to do that they, the images themselves, have to be able to command the space they're hanging against, as well as that of the room. It's hard to get right, and I'm not sure I do. I don't think, for instance, it would pass a critical gaze, like that of museum curator or art critic, without some slight being made, an adjustment, or comment as to how to improve its position in terms of light and framing.

Though we do that, all of us, with words too. Pass judgement. On those used or how something has been said. Or note a grammatical error, to ourselves or even, if we're that way inclined, bring it to the attention of others.

Lately even I've been looser, grammatically speaking; been so in the flow, with some articles, I haven't wish to interrupt the style and let rules take precedence. Because sometimes the structure of a sentence, though not correct, to the ear sounds better. I occasionally talk what I'm typing, as I type, aloud. It's more poetical than prose yet still prose. Isn't that what prose is, essentially?

I don't know, is the honest answer.

Some prose is very correct; some is very lax. And that, too, annoys me. I like, for instance, the proper use of apostrophes and and full-stops outside brackets, and speech marks where they're used to be double rather than single, which are quotation marks, but which are more often used now; wrongly, in my opinion.

So, against this, this modern changing of some rules, I've found, as others no doubt have done before, it pays, in terms of creativity, to be a little slack. Do away with speech marks altogether! Structure sentences differently, based on sound and rhythm, rather than what's correct.

Yes, I've been pulled up on it. But it's the sound, the sound, I say. It doesn't sound right, the right way. Very few, however, particularly those schooled at a earlier time, understand what I'm on about; and those schooled after me, well, I haven't a clue what they're on or on about.

This relaxedness, however, doesn't come from them, or from any particular generation, but from reading, and allowing myself to enter my own space of what feels good, what feels right creatively speaking, where I might default to the thesaurus on the odd occasion, as well as incorporate a phrase or style I've seen elsewhere. Why this laid-back approach then doesn't transfer to the area I plan to fill I cannot say. I know less is more, yet the words continue to trip and spill across the page.

Am I in need of an editor?

Picture credit: Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday

All posts published this year were penned during the last. 

But Today is Friday

As I was applying my going-out face, kneeling on a cushion, to save my knees, much like a gardener does when planting or weeding, in front of a full-length mirror, my sensitive ears, which some might say are bat-like, heard a truck pull up that sounded suspiciously like a Wednesday delivery.

It was too. But today is Friday! I thought. And then uttered thanks (to the mirror) that I'd done all my thinking already that morning, of the list-making kind, because these would now be disturbed, until I either went out or the truck and what was left of its contents travelled on.

The former transpired. Though not because of the truck but because I was ready. I even walked past the humming, clumsy-looking vehicle, on my way to the shops, without a grumble though not without a sidelong, evil-eyed glance.

These events are not supposed to happen on Fridays.

No, the day is more noted for its speed, Fridays seem extraordinarily keen to depart once they've arrived, and, for me, usually herald (annoyingly too) a flurry of emails, from all those I hoped to hear from earlier in the week, or hadn't heard from in a while; and because I only check my account mid-afternoon I then either spend my time replying or deferring those replies, and therefore further shorten the time I have and what I thought was possible to achieve.

Is this a whine, like that of a bluebottle? Or more that of a woman with a horsey laugh, neighing and braying her complaints to all and sundry, almost proud of having them to tell and spread, repeat a number of times in a number of different ways? I have people that want to know me! Want to connect with me. Over email. I'm not sure that says a lot, actually. She sounds like rather a sad case.

No, it's not like that. I'm not like that, really. It's just Sod's Law. That what it is; that's what Fridays are.

Fridays are the same numbered bus turning up in threes e.g. nothing, nothing, wrong number, single decker, a hopper, than one, two, three the same, on the same route: all of them in service and stopping, and mostly empty.

What more do you want? Jackpot! Yes, BUT...the timing's always a little off. When you feel as if time, all time, is about to run out. On you. On the world.

I should expect it, surely, if this is typical Friday territory? Yes, but somehow I never do, and so somehow I always feel a trifle hounded.

Why? Because I want to shove it all away. No different than someone tidying their desk from a week's work. Or clearing their In-box, ruthlessly. Delete, delete, move to, move to, delete, delete, delete. Junk, junk, block, block, block.

But you can't treat people like that! I treat everything like that. Done. Done. Done. About to be done. Will do. The more minor tasks I can tick, the more I can concentrate on what I want to concentrate on, instead of those left taking up brain-space, knowing they're still to do. Other days, fine, but Fridays are different. And are when I also think my bristling to nobody but myself, well, now to you too, is justified since Fridays are in such a hurry to be over. Vamoose. I'm outta here. See you later alligator! Its tail already disappearing round the bend.

The bend of what? I don't know, a building?, on its way to the station or pub. Oh sorry, bar, because that sounds way more refined, to a Londoner, where they might even have, though it's unlikely, plinky-plonky music, and bar persons properly, more elegantly attired, who can make cocktails and know how to show off while doing so.

I'm getting carried away aren't I? Next, I'll be thinking of pools and indoor sun-loungers round the pool-side, and be reminded of holidays in Wales.

Wales? Yes. Wales. Where they served fruity non-alcoholic cocktails in tall glasses with striped straws and colourful umbrellas. I hadn't yet reached double digits, so how grown-up (and privileged) did I feel! It's easier to feel that way when you're under age; you appreciate that scene less, or take a dislike to it, once adulthood's here to stay, here for good.

Picture credit: The Bar El Gaucho, Seattle Bar, Nina Mikhailenko (source: Google images)

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Beer

The alarm clock had stopped at half past five. Groan, what was the real time then? I don't keep a phone by my bed as I don't want that thing near my head, emitting its dubious waves and killing or transmuting cells;the scientific evidence then later laid at my door if I should suffer any age and mobile-related ailment.

And anyway, I'm one of those who likes my 'off' time, rather more than my 'on' time. And no, I'm not talking menstruation. How crass. Typical of a no-holds-barred feminist. No, I'm definitely not that, not according to modern standards and campaigns, or even those of earlier i.e. of the bra-burning or marching placards.

I was referring to those who are really addicts who cannot bed down without a blue light, held aloft, and so deprive themselves of sleep and appear the next morning bug-eyed. Me, I bed down with a book, a book book, a real physical book, and that's it.

Anyhow, sleep had been had, that night, the night before it and the night before that, but this morning I fished my small bedside clock out of its resting place – the beside drawer – to read its hands as half past five, failing to notice there was no audible tick or movement, the former being why overnight it's consigned to a drawer, and thought, 'No, not yet. It's far too early.' Then for some reason I looked again and realised what you already know.

It was two hours out. Perfect.

I'm not, for once, exercising my sarcastic wit, for my body clock is set to that time, or thereabouts; sometimes it takes away a half hour of slumber.

Now, I didn't jump out of bed as you might expect or crawl out either, I just got up which I assume most human beings do. One leg followed another, then before I knew it I was standing.

The rest, as in the usual routine, occurred as it ought with no deviations, apart from, of course, replacing the clock's battery with another, and once again setting its hands ticking. As well as correcting the time it kept. The tick, however, in my noiseless bedroom seemed louder and more echo-like. Can different makes of batteries do that? Cause a clock to have a more forceful presence? Or, was it before run down and so diminished its output, in sound and motion? The latter seems more logical somehow, but is time, or the pieces that keep it, that rational? No matter. For it would most certainly be going in the drawer. Tonight and ever after.

It was a day, however, for clockwork. Where I couldn't like a Joan Aiken tale say: but today is Tuesday. It wasn't; it was a day (a Thursday) when things of this sort happen, as too are the occasional Wednesdays.

Wednesdays are for stationary humming refrigerated trucks, which can literally drive me nuts. Sat there, unmoving, as the goods are unloaded, outside my windows, and drowning out any other external sounds, like those you might wish to hear, and interfering with internal thoughts, which although perhaps not very interesting nevertheless need to be thought, and need relative quiet to form.

But Thursdays are regular – you know they're coming, the day of the week as well as the arrival of this delivery, the sounds of which will infiltrate for a good forty-five minutes. And I'm always in. I somehow haven't managed to time it that I'm ever out. Or maybe I'm in deliberately to moan. To curse 'them' aloud to my walls. And perhaps, perversely, feel good (about myself) for suffering it...

This truck reverses into the designated space, by the pub's kitchen back door, with an awful squawking, like a chicken being tightly held by the neck, and then the tinny rolling and clanking begins. The stainless steel kegs rolled as Humpty-Dumpty might have been rolled if he hadn't fallen, but handled roughly by beefy men in hard-wearing gloves, and sometimes support belts like those worn by competitors for The World's Strongest Man. Tough job, delivering beer, though less of a feat than that of lifting cars or successive boulders, or pulling cabs of trucks a measured distance.

Picture credit: Beer Tankards, 1885, Vincent van Gogh (source: WikiArt)

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

The Cry of the Crow

4:45 am and I was dragged up from sleep by the sharp repeated cry of a crow. A sound far more harsh than the night bark of a fox, and far more fretful.

The dream I'd been swathed in instantly disturbed and just as instantly forgotten as I broke through the surface to wakefulness, turning from my right side onto my back to lie still under the covers and listen, intent on trying to figure out, aurally, the cause for alarm and if there was any need to get up and see.

As it turned out, there was, for the cawing continued for some minutes, in the same unbroken vein, its pitch increasing and its tone more urgent, so that I soon abandoned any hope of returning to sleep, without rising from my bed.

I lifted the blind with its Magritte-style blue skies and clouds like a veil from the window to, instead of a young dawn with rose-red fingers, a muted canvas, against which the spring green of leaves, the beige brick of the buildings opposite and the elephant grey of the tarmac beneath intensified to different shades than when touched by golden rays, the throne of Dawn.

The spectacled eyes absorbed this - the subdued light and its strange effect - despite the continuous, and desperate, cry of the crow, which not once during this time had been espied. Anywhere. Not perched in a tree or on a roof, nor in the sky, in circling flight and bullied, nor on the ground, entangled in any rubbish strewn among the few parked cars. Nowhere in plain sight and yet it could be heard, plainly, its noise carried from wherever it was, above, same level or below.

Koww, koww, koww, eh-aw, eh-aw. What exactly was it trying to transmit with its overzealous squawking? A bad human or, as Ovid, the Roman poet thought, rain. The latter seemed more likely, given the dulled canvas and since nothing else – no other birds, a late-to-bed fox or a even a grey squirrel, and certainly no humans it being a Sunday - were in evidence. There was no other sound disrupting the quiet, nor any other faces peering from behind windows, scanning the area with an expression of irritation and concern.

Had the quiet persisted, undisturbed, and inconspicuous of birds, and had I still been examining the view at that hour, I might have been able to liken it to Avernus – a place without birds.

That, however, was not to be, for the voice of the crow, though unsighted in the act, made it seem, despite appearances, more jungle-like, a dense landscape of foliage and growing heat. The sun yet to burn back the cooler tones of day and then, with it, bring sweat and a light to daze. To blind the eyes. And bring on thirst to confound the mind further.

I lost myself, for a moment, in the mythic reality of it, as I stood there at the window, believing I was in topics, on a platform made from, made in and supported by trees, and even possibly sucking a pebble to assuage a dry parched throat; my drinking water long finished and the vessel it was drawn from turned upside down. Could some clean water hole be found? when there'd been no rains and the tributaries were dust. Brown cracked rivulets as if no water had ever run through them. Listening to that crow cry, my first thought of the day, had this been my true location, might have been: could this be, really be, the harbinger of rain?

Welcome rain. Monsoon rain. Rain to stand out in. With face upwards, mouth open and arms spread wide, as wide as they could possibly go, like the limbs of a tree; the palms cupped to catch drops.

Possible. Possible. Possibly. The fantasy slip-slipped away. Dust.

My curiosity settled, I drew the blind, with its Magritte-style blue skies and clouds, back down and returned to the still-warm cave of covers, where as soon as my body sank into the mattress and my head again rested on the dented pillow, the cry of the crow ceased. Its silence, and this peace, almost a danger in itself. Had the danger passed or had it come?

I succumbed to some sort of sleep. A sleep that was light but went on, so that I was quite perturbed when I did again awaken. To the same day, with no chariot of sun; or the cry of the crow, revived.

Picture credit: Crow, Ohara Koson (source: WikiArt).

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

H. of the Stumble

A while ago I realised, sometimes to my amusement and often to my dismay, I stumble more over words. The spoken word.

When this occurred, fatally you might say, I don't know, since it mostly happens in those moments where everything - talk and body language - is either improvised or governed by natural impulses, as well as at times when my self-awareness is heightened; but as those exchanges are rare it's not then there all the time since most of the minutes and hours that make up the day are spent in silence or in a one-way chat: either with myself or addressed to a screen.

A babble would imply a rush or a stream, words forced out in one breath with no beat between them; a stutter or stammer suggests words that are stuck, like a woman in labour alternately panting and pushing until baby's delivered; whereas tongue-tied expresses a knot or the tip sliced in two, the ends tied in a bow so that words are mispronounced, which, to correct, have to be sounded differently; and lost for words intimates the tongue's been intentionally removed, or numbed deliberately and may only be shocked back to feeling with an ice-cube.

No, these stumbles, these falls have nothing in common with the above. Nor any term (that I know of) that completely conveys the temporal disconnect between brain and mouth, much like an intermittent and poor signal. People in remote areas will undoubtedly understand what I'm talking about. Except the experienced technical hitch is not entirely that either; it's not just that pathway as there's also the inability to formulate recognisable words: those that would be instantly recognised by another when said, as well as the selection of them from the thesaurus in my head. Usually what happens is that two get conjoined and remain so when spoken, like Siamese twins who require medical invention to survive, or more appropriately in this case an explanation in the Oxford Dictionary.

I'm scaling a hill or mountain -metaphorically speaking for I would never do that in real life, well, only out of necessity, not for pleasure or adventure- and there are too many footholds to choose from, so that as a foot is suspended mid-air the rest of me slips and slides, just a little bit, until I find the firmest and nearest placing, while dust rises and small stones tumble downwards.

Movements quick: a grab, a toe drag; that's what it's like the art of small talk sometimes, all the time studying another's face to see how it settles. Comprehended, puzzlement or brushed aside? Knowing that what you've said is not wrong but it's not right. Because it sounds like gibberish to your ears.

The equivalent to it, I imagine, is a mini-stroke, except in this instance you're aware it's happening while those you're addressing remain unaware. Then, in those moments, I feel foolish. Blathering idiot, I'm thinking, whilst looking to see if it's been noticed. The words are just not there when I want them to be, or where I want them to be either.

And like a mini-stroke, you don't when or where it will strike, or whether you'll trip up or just fall, fall, fall, and be quite unable to pull anything coherent or appropriate from your usual hat of words. Mostly it happens face-to-face, though it has also been known to occur on the phone when I don't know with whom I'm speaking or if I'm nervous for example about making and taking a call.

But it's the loss of words that bothers me. The not knowing what to say; the right, the correct way to respond, at a pace that's both suitable and socially expected. But then I seem to have lost too knowing when to be quiet and when to chime in. When to attempt a throwaway (and often silly) remark, or an anecdote which would put me on an even par with other speakers. Similar to how when your calf muscles go into spasm you can still talk, though there's a good chance your sentences might be interspersed with oh, oh, oh (to match your winces), and therefore add very little, in the way of effect or sense, to the conversation.

Picture credit: Stig of the Dump, Edward Ardizzone (source: Folio Society News & Blogs)

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Turned Detective

I think I've left quite enough passage of time to write (and expose) the following, though all I have to back it up is my word, my own detective work and a hunch that the information I'd found was dead on target. Nothing was ever corroborated, verbally or in writing, nor was the information forthcoming when I met the person to whom I would report to should I be successful, and I didn't press that person because well, it was a weird situation and I didn't really want to have that conversation: to have what I thought confirmed, nor to have to spell out, in person, my reluctance to be further involved.

Now, I'm not a investigative journalist nor an undercover reporter but this to me, then as of now, had the hallmarks of an exposure piece like that shown on Panorama or Dispatches. I'm not sure what I would have found had I gone deeper, or if I'd have liked it, though I think it's safe to say I would have found it seedy and felt uncomfortable about facilitating these services.

Maybe you, however, will think I'm prudish...perhaps I am.

Maybe I'm too distrustful and moralistic. Judge for yourselves.

*

Lesson 1 – Be careful answering ads that are (deliberately?) vague in detail

June, last year, I answer an ad for a part-time post as an admin assistant/receptionist/PA where salary and duties were listed, but no mention was made about the nature of the business other than that it was a start-up. A week later I receive a reply from the director inviting me to an interview where I was advised I would learn more about what she does and what she was looking for.

Lesson 2 – Turn detective and chase clues

In none of the subsequent emails exchanged agreeing (and confirming) date, time, venue and contact numbers etc. was any company information divulged: no company name and first name basis only. I even had to probe for the office address where we were due to meet – I had the postcode which only gave a rough location. I had no real suspicions at that point, and had planned to be more open-minded; entering into it less prepared than usual. But that instinct to want to know never dies and so I attempted to google businesses registered to the shared office building. No match. Next I googled the contact number I'd been given and bingo!

A cleaning company offering nude (and clothed) services. Oh God, it could only happen to me! Do I pull out? No, it was too late (and rude) to do so, plus I admit I was curious. Do I go and let on, ask outright? Could my internet-gathered intelligence be wrong? Please let it be wrong. Please let it wrong. All these thoughts flashed through and yet I already knew I was spot on. Still my mind said: go along. But how to play it, how to react?

Lesson 3 - Conceal (don't reveal) what you know

The interview date arrived. At the venue, after I'd loitered outside and felt decidedly dodgy doing so – the director was unlisted on the intercom and I didn't know what floor she was on – I called her, she came down and led me to an upstairs broom cupboard: basically a space big enough for a table and two chairs, and from there the interview proceeded as you would expect. The nature of the business was confirmed as cleaning and that they wanted to expand geographically as well as possibly introduce further services: carpet and window cleaning (I almost choked on suppressed laughter), but it was left at that, apart from the fact that the workforce was all female (and freelance) visiting male clients and there was a lone working policy. I waited, with bated breath, but nothing further came. Perhaps I should have pressed...but maybe she, like me, was sussing me out.

Lesson 4 - Don't think it's over till it's over

Naturally (well this is me we're talking about) the inevitable occurred: an offer was made. I declined, excusing myself with a half-truth to maintain my cover. Until now.

Picture credit: Collage for Nude with White Flower, 1994, Roy Lichtenstein (souce: WikiArt)

All posts published this year were penned during the last.

Devil's Horns

Don't ever try to fashion ear muffs from a plain headband with black devil's horns and two pairs of balled-up socks skewered on each end because they'll be lousy. You'll still hear everything you were, in desperation, trying to drown out as well as be unable to find a comfortable sleeping position. The band will dig into your scalp, the socks won't cover your lug-holes or stay there, and the horns will rub against the headboard. In a very short time you'll rip them off, sling them across the floor, with eyes shut, and say a prayer asking your ears to adjust to the racket and for sleep, in God's name, to come.

The racket, in my case, was the loud strains of Come On Eileen and Diana Ross' I'm Coming Out. The tracks I most loathe, which even if I was up and in a party mood I'd sit out or leave the venue. So in the pre-dawn hours they were most unwelcome. Eileen, don't go; Diana, stay home. And turn it down!

Why hasn't the cheesy music moved on? The very same were being played when I was going to teenage discos, and were not then, for me, the ultimate of a good night, though others gyrating around me obviously disagreed.

Now, Bon Jovi's Livin' On A Prayer, that's a track. But not at 2am. Outside your window. In a rousing chorus, fingers in the air, rock-style. And not when it's done to death, or might very well end up being the cause of one.

The Derby came to town. Yes, it certainly did. A little excess – in spirit – is to be expected.

But this is pretty much standard fare if you breathe and share the same air as a pub, particularly one whose market is predominantly 18-30. Still, we all need something to gripe about, and this is mine. One of them. And it has given me, along with some nights of poor sleep, some funny incidents to remark upon, as well as tested my tolerance, which we all need to do from time to time.

Earlier that same evening, I witnessed from behind flimsy curtains, aside from the usual clowning about (and that's just the staff!), two paunchy and balding suited men who were (I estimated from up high) over thirty telling some tall tale (again I presume) to another equally suited slightly-the-worse-for-wear man, whereupon whenever they reached a bridge or chorus performed a almost perfectly timed side-by-side dance routine: a spin then sidestep, step behind, step behind. They really should learn how to spot, I remember thinking, it would help their balance enormously. If I'd been prepared I could have held up a board with their score.

So really, I should complain less because instances like this gives me material, as well as a feeling of superiority which I dislike but can't ignore, though this, I think, has more to do with height: the number of feet (from the ground) from which I observe, as then those below seem diminutive whilst I preside, in my own domain, above, where everything, of course, appears to me to be of normal scale. Not that this is a reliable measure of (my) intelligence, because what kind of fool tries to make ear muffs from devil's horns and socks? In my defence, noise you can't control makes you either flip out or resort to any ingenious method you can think of, or concoct at an ungodly hour.

That experiment, as you know, wasn't successful. But nor have I since then invested in ear plugs, because, in the past, upon waking up having put in squashed and squeezed and rolled foam plugs (and then lost them in the course of the night) all my sinuses have been snuffly. Why that should be I don't know, yet it only happens if I block up my ears. Instead I tend to take to my bed when the garden's been cleared, and only on special extended licence occasions wait it out.

The experiment of living almost on top of a pub is much harder to deem success or failure, since without it my untutored studies of human behaviour would be less rich; there'd be less pickings. Yes, I'm often inconvenienced and hear and see more than I wish to see or know about, but I wonder, when again the thought of moving occurs to me, if somewhere quieter I'd be bored. Devil's horns wherever they are worn exercise the mind.

Picture credit: The Little Devil, 2008, Marina Pallares (source: WikiArt).

All posts published this year were penned during the last.