radio brand coffee

deep down

2006-08-27T13:23:00.000Z

It wasn't until he was twelve he found out that the other person did actually exist. He had spent many hours until that moment questioning whether or not it was schizophrenia he suffered. The news which was prbably meant to horrify him only acted as a glorious validation; he knew he was not alone.

As a baby he was always very unsettled he had been told. Prone to fits that lasted many hours and were always violent in nature. He would scream and twitch and vomit until the doctors agreed that in his early years he would be better off medicated. As the mind of the infant grew at the awe inspiring rate they are wont to the doctors became concerned that his development would be hampered. Much to the despair of his parents the doctors took the decision to try to wean him from his drugs. Initially this experiment was less than successful and the fits came back as strongly as when they started. His quite frankly traumatised parents took this as indication the medication would just have to say. A conclusion they came to quite happily as he was their first child and felt that he wasn't really what they were expecting. It would be fair to say they were thoroughly disappointed in their offspring and each had secretly, without informing the other, looked into sterilisation lest they be tempted to make the same mistake again.

The will of the medicine men, however, would not be bent and they were determined that the boy not go through life doped up to the eyeballs. Their approaches to the parents about withdrawing the medication did not go at all well and they abandoned this tactic when the parents began to threaten to switch doctors. The medical staff that had known the child since before his birth were terribly unwilling to desert the boy now. They feared that another set of professionals may be tempted to acquiesce to the parents desires so they employed subterfuge. A decision that came with a certain amount of guilt at the time which developed into a large amount of guilt many years down the line. In the defence of their actions however, they considered that they were truly doing their best for the boy.

They told a lie which didn't ever sit right with them. They told the parents that the drugs which kept their troublesome child passive had been proven through recent testing to be dangerous to the health of small children. They told the parents they would like to try another drug, a safer drug, that would have the same affect.

The boys mother and father suffered a crisis of conscience at the news. Truth be told they were terribly pleased with the current state of the child, they had a delightful nanny come nurse who dealt with the difficult parts of caring for a boy with no control of anything, they had it very easy. They definitely didn't want to rock the boat and going on previous experience they thought they would rather run the health risk to their boy than suffer his awful fits. However, they were a fiercely proud couple keen to keep up appearances so agreed to the switch if only so society wouldn't judge them for being uncaring parents.

The doctors changed the medication to a much milder form of drug. Initially at relatively high concentrations but eventually they lowered the dosing by the smallest percent every month to see what effect it would have on the boy. Despite his disadvantages the child wasn't stupid. He had a firm grip on language but up until this point had been too medicated to utilize it himself. With no immediate adverse reactions from the reduction in medication the doctors became bold. By the time the boy was five years old his dosage had been halved and he spoke his first word. This was a fair shock to his parents who had totally reconciled themselves to having a child who would be, for all intents and purposes, retarded. His first word was “we”.

At the time his parents mistook it for expressing a desire for a toilet function but as the boys language developed it was noted he never used the word “I”. Ever.

By the time the doctors had the boy on nothing more than a placebo he was walking and talking and behaving like any seven year old boy would. Well, nearly. He was still cared for at home and had never been to school. Wary, his parents had tried as hard as they could to keep him separate from other children lest his unfortunate fits return. The doctors and his nanny were concerned over this so had both made attempts to integrate him, very marginally, with other children. Whenever the boy was placed in those social situations he always chose to sit, mostly quietly, by himself. His parents were desperate for something to be wrong with him so they could retain their distance from the child they hardly knew, and hardly wanted to know. Even the nanny couldn't see why she was still employed to be his minder and carer. He could have gone to a school, his parents could have looked after him and they were fearing that societal pressure might force this situation upon them when they discovered his habit of talking to himself.

His mother, a willowy severe looking creature with unnatural blonde hair and a naturally pinched face, was passing by his room one evening and heard voices. At first she assumed he was talking with the nanny and was halfway down the hall when she remembered the nanny was cooking dinner downstairs. She crept back to the bedroom door and looked through the keyhole to spy on her son. It was an uncomfortable position for our detached woman to be in, spying seemed so low an act and try as she might she could not deal with looking at her own child for too long. She saw him sat in his rocking chair, staring with wide eyes to his left, talking in fast and hushed tones words she couldn't quite make out. Her view of the room was fairly good but she did not see anyone else in there. She knew she heard two voices though so patiently she waited and watched. As the boy drew quiet his head jerked to the right and his eyes narrowed and in equally fast and hushed tones he replied to himself in a different voice. She recoiled in shock but recognising the potential of having a crazy son she stayed. The conversation went on some time and she strained to hear, but only caught the odd word, “we will”, “we are, “we can”...

When her husband came to find her and saw her kneeling before the bedroom door he was more than a little confused. “Angeline” he blurted in tones that can only be described as stern. Not so much for the spying I might add but more because he didn't approve of seeing his wife in such an unsightly position. He shocked her and before she realised it she let out a might squeal and fell backwards from the door. She looked to him and he looked to her and then they both looked to the bedroom door behind which there was a bang, followed by a scurrying noise. The door flung open and their child looked at them with accusations in his eyes.

His mother who was terrified of this little boy and convinced he was crazy thought quickly and spoke just as fast:

“Hello, er, darling, I didn't hear Daddy behind me and he frightened me and I tripped. Silly Mummy yes? I'm OK though so don't worry, you can go back to, er, playing”

“I was reading a book.”

“Well reading then, your dinner will be ready soon. We'll see you at the table OK, run along....”

The child returned to his room and his perplexed father was dragged downstairs by his extremely flustered and excited mother. She explained what she had seen, initially he didn't quite understand but when she highlighted that if their son was in fact mentally disturbed the meds might return and the nanny could stay his joy was obvious. They had an extremely enjoyable dinner and that night in bed vowed to do see the doctors first thing in the morning.

The reaction of the doctors though was less than satisfactory. Boys have imaginary friends. Nothing to worry about at all. No need to bring him in. The doctors suspected the parents were exaggerating the problem and the parents, not being at all stupid, knew this. They decided that they would have to take their own proof. At this point they were desperate and took a course of action they weren't especially proud of but truly felt it to be essential.

They arranged a play date with the disabled child of a woman they knew but didn't like very much. There was no point inflicting their odd offspring onto someone respectable. This made the nanny suspicious as it was the first attempt the parents had made to integrate their child, but being a generally sweet sort she hoped this marked a changing of their attitude. While nanny and child were gone the parents, whose attitude had not changed one iota, installed cameras in their only child's room.

Three weeks later, after the spectacular failure of the play date the nanny was told that they would be going to see the doctor again about their boy. She didn't really understand why because his behaviour hadn't changed at all. Sure, so at the play date he completely ignored the other child and was never asked back, so he was a loner, a little isolated, he wasn't a bad kid. The nanny prepared the child for the doctors visit but the parents said that he wouldn't be required. They went their way and suspicious, she followed.

The parents had amassed the footage they required and paid a film student a significant sum of money to edit the footage appropriately and to keep his mouth shut. When they showed the scenes of the boy talking to himself and the fury he worked himself up to, concocting plans with himself, telling himself that he was all that mattered, they agreed there may be a problem. Arrangements were made for psychological testing and a low dosage sedative offered as an interim solution.

Once the victorious parents had departed the offices the Nanny went in to see what was going on. The doctors had zero qualms about sharing this information with her as they had come to think of her as the boys family anyway. The Nanny was disturbed by the news of a potential mental illness but had to agree that the complete solitude the boy craved wasn't exactly right. She wasn't entirely happy about the meds and as she knew she would be the one who gave them to the boy she vowed to hold off until the testing had been done. A mistake she regretted for the rest of her days.

I would understand if your sympathy lay solely with the boy but in all honesty it shouldn't. Whilst it's not exactly his fault what followed, he did nothing to prevent it and believe me; he was more than capable.

The psychological profile and interview with the child was recorded on video as were all such interviews in the offices of the high priced doctor. The parents were present as this was not a responsibility they could shirk, but the nanny waited outside ready to take over again as soon as their duty was done. It began very simply with some exercises looking at photographs and drawings. He was asked to draw comparisons. He played a word game. He was asked to talk about himself and jotted down in the psychologists notebook, highlighted by a red box, was “Never refers to self as I, always we.”

As the tests drew to an end the boy became more and more suspicious and his parents looked more and more triumphant. The psychologist gave the boy some complicated building blocks to put together while he spoke with the parents. His conclusion was that the child may be suffering from multiple personality issues and it would take many hours of therapy and medication to make this other, malicious, personality disappear completely.

What followed next was disturbing to all who have seen the tapes. The boy, who had been listening in as all young boys do, looked up and howled. Grabbing the structure he had just composed out of his blocks he flew at the psychologist and repeatedly smashed it into his head until he was dead. The parents, transfixed by this gruesome sight, only realised what was happening when the boys attention turned to them. He grabbed the letter opener from the desk of the late psychologist and buried it into his mothers chest before withdrawing it and attacking his father.

When all was quiet and still the boy left the room and told the nanny he would like to go home.

The police picked the child up when the bodies were discovered and he went with them quietly. Since his request to leave the offices he had not spoken a word, a habit that stayed with him for the rest of his life. He was judged mentally unfit and sent into care where he was separated from other people all the time. In the early days his former nanny would try to visit him, determined that he wasn't a bad boy, but he would spit and snarl until she went away and then eventually the visits stopped all together. He liked it better that way, to be alone and not alone.

Twice a day a carer would silently take plates and bring him food and meds. Once a month the doctor would come look at him. None of these things ever took more than half an hour. He could have happily gone without them tough. A year into his incarceration he gained a new carer after his old one had died in a car accident. The doctor brought the stern and large woman into the cell and pointed to the boy and warned her to be wary of him.

“But Doctor, he's tiny, he looks harmless”

“He killed both of his parents and a doctor when he was eleven years old Nurse, he's not harmless at all. Be careful, don't linger too long he doesn't like the company. Don't attempt to engage him in conversation because he will not talk. Drop the food, take the plates then leave. He's attacked people who have tried to engage him. With this one it's best to just let him be OK?”

“How did such a young boy get into such a state?”

“It started before he was born, his mother was pregnant with twins but only had this one, the other was smaller and weaker and became absorbed is what the records show. There's probably parts of it in there, pushing on his brain, causing pressure. I suppose technically he killed before he was even born absorbing his twin like that. Just keep away as much as you can Nurse.”

And that is how he knew the other person really did exist and that they both were happy, in their cell, all alone by themselves.

stream of consciousness five

2006-07-15T16:31:00.000Z

I must give her, her dues though. I always liked her and she lasted longer than some of the others did. When this all first started we congregated together, there were many of us. Twenty and now there are five. Since we lost her though we haven’t lost anyone else. I remember a little. The first of our group to go was the cousin of one of those I hold dear who we have also lost now. A fifteen year old boy who I had never met before and whose name I didn’t have time to learn. Dominic, Damien, David.. I can’t remember. I know he was fifteen because the day I met him it was his birthday. In the old times he looks like he would have been in the popular group at school, tall for his age with a cutting edge haircut and very trendy shoes. I remember the shoes, I tried to guess how much they would have cost, probably more than I would ever have paid for shoes. In these new times though he looked just like what he was, a frightened child who shook and wept and was still. All he said for the first few hours was

It’s my birthday today.
I’m fifteen years old.

I felt sorry for him, part of me considered as one of the few women I should probably do the maternal bit to make him feel better but it’s unnatural to me. As sorry for him as I felt I didn’t feel that molly coddling the poor boy would do him any real favours. What would be best was if he snapped out of it. Got on with things. Do what you have to do to survive. It’s a cold way of thinking maybe but it’s this exact characteristic the five of us had from the start. The girlfriend, the one we lost, she hugged the boy for a while but I do not consider there was any real warmth in these actions. I’m not saying that she was a bad person who didn’t want to make him feel better. There isn’t one of us who doesn’t dearly wish we could have held him and told him he would be alright. But it would have been a hollow gesture without meaning or sincere feeling and if you were to ask me to do this would be a far colder thing. I dearly hoped he would realize what he had to do but he never did. He ran away the day after the first day. I thought I saw him on one of our forages once. I thought I saw what was left of him. I didn’t tell anyone else. I don’t know if anyone else saw. We have no time to mourn.

she changed it all

2006-06-13T16:15:00.000Z

She wasn’t a bad girl, not at all. She wasn’t wicked or evil or any of those things. She had no sociopathic leanings or a desire to be cruel. Even as a little girl her teachers and family alike recognised that she didn’t have a malicious bone in her body.

Which is why it makes this discovery all so difficult to understand.

Interviews after the event, with people who had met her or people who had been her friends, all gave the impression that she was a perfectly normal young woman. The overall impression gathered was that she was quiet and attentive. Charming and reassuring. Good to confide in and an excellent listener. Her responses were always reasonable and well thought out. She very rarely entered into conflict and never displayed aggression. She had a healthy level of curiosity and seemed to be very intelligent.

Which is why this whole business is so unsettling really.

Her history reveals maybe a little insight into how such a situation could have developed. As is liable to happen when things like this occur book companies and newspapers were desperate to cash in. They pleaded with her for interviews. They offered substantial amounts of money for the exclusive story; her point of view. She politely declined. Her family were also approached. They say that everybody has a price and whilst the media couldn’t reach the price of her or her close family some of her cousins were bought fairly cheap. Initially cheap but, for what the papers got, far too much money was spent on these snippets of misinformation. Spying some ready money these distant relatives were happy enough to concoct stories of ritualistic animal abuse as a child and perverse leanings which were completely untrue. The extent of the lies were later revealed under some close scrutiny and a trial for libel in which the papers lost more than they had offered her in the first place.

Researchers came out baffled when a book profile was suggested. Like the newspaper people they approached her with offers of large sums of money and like she did with the newspaper people she politely declined. Those people who made the visit to see her went with many preconceptions. It’s hard not to when you hear so much reported about an individual. They all left feeling a little disconcerted, preconceptions shattered and a significant level of doubt. Like those who investigated her, those who knew her, those who were related to her and like everyone she’d ever met they just didn’t think she was capable of that which they knew she had done.

Background checks showed very little in the way of deviant behaviour. The people wanted an explanation just to help them understand what makes a person end up like this. The people were largely disappointed. She grew up just outside an average sized city in an average sized house. Both her parents remained together and she had one sister who she got along with very well. There were no disturbing uncles or bad babysitters or forceful boyfriends. There was no difficulty at school, she got good grades and seemed very happy. She wasn’t a social outcast and had a happy childhood and a small but good group of friends who she always remained in contact with. She went to college and performed very well and got a place at university studying medicine. She had volunteered at her local hospital since she was 15 with the intention of applying for medicine later on and was by all accounts very pleased.

She went to university and met a young man, the letters home to her parents from her early university days tell of courting and happy times. Her tutors were interviewed and always said she was a bright girl who didn’t struggle with the work load and never missed a lecture. She worked part time in an old peoples home to supplement her student grant and her colleagues have since reported her to be hard working and considerate. In the middle of her second year, and much has been made of this, she suffered a very bad illness.

It started with a cold which wouldn’t shift. It has been said that she was looking tired for several months, from the start of term, it was assumed she was just working too hard. She had been to see her doctor and they pronounced her fine if a little anaemic. Before Christmas break she was taken into accident and emergency by her young man because she had a terrible temperature, headache and was pretty incoherent. After running their tests the hospital confirmed that she was suffering a pretty bad case of meningitis and she was placed into an isolation ward where she stayed for three months whilst she recovered. When she was finally allowed out of hospital she still needed a long time for rest and recuperation. The university were sympathetic and were happy for her to repeat the year that she had missed and offered her a special grant to help support her throughout her subsequent years on the course. An offer she took up and started afresh the next semester healthy and well. The head of the department has said they awarded the grant because they truly believed she was a talented young woman and would one day make an excellent doctor. It seemed a shame to allow this unfortunate illness to become a barrier for this and there were concerns she was doing too much work and too little play. A medical degree with a part time job as well would be a strain for any individual.

This illness did not affect her subsequent grades which were consistently good and it has been said her attitude was the same. If anything she was more cheery having met a new group of people and having a larger set of friends now. She was more social and had more time to study now the financial pressure was taken off her. The rest of her time at medical school went without note and she graduated with a respectable degree.

Surgery was her chosen field and when she went out to her first position as a graduate her story began to get interesting. It was a large hospital with a large surgical department and she was to work directly under a consultant surgeon Mister Phillip Burton. Mister Phillip Burton had been a doctor for thirty years and was not one to suffer fools gladly. He was also not the type who was happy about women doctors let alone women surgeons. In his thirty years of doctoring he had only just gotten used to the idea of male nurses, female doctors was still far too much for him to get his head around. So he did not know what to make of this bright enthusiastic young girl. She seemed, to him, to be mocking him and all he stood for. Their relationship started badly and never really improved. Initially he tried ignoring her presence completely, there were a plethora of moronic registrars and house officers who were of the correct sex he could converse with. When, after six months of this stony front, she refused to transfer he changed his tactic to incorporate what a modern lawyer would probably call bullying but to Phillip Burtons mind was just setting the situation straight. He’d order her to file case notes and make him cups of tea. Womanly duties he considered. If she dared enter his theatre prior, during or post surgery he would ensure she was given a menial non medical job to do. Be it helping him on with his scrubs, filing of paperwork or cleaning. She did all these things he asked and never grumbled once. Only after a year of work with Mr Burton and no so much as a stitch to her theatre record did she register a complaint.

The hospital took Phillip Burton to task and lectured him about the cost of surgical staff. About how important it was to develop these young minds. About how in this day and age it just wasn’t on to discriminate against people just because they happened to be women. He was ordered to give the girl some theatre time and treat her as he would any of the male staff.

Mister Phillip Burton did not much like this.

During her first surgery where she was allowed to the table Dr Burton made her step down five times for allegedly contaminating the sterile field. The scrub nurse for that day has gone on the record saying that she saw no contamination and that the situation was all of Dr Burtons making. It was another week before she was allowed back to surgery during which Dr Burton tutted and swore at every move she made. The following week doctor Burton intentionally forgot her name and spent the entire day referring to her as girl. For the next three weeks he refused to let her see case notes or theatre lists so when she arrived she was completely unprepared for what the day might hold. Her colleagues said she coped extremely well considering but Dr. Burton didn’t really see it this way and was often heard labelling her as an incompetent goon. For the next few months Dr Burton would allow her to the able as instructed but he took great pleasure in concocting various ways of making her life miserable by doing so. His wife (now ex wife) has gone on record as saying “It was all the bastard talked about for months – he had a real sadistic streak.

In May about a year and a half into her employment at this hospital she was on a private ward with Dr Burton checking on the previous weeks patients. In room seven – the Oxford suite, resided a patient who was extremely wealthy although no one really knew what for. Dr Burton liked the private patients and liked the money he got from them so tended to be far more attentive to their whims and desires. He was always happy to answer their questions and it has been said that the attention he lavished on the more wealthy patients was a not so subtle way of ingratiating himself into a higher social arena. It never really worked out for him though, even his wife (although the ex should be emphasised again) would describe him as a loathsome creature.

In room seven whilst Dr Burton was schmoozing as hard as he could and ignoring her completely whilst she tried, in vain, to run the check up she was obliged to do she knocked a kidney dish containing various bottled samples to the floor. The incident was a minor one really and the kidney dish had been badly balanced by an over-tired nurse in the first place. There was no damage to the samples and no real harm done. The old metal kidney dishes having long been replaced by cardboard disposable ones it wasn’t even especially noisy. She knelt down to retrieve that which had been dropped and while she was down and vulnerable the not so good doctor in the words of a passing orderly “totally flipped his lid”.

There is a fairly good account of what followed. Dr Burtons words were loud and commanded attention. Patients and staff alike gathered at the door of the Oxford suite and watched slack jawed and wide eyed as he tore into the shocked young doctor on her knees. Whilst the duration of the verbal onslaught that follows is up for debate (estimates run from five to fifteen minutes) the level of insult directed at the girl are not. Dr Burton did not hold back, with arms and spittle flying, he imaginatively called her all names he could think of. If she tried to interrupt or apologise he would talk over her louder. If she tried to stand up to face the doctor he actually started throwing pens at her. He seemed entirely oblivious to the patient he had so recently been buttering up or the crowd he was drawing. It has been said he looked like he was enjoying himself.

As previously noted the duration of this attack is unknown and in some respects is irrelevant, no one doubts the ferocity, the effect was still the same. When he had run out of things to say he placed his hands on his hips and glared at the girl defying her to say something. Reports state her eyes were glassy and she looked on the verge of tears. Everyone who has been asked agreed the following things happened. She lowered her head and sighed, there were tears dropping onto her theatre blues trousers but no one saw her actually cry, she gripped tightly in one hand a screw top bottle containing a sample and when she spoke it was calmly without excessive volume. She unscrewed the lid from the top of the bottle, threw a full tub of bright yellow urine into the doctors face and calmly said: “You, sir, are a god-damned bully”.

The crowd cheered.

Dr Burton looked like he didn’t believe what was happening and when he registered that the fluid dripping down his face was actually urine he scrabbled around looking for something to throw at her, settling on a clipboard. He then made as if to slap her while she was down. Onlookers have gone on record saying they truly believe the doctor would have physically assaulted the girl had the patient not intervened. As the doctor raised his arm and swung towards the girls face the wealthy patient recovering from surgery in room seven grabbed the doctors wrist and ordered him out. Initially the doctor made no movement but the wealthy patient (who cannot be named for legal reasons) raised his voice and ordered the doctor “Out of my room now, I pay you well enough you will do as you’re told. You will leave, you will close the door behind you and you and those other vultures will piss off”.

What happened next no one knows. She’s not talking to anyone and wealth patient, lets call him Mr X, can’t. We know she was in the room for an hour. Several members of the hospital management team tried to interrupt them at several points and were politely but firmly told to “bugger off”. When she finally left the room it was to quit her job without notice. There were objections to this but when it was pointed out that if they insisted on making her work her notice there would be legal action the hospital had little choice but to acquiesce. She went straight back to room seven where Mr X had been busy discharging himself and they both left. That was the last the hospital saw of either of them.

Her friends and family discovered that this incident had occurred only years later. At the time she told them that she had left her hospital job and was going to become a home carer. This was a great surprise to them all as they knew how passionate she was about surgery, about being a doctor even, this was, in their minds, several steps backwards. She reassured them best she could that she was extremely happy with this decision and that in fact financially she would be better off than she was currently. This seemed to placate some of her loved ones worried but some were still worried that this would not stretch her enough.

She was having none of it.

Her young man was concerned but after six months of regular hours, a steady income and a happy girlfriend he was in no real position to complain. He saw her more than he did when she was working at the hospital and she seemed far more content in her work. She would come home exhilarated and happy and it thrilled him to see her like this. They moved in together nine months into her new work situation. After eighteen months he had worked up the courage to propose and has gone as far as buying a ring. But before he had chance she was arrested and the whole story became public.

She had never spoken to him about work, or to any of her friends and family. As far as any of them knew she was working as a home carer for a very wealthy man who would rather have a doctor than a nurse around. Her actual job description, which was never recorded on paper, was something far more sinister.

The police tapes from the initial interviews after her arrest have been leaked a long time ago now. She never denied anything because she never understood why she would have to. The famous scene where the young officer became overcome with nausea and vomited into the corner of the interview room is now legend. The way she came over to try to nurse him and he vomited even more violently at her touch struck a strange chord in each of our hearts. She was obviously caring. She was obviously considerate. She was so obviously an intelligent girl so why couldn't she see why everyone else found her actions so loathsome?

The arrest came after one of her “patients” suffered a change of heart and made an official complaint. The manor in which she worked had a recorded staff of 75 and rising. It was also, it turned out, her duty to tend to the staff as well as the wealth benefactor. The staff were profiled afterwards and each had something in common besides their eventual fate. These were desperately alone people. There were no friends and family, in most case they were orphans. Many homeless runaways from tragic lives had been employed by our wealthy Mr X. all employees lived in an annexe of the manor and none of them, since the day of their employment until the day of the arrest, had ever left the grounds.

And for very good reason.

The complaint came from the now extremely rich and currently in hiding Annabelle Brixton. Despite the fact that she bought this situation to the attention of the world she has never received much of a sympathetic ear. Well, of course initially, when it was her word against everyone else's she did. But as the story unfolded and her fame rose despite her technically being the victim public opinion was generally very negative towards Ms. Brixton.

In the beginning there was Ms. Brixton, in the dead of night entering a police station somewhere in Sussex (not disclosed for legal reasons). How she got there is not known to this day. There are rumours that Ms. Brixton was actually a journalist with an ex boyfriend who had gone to live in the manor. These rumours are unconfirmed at this time. Ms Brixton walked into a police station wearing a cowl and cape and announced that she would like to make a complaint. When asked the nature of her complaint she threw off her cape to reveal her perfectly functioning second set of arms.

In the dead of the night Mr X's manor was raided and 75 staff members with varying degrees of physical abnormality were bundled into buses and taken away. On hearing the disturbance and viewing the goings on, on the CCTV both Mr X and his partner, one Mr. G. Bullard who had been working as a butler but was later disclosed to be his lover, opened up the safe in their room, locked the door and took a large barbiturate overdose. The police took thirty minutes to break down the great door to the bedroom by which time both Mr X and Mr Bullard were quite dead.

Inside the safe were a number of scientific papers, a number of hand written consent forms- 76 all told, a legally binding will and a video tape. At the same time of the raid our girl had a knock on the door and was duly arrested. It is reported she accepted the grounds of her arrest without complaint or question while her partner went “positively mental” and was restrained by the police.

The scientific papers contained within the safe detailed surgical procedure for transference of entire limbs from one individual to another which retained full function. There were some papers detailing how to reattach hands that had been severed and even one on donor genitalia which would still lead to normal procreation even in the case of sex change operations. The consent forms were written by the staff members recording their willingness to undergo the procedures that occurred at the manor. There was no set formula to the consent forms. No indication that they were forced to copy any existing document or any indication of confusion to what they were agreeing to. The will left all the worldly belongings of Mr X and Mr Bullard to our girl. The videotape, ah the videotape, that was a confession.

Mr X gained his wealth by donation. He too was a doctor who had left the medical profession to work solely for an independently wealthy man, who again can not be named for legal reasons so we refer to him as Mr A, who had gained his money through inheritance from his father who was a big noise in industry. Both Mr X and his benefactor had something in common and this was their sexual orientation although there is no indication that the relationship between the two was anything more than business. For Mr A it was not a simple case of homosexuality he was one of the poor individuals who suffered the fate of being born into the wrong gendered body. More than that it can be argued he was born into the wrong time as modern day sex change operations are no rare occurrence. Mr X was one of the pioneers in sex change surgery but it was his biggest regret that in the lifetime of Mr A it could not be perfected and Mr A passed away in the body he was not born to inhabit. He promised Mr A that he would endeavour to ensure this problem would not be a problem for any future generations. In addition to this whilst working for Mr A, Mr X had lost his left leg below the knee in a motorcycle accident. An affliction which caused great distress to Mr X and although he had the best prosthesis money could buy it was just not the same. This is where the manor came in.

When he took his staff on he explained to them what his aims were and detailed the research involved. For many years those who were dying and had no one would find out about the manor and come to live out their last days in a completely secure and happy environment and were more than willing to donate whatever they had to Mr X for this. He had taken the surgical techniques so far but his own ailing health and disability meant he needed to take on someone to continue his research. In the video he outlines his hospital check up and the time he met a newly qualified doctor being abused by her senior in the public glare. He said he knew as soon as he saw the urine hit the old man's face that he had found his replacement. So he hired her.

The video now becomes extremely moving for the select few who have seen it. Mr X's eyes well up and he openly weeps at the talents of his newest recruit. It was she who first perfected the whole functioning limb transfer. As has later been verified Mr X died standing on two feet, as it were, the surgery a complete success. It was she also who made the breakthrough of gender realignment and within the manor there was one couple who through such a swap had managed to produce a normal healthy baby girl.

In the video Mr X takes full responsibility and pleads that for the sake of science and scientific progress the girl not be punished.

There was also a letter in the safe that hasn't been recorded on public record. It was a letter of apology to the girl and an explanation of his suicide. He knew he wouldn't be able to deal with it so Mr X and Mr Bullard made a pact which they ultimately stuck to. He told the girl that all his money was now hers and suggest she bribe an official and have him posthumously blamed for the whole thing. She refused to do this and instead accepted whatever fate befell her.

The scientific community was revolutionised by the papers that were provided in the safe. Her works made a difference to people across the world. To this day she receives letters of thanks from transgender couples who have concieved, from accident victims who can walk and write again. Donor cards have been amended to include limbs and wombs. The world has changed thanks to one woman but was this enough to save her?

Of all the staff members that were taken from the manor that night there were a variety of physical anomalies. There were women with six arms and men with four legs. There were women with four ovaries, there were even people who had arms for legs and legs for arms. Of all the people she had modified only one person made any complaint and that was Ms. Brixton. What amazed the rest of the world was how happy the modified were. They continued to live in the manor after the trial was over and records have shown that all of them were content.

So, was it enough to save her? Well, no. It couldn't go unpunished but punishment was hard to prescribe. The trial went on for four long years without bail and popular opinion varied as to what would be fitting. Life in prison was suggested and dismissed. She hadn't actually killed anyone and with only one complainant it was deemed too harsh. Ms. Brixton applied for compensation and received a healthy sum before refusing to participate in any more legal proceedings and buggering off with her new found wealth to another country. Her second set of arms removed and no harm done. The public had no sympathy for Ms Brixton and while she may have received hundreds of thousands initially for book sales and newspaper stories they soon turned on her. It was suggested our girl serve a lesser prison sentence. This was agreed to be acceptable and four years was decided upon. Four years which was incidentally the length of the trial which she had spent in a minimum security prison anyway so they considered it served.

Then there was the question of her medical licence. The prosecution argued that she should never practice medicine again but the scientific community who were suffering a sort of ecstasy buzz from her research caused an outcry at the suggestion. It seemed, they suggested, sheer waste to allow a brilliant mind to just rot. Think of the benefits...

So, it was decided that she could not practise medicine on the general public any more but was allowed to continue with some highly regulated research. The manor was turned into a research facility and the findings and practises were kept public and submitted to an ethical and regulatory board. After it was all over she lead a fairly private life choosing, like the other inhabitants of the manor, to stay within the grounds for most of the time. She married her young man and had a family of her own. She would allow anyone in to tour her facilities but would rarely answer the questions they wanted answering.

There has never been an accurate account of the events surrounding these discovery's or the motivations of my mother. Until now, that is.

the children of field orange are trying to kill me

2006-06-11T17:14:00.000Z

I live in a village with a static population. The village is called Field Orange and if we had one of those friendly welcome signs on the outskirts it would quite accurately read;

Welcome to Field Orange
Population 100

Accurate because the village is indeed called Field Orange and the population is always one hundred exactly. It never changes and has been like this as long as we can remember. That’s not to say that we don’t die because we do. At the time of one birth there is a death and with every death Field Orange receives a newborn. Population one hundred, that’s Field Orange.

The accuracy is furthered because of Field Oranges situation. This small village I call home is located amid a sea of orange fields. We grow poppies, orange poppies and they surround us as far as the eye can see. I’ve read a history of Field Orange and some years ago an errant farmer decided to experiment with the horizon. Initially he began with Red poppies but they would not take. He tried yellow poppies to the same effect. He tried carrots and broad beans, he tried cabbages and violets. He tried carnations and roses but nothing would grow except the beautiful orange poppies. Eventually this farmer was run out of town for what was assumed to be lunatic behaviour. This occurred coincidentally at the exact same time of my birth.

Everyone in Field Orange is a farmer, we all go out to the fields to gather poppies and we have no schools. We have no hospitals or stores. The women do not stay at home to clean and cook. Every morning at 6am we go to the fields to collect the poppies. At lunch time we take whatever food we want from the communal barn and in the afternoon we go back to gathering the poppies. That’s not to say we are backwards because we are not. We are educated as our children are educated and sometimes one of us goes away to university and another is born. It’s rare though, we all like it in Field Orange. At 7am a truck comes to take the children twenty miles away to the nearest school. The truck also takes a list of what we, the village and its occupants, want. Sometimes it’s food or new boots. The other day I asked for a book and an oil lamp for reading at night. At 5pm the truck comes back and unloads our supplies and the children and we load up the poppies and wave goodbye until tomorrow. We don’t gather poppies of an evening and we never gather poppies of a weekend. It is a simple but happy life we lead here in Field Orange.

Well I was happy but the last three days have made me distinctly paranoid. Remember I told you I ordered an oil lamp for my room? I like to read; I like detective novels the best and often try to read after dark time by the pale light of the moon. It can be a bit of a strain. In the big houses we all sleep in a dormitory but if we want to we can to use out-house to sleep in. Not many of us do, but new couples and snorers and other antisocial night time people will use the out houses. I thought if I had a lamp I could read in one of them without disturbing any of the other residents of field orange.

So three days ago my lamp arrives and I’m pretty excited. I’ve just got a new novel “Murder in a Sea of Corn”, which sounds very exotic to me, so I decide to make use of these outside facilities. My oil lamp is little and brass with a tapering glass top that looks crimped along the edges. It was a very pretty little lamp and I hope it didn’t cost them a lot of money (a concept I vaguely remember from my school days). It came with a strong smelling bottle of purple oil for burning and six spare wicks. I borrowed a pack of matches from Benny (who is trying to quit smoking) and took my book and my blanket out to the farthest shed in our little village perimeter. I settled happily amongst the hay on the floor. My lamp I lit and had hung from a nail on a beam just to the left of where I lay. I opened my book and became oblivious to everything else around me. I often find total absorption in books, the earth could tear in two and swallow people whole and I’d only notice when the book was torn from my hand, I swear it.

Which is why it took me a little while to register that the barn was on fire. The smell of burning hair combined with the pain on my head was invasive enough to drag me from my book world. I slapped out the embers on my hair, grabbed my book and fled. It didn’t take long for the fire to take hold. Those from the dormitories had come out and stood staring alongside me at this burning building. When we got a grip a chain gang was set up from the water pump to the barn as buckets of water were passed along and thrown at the fire. There was little hope of saving the out house but it would be a disaster for field orange if the fire spread. It might have been a disaster if I had died as far as I know no one is ready for a newborn but saying that, field orange always finds a way, field orange population 100.

We were up nearly all the rest of the night dousing the fire, there was no real harm done and no one was mad at me, I felt very guilty. The men with the vans came in the morning and told us not to worry about picking poppies that day. The children could have a day off school too. They would come back the next day when we were all rested. Everyone went back for some sleep. Everyone except me that is. When the barn had cooled I went to see the place of my shame. I thought I must have hung the lamp badly and it had fallen. I also wanted to avoid everyone for a while. Guilt is a terrible, terrible, thing. The barn was in a pretty bad state, it was amazing that it was still standing really, my blanket and the hay were little more than dust now. The walls and ceiling were black and the smell was pretty awful. My hair wasn’t too badly burned, I would ask Molly to cut it some time; she was handy with a pair of scissors.

I saw the remains of my lamp on the floor and the guilt welled up inside me and threatened to burst out of my eyes. I felt like crying, I was choked up and tired. It was such a pretty lamp and it had been such a nice idea and I messed it all up. I went to see if there was anything redeemable from my lamp. Maybe the brass was ok and I could get a new glass bulb for it. As I neared I knelt down because completely out of place and a source of confusion for me was the large round rock that sat in the middle of the shattered glass of what was my lamp. I don’t know how long I was knelt there looking at it before the next attempt on my life. I figured this out afterwards, that it was a deliberate act, but at the time all there was, was pain and a lack of consciousness.

Molly found me a few hours later, there was matted blood at the back of my head and cuts on my face and arms from where I landed on the glass, there was a rock very similar to the one amidst the glass lying right next to my head. I think it was thrown at me. I gripped it hard and refused to let go.

The others think maybe the out house roof was instable and something had fallen. They think I shouldn’t have gone there and it was my own fault. I think they are wrong.

My wounds were tended to and I was made to rest. Everyone went and feasted and I lay feeling sorry for myself and confused as to why someone would try to do this. My head hurt and my eyes weren’t focusing so well so I couldn’t even finish my book. The detective had just dismissed the character who everyone thought had done the foul deed and was about to draw a shocking conclusion. I was desperate to know who did it. It turned out I was also desperate for sleep.

I slept for some time but it was not a continual sleep. I was woken at one point by an immense pressure on my face and I had difficulty breathing. I was being smothered and I couldn’t fight back. A noise at the end of the dormitory caused the pressure to suddenly be taken off and the perpetrator fled. I was disorientated and tried to stand and to focus on who would do this but all I could make out was a small receding shape.

The noise was Molly, she had come to bring me some tonic to help me sleep and to change the bandage on my head. I told her of the smothering and she told me it was night terrors like I was imagining it. She didn’t understand but acquiesced when I begged her to make someone stay with me. Benny came and stayed with me while I slept because he’s trying to quit smoking and you can’t smoke in the dormitories.

It was early evening when I came to again, the start of dusk is my favourite time, and I decided to go for a walk. Benny had nodded off in the armchair next to my bed and I didn’t want to wake him. My head felt a lot better so with the last of the light I thought I would take my book and find somewhere to finish it. I took my rock too. There was still some blood from my head on it.

It was warm outside and I walked past the tables of people sitting and talking and still eating from the massive cook off they had held this afternoon. Nearly losing my life three times had somewhat quelled my appetite. I’m not afraid to die you understand but I want it to be when it is the right time. Not because some unknown force has decided it so. The most peaceful place in field orange of an evening is in the orange fields. All buzz and business during the day but empty and quiet at night. I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed so I went to find a spot to sit and read for a while. There was some bare ground where I had been picking yesterday so I went there. A circle cleared of poppies about six foot in diameter. I lay amidst the orange flowers and read the detectives summation. How he had removed all possibilities except one and the conclusion however improbable it may seem was definitely correct. He was about to name names I was so close when the shower of stones began. My first reaction was to look up to see who was doing this but I looked too high. The pain was immense as rock after stone after pebble crashed into my skin. I adjusted my sight and circled around me smaller than the poppy stalks they stood amongst with nasty grins and catapults and rocks in hands were the children. I cry out for them to stop and hear a shrill giggle from my left. A dark haired girl no older than 15 turns her back to me and finally I understand. Strapped to her back in tattered blankets looking fragile and beautiful is a newborn. Field Orange population 100 and she has broken the rules.

The rocks keep coming and I am almost numb from them now. I think my head is bleeding again and I am sure the bruises are bad. With the last bit of strength I have I lie on my stomach and write it in the dirt with the rock in my hand – the children of field orange are trying to kill me.

grab rail

2006-06-08T13:45:00.000Z

A long time ago the world was very different my child and in the town where I lived the highlight of the month was the opening of the grab rail. It was right at the end of the dusty main road fenced off to the public most days by tall wooden gates which were locked by a large and ugly padlock. Nowadays such a thing would probably have you young folks trying to pick locks or climb fences to just get in. It was an intriguing thing and I could understand such a temptation I suppose but it never honestly crossed my mind or the mind of any of the other town folks. On that one day the people from town as far as twenty or thirty miles away would journey over. I know that doesn’t sound like far to you, little one, but back then it was practically the other side of the world. So powerful was the draw of the grab rail.

The surrounding fence was a curious thing too now that I think about it, 10 foot tall and not like the fences you will know. It must have taken ages to build and cost a lot of money too because we were far from any forests. The wood had to be specially imported, my Grandfather told me, from the wagons that came through from time to time. The structure was about twenty foot square and once as a kid I, like all my peers did at one point, counted each tall pole of wood. The fence was comprised you see of tall tree trunks that had been stripped and pointed and driven into the ground. There were two hundred and eighty four tree trunks. I know you see because I counted them.

The day of the grab rail was always the last Saturday on every month, come rain or shine. On the Friday before the day of the grab rail day the women and children would take the day off and make decorations for the fence. In the summer there would be garlands of colourful paper flowers covering every inch of the fence. We’d make them more than twice as long as the height of the thing so they would be decorated inside too. In the autumn the garlands would be dried flowers, berries and bunches of tied up herbs. I liked the autumn most I think as the herbs always smelled wonderful. I was determined when my day came I would go to the grab rail in the autumn. I hoped desperately that it would turn out that way. The winter would be holly and ivy and winter berries and in the spring we would hurl and position many coloured ribbons. No one except the mayor was allowed into the grab rail fence before grab day and his role, well, it was pivotal.

Every grab rail day the townsfolk and the visitors from afar would gather outside as early as six in the morning waiting for the mayor to turn up. He wasn’t ever duty bound to arrive before 10am but the anticipation was just too much for some people. It was an event. I was often there ahead of time myself.

The mayor would wear his ceremonial robes and descend from his offices carrying a red velvet bag with a red velvet ribbon laying out and over the top for each name inside. The route for the mayor was always the same and was always decorated in the same theme as the grab rail pen. If the weather was fine there would be burning scented oils to fill the air also. Around his neck on another red velvet ribbon he wore the key to the padlock. When he reached the edge of the crowd, always a respectful six foot away from the pen, he would drop to his knees and kiss the key causing cheers of jubilation from the crowds.
When he was a younger man he’d leap back up before approaching the ornate barrel placed at the gate of the pen. Did I tell you about the barrel? Never mind now, I’ll come to it when it matters. Don’t interrupt me child I’ll forget my place. Now, yes, he used to leap up but our mayor lived to 107 so after a time he had to be helped up and after an bit more time he had to be helped down and up. In his later years he was confined to a wheelchair and the ritual of the grab bar had become outdated so he was no longer required to exert himself or even carry that key. He always did though, right up until his last breath. I have heard rumours that moments before his death as his remaining family gathered round he pulled that key from his neck and swallowed it. Died by choking on it the silly sentimental old fool; so important once was the grab rail.

The barrel outside the gate of the grab rail was placed there the evening before the day itself. It was a small little thing on a carved wooden pedestal. I’ve been told it was made by a man who was extremely happy with his grab rail day, a blacksmith who married a wealthy land owner’s very beautiful daughter, he made the barrel and the elaborate floral decoration on the outside to replace the unceremonious bucket that he’d had to put his name in. I got to admit, it was a beautiful bucket, I couldn’t imagine grab rail day without it.

Up until the Mayors appearance the men would get their names put on special slips that were folded and placed inside the barrel. I suppose a more cunning man would put his name in several times but I don’t think that ever happened. These were fairly innocent times. It might have though, it was never checked, the names were all burned on the end of day bonfire along with the decorations and everything else.

So anyway, yes, the mayor would kiss the key and make his way to the barrel where he would pause and make his silly little speeches. Always for the sole purpose of dragging out the agony of the expectant men and women gathered. He would give thanks for every inane thing that had happened over the last month and then describe the joyousness of the day with as many drawn out flourishing descriptives as he could manage. As a child I used to giggle as he went on and on, watching the distressed fanning of the women and the beads of sweat forming on the brows of the men. I wasn’t laughing when it was my turn though; I finally understood the power that mayor had over us. The bugger, I liked him though, don’t look at me like that I only said bugger and you know he was a bugger. Ok, I promise, no more curse words.

Bloody women...

Names would go into the barrel and the mayor would plunge his hand in and pull out a slip of paper for every ribbon that spilled out of his red velvet bag. He’d call each one out loudly and clearly and upon hearing their names the men would go and stand next to him. Some months it was only one or two men because there were only one or two ribbons. The record was twenty three men on one month. That was a great day I was only six but I remember it being very exciting. Once all the men were gathered the mayor would take his key and unlock the great big ugly padlock. I often wondered why they didn’t get a nicer padlock really but then I suppose folk are fond of tradition and it would have been weird without the thing.

The men would line beside the mayor and he would shake each hand and wish them luck and unlock that big ugly padlock. He would go inside and close the door behind him. There was silence after he had entered. I always held my breath and I’m pretty sure everyone else did the same. We knew what happened, what must happen, he would tie each identical ribbon to the grab rail, at the other end a tiny red pouch would contain the name of the women eligible to be wed from the surrounding areas. All women became eligible on the date of their 19th birthday. A great big register with all the names and dates of the females born for miles around was kept in the register in the mayoral office. Women could opt out of course but I think that was a rare occurrence. We never knew who had their name in exactly, we guessed sometimes, it was always uncertain. The men when they decided they were ready put their names into the barrel and if they were lucky got their names pulled out of it and went to pick a wife. It was the luck of the draw which may seem backwards to you little one but it was actually pretty fair. I don’t remember anyone being terribly unhappy with the way things went for them.

After the mayor had tied the ribbons to the grab rail he would open up the great gate on the pen and let the chosen men folk in to pick a ribbon. It was never a scrabble it was always a very calm and ordered. I wondered how they knew which ribbon to go to, how it was the right one for them, it always worked out.

The men would come back to the gates with their bag in hand looking as nervous as they had when they went in. The mayor directed them in turn do draw the paper from the bag and clearly announce the name of their bride to be. With each name there were cheers and general well wishing as the blushing young woman would go to her very-soon-to-be-husbands side.

The rest of the day was taken with weddings and celebrations. There was feasting and dancing late into the night. It was always a great day.

What? Yes I’m getting to that. Of course I did. Let me talk will you? Damned children. I first put my name into the bucket when I was 19 years old. There was a girl I’d always had a soft spot for who had turned 19 that month and I figured I wouldn’t mind being married to her. Pretty curly hair and big eyes. It wasn’t my month though and she married a butcher. Plus it was the summer. I’d never imagined I’d have any luck in the summer. I waited another two months before putting my name in again. It was October and the weather was mild, the decorations smelt great and I was nervous this time. A sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach I was convinced I was going to throw up all over everyone. Anyway, I had absolutely no idea who had their name in or how many there would be. When the mayor came out he had five red ribbons hanging over the velvet bag. When he dropped to his knees to kiss the key my heart leapt. When he plunged his hand into the barrel I was convinced I was going to pass out. I’ll admit to you now that when he called my name I jumped up and squealed. I stood alongside the other men shifting from side to side nervously. The mayor said something to me and winked but I have less idea now than I did then of what he said. I don’t know how I walked into the grab rail pen. My legs moved independently of my brain. I remember thinking how worthwhile the decorations were because they looked so beautiful. And there it was, such a simple thing really, a single pole of wood spanning the entire width of the pen. Hanging neatly and equidistant (the mayor had done a good job) where the five velvet bags. We looked around at each other, nervous laughter and looks, each of us too frightened to make the first move. Then in unison (and I have spoken to each of the men who were there that day, none of us knew how we timed it like this) we each went and stood in front of the bag that was ours. I can’t tell you how I knew but I knew, second from the left – that bag was mine.

It was over in minutes, it was always over in minutes, but it felt like days stood there holding our bags looking round at each other. For a brief moment the nerves had subsided as we had made our decisions but as soon as we had our bags in hand the nerves kicked in again. Had we chosen wisely? Would we like our brides to be? Outside the pen the mayor directed us all to read aloud the names of our chosen women. I was fourth (as this was the position of the bag – my bag) and my mouth went as dry as a – what? I wasn’t going to say that I was going to say desert, of course I wouldn’t say that in front of the kids. What? Oh, that time, well I was a little inebriated then. Now? No, no, now I’ve only had a couple. Anyway, I’m reaching the climax of our story will you shush!

My mouth went dry, little ones, and my head was swimming as I opened the bag and pulled out that little slip of paper that would change the entire future of my life. I croaked out the name and a gasp erupted from the crown as the prettiest girl I had ever seen made her way to my side. And that, children, is how I met your grandmother.

stream of consciousness - chapter four

2006-04-15T17:08:00.000Z

I don’t know what the others are thinking or even if they are. If I want to I can remember a little. The women died first. I do not know why but this is how it went. The women first followed by the children. I assume because there was no one to look after the children any more. We saw the occasional woman up until five days ago, dragged around by groups of wild crazy eyed men. They’d share her. They shared her in the streets. By the time the women started to go all shame had gone too. All pride all shame, all things that make us human, us poor once beautiful creatures. The women didn’t seem to care that they were shared in public like this. If they could even think anymore I expect their main concern was the torn out teeth and nails that stopped them from tearing the others apart.

I am, you see, pretty unusual in these respects. I didn’t take to the madness and I didn’t die and the men have left me alone. Except for that one time but those that I hold dearest saved me. They saved me with their impassivity. The men expected a struggle I think. They expected me to kick and scream and the men to fight them to stop them taking me away. But I didn’t struggle and they didn’t interfere and the men left me alone.

Sometimes there are still children but anything that made them childlike died alongside their mothers. They are as mad and as dangerous as everyone else now. I don’t know why we are unaffected. No, no, unaffected is the wrong word because disaffection is what we suffer from now. But the madness that has engulfed the others who are living through the end of all things has left us alone. I don’t know if we are the only ones who remain like this. I don’t know if our disaffection is itself a symbol of a madness but as long as I’m not trying to eat my friends and am still sane enough to wear clothes I think disaffection is ok by me.

I think also that it frightens the others; they give us a wide berth. It’s like those people who went to Halloween parties in their day to day claiming themselves as serial killers because “they look just like you and me”. It’s an awful cliché but they might have been on to something. The quietly normal is always more disconcerting than the outright bizarre. I asked one of the lost people many days ago why they left us alone, he was bleeding from his bare chest and his eyes were wide and wild. I asked him why he didn’t come for me like the others and he just screamed and ran away. I would have liked an answer. It would have been nice to know.

I wasn’t the only woman. The girlfriend of one of those I hold dearest was with us until a week ago but she couldn’t hold it together. She was a tall girl; she looked strong with her hair pulled into a fierce ponytail and a face set with determination. We found her by the front door one morning, scratching at the ancient oak with fingers that had most of the once long and manicured nails pulled out. I don’t know if it was the scratching at the door or the scratches she inflicted on her bare arms and legs that made her lose the nails. We tried to talk her round but she never spoke a word after this. Just a low guttural moan that wouldn’t stop and eyes which were red from crying this was all we got from her. We locked her in the small bedroom for a day but the wailing was too much for our nerves. The one I hold dear who loved her took her out early the following morning. He led her down the stairs and into the car. He came back an hour later without her. His eyes looked sore but we didn’t say anything. What can you say? All of us have suffered a loss, we know how acute the pain is at first. I was glad for the quiet though. I hope he killed her. For her sake you understand.
I worry this makes me a bad person.
I mopped up the blood at the foot of the stairs.
I fear the lost ones can smell it.

straight off the bus

2006-03-16T16:16:00.000Z

It was a summery sort of day and the sun hung high in the sky all big and bright and yellow. The sky was nice too; it was blue like it only ever seems to be in movies. It was a perfect day. The windows on the bus were all open which was good because it let in a breeze. I am pretty sure it would have been really hot without that breeze and I liked the way it ruffled my hair. The bus was only about half full which was fine because it had my favourite people on it and for this perfect day as far as I was concerned that which made me happy was all that mattered. Eight of us, plus the driver, plus Jim and Annie, that makes eleven. Eleven people on the bus. I count it out with my fingers, tap one, tap two, tap three to eleven and then when I am done I do it again. I like to count, tap one, tap two, tap three and so on. Annie sees me counting and makes a little frown so I hide my hands beneath my bag and tap a little softer. I smile to Annie and Annie smiles back. I like it better when she smiles than when she frowns.

Secretly under my bag I keep counting to eleven but it starts to upset me as eleven really isn’t a good number. The more I think about it the more upset I get. Nothing divides into eleven, ten would be better because there is a zero. It is a good round nice number. Twelve would be ok too, two sixes or three fours or four threes even. What good is eleven? Eleven is no good that’s what. My head starts to hurt and I am breathing really fast I’m making little noises and all the time counting to eleven because I can’t stop even though I want to. Eleven is a bad number to count to.

I shout when Annie comes and puts her hand on my shoulder. I don’t shout a word because of all the elevens in my head it’s more like a noise, a noise like an animal would make, this upsets me enough to make me cry. Annie tells me to shush now and I sob incomprehensibly as I try to explain about the elevens. My crying starts to make one or two of my friends get upset too. Annie keeps telling me to shush and she takes both of my hands and I can’t count anymore. I see her nod to Jim and Jim starts searching inside one of the bags and I think I know what he is looking for so I try to calm down. Not counting stops the elevens which makes it a lot easier. I explain to Annie about the elevens and she says I should try to count something else. I told her my scarf that I was knitting was exactly eighty stitches across and was in my bag so maybe I would do that for a while. Jim leaves his bag alone now I have calmed down and I pick up the knitting and start but it’s no good. I am still counting elevens and I know my scarf will be ruined.

There is Georgie, she is number one and she had had her hair plaited for today. It looks a little tight and Georgie looks a little tired. Susan is number two, I upset Susan with my crying and Annie is consoling her now. Susan always wears a yellow and white checked pinafore I don’t know why. Bridgette is number three and she has very thick glasses on because her eyesight is very poor. Bridgette, who is number three, likes to read even though they have told her it makes her eyes worse. Bridgette is reading a very old copy of Wuthering Heights that her mother gave her. It is her favourite. Grace is number four and wears a new scarf around her head, it is orange and brown and silk and suits her very much. Grace has darker skin than the rest of us and once told me that autumn colours look best on her. Caroline is number five and you must never shorten her name. She doesn’t like it very much and starts to shout very loudly. Otherwise she is very nice. Joanne is number six and has a very interesting accent. I’m sure it is Spanish but she won’t tell anyone where she is from. Joanne has crazy black hair which she loves very much. Joanne’s biggest fear is that she will get Cancer and lose her hair; it keeps her up some nights. Number seven is Marie and Marie is not her real name her real name is Gertrude. Marie is her middle name but she is right to keep Marie. I think Gertrude is a terribly ugly name and Marie isn’t ugly enough to be a Gertrude.

Number eight is me and I am knitting elevens.

Number nine is Annie and I do like Annie even when she is stern sometimes. I know Annie is only ever stern because she has to be. I even like her although I think she is probably a lesbian and a very plain one at that. Number ten is Jim and Jim is very nice too. Half of the girls fancy him but I don’t very much. His hair is too greasy and I think his eyes are a little close together, plus, one opens a little bit less than the other and sometimes this upsets me. But Jim is very funny and very gentle. Everyone likes Jim and I think half the girls fancy him more because he is a nice person than anything.

Number eleven is the bus driver and I don’t know him but I hate him. It’s not personal really, he’s number eleven and the elevens are making my head hurt which isn’t fair because this was supposed to be a perfect day. Number eleven is the bus driver and he doesn’t have any hair, his scalp is shiny and his eyebrows are long. Number eleven is the bus driver and his blue shirt sleeves are rolled up and he has vulgar tattoos on his arms. Number eleven is the bus driver and I really, really, hate him.

There was supposed to be twenty. Annie and Jim, the bus driver, us eight and nine others but the other nine were bad and they lost all their rights. The other nine are always bad and if they had come with us they would have surely made trouble anyway. Maybe it would have been ok though because then there would be twenty and I can tap out five fours on my fingers very nicely indeed. The others aren’t going to ruin my day but the elevens might. My scarf has narrowed out now because I am knitting elevens.

We arrive at the farm park and the bus stops under the biggest tree I have ever seen. I ask Annie what type of tree it is and she tells me it is an oak. I tell her it must be at least a hundred and Annie laughs. It’s ok though because I don’t think she is laughing at me. We all get off the bus and Jim and Annie split us into two groups of four. I could tap out twos and fours but my head is full of elevens. We are them paired off and made to hold hands. In my group is Number two Susan who is holding hands with Number seven Marie. Then there is me, Number eight, and I am holding hands with Number four who is Grace. We are to go with Jim today. Jim buys us some special feed for the little animals and we laugh as their rough tongues tickle our hands. We then go to see the owls which I love. I like the feathers and I like the way their heads turn. Grace doesn’t like the owls so much but she hardly complains. I doubt the other group will get to come see the owls as Joanne is fiercely afraid of feathers. The owls nearly make me forget the elevens.

Lunchtime arrives faster than you would believe and we go to a pretty picnic area to have the lunches that we were allowed to make ourselves. I find my lunch box in my bag but my bottle of apple and blackcurrant squash isn’t there. I empty my bag, then put everything back in, then empty it again but it still isn’t there. Annie comes over to ask me if everything is ok and I tell her my squash is gone from my bag. I am a little upset about this. Annie tells me I probably left it on the bus. She points behind the picnic tables to the big tree where the bus is and says I can go look for it as long as I stay in sight.

This is important.
It shows she trusts me.

I gather up my big cloth bag and run over to the bus but as I am about to get on the loathsome horrible bus driver steps out. He grins at me and I see one of his teeth is gold and he offers me one of the cigarettes he has in his vile sweaty hand. I look down and shake my head and try to push past him to get on the bus. He laughs and I think he’s laughing at me so I run up the bus steps to my seat. My bottle is there and I hold it tightly while I try to breathe but the eleven is in my head and I’m breathing faster. I hold my bottle and look out the bus windows I can see the number eleven I can see the bus driver sat on the steps smoking his repulsive cigarette. I drop my bottle and the elevens threaten to come bursting out of my ears. Tap one, tap two, tap three.. I try to remember what Annie said about calming down and put my hands in my bag.

I am not really surprised at what I pull out.
Annie will be mad.

When my breathing is normal again I look to see if number eleven is still chimney stacking his gold tooth tinged smoke. He is and the white billows over his shiny head but he is nearly finished so I can get off the bus. I move down to the front with my hands in my bag and shuffle about until he is ready to move and let me by. His gold grin as I step past and the smell of nicotine and sweat don’t bother me as much as they usually would. Number eleven nods his head a little as I move past him and he turns to get back on the bus. I pull my knitting needle straight out the bag and push it hard into his temple. It sticks out like a strange horn. I used to be a doctor once I know where it needs to go. Number eleven looks surprised but he doesn’t have a lot of time to figure out what happened. Number eleven shudders as he falls down and he coughs up a bit of blood. Number eleven stops breathing. I can hear Annie and Jim shouting and running and that’s ok. Ten is a much nicer number than eleven. Tap one, tap two, tap three….

stream of consciousness - nanowrimo chapter three

2006-03-04T22:01:00.000Z

I haven’t had a lot of sleep recently so am more than a little surprised to wake up on the sofa after a brief doze. Someone has kindly removed the coffee mug from my hands to save me from spilling it all over myself. I see the blue and white mug resting on the heavy wooden coffee table. My first thought is that there is no coaster, this might ruin the table. I fight back an overwhelming urge to laugh at the futility of this concern. I fear if I start laughing I may never stop and this would make me no better than those who run the streets. I reach for the coffee but it has gone cold. I head to the kitchen to refresh myself. It’s important to stay as awake as possible. We used to do it in shifts with people resting and people watching but we got lonely. We decided it was better to stay together. Maybe it’s better to not die alone. I’m new at this. The coffee machine gurgles and splutters as a fresh batch is made. We have tinned food salvaged from what was left of a supermarket near where I used to live. Lots of packets of freeze dried coffee pile the work surfaces and endless packets of cigarettes. I think the end of the world would probably be unbearable without something to smoke. The coffee machine gurgles and I turn out the lights so I can peek out of the blinds to see the street. I know what I’ll see but I do like to look. The street is empty and dark, a sole street light on the other side of the roundabout remains intact. Puddles of liquid dot the roads. It could be rain; it could be blood or other human secretary fluids I can’t tell from here. This is a very busy road; it’s weird to see it so empty. Well, it was weird at fist. I’ve grown used to the calm and the quiet now. I think a part of me embraces it. The coffee machine gurgles one last time before sighing out the hiss that tells me the coffee is ready. I drop the blind back down over the sash window and switch on the light. I pour my mug and the mugs of those I hold dearest. Plain black, no milk. We couldn’t find any milk, this bothers me less than the others I think because I never took milk anyway. The mugs go onto a tray and the tray I carry back to the sofas and place on the coffee table. Hands reach for the drinks and we continue our silent patient vigil.

stream of consciousness - nanowrimo chapter two

2006-01-28T23:46:00.000Z

I don’t know what the others are thinking or even if they are. I know I wasn’t until I got back here. The coffee shop was somewhat of a daze and our reasoning for being there, well, that’s probably best not dwelled upon. Since this whole ordeal began I have determined not to think about it for numerous reasons. The main one being fear. I can’t afford to break down or to cry or mourn for those I have lost. I don’t want to lose myself. I am afraid. I feel safe here, I feel safer now than I have for a while. In a perverse way I feel safer than I did before the end of the world. Here right now I feel at home.

This house isn’t exactly home but I have always considered home to be where I am at any particular moment in time. One of us found this place, I don’t know how. It could be a relative of one of those that I hold dear. I can’t quite remember right now and I doubt it is relevant as chances are they are dead now anyway. It’s nice though, much nicer than I could have ever afforded. Probably not to everyone’s taste, there is a definite antiquated feel to the place. On the corner of a roundabout above a bank this flat is full of what an especially imaginative estate agent would probably describe as charm. Would probably have described. There are no estate agents any more. To get in you go through a door within a door. The original door is over eight foot tall and thick heavy oak, to swing it open might prove somewhat of a bastard so at some point a smaller door within the door was added. The same old dark oak with the added bonus of ease of entry. Ease of entry if you have the key of course and if you haven’t dropped the heavy bar behind you. This could be why we ended up here, it’s not easy to get into and isn’t immediately obvious as a place where people live. The staircase to the upstairs is wide and carpeted with an ancient but tasteful thick red and gold carpet. A dusty chandelier provides an amber glow, which cannot be seen from outside as there is neither window nor a gap in the oak door from which it could pour. Photographs from someone else’s life line the stairs, sepia tinged in black frames happy children smiling old couples and two people, young people, in love. They are all quite likely dead I think.

The stairs creak as you ascend which concerned me when we first moved in but doesn’t concern me now. There are less of us to make it creak now which helps I guess. At the top of the stairs an unremarkable door propped open by a brass horse leads into the study. This is a strange entrance really but it suited someone well enough. The study is a small mezzanine which overlooks the main living room. The far wall covered in shelves of books asides the gap made to fit the large walnut desk with its green leather padding. The armchair old and expensive looking, the lighting modest and low lit, the books diverse but obviously on closer inspection someone’s collection of first editions. They are beautiful and they smell like comfort to me. The walls are painted a familiar red and a central painting of a child at a stream in a gilt frame has a small light above it. The light no longer works, the bulb blew three days ago. We see little point in replacing it. A small black iron staircase leads to the lower level that is the living quarters. I was scared of spiral staircases once upon a time, I hated the way they narrowed in the centre and never being the surest of people on my feet I was always convinced I was going to fall. I never fell but that’s the thing with irrational fears, they’re irrational. This living room is split level too, sort of. You step down to the fireplace and the sofas and step up to the windows. The windows are resplendent with black out blinds and thick red velvet drapes that were once held back by gold cord. We’d look out the windows but out here there’s nothing to see. We keep the blinds down and the curtains closed and we feel safe with a little light.

Two sofas and an armchair focus around the ornate fire surround with wood burning stove. This is odd for London but perfect for us. We overcame our fears of the smoke days back now, there’s smoke everywhere so a little more won’t matter.

I light a cigarette, it tastes nice.

bucket of ice

2006-01-26T21:59:00.000Z

Every day Timothy would walk from one end of the city to the other with a bucket of ice. The city wasn’t a small city; it took him near enough to three hours to get from one end to the other. There was public transport available and at seventy years old Timothy had his pensioners bus pass so wasn’t required to pay a fare yet every day he insisted on walking. There were several shops along the way that sold bags of ice for fairly nominal prices, fresh sealed in plastic bags, yet timothy insisted on bringing his bucket from home.

Most people who knew his routine thought Timothy was a little touched in the head. That old age had gotten to him and impaired his mental processes. Some of the kindlier neighbours had called social services to come and assess Timothy on several occasions. Yet always they had scratched their heads as full of tea and with friendly waves the social services people left Timothys house. They could find nothing wrong with him.

One of his neighbours’ sons was a doctor. She asked her doctor son if she would look in on Timothy and test that he was OK. She gave her son a carrot cake for Timothy and asked that he pass it on. The doctor knocked at Timothy’s door and presented him with the cake from mother. With a beaming smile and bright watery eyes behind his thick bottle end glasses Timothy invited the doctor in for tea.

Over the course of an hour and a half the doctor had three cups of tea and two slices of his mother’s carrot cake. He quizzed timothy subtly, dropping in questions about the year, the Prime Minister, the date, the city he lived in. Yet always brightly and merrily Timothy answered rightly and without fuss. The doctor could see nothing wrong and was forced to give this conclusion to his unhappy mother. At 4pm on the dot she drew asides her net curtains and pointed at Timothy beginning his journey. She pointed and asked her son if there was nothing wrong then why does this old man walk across the city every day with his bucket of ice?

The following day his mother made flapjack and insisted the doctor go back again, this time later in the afternoon. See if you can figure out why the ice she said. See if you can make it stops for winter approaches and he is awfully old. The doctor knew his mother was only concerned and he had never been the type to deny her anything so that afternoon he ventured over at three with the flapjack under his arm.

Once more he was greeted with warm smiles and cups of tea. They shared the flapjack and Timothy said to be sure to thank his mother. As three-thirty approached timothy asked to be excused for a moment, ever so politely, and he disappeared to his garage. With stealth and intrigue the doctor crept to spy on Timothy and watched in silence as timothy fetched his bucket and placed it on a workbench. Timothy opened a great chest freezer and with some effort pulled out a large and solid block of ice. With a pick he deftly carved the ice into a flat-ended cone and slipped it into his bucket. The doctor noticed a faint odour, which he could not quite place. With his tasks done and his bucket ready Timothy made his way out, the doctor crept rapidly back to his armchair no more enlightened than he had been before. Timothy made his apologies for ducking out and they carried on with their tea. Four on the dot and timothy made his apologies but explained that he liked his evening constitutional.

The doctor retold this tale to his mother that evening who scratched her head and worried at her apron. She sat quietly for a few minutes absorbing all her son had told her and asked him again if he was sure there was nothing wrong with the old man. The doctor confessed that as puzzling as this behaviour was his faculties were all in order and he could see nothing wrong. Her wide eyes filled with worry she asked him once more if he would go back to Timothy’s house. If he would follow him on his walk. If he would just solve the mystery of the ice. He never could deny his mother anything so reluctantly agreed. He was less than keen to follow an old man across the city, not when the days were cold and the nights were drawing in early. But he had to confess; his interest had been piqued. Why did the old man carry his bucket of ice?

The following day his mother baked scones to take and presented him with home made preserve to take to the house of Timothy. Dutifully the doctor knocked at Timothy’s door and was welcomed in the warmest of manners. Timothy did not question why the doctor had visited him, he was fairly sure he knew why, which made him smile. He was always happy enough for the company and always happy to set minds at rest. Timothy was no fool and he knew he caused his friends worry but he was happy enough with them thinking he was a daft old man.

Tea and scones and Jam they enjoyed until Timothy went to carve his ice once more. They chatted gaily about this and that until four on the dot where timothy once again made his apologies and thanked the doctor for his company before setting out on his walk.

With stealth and intrigue the doctor followed Timothy across the city. Timothy did not take the quickest route or always the quietest route but he moved as if on autopilot, like a rat in his run treading the well trodden path. Initially the doctor undertook some extreme and comical evasive manoeuvres. He pressed himself behind lamp posts much to the amusement of onlookers. He ducked into alleyways; poking his head slowly round to watch his prey. This he abandoned quickly after having his trousers severely bitten at by a small yappy type dog whose front paw he had inadvertently trodden on. Besides, it was soon clear to the doctor that all this ducking and hiding served only to entertain his secret internal private detective fantasy. Timothy never looked back.

Halfway through their journey the doctor noticed the occasional slosh of liquid over the side of the old wooden bucket. As their travels continued the slight spillages turned to larger spillages. The ice was melting and it did not seem to concern Timothy at all. Timothy ambled along merrily in the same way he did at the start of his journey and the doctor trailed him a little more conservatively than he had at the start of his journey.

Their ambles led them to a suburban cul-de-sac at the other side of the city. The doctor was relieved to see Timothy turn into this quiet road because it surely meant an end to their travels although, as tired as the dear doctor was, he had not lost an inch of curiosity as to the reasoning behind this seemingly pointless journey. The doctor lurked near a bend in the road as he watched Timothy approach a modest modern detached house. His eyes widened as Timothy rolled up a sleeve and put his hand into the bucket before tipping away the remaining water and the small remaining block of still frozen ice. Timothy then placed his bucket behind a shrub in the neat well managed garden to this modern modest detached house but not before reaching to retrieve a bottle from the inside. Timothy rang the door bell and straightened his cardigan and flattened his hair the doctor crept a little closer. Positioned strategically behind a large pampas grass the doctor could just make out the word ‘vintage’ on the bottles label. Ducking behind the pampas grass as the door opened still afforded the doctor a view of the recipient of Timothy’s ‘vintage’ bottle. A kindly lady of age welcomed Timothy with a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug. She accepted the bottle as it was offered to her with a broad beaming smile.

“I’ll never figure out how you manage to keep it so cold Timothy!”

As the door closes and the elderly couple go into the warmth of the modest modern home our dear doctor friend with a grin turns back towards the city to hail a taxi home to ease his mothers fears.

children should be seen

2006-01-25T22:06:00.000Z

The child had never spoken a word. Over the years it had caused many concerns with the parents, pushing them to near to separation at times. The child didn’t scream when it was born, it didn’t cry when it was young. As a toddler he fell over once and not a sound he made. The tears would roll down his chubby little face and his mouth would open wide. It was like watching a child with the mute button on. It was slightly disconcerting.

His parents had him tested with every test the doctors could process. Physically he was capable of speech. Nothing wrong with his vocal cords, his mouth, his voice box, his throat. All were fine and functioning. Psychological the doctors proclaimed. Must be psychological. His parents had him tested by many different doctors and every time the doctor drew their conclusion, every time the cause was put down to psychology the parents would ask the same question. When the doctor could not answer then his parents would have him tested with every process the doctors could process again, with a new doctor. Every time they asked.

“Why would he not cry as a baby?”

The doctors scratched their heads and shrugged their shoulder and another recommendation for another specialist and another batch of tests would start.

The mother blamed the father. Bad genes she said like his mother, his mother was a one, always was a bit slow on the uptake. His father, she scoffed, wasn’t that much better. Gave her the distinct impression of the by-product of cousins marrying. His retarded aunts and criminal uncles, in her mind, only emphasised this suspicion. She must have been an idiot to marry him, she said, let alone have his child. Look at how the child has turned out?

The father blamed the mother. She was a lush, he said, all those years she spent when she was young getting up to no good had obviously warped her body. These excesses had obviously tempered her ability to bear normal healthy children. She drank too much and smoked too much and he always suspected her of drug experimentation. What was he thinking, he said, allowing a broken woman to carry his child. Look at how the child has turned out?

As harsh as their words are they are hollow ones and always they forgave each other with apologies and oh darlings and loving embraces.

They weren’t especially malicious but they were frustrated. They blamed each other often but not as often as they blamed themselves. He wondered if it was his genes and she questioned if her youthful excesses had somehow damaged her. They questioned whether their quiet child was just plain mocking them. They looked at the boy through agonised eyes and wrung their hands together whilst doctor after doctor told them their child could speak but for some reason didn’t.

At four years old they tested the child’s IQ. His hair was a little greyer her eyes boasted more crows feet and still the child had not made a noise. The last doctor they had seen suggested maybe the boy was just plain slow. As unpalatable an option as this was after all the time they had spent worrying over their child they just wanted a reason, any reason, as to why he continued his silence. With a mixture of surprise and disappointment they discovered their baby had a higher than average IQ. They hated themselves for their disappointment but still they yearned for a reason.

At six years old they took the child to the first of many psychologists. They had exhausted their list of doctors and prayed for more luck here. The boy had been attending a special school for two years. Initially they sent him to the local comprehensive as if he was a normal boy but they had to pull him out. The teachers said the children had taunted him and called him names and the parents had received him home on more than one occasion with torn clothes and bruised skin. The school had made no progress with encouraging him to speak but in all other aspects of his education he progressed as any child would. The child could read and the child could write which at first gave the parents hope for communication. However, the boy would not write notes of a personal nature, he would write his homework and he would write in school but could never be encouraged to even sign his name to a mothers day card.

His first psychologist lasted three months and was abandoned because of parental guilt. Having dealt for so long with the matter of fact manner of medics they were susceptible to the gentle coaxing of the psychologists tongue and found themselves confessing more than they could live with. He confessed that he would pinch his child as a baby in the hope of inducing noise. She confessed that she would let him go entire days without food in the hope he would ask for something. They both confessed to times of locking him in his room for days on end until he spoke for his release. They were both very sorry, they both cried and hugged each other and still the child said nothing.

The second psychologist suggested the child learn sign language as this was the correct thing for mutes to do. He lasted one session as the mother did not like his tone.

The third psychologist worked with the child by having him read a series of books she had herself written. This woman lasted a whole year until the day the parents found the child weeping noiselessly into the pages of one of the books. It was at this point they looked at exactly where their hundreds of pounds were going and read the things themselves. Upon realising the writing was telling their child that he was cruel and wicked for his abnormality they resolved to burn the books and find a new psychologist.

Psychologists four, five six and seven were tried and tested over the following year and no progress was seen. Methods varied from stern talking to cuddle therapy, from sensory depravation to sensory overload. Yet still the child did not speak. He looked into the concerned eyes of his parents and smiled and they looked into his friendly eyes and quietly wept inside.

On his ninth birthday at a loss what to do because he had never indicated a preference they took him to the zoo. He seemed delighted at the big cats and enthralled by the wolves. In the gift shop the child stroked a stuffed tiger toy. Seeing he seemed so pleased by the texture and had seemed so happy at the cat enclosure they bought the toy for him and he clutched it happily in his hand as they made their way to the petting zoo. His parents paid for some animal feed and their boy went to pet and feed a white baby goat, He turned and smiled regularly at his parents and they relaxed to see him so content. They loved their quiet child after all.

A friendly keeper in a green uniform came over to the quiet boy and the baby goat. She smiled at his parents who smiled politely back then turned her attention to the boy and goat. She bent over to retrieve what the boy had dropped unnoticed by himself or his parents. She retrieved his tiger toy and handed it to the quiet child with a smile. He looked confused for a second as he held his toy; he couldn’t remember dropping it and was sad that he had because he loved his tiger after all. Upset that he had almost lost his newest and bestest toy his eyes began to fill with tears. He looked up into the kindly face of the keeper and said:

“Thank You”

stream of consciousness - chapter one - a nanowrimo incentive

2006-01-24T13:43:00.000Z

The end of the world comes not as a sudden realization. It comes as a slow decay, a process we are aware of but powerless to prevent. Observation is all we have left. Well that and memory of course although memory seems less and less reliable. It’s November and I sit in a café on a famous main road in central London with those I hold dearest in the world. I’ve done it thousands of times, many afternoons wasted away with caffeine and company. I sit in this café. It’s my first time in this particular café though. It’s not cosmopolitan or bohemian. There are no real redeeming features. It’s your standard chain store coffee shop with the generic and obligatory brown leather sofas and weak fair trade coffee. Large paintings of coffee beans and coffee plants and coffee paraphernalia adorn the walls as a reminder of what you’re here for.
Wait, the redeeming feature, there is one. I lied.

This is the only coffee shop on this road with its windows intact. It’s the only shop in the road with its windows intact. I sit with those I hold dearest in the world, our coats and scarves slung over the sofa arms, hot white mugs of liquid in our hands. There’s no conversation, no movement. No light either, asides a small red tiffany style lamp sat on a table near the back of the coffee shop which gives us a backlit glow. It’s appropriate. It’s ok like this; it’s still lighter outside than inside so we still can watch. I sit with those I hold dearest in the world, slumped in faux brown leather sofas. The view is not obscured. We watch. I sit with those I hold dearest in the world. All the others are dead. Was this a Saturday afternoon even as little as a month ago this would not be an unusual scene. It is not a Saturday, it is not afternoon and it is not a month ago. The window provides a television, the televisions no longer work. The window is the panel that provides a separation that allows viewing. The window is the TV glass and the street provides the drama.

The scene is set, lit orange by the streetlight, this once busy street provides a backdrop; the all too realistic actors play their role with a fevered finality. This drama is a war, it’s a madness, a bloody tale of death and destruction, of a violence the likes of which Hollywood only wishes it could get past the censors. I sit with those I hold dearest in the world and we barely blink as the few children left spit and snarl and bite out the throats of those they might have played with but a few weeks ago. Those with spirit loot the shops, crawling in and out of windows with objects that were once of value. The high ticket items like televisions went some time ago, when they still had use. The money from the banks is long gone. Now those with spirit like magpies horde the pretty things, the shiny objects, the jewels. And the sharp things of course; the sharp and shiny. Those who are broken do their level best to tear the others limb from limb. They break and cut and destroy as this is all they have left to them. A young man approaches the window, naked and covered in the blood of others mixed with the blood of the wounds he has received along his decline. He holds aloft a glass bottle with a flaming rag in the end, his arm pulls back. I sit with those I hold dearest in the world and we don’t even blink. He tenses to throw when his eyes open wide and he sees us, sat with our coffee behind the only window intact in the street. The shock makes him drop his flaming cocktail at his bare and bloodied feet. I sit with those I hold dearest in the world and we don’t even blink as the man goes up like a torch and runs burning from our vision.

After a time, flickering, the streetlights go out and without speaking we put down our coffee and pull on our coats. There is no hurry in our actions, we wrap up in our scarves and head for the door. In the street we walk through the violence and decay, we walk unhindered to the car. We get in and buckle up, because that is the thing you do. We buckle up and drive home. At home we put on the lamps, fill the coffee machine and sit in the sanctuary of the sofas. We remove our coats and scarves; we hug our cups for warmth.
We wait.
Those I have left in the world and I.

old boys club

2006-01-18T00:14:00.000Z

Gentlemen of a certain age and social standing are prone to congregate in self-congratulatory packs or herds; in a similar way to big drops of water on windowpanes are prone to congregate into one large drip. It is a long old behavioural trait. It starts in the twenties in exclusive restaurants and bars, which cater to their every whim and expensive need. In middle age the golf course is the hunting ground of choice. In old age, when arthritic hips and failing knees dictate they must abandon their golfing habits, gentlemen of a certain age and social standing find their ways to the clubs.

Every major city hosts at least one of these establishments. Their design is the same wherever they are. This is, one must assume, so that the wandering gentleman of a certain age and social standing will never feel out of place. If on holiday or if relocated the gentleman will still have his club.

It is remarkable how well the new gentleman of a certain age and social standing is assimilated into his club. Whether he is a veteran of clubs or this is his first time the usual awkward social dance of the newbie is not applicable in this environment. As soon as he walks through that door; the gentleman belongs.

The clubs have a uniform, the clubs are uniform, and the clubs must be uniform. In every club you will find oak-panelled walls. In every club you will find green leather high backed armchairs. In every club you will find a green patterned carpet, I’m not entirely sure why. In every club there will be floor lamps and wall lamps and dusty chandeliers. In every club the only dust you will find is on the chandeliers; I think this is an atmosphere thing. In every club a well-dressed and humble old butler will bring to you your drinks and show you to your seat. In every club old oil portraits adorn the walls. In every club the large fireplace will be well lit even in the height of summer. In every club the heavy velvet drapes always remain drawn.

There is no identification required at the door and the butler will always know your name. People get turned away but these people do not belong. Occasionally the kindly old butler will firmly turn away an aggravated wife or a man of means but no social standing. I have never understood how the butlers knew the difference between new money and old money. I suspected they could smell it.

Gentlemen’s clubs are tall imposing buildings of age and formidable architecture. Never more than four storeys high, always with a stone staircase to the large entrance. And always, and most relevantly, a large basement.

The gentlemen come at least once a week to the club and if they only come one day a week it is always a Tuesday. They drink the finest brandies and smoke the finest pipes or cigars and they converse. They talk about the mundane things, they talk about political things, and they talk about the types of details that can only affect the lives of a gentleman of a certain age and social standing. In short, they talk a lot of drivel for many hours. They talk and drink and smoke and never are common enough to draw attention to why they are there.

Never, that is, until ten in the evening for this is the chosen time. If the butler is struggling in the basement then hushed conversations can start about what it is they anticipate. This is the only time the gentlemen get nervous. This is the only time excitement builds over their forbidden little ritual. This is the time when anticipation makes their mouths fill with saliva and their tired old eyes burn brightly.

Sometimes, I think, the wizened old butler delays on purpose to give these gentlemen the time to talk through their weekly ritual. Sometimes though, the delay is genuine, as when those in the basement are fresh, they tend to struggle. Those who have been there longer struggle less but the less they struggle the closer they are to being all used up so delay is inevitable

When the time is right on a silver tray the butler will carry the large expensive crystal wineglasses containing, what looks to all intents and purposes like, red wine. No man will drink before all has their glass, no matter how badly they want to, because this is what tradition and manner dictates. And when all has a glass arms are raised in a toast before they may drink. Careful not to spill a drop they sip and slurp as greedily as they can. Poise is lost as lips are licked and smacked around the crimson liquid. It is precious and none must be wasted. Each man sits in silence as they concentrate on the coursing through their digestive system of their forbidden pleasure whilst in the basement the stolen children nurse their wounds and lie limply with the tired toll the blood loss has caused.

With renewed vigour the gentlemen of a certain age and social standing continue their conversing and smoking and drinking until they return home to bitter wives or widowers empty beds. The women are bitter that their husbands age slower than they do.
The gentleman lives on.
And on.

soup in the morning

2006-01-15T22:38:00.000Z

On Mondays I like to start the day with vegetable soup. It is a very filling soup that is not overly exciting in flavour. This may not sound exactly like a saleable point; however I find these exact characteristics are exactly what is required for a Monday morning. The start of the week can be a very trying time for most people. It certainly is for me. The brief break of the weekend can lapse one into an apathetic lull and when Monday comes around and the working week starts again a gentle nudge is what is required. For some time I worked on the basis that Monday mornings required a kick start so experimented with a variety of more exciting and complicated flavours. This did not work out so well though as it was quite a shock to the system. I still think back on curried parsnip week and get shudders. No, vegetable soup is the perfect start for the week, with enough carbohydrates to provide a steady energy source and the comfort factor roughly equivalent to that of a warm old blanket.

Once Monday had been settled it was much easier to plan for the rest of the week. Each day has it’s own unique traits and you have to be very careful to cater to that. The system is already set in place, all I am doing is working around it. It’s all very sensible you see. Very sensible indeed.

Tuesday follows a similar rationale to Monday, whilst still very early in the week and a certain amount of gentle caution is required, it is time to step it up a little from the traditional vegetables. Tuesday I like to start the day with leek and potato soup. There are various benefits with this. Whilst it sounds like a relatively dull soup along the same vein as vegetable it is also an extremely versatile soup. If still feeling fragile after the Monday morning blues, then leek and potato on its own offers similar qualities to that of vegetable soup, warm and filling with plenty of reassurance. If I am over Monday and ready to walk a little on the wilder side then the addition of plenty of pepper makes the humble leek and potato into a feisty little step up on the soup ladder. I do try to make this soup myself and usually one batch can last several weeks as there is potential to make it in bulk and freeze portions for subsequent weeks. In an emergency situation I find the Covent Garden leek and potato to be an adequate replacement.

Wednesday I like to start the day with a rather expensive but absolutely worth it, mushroom soup. No Campbell cream of mushroom for me. My Wednesday soup comes direct from Marks and Spencer’s and contains no fewer than five different variety of mushroom. This soup is an indulgence really as it means a slight diversion on the way home from work to purchase a carton. It is a very small sacrifice to make; an extra hours journey home for a good start to my Wednesday. It is a relatively watery soup but as opposed to other forms of mushroom soup it contains a generous proportion of shitake mushrooms which are my secret favourite variety. Wednesday is a bit middle of the road as the middle of the week. It’s too far to look forward to the weekend and too late to feel the benefit of the weekend rest. So a little treat is what is required.

Thursday begins with chicken and noodle soup. This is purchased from a Chinese supermarket around the corner from my flat. Whilst still a watery soup it has a lot more taste and substance than the marks and Spencer five variety mushroom soup. This is very much a transition choice; I found it bridges the gap between Wednesday and Friday ideally. Usually, by Thursday, I am flagging a little. The extra protein provided by the chicken as well as the carbohydrate provided by the noodles is an excellent way to keep my energy levels up. It is also a fairly spicy soup as it contains red chillies. Spice is fine this late in the week as the day’s progress towards the weekend. It’s not quite so much a shock as at the start of the week.

Friday I like to start the day with three bean chilli soup. Friday soup is slightly unusual in that I do not have it before I leave the house. It is sold by a man with a little stall just outside the park. The man is called Robert and he makes excellent three bean chilli soup and it is only one pound per cup and comes with a little blue plastic spoon. I first had this soup when I had a day off work and had woken fairly late. I had the soup in the park at one o clock in the afternoon. Robert usually only sells coffee and tea and pastries early in the morning but I have managed to convince him to make sure he has soup for me on my way to work. I sincerely hope Robert never retires. The chilli is perfect for the Friday push to the weekend.

Saturday I like to stay in bed with the newspaper and a large bowl of red lentil and bacon soup. This soup is also home made in bulk. I have to make sure I have this soup always so tend to spend one afternoon a month making it. I have never found an adequate purchasable replacement. If I have been out drinking on a Friday night then this particular soup is a marvellous breakfast meal on account of the bacon. It is also a very heavy soup so replaces all the vital nutrients I may have lost on my Friday night shenanigans. I usually spend Saturday afternoons shopping for books in various small bookstores which are located around the city. It is a fair jaunt so requires a good start to the day. It also has a similar consistency to the three bean chilli soup with less of the spice so provides excellent continuity.

Sundays, well, Sundays I have cereal.

be mine

2006-01-14T22:17:00.000Z

Wide smile, low décolletage heavy on the make up. Elsie turns to camera as bright and excited as she was when she was getting married the first time.

“This isn’t my first wedding of course” she gushes through bared teeth; not her own. “When you’ve reached my age, well, you’re bound to have been round the block more times than you’d care to admit to yourself haven’t you”

She winks directly into the friendly open lens of the camera before erupting into wheezy twenty years of forty a day giggles. The documentary team laugh also, which make Elsie feel very all right indeed because of course they’re laughing with her, of course they are.

“My first husband Eric” She adjusts her neckline a little; TV likes to see a bit of cleavage after all “He worked in a factory making lids”

“What kind of lids, Elsie?”

That’s Annabelle, the filmmaker, Elsie wants so badly to like Annabelle. She’s so young and enthusiastic and always seems very nice, but, Elsie can’t quite shake the feeling that Annabelle might be taking the piss.

“For medicine bottles, you know those child proof screw tops, played havoc with his back though. His wrists too, you know, it’s not like it was back then no one worried about your carly tunnel syndromes”

“You mean carpal tunnel?”

“Yes that ‘n all”

Elsie reaches for her pack of royals and lights one up. She doesn’t much like to be corrected and is trying not to pull a face. TV does not like to see a sour puss. She takes a long draw on her cigarette and focuses on the pink lipstick kiss left on the filter before she exhales. It makes her look deep in thought she thinks.

“He passed away the day before our tenth wedding anniversary. Industrial accident.”

Elsie had been fond of Eric; he wasn’t a bad husband, inoffensive. Her mum had said he was a bit of a drip but he’d treated her OK. She hadn’t been heartbroken when he had died, sad of course, but not heartbroken which she still felt very guilty about.

“That must have been devastating for you Elsie, how old were you at the time?”

Elsie looks up at Annabelle, wishing she hadn’t put it quite like that and decides to avoid admitting to her total lack of devastation. How do you explain that back then getting married was what you did and love didn’t much come into it? Devastation won’t come where there ain’t no love, love.

“I was 26 when he passed; married at 16 you see. We never had no children; not for the want of trying mind. There was one baby but he never made it to full term. I guess we just weren’t blessed that way.”

Elsie definitely does not want to mention the frequent miscarriages; all the poor little babies that left her before they were ready to. Only one had resembled a baby so it’s the only one she ever cares to remember. She was going to call him Terence, after Erics father. Eric would have liked that. Poor little mite only made it six months, and he had been the last one. Doctors told her she was broken inside after that. She was scared about telling Eric but he surprised her when she did, said he was just happy she was OK. No, Eric was not a bad husband at all. Annabelle looks sympathetic. Elsie thinks it’s safe to continue.

“I married again at 29, to a tailor, well he said he was a tailor. That one didn’t last long, he buggered off six months after the wedding.”

But what a six months they were, not to mention the three before the wedding. Clive had been a total cad and she hadn’t seen it, hadn’t wanted to see it. Everyone had told her he was rotten and she knew it at the time but chose to ignore it. She’d been left a fair widows settlement from the factory not to mention her pension, she wasn’t rich but had a bob or two and that’s probably what drew Clive to her. Proper Hollywood swept her off her feet he did. She had been devastated when he left, not because of the money he had taken but because she knew she would miss the way he made her feel. Her mum had never told her about the things Clive had shown her, but then she doubted her mum had ever discovered half the things Clive had shown her. She can’t help but let out another wheezy chuckle when she remembers the time her mum caught her and Clive in the garden shed that one time when she’d bought her a crumble round. Poor mum, thinks Elsie, must have got the shock of her life.

“He was a handsome man” Elsie continues “After he got what he wanted he left. Divorce papers didn’t come through for another six years after that, but I don’t count them six years as married ones.”

Annabelle nods for her to continue Elsie smiles widely and lights another cigarette before continuing. The light of the TV camera is starting to irritate her eyes so she hopes they’ll be done soon. Well, they have to be done here fairly soon.

“My third husband was a butcher. He was a widower of five years and we married when I was 42. He was a few years older than me at 53 and we were married for 15 years before he passed. He was a large man and his heart just gave up on him.”

And not one tear had she shed for this bastard. After being on her own for so long Derek had seemed like the perfect companion. Gentle and good company, too old now to be too much trouble, had his own business and she liked his face well enough. He’d turned on the wedding night. Straight after the reception they went to their hotel room and they’d gotten ready for bed. She wasn’t expecting passion and fireworks, not at his age. There hadn’t been much before there were married so she wasn’t expecting much after. It wasn’t that she didn’t like, well, it. It’s just she didn’t think it was that important at her age. What she definitely wasn’t expecting was the wallop he’d delivered her as soon as she was changed. He said he had to show her the way the power balance was going to be from now on. His last wife had never complained and Elsie wasn’t to either. As long as she did as she was told it’d be OK but now she would know what would happen if she made him unhappy. Her honeymoon had been spent largely with sunglasses on so no one saw. She had a lot of use of these sunglasses over the years. Derek was always a hard man to please.

“And now husband number four Elsie, are you nervous at all?”

Else laughs, before coughing into the tissue she has bunched into her fist.

“No love, I’m not nervous. At my age it’s more like relief. You’re just grateful someone wants to give you the time of day.”

More smiling nods from Annabelle, Elsie tries to like her and again, it’s just not happening.

“I’m 79 now so I’m pretty sure this will be the last time I walk, well, go down the aisle.”

“And Ernie is?”

“Ernie is 85, I always did like the older man.” More breathy giggles more coughing into tissue. “In fact, look at the clock. I think it’s time.”

The documentary team swing back to the corner of the room to get a good view of the bride as she leaves to go get hitched for the fourth and final time. Elsie adjusts the neckline of her wedding dress for the final time and reapply her pink lipstick with the help of the hand mirror in her purse. The two porters in the room help her fix her skirt so it flows prettily around her white slippered feet. One white suit takes hold of the wheelchair and the other holds onto the drip stand as they make their way to the little hospice function room. Elsie motions to the porters to stop as they reach the door; she lifts up her veil and turns to camera with a smile and a wink.

“What’s my line again? It’s ‘I do’ isn’t it?”

Her laughs and coughs are picked up by the camera all the way down the long corridor.

dark (dark)

2006-01-13T00:26:00.000Z

In a dark dark room in a dark dark house resides a dark dark man. His neighbours whisper about him, the street kids set dares around him and even his own family likes to pretend he doesn’t exist.

Which suits him fine because he likes to pretend they don’t exist right back at them.

There was no great trauma, no redeeming story of loss or sorrow to explain why this dark man spent so much time in this dark house and especially in the dark room. He just liked the room, he bought the house cheap and he thinks by cultivating the dark image it raises him above his family, his neighbours and the street kids who set their dares about him. He’s just not a very nice man.

If he was honest to himself, which he rarely is, he is vaguely affectionate towards the street kids and their dares. They keep him on his toes. He looks forward to their games and he spends more time than he would like to admit planning ways to raise the bar, to scare them just a little bit more. They show imagination and spark these kids and they only caught him out that one time.

If the street kids were honest with themselves, which as kids they rarely are, life would be boring without the dark dark man. He keeps them on their toes. They love the challenge of the dares and spend a lot of time planning ways to catch him out. He’s very wily that dark dark man and they only managed to catch him out that one time.

The neighbours, he harbours no good feeling towards whatsoever, he took delight in the looks he received when he came to view. He saw the starchy white net curtains twitching, he saw the perms and golfing trousers, he saw the competitively neat lawns and the white fences. He saw spring mornings and competition roses, family sized Volvos parked next to sportier weekend models, he saw potential. He saw the house he came to view was right in the middle of this suburban perfection and he knew it was a steal.

The neighbours, harbour no good feeling towards him whatsoever, they saw him come to view the house. Through parted white nets they saw the dark dark man with his s-shaped spine, his long dark hair in his thin gaunt face, the orthopaedic shoes that didn’t look quite right. They saw the way he ate up the locale, they saw the way he crept through the door, they saw trouble. He was definitely Not Their Type. When the house sold and moving day came they saw the dark dark man, right in the middle of this suburban perfection and they knew it was a crime.

His family, he rarely thinks of anymore, and when he does it is with shudders of disgust. They weren’t a bad family, they didn’t treat him cruelly but the dark dark man likes to believe he was hard done by. It makes him feel unique. He wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t have something to be bitter about.

His family, they rarely think of him anymore, and when they do it is with pangs of regret. They didn’t think they were bad, to the best of their knowledge they had never been cruel, but the dark dark man had never fit in. He was definitely the black sheep. He wouldn’t ever try to accept the love that they offered to him.

It’s the day of Halloween and the dark dark man has been preparing for Halloween is his busiest time. He ventures from his dark dark room and his dark dark house to buy supplies to foil the street kids. He leers at the neighbours, he forgets his family and he watches the street kids plotting in tree houses.

He has nailed shut the letterbox, he has electrified the bell, he’s thrown the neighbours’ tabby into the garden well. He’s hung up pots of fluids, designed to stick in hair, he plans to drop them on the kids when they come to do their dares. He’s set about with trip wire, spilled marbles on the floor. He’s added sticky pads to all the handles of the doors.

He lastly heads to his dark dark room with make up on his face, to fall asleep in his armchair, his usual resting place. He’s dressed up like a corpse, a corpse with rotting flesh, he’s odourfied the dark dark room, he thinks it smells of death.

The street kids in their tree house, set out to do their best, this dark dark man, think the street kids, is really quite the pest. All that keeps them going, is the thought of victory, they know that it is possible, the proof is in the tree. It’s the one time that they caught him out, they have a picture on their wall, of him asleep in his dark dark room, after they shaved him bald. The plan is coming together, and they’ll implement it soon, but the street kids can’t imagine what they’ll find in that dark dark room. You see, all these preparations, put a strain on the dark mans head, he had a massive embolism and the dark man, well he’s quite dead.

hunted

2006-01-08T21:03:00.000Z

The bedroom window light goes on and I write it in my little book. I write 23:26 bedroom light on. I bought this book especially. I got it in a sale, it has very smooth paper and grey lines, not blue or red, grey lines. I am very particular about these things. The lines are faint which I like and there is a margin along the side, also in pale grey, which is useful for me. I often find myself having to try to squeeze words into the gap above another sentence but below the grey line. It makes the book look scrappy when I do this and sometimes it makes both sentences hard to read. With a margin along the side, I find room to make additional notes. The book is bound in very soft cream leather, which is pleasing both on the eye and the hand. I bought this book in the sale with twenty other exactly the same. I feel when they are all filled they will look very nice lined up. They are very thick books but I have already filled five. I must go see if they have any more in that shop, or perhaps another branch. I don’t mind how much they cost, not a book as pleasing as this. I prefer to use ballpoint pens, which many people believe to be the pedestrian choice in pens but as far as I am concerned, the benefits of a ballpoint outweigh the snobbish reasoning behind choosing another style of pen. When documenting, it is important to have everything just right. I like the ink to be black, blue is too bright, almost too vulgar. I need the black line to be fairly faint though, same as the lines of the paper. Nothing too brash. Fountain pens you see, have a tendency to smudge and blot everywhere. This would be unacceptable and would ruin a whole book; just one smudge would cost me a book. Inconceivable that this would be allowed. Sometimes I have to document things pretty fast and I could not afford the time it would take for a page to dry before I turned it over to continue with the documenting.

23.35 bedroom curtains open slightly before closing again within the space of that minute.

A ballpoint pen is a much smoother write; cheaper pens like bics will have a variable thickness, which is also unacceptable. The shade of ink is also just a little too dark. I have found also with the more expensive ballpoint pens that the ink is too dark. My preferred ballpoint pen is the black staedler biro, very inexpensive and very easy to find. I keep a box in my satchel at all times should a pen run out or go bad. I had a near miss a few weeks ago when the ink came out of the wrong end of the pen and got all over my fingers. I feared smudging a page or even worse, getting filthy inky finger marks on the cream cover of my book. It was a dilemma all right, I decided to go home and assess the damage, it is fortunate the incident occurred as late as it did or I would have had to ruin a book. I can’t leave early you see, I might miss something.

23.40 bedroom light goes off.

Wasn’t sure whether or not I should keep two books on me at all times, in case a lot happened one night and I ran out of space. With the soft leather being so light though, I have to keep the book wrapped in a plastic folder in my satchel at all times. If I ruin two books in one evening it would destroy my mood for days. I try to keep the plastic cover on as long as I possibly can because the outside elements are so dirty, and it would certainly be sinful to mark such a beautiful book in an unsympathetic way. Especially where I am located. It is hardly hygienic, but does offer both the best cover and the best possible viewpoint. Hovering down here in the dirt and the shrubbery well, it’s a small sacrifice to make. I do of course wear protective clothing, which is also especially advantageous in providing additional cover. Maybe the books would have been better in a darker colour, less obvious. But also less aesthetically pleasing and more miserable. I must remain positive and sunny, my doctor said so, and hence the cream books. It’s a bright and light and above all clean colour, and so suiting of…

23.45 Bedroom curtains open slightly for the second time this evening, they remain open for three full minutes. The gap between curtains is too small to offer any view of interior. Binoculars little help.

This curtain twitching is a bit suspicious if I am honest, I’ve been very careful. Very careful. I check the wire and there are no outgoing calls from the house phone. I try the aerial for mobile phone calls but I can’t hear anything now but breathing. Sounds deep, sleepy. It is midnight and that does correlate with the normal pattern. I think I’m going to stick around longer tonight though, just in case she’s trying to trick me. She does like to play games, such a funny girl. I know she knows I am here, I know she pretends she doesn’t to keep it exciting, oh she’d miss me if I went. I’ll listen for a while, listen to the breathing, regular breathing. I like to listen to her breathing, of course ideally I’d watch her sleeping but it’s too tricky.

I put my book inside its plastic wrapper and pull out the sketchbook. I’d have liked a larger sketchbook, but it’s harder to carry discreetly. I have to do the smaller drawings whilst portable and then copy them when I get home onto a larger canvas for painting. When I’m lucky I get to paint from photographs, but I worry about the lens, so light reflective. I do have some photographs but I have become more paranoid about taking them. I remember when I started the documenting I bought the most expensive SLR camera I could find and went to a night class to learn how to take the photographs properly. I had to travel very far to class, as to not arouse suspicion. It was a very vulgar community college and the other students were most disagreeable. So many pointless classes as well, landscape photography, still objects. I told them all I was interested in was portraits and people but that wasn’t until nearer the end of the class so I hate to waste my time with taking stupid pointless pictures of road signs and streams and other such idiotic things. I went to a special camera shop to get a lens like all the journalists’ use when shooting celebrities from far away. A different shop from where I bought the camera of course. It was such a big lens and I got such close pictures. It was like I was in the room, which was most pleasing. Initially they were unsatisfactory but after the classes on portraits and people they got much better. I would have liked to finish the last class but that ghastly woman who smelt of spirits, she got so close to me. She said such things, such beastly things, like I would be interested in a liaison with such a hag when I have my angel to watch over. I’m gripping my bag too tight; I’m getting angry my doctor said I shouldn’t get angry. He said when I get angry I should find something to calm me. Her breathing sounds calm me, still and regular and deep. I wonder what she dreams tonight? I know that last week she had a dream about a castle, she wrote it in her diary. I hope it was a nice dream.

I had to abandon the camera though the light reflects off the lens and it makes it so very obvious and I know she likes to keep it secret, what we have. It wouldn’t do to be so vulgar and obvious about it. I like the sketches though; they have such a wistful romantic feel about them, like all the great historical love stories. Nothing blatant and cheap, elegance and purity that’s what she deserves. I kept all the photographs though. I have them up in my room. I’m sure she would approve.
There was no mention of me in her diary. I didn’t like her diary very much, the paper was very course and the penmanship was all over the place. I think there are at least three different types of pens she has used. It is an inferior diary for an angel. I immediately went out and purchased a new, finer one. And a good pen to go with it. The paper was very smooth and unlined. Not having lines is a risk of course, because the writing can start to slope off at the end of the page but I’m sure she has good grasp of the importance of retaining the purity of such a fine book. This was also bound in the same soft leather as my books, but in a very pale pink. I think it brings us closer together. The pen is a fountain pen, she doesn’t have to rush with her writing like I do so I am sure she can get away with it, It is mother of pearl casing with special silver cartridges. I think this will be most pleasing to real, almost ethereal, which is sensible, as an angel should transcend the corporeal. I left it on her pillow, wrapped in a pale pink ribbon. I know she likes pink, so many of her clothes are the same colour.
I hope she liked it. I’ll find out when she goes to work tomorrow, I'l go in and check.
I’m sure she did.

00:15 a deep sigh

testing

2005-12-31T22:33:00.000Z

Slip on shoes might have been a mistake for tonight, on reflection, but they are new and they were comfortable for the walk down. She’d been looking for a new pair for ages now and none of them had been quite right. Had a picture in her head of what the right shoes would look like and had dismissed many pairs before finding these. Funny, she thought, that these looked absolutely nothing like the picture in her head. She’d been fairly certain she’d wanted dark green moccasins so how she ended up with tweed kitten heels she wasn’t entirely sure, but still, they were pretty good shoes. She checks out her dangling feet and takes great delight from the green velvet bow situated at the toe, very frivolous; at least she got the green in there somewhere. The main body of the shoe is made up mostly of various shadings of brown, but there is a dark green running through the tweed as well so the right colour on two scores. The toe is a little more pointed than she would have liked but sometimes one has to make these little concessions.

Bloody hell, stupid girl. She catches herself leaning forward to get a better view of the shoes. This; is not a good idea. It would do no good to go flying off the bridge for the sole purpose of self-admiration, which is not what one does in these situations. What would it say on her headstone if she did that? She died in the pursuit of a better view? Not of course that anyone would know that was what she was doing; she supposes people would think she as just another suicide. She shuffles back a little and firmly decides to stop checking out her new shoes.

In theory this is usually a time of self-reflection but she’s not really up to that just yet. It strikes her as very self absorbed to sit and think about herself, very woe woe alas alack, and it’s boring. She’s not going to plunge into a dark and probably very cold death out of boredom. She pulls her jacket round a little closer because it is awfully cold. The old stone bridge isn’t very warm to sit on either; it’s not terribly comfortable for that matter. But then, it’s not supposed to, people in her position probably jump out of discomfort as much as anything. It’s a familiar bridge to her; she used to walk across it every day as a child to go to school, with one white sock round her no doubt scabby knee and the other invariably round her ankles. It used to drive her mother loopy and she was always trying to yank it up but the universal law of long white socks dictates that one will stay up and the other will hover at ankle height. She walked across it every day to go to college in her teens, she had a brief respite when she went to university and now she walked across it every day to go to work. It’s always been her favourite at night though, she likes the slightly art deco lanterns and the way the stone pillars are softly backlit making them look like they flat. On clear nights she could stand at the epicentre of the bridge for hours looking at the swans as they group and disperse on the river. They look so ghostly at night.

Miss, miss, please don’t do it miss

She almost loses her balance at the shock of someone talking to her, its 4am what person in their right mind is out walking on the bridge? As she turns to face her would be saviour one of her new shoes slips off and drops the long drop to the river.

Shit
Look madam, you may be trying to kill yourself but there’s no excuse for bad language

An elderly couple stand on the pavement looking up at her. He looks like your generic granddad in his green wax jacket and flat cap. Rosy sort of round face with tufts of white hair sticking out the edges of his cap. Navy gloves and a matching scarf she decide she likes the man; he was the one who spoke first. The woman, however, she makes her feel sorry for the man. She imagines the poor old sod is pretty hen-pecked by this ferocious looking woman. Padded jacket and badly dyed hair, she’s assuming she was going for red but it’s come out sort of pink looking. Taut unfriendly face made worse by ghastly thin pencilled in eyebrows and blue eye shadow. What the hell are they doing out at this time of night?

I lost my shoe, they’re new

The old woman scoffs and the man looks very sad

You aren’t going to jump are you?

He asks with obvious concern, his partner looks like she couldn’t care less.

I’m not going to jump, honestly, its OK don’t worry

The woman pulls at his arm; she’s obviously quite bored and wants to carry on with whatever they were doing. He doesn’t want to leave it seems, but is soon overwhelmed. They depart, but not before he suggests she should just go home and have a nice cup of tea.

She waits until she can’t here the clopping of the woman’s heels anymore before looking along the bridge again. They’ve gone. She shivers a little and pulls her jacket in again, wishing she’d bought her gloves out. Her concentration is totally lost so she decides to heed the mans advice and head home for a nice cup of tea. Thankfully it’s not far. She heaves herself down, relatively gracefully, from her precarious spot and starts the short walk home, with one shoe on and one foot off she’s limping in a manner which would be comical if it were someone else. She pulls off the other shoe and winces as the residual water on the pavement soaks into the foot of her tights. It’s the earliest she’s ever left the bridge before. Ah well, she thinks, maybe next year.

wet weekend

2005-12-30T20:16:00.000Z

Good morning
Morning
Is it still raining?
Of course it’s still raining; it’s been raining since the minute we got the tent up.
I thought it might have stopped for a while in the night there, I heard you go out.
I needed the bathroom.
It was still raining?
Yes, it was still raining.
I thought it had stopped for a while
No, still raining.
Do you want to play cards?
I want a coffee, I want a cigarette and I want some dry clothes, I do not want to play cards.
I’m sorry.
No, I’m just being tetchy it’s OK, but honestly, no more cards please
I am sorry though, this holiday has been nothing but disastrous
It’s a camping holiday, what did you expect? It’s scientific fact as soon as you erect a tent anywhere in the UK it starts to rain
I thought it would be vaguely, you know, atmospheric
Darling, Wales is always atmospheric but only in the hammer horror sense of atmospheric
Do you want to go home?
No, no it’ll be fine, it might stop raining soon
You think?
No
You’re in a mood with me aren’t you?
No, not really. I do need a coffee though, how far is the nearest town, or actual cluster of buildings?
Six miles
We could drive and get some food and coffee? How much money do we have?
About sixty pounds
Well, we’ve hardly spent any money these last five days so
Four days
Wow, has it only been four?
Yes
Really? Only four? Feels like..
Yes only four, I get your point you know
Oh, I was going to suggest we maybe looked for a hostel or B&B or something
I knew you were hating this, we’re camping because we can’t afford a hostel or B&B, we’re not due back for another four days but if you hate it...
I don’t hate it, but it is damp and irritating, I’m sure it wouldn’t be so bad if the weather wasn’t so awful
I can’t help the weather
I’m not blaming you!
The BBC said it would be better than this, the weather I mean
Bloody BBC
Anyway, we can’t take the tent down in the rain it’ll never dry out
I feel like I’ll never dry out!
Now you’re just being dramatic
I am not, all my clothes are wet, we’re living on paste sandwiches and kendal mint cake because it’s too damp to light a fire, my sleeping bag feels horrible…
I have a pair of dry socks in the car if you want them?
That would be amazing, really? You would give them to me?
Of course
Your dry socks, I think it’s possibly the most wonderful gift I will have ever received
Are you being sarcastic?
No, I really mean it
In which case, you’re welcome
Shall we go get some lunch as well? We can drive down, spend the afternoon in the warm and bring back some cold foods and beers maybe?
You don’t mind staying then?
No no, the rain might ease off any day now
I am sorry this holiday has been such a disappointment
I’m happy enough here with you, I just wish I was a bit drier, and cleaner, and fuller
There’s a launderette in the village, we could wash and dry some things; that would help wouldn’t it?
That would be awesome
We’ll take the flask too, get some coffee
I think I love you
I was worried, what with the bad holiday, thought maybe you’d gone off me
Never, is it still raining?
I think it’s easing off
Lovely

message in a bottle

2005-12-29T00:54:00.000Z

When I was fifteen years old I wrote a message and placed it in a bottle. I threw that bottle out to sea. I was an idealistic and overly romantic young thing and it took me many days and dozens of drafts to get it just right. Years later I realize that it was so far from just right, in fact on reflection it was a bit silly, but that is youth for you. I think I imagined myself to be somewhat of a desolate heroine, rather than what I actually was which a totally over indulged child. We had been on the liner for a week and a half before the idea of the bottle came to me. Instead of summering at the family house, as we had for every year in my living memory, mother and father decided we should see the world. I felt far away from all life on this large and stylish boat, I longed to walk through long grass and muse under the shade of trees. It was when I was writing to a school friend I had the idea of the bottle. I knew it wasn’t an utterly original idea but being stubborn once I had the idea I simply had to follow through with it.

It took me another four days to successfully steal a bottle and a cork. I swiped it from the kitchens late one evening after sneaking out from my cabin. Oh but it was a thrill, I had never attempted a burglary before in my life and I felt oddly underdressed for the occasion in my plain white cotton smock. In my head somewhere I was certain master burglars should wear black. The kitchens were not empty, obviously the chef had gotten very drunk while playing cards with the kitchen staff after hours, as he was passed out in a pile of cards and cigar butts. His snoring was deep and damp sounding and my heart never failed to jump every time his sleepy rhythmic tune did start. After looking in boxes and cupboards for some time I had dismissed three bottles on account of being green glass before getting a fright from a shifting chef in the corner. I was insistent the bottle should be colourless; this was how I had imagined it to be. After what felt like a breathless hour, but was more likely no more than thirty seconds, the chef resumed his snoring and I resumed my hunt. A perfect bottle lay behind some small sacks of flour and I wrapped it in my shawl and ran out of there and back to my cabin as fast as my little legs could take me.

I stored my perfect bottle under my bed wrapped in my favourite lace shawl for a further seven days while I tried to write the perfect message. Not only did the words have to be the right words, they had to look right. I was determined that the paper be thick and cream and the writing be black and poetic looking. I wasn’t entirely sure what poetic looked like but I suspected it had to be very swirly.

The paper turned out to be a problem, mother and father didn’t have any suitable letter paper and the only paper I had with me was lilac and I considered this to be too overtly feminine. I wanted bleak romanticism, not girly romanticism. At dinner one evening my mother received a note from the captain. I couldn’t tell you what the letter said because I only saw the back of the page, and I wasn’t overly interested, what interested me was the paper. Thick and cream and exactly what I was looking for. I begged my mother to ask the captain for several sheets of this beautiful vehicle to my vision. She relented and I was presented the next day with six sheets. To my massive dismay however, the paper had a header and a footer to it, the footer stating the name of our captain, the header of our boat. I remember I near cried myself to sleep that night with dismay. In the morning I tore a piece if this cursed paper in half and threw it to the floor before leaving for breakfast. After breakfast I returned to my cabin to fetch my parasol, it was an un feasibly hot and my skin required some shade, when I noticed the cleaner had moved my torn sheets to the bed. I studied the edges of the torn line and found it pleasing the way the threads and fibres teased out along the torn sides. With shaky hands I took another sheet and tore a thin sliver from the sides of each sheet and tore the header and the footer away and was left. Left with a perfectly disheveled cream piece of paper. The remaining four sheets receive the same treatment while I plan the words for my message.

I had at first thought I would leave the family name and house on the letter so that whoever found the bottle could contact me after, I’m sure at some point in my childish daydreams I imagined this would be the way I would meet my future husband, but I dismissed this idea as a cheapening of the romantic vision. It would be purer to send it out unknown. Actuality can be painfully disappointing sometimes. I practiced my message many times over on my plain lilac note paper before risking it on my few precious sheets of cream. I altered my hand writing to be exquisitely swirly with much emphasis on the tall and the long letters. Initially it was far swirlier but I believed it made it fairly unreadable so toned it down somewhat. I wasted two sheets of cream because of smudges and blotches before my message was written. I took no risks and let it dry for one night and one day before I rolled it up to go into the bottle. I tied it with a thin black ribbon and applied the cork.

It was night when I threw it out to sea, the moon was full which I felt to be important, and the night sky was full of stars. The deck was empty and as I threw my precious much laboured bottle out to sea I wished it well upon a star.

Many years later I am on another holiday, no longer fifteen or quite so idealistic, but I like to think a trace of romance still lives in me somewhere. I leave for home in three days and my husband decided today he would like to go visit the local mariners museum. I was less than enthusiastic, my desires to walk through long grass and lounge beneath trees had never faded, a stuffy museum isn’t my idea of fun but, we make these little sacrifices for those we love so I accompanied him with nary a grumble. For some time I was content to watch him as he intently read the descriptive labels that accompanied every object placed in this quaint little building, occasionally he would turn to point one out to me and his innocent interest in these things warmed my heart. Near the end of our tour he turned with a smile to me to point out an object placed on a green velveteen cushion in a dusty glass case. My eyes widened as I saw what lay there, with the cork still in and the black ribbon wrapped around the note inside.

“It’s never been opened, not in forty years the label says” says my husband “I wonder what the note says?”

With a smile I take his hand as we leave to go to lunch. I know his mind is still on the note so I tell him it’s far more romantic if we never know. He squeezes my hand in agreement and happily, together, we go about our day.

means and ends

2005-12-27T21:00:00.000Z

She’s the cat that got the cream, she’s the early bird who has her worm, she’s the goose that laid the golden egg. She’s won and her face will tell you so on this bright winters day as she slowly moves her way through the city, making sure everyone she wants to see will see her with her prize.

They told her it would never happen, everyone had. Her parents, his parents, her friends, his friends, although his friends hadn’t so much told her as laughed her down with cruel words and the occasional lobbed beer can. Even he himself had told her never, but she was determined, she was certain, she would have her day. Her day had come so it was only right she should smile, a smile that dazzled all that saw it, a smile that radiated warmth and joy and happiness and peace and love. Such a glorious smile almost makes this unfortunate girl look beautiful. Such a glorious smile lights her face in a way the most expensive of make ups had never achieved. Such a glorious smile on the face of almost any other human being would have spread like a fit of the giggles. This smile had warmth and it had glow, but it was not for sharing, oh no. The edges of this smile came with a smugness that is never attractive, there was a meanness under the smile, a snide I told you so to all that had doubted, it was the smile of a comfortable winner and the longer you looked like a magic eye picture before your very wide eyes that smile became a sneer, the eyes were shooting daggers to the doubters, to everyone, all but her and her man. He isn’t that noticeable at first, the smile gets you initially and it’s only when you see it for what it is and avert your eyes from hers you see him. He looks so small, he takes some recognizing, and when you do finally place where you know him the bile rises in your throat and gravity abandons your poor swimming head and lying down or throwing up is what you need to do. What you want to do is wipe this image from your head but you know it’ll be burned there now until the end of your days

She is completely unaware at the horror she is inducing, convinced in fact that it is jealousy and shock that is contorting the faces of her much loathed onlookers. She expected this, it’s why she’s out, and everyone needs to see that she won. Her own mother thought she was dead, silly old fool, she’s got everything to live for why would she be dead? Her own mother was another doubter though, she knew this, and mothers’ platitudes had always galled her. Plenty more fish in the sea dear, mother had said and mother never replied when she’d told mother that she knew which fish she wanted. She knew she wasn’t blessed with good looks or witty repartee or a quick mind but she’d also known as sure as day is day that he was her one. There could be no other for her. Her friends had tried to tell her it would never happen and ease her gently into her status as rejected but she never really thought of them as friends, they were people she had taken up with to show him how popular she could be. One of her so called friends had tried to kiss him once at a party she had manoeuvred her way into. She didn’t like that, but she bided her time. She never thought much of his so called friends, always keeping him away from her, laughing and making jokes at her expense. Poor boy probably hadn’t realised what bad people he had taken up with. How could he have known the true depth of her feeling if they had always kept her from him?

Her mothers fears weren’t far off she reflected, but fate intervened and made everything ok. After years and years of waiting and longing, after one drunken night when her so called friend made a move on a man she had marked as hers, when she thought she may be losing him for good and forever she made the decision that if she couldn’t, well it was only fair that no one could. When she found out through her mother who had spoken to the woman at the post office who was friends with the woman from the doctors whose daughter was best friends with his sister that he was going to be going away with his family for Christmas, well she knew this was her chance. None of his friends would be there to stop her. Scotland they were going and to Scotland she followed. She waited outside their rented cabin; she had some food and a blanket. She watched them all on Christmas day opening their presents and eating their dinner, she heard the laughter and the music and the only time she felt anything was when she caught a glimpse of him, that familiar leap of the heart. She knew she was doing the right thing.

In the evening she knocked on the door and to the amazed faces of all that were gathered told them how much she loved him, she poured her heart out but at the back of her mind she knew this wasn’t right. She should be alone with him. Soon the protests started and the shouting, it was the family she decided, all the family. He told her it would never happen, they told her it would never happen. The family she decided were cruel and he had to say it because they were there. They told her he was going to get engaged to some other girl. Some city floozy. Someone else. They threw her out and she decided right then that if she couldn’t, well, no one could. She waited outside the cabin that night until all were asleep and she went to look at the car, she fiddled with its insides, stabbed bits and twisted bits and tore at bits. She sat up all night watching the house, waiting for them to leave. In the morning they all piled into the car, the stupid fools, they all got in and made their way down the steep drive to the town, she watched them go. She stood atop the hill and watched as the car began to wobble across the road, its rapid acceleration down the drive, as it careered off the side of the winding lane it was supposed to turn into. If she couldn’t, well…

There was still some screaming by the time she got there, his sister. She soon stopped. When she was sure they had all gone she called an ambulance and the police. They took their sweet time mind. She had worn a ring on her wedding finger for years now, a protection mechanism she thought against the intentions of others, she told them she was his fiancé. They were staying at the cabin and the other were going for supplies, she wept a lot, of course she did, her love had just died. She didn’t care if her story stood up long because she didn’t plan on living much longer. That’s when the ambulance men delivered the news that he, her love, her one, wasn’t dead. He was injured badly though, they got the air ambulance out to him. She sat by him in the hospital. She organised his recovery and found him a home with her savings. She nursed him every day for nearly a year. The others were cremated, she didn’t care about that though, there was no other family to care. She tended to him until he was well enough so she could take him home and show the others that in the end she’d won.

She sees the woman from the doctors’ daughter looking over her and makes her smile as broad as it can be as she bends over the wheelchair to wipe the long sliver of drool from the open mouth of her beloved.
She’d won.

wings

2005-12-14T20:11:00.000Z

But Dad
No buts
But…
I said no buts!
I’m cold.
I told you to put your scarf on, son
It’s itchy though

The large man looks down at his son and shrugs before going back to work on the wings. George considers this to be a great injustice, but at seven years old George considers most things to be a great injustice. He considers the haircut his father made him take last week to be an injustice, he looks like a pudding bowl. In George’s opinion the clothes his father dresses him in are a great injustice, the other kids wear blue jeans not brown cord trousers and none of the other kids have to wear a duffel coat. He expressed this opinion to his father once and the large man told him he didn’t want to be just like the other kids and he would thank him one day for the head start into individuality. George didn’t understand what his father meant but he did understand he wanted jeans. And trainers, he would rather have trainers than these stupid shoes. He scuffs his shoes in the gravel a bit to show his distaste for them but a sharp look from his father soon causes him to cease. Georges scarf is an injustice he got away with not suffering this morning because his father was tired. A bright blue woollen thing knitted with scratchy wool. George hates his scarf and avoids wearing it whenever he can. George doesn’t understand why his scarf makes his father so sad.

The second biggest injustice in George’s opinion is the way his father makes him spend every weekend and holiday with him working on the wings. George hates the wings, he didn’t always hate the wings, once upon a time he loved them. Back when the wings were a new project it was exciting, but the novelty has long worn off. The fun went and the seven year olds enthusiasm soon waned. Every weekend and holiday for months and months now George has been dragged down to the shed to help with the wings. The shed is a large breezy construction at the end of the long garden, a garden which once was quite pretty George remembers. There were sweet-peas of purple and yellow. He used to help harvest the little seeds from the pods to plant the following years and put the flowers themselves into little glasses of water about the house. They smelled nice and made the house look nice. George was sad that there were no sweet-peas this year but his father had been too busy with the wings. Another favourite of Georges was the dahlias that grew around the shed, bright red pompom flowers which would tickle his nose when he tried to smell them. He used to crawl underneath the bushy flowers when he played hide and seek. He remembered every winter the bulbs (which in George’s opinion looked like dirty potatoes) had to be dug up and bought inside or the cold would kill them. The bulbs got left out this winter so there were no dahlias to hide under this year. Not that there was any hide and seek. His father was too busy for sweet-peas and dahlias and hide and seek, the only thing his father had time for, it seemed to George, was those cursed wings.

George, George pay attention will you, go fetch me that bag from the kitchen, with the new glue in, there’s a good boy.

George scowls, turns on his heels and marches out of the barn like door to the shed. He considers going to hide in his room for the rest of the afternoon but as much as he hates his weekend confinement in the shed he hates seeing his father upset, more. He looks sadly around the garden at the overgrown lawn and the little ivy covered patches that were once flower beds and spots his blue and white football in one of the patches. Excited for a moment, he climbs in to retrieve it but as soon as he does his excitement is deflated, along with his ball. He tosses it to one side and runs to the back door to fetch the glue for his father. The kitchen is as cold as it is outside and dirty dishes pile the work surfaces, George doesn’t like to look at these too long as he can imagine little bugs on them like he learned about at school. George hates bugs and especially the little ones. Every now and then his father will spend an entire day cleaning the dishes and all the other dusty things in the house, but as soon as they run out of dishes again they go back to paper plates and plastic throw-away cups until his fathers next manic day. One day at school George learned about recycling and the environment and he told his father that they shouldn’t use all these things that get thrown away. His father told him to feel free to wash the dishes himself but George doesn’t want to touch them because of the little bugs that he can’t see so the dishes stay where they are.

He sees the blue plastic bag from the hardware shop hanging on the back of the chair so grabs it and heads back to his father. The large man is sat in one of the fishing chairs with his head in his hands, his brown and grey hair sticking up at odd angles. His father is sad and George doesn’t like to see him sad so he reaches out and touches one of his fathers’ big hands. The large man looks up and grins wearily at George, He scruffs his sons’ hair and takes the bag, heaving himself up with a sigh.

I’ve got a big important job for you son, think you’re up to it?
Yes dad
Good lad, I’m going to glue these two crossbars here and I need you to hold them steady for me ok?
Yes dad

George takes hold of the bars while his father bends over to do the gluing with a very serious look of concentration on his face. George thinks his father has aged a million years recently. George used to think the lines on his fathers face were beautiful because they were smiley lines, back when his father would hug him or pick him up he liked to trace the smiley lines with his fingers. George used to hope one day he would have a lot of smiley lines just like his dad. Now he thought his smiley lines just made him look old and tired, the smiley lines lose their magic, thinks George, when the smiles no longer reach the eyes. Once his father has glued the two pieces together he glances at the old watch on his wrist;

Look at the time, you hungry son?
A little

Which is technically a lie and lies are bad, George knows this, but he think his father would be sad to know how hungry George is and has been for a couple of hours now. Making his father sad is worse than lying, thinks George.

Come on then, we’ll go get a sandwich eh?

They walk single file to the kitchen, Georges’ small frame behind his fathers’ large one. George thinks his father looks smaller now too, more hunched over, like he’s folded up on himself. He used to think his father was the biggest man ever and would protect him from anything and now he feels he needs to protect his father. Paper plates come out of a packet and bread and cheese from the larder. His father cuts thick slices of cheese for the sandwich which George hates, he’d rather have it grated up, and the bread is left unbuttered. George is pretty sure he likes his sandwiches with butter and pickle but he would never tell his father because his father has been making them like this for so long now he would be upset. George takes his sandwich with a thank you and bites into the slab of cheese and bread and tries his hardest not to pull a face. He watches his father distractedly taking bites from his sandwich, crumbs spilling everywhere. George wonders where his fathers thoughts are when his eyes look distant like that.

George concentrates on his sandwich, the quicker he gets it eaten the better he thinks. When he finishes he notices his father looking at him with tears in his eyes. Panic wells up in Georges chest and he tries to figure out if he has done something to make his father upset or if this is one of the sometimes sadness that happens. The distress must show in Georges face because his father comes over to pick him up and hug him, something his father hasn’t done for a long time now.

Shh son, shh, it’s ok, the wings are finished now and tomorrow we’ll take them down to the pier ok, we’ll fly like bird men ok, don’t cry son, don’t cry

George chokes back a sob and hates himself for crying. He looks over his fathers shoulder and sees the pictures on the wall of all the wings from the years before, he sees bicycle-kite which was his favourite; and yellow wings. He named those last two sets of wings but doesn’t think these new wings will get a name. He knows that these wings are special this year because they aren’t flying on the bird man day like all the other years. They didn’t even start making them until bird man day this year, before bird man day his father just did a lot of crying but that’s ok, George did a lot of crying too.

George stops looking at the pictures and weeps softly into his fathers’ broad warm shoulder. In George’s opinion by far the biggest injustice is that his mother isn’t here this year to fly like a bird man too.

as festive as I get

2005-12-13T22:05:00.000Z

All is dark and still, warm and comfortable you lie, but confused, so very confused. One heavy arm flops to the side of you and scrabbles around looking for, looking for… got it, press a button on the mobile phone and wait for the screen locked sign to disappear. It’s a horrible blue light you reflect, then, state you’re in any light would be pretty horrible right now. 2.45am, what a time to wake up. Pretend it never happened maybe, close your eyes and fall asleep. All is dark and still, warm and comfortable you lie but awake now, so very bloody awake. Perhaps if you think about what you were dreaming of, if it was a good dream try to climb back inside, if not then use your imagination damnit it’s what you’ve got one for. Dream, there was the sea, and a boat or was it a raft, could have been an island and… oh it’s no good it’s all too hazy.

It feels like an age lying there in the dark, not even feeling a little bit sleepy. Blank your mind, blank your mind, does anyone really ever blank their minds? Doubtful, you decide, very doubtful. It’s Saturday tomorrow as well, Saturday today even. Prime lie in time. It’s no good. The heavy arm reaches out again into the cold dark air and flicks on a lamp. Ouch, should’ve shut your eyes maybe, oh well, too late now. Under the pillow is the battered paperback picked up from a charity shop last weekend for fifty pence, might as well read some of that as do anything. They say that reading can help you get to sleep. They are slightly lacking when it comes to tips of focusing on the small print when you’ve woken up confused at 2.45am in the morning mind. The paperback goes back under the pillow. Thirsty now, great, you don’t want to get out of bed, bed is warm and out of bed is not warm. Movement means you have to actually admit to being awake as well. It’s times like this you wish you were one of those well prepared smug so and so’s who keep plastic bottle mineral water next to the bed, evian probably, that’s naïve backwards you fools. Although it is not likely those types ever get a break in their perfect eight hours sleep anyway.

Feeling a lot better for mentally bashing a whole population subgroup it’s time to reach for the cheap blue dressing gown that is, right where you left it, on the floor next to the bed. Freshly laundered it smells like home which never fails to tug at your heart and give that not so unpleasant ache. It’s nice to have people to miss. It’s nice to know you’ll see them soon too. Wrapped up and forward planning you reach around in the bag of clean washing yet to be put away to look for a good thick pair of socks, the flooring to the kitchen is bloody cold. After discarding three pairs because of holey toes a compromise is made with one intact blue sock and one intact black sock. Quietly slip out of the door and pad down the hall as not to wake anyone, keeping the lights out which isn’t too scary as a streetlight outside the building gives a little illumination.

The kitchen is communal and is supposed to double up as a living room so is fairly large, yet vastly ugly. Whoever designed this thing should be shot, although judging by the interior chances are whoever designed this thing is probably long dead anyway. It may be that it is supposed to be a recreational area but you’ve never seen anyone in here for other than the purposes of cooking. To be quite honest, you never see anyone in here, it is an antisocial building. Maybe it’s the kitchens fault. Like a squat rectangle painted a charming anaemic institute green, to the rear where the “leatherette” (plastic) armchairs line up the window is large, spanning the width and near enough the height of the wall. This has to be a health and safety issue up this high but who dares complain when the rent is a pittance? The centre of the room is occupied by functional steel and chipboard tables with plastic chairs. Two by six, reminds you of a classroom almost, never used these tables, never intend to. The kitchen would put you off your food. The other end a greasy oven and microwave nestled in a grey work surface, surrounded by grey cupboards, fitted with grey padlocks. Plastic white kettle, with grease, and plastic white toaster, oddly grease free. sit on the work top looking forlorn. Coffee, you’re awake, you might as well. From the pathetically inadequate little cupboard the cafetière and coffee is salvaged. The kettle has water in it already but instinct always tells you to replace it. Instinct or paranoia, one of the two anyway. The kettle boils, the cafetière is filled and you pad back to the sanctuary of your room and the warmth of your duvet. Wash out a mug, pour a coffee, get into bed. Sip, reach, press button on phone, 3.15am.

Sigh. The next time you check your phone it’s 3.45 am and all your coffee is gone, surely that can’t be healthy. Time to make a plan, the bakery opens at 7am and there is a 24 hour convenience shop near by. In the morning, well, later in the morning you will fetch fresh warm bread rolls from the bakery and bacon and a paper from the convenience shop. You will make more coffee and spend the morning in bed reading the paper, listening to low level radio babble and indulge in some fine bacon rolls. If no one has thieved it (and you wouldn’t put it past them) there should be some butter in the fridge. That’s a plan. Press, light, phone lock, 3.55 am. What on earth to do until then The coffee might have been a bad idea as the fidgets have set in, none of the films you own look appealing and you don’t want to lie down again to read the book. Pulling aside the thin curtains bought from ikea which your mother disapproves of because they’re not lined (they look good) and rolling up the cheap bamboo blind you thought might compensate for that (it doesn’t) you see the road is very quiet. Cars parked up tight along the roadside with frost on the windows, the one streetlight on this side that works illuminating the graffiti on the bus shelter (Dave L/S Vicky 4EVA) whilst a badly flickering one lights up, well not a lot really. More flats, more cars, the off-licence with its shutters down.

Whilst you pull on your clothes you wonder if this is such a good idea, you promised people you wouldn’t do this. But it’s so quiet, and it has gone 4am, all the clubbers will be home. Besides, it’s December and it is bloody cold, no one in their right mind will be out on a night like this. No one in their right mind, yes, you consider there may be a message here but it’s too late now. The gloves are on, and fine gloves they are too. Two years ago from a market these gloves and still going strong, asides that hole between the thumb and fingers but you’ve been planning to stitch that up for a while now and when you do they’ll be right as rain. Charity shop duffel, cheap MP3 player and an army store satchel. Throw the phone in and put on a woolly hat, it is cold out there. You plug the earphones in on the way down the stairs, can’t remember what you put on there last, it doesn’t hold a lot of songs so you hope it isn’t some sappy emo songs you gathered especially for a mix cd for your mum. That would be quite unbearable. Outside the building the first song starts, sonic youth, skip tracer, perfect.

Breath fogs up in front of you as you walk and you try to figure out where to walk to, maybe if you go down the high street, along towards where the PC world is then left down that road with the big Victorian terraces are, you’re sure there’s a park down that way. Well up that way, if memory serves you correctly there’s a stonking great hill to get to it. Bracing you tell yourself, bracing. The high street is eerie deserted, no cars no people, many suspicious looking puddles. Some shops have shutters, some have elaborately decorated shutters. The electrical stores all have the lights on so if you peek through the grate you can see the high ticket items you could rob if you were so inclined, and of course could move through sheet metal. Pubs deserted with the Saturday night aftermath laying in the pavement outside like a turner prize exhibit gone wrong. Step around the suspicious puddle and hold your nose. Looks like this off licence is still open, remarkable, sudden urge to buy cigarettes. Haven’t smoked for three years and don’t intend to start again but ten won’t hurt.

Cold cheeks and warm ears, you’ve seen one car drive past and that was a police car not in any hurry. Up towards PC world and left up the road with the big Victorian houses. They are beautiful you think, but so sad in a way. The intricacies and the size in this dark midwinter illumination make them look gothic and foreboding from the outside. Large trees sway gently alongside them and you tell yourself one day, one day.

Press, phone lock, 4.45 am. Take the hill slowly because it is cold and there is no hurry really. The park isn’t going anywhere. Tom Waits, Hold on, sudden urge to sing. Definitely not a good idea. Autumnal leaves, all brown now lie crisp on the pavement. Yield to the urge to kick a little pile and feel somewhat like a five year old, which is absolutely fine. You’re starting to feel very glad you woke up at this ridiculous time. Pause for breath… and on.

The park is technically closed, the sign says so, wrought iron railings painted a very dark and very British green indeed fence the park in. But, as is the case in many inner city parks, maintenance is low priority and there is always a bent railing somewhere to provide a gap to squeeze through. There is a bench over there, by a memorial monument that looks very tired. This would be a good place to sit. The view from here, you would imagine, is not amazing of a day time. The city is grey and smoky, the hum and drum of a million people going about their daily business have worn it down, the city is aged and unclean. The view of a night time however, the view is spectacular. The grey and grime are hidden by darkness and there could be anything down there, all you see for miles are the orange glowing grids provided by the street lights, mapping out the roads, masking their nature and opening up for you only the potential, the possibility. Like surfacelevel stars these orange lights twinkle their secret glow for as far as the eye can see. R.E.M., electrolite. Static fills the air and fills your nose and tickles your skin. Your hair stands on end. You watch the cloud of your breath and hold it. You imagine a great big sigh of the sky.

It starts to snow.