Not the story

Some unrelated comments (or are they?)

I woke up thinking about Eartha Kitt.

I used to be a big fan of hers. What happened to her? Oh, I know she is what we call 'dead' - but that's no answer.

Where is that entity, being, person I experienced (and am still experiencing) as Eartha Kitt?

Is the answer to that question to be found in Particle Physics? Or Philosophy?


-------------------------------------------------------------

Keep taking the tablets

Nowadays, everything is to do with the destination, rather than the journey.  The journey has become a fag - something to be got over as quickly as possible. But if you think about it, you can never reach your destination. Because in getting there it becomes something else. It is no longer your destination. Wheras the journey... is always alive... happening.

And, of course, I'm not just talking about physical destinations. Take computers:Everything must be quicker and easier... and as a result often becomes more complicated. And the trend is for one device to do everything: a sort of Swiss Penknife approach. I think we are being led by the nose by the technocrats.  I am not knocking technology. But perhaps we could be a little more selective in which bits of technology we accept - and which we reject. To paraphrase a great teacher: Technology is made for man - not man for technology.

Home for Christmas - Part V

"My husband and I have an open marriage. And it works. For us. I'm not saying it would work for everyone - but it works for us."

My mother was speaking to our two visitors when I entered father's study. Badger was eating a mince-pie; his companion was re-filling his sherry glass from the decanter on father's desk - next to the laptop!

Mother gave a start as I entered the room. "George, I thought you were having a nap.'
"Could I have a word, mother - in private." I requested, politely.
"If it's about Elsie, you can speak freely in front of these gentlemen, George - they are men of the world." She laughed, mischievously.
"It's not about Elsie, mother, but it is imperitive I speak with you."

Badger's companion (whose name I later learnt was Quinn) turned to me. "It wouldn't be about your father, George, would it?"
I felt my face going red. "No, it's... err... about the seating arrangements for dinner." Quinn stood up. My, he was such a tall man. "George, your father seems to have gone missing and we are concerned for his safety. You see, he hasn't taken his medication with him, and so the quicker we find him..."

My heart was beating fast. "He's in Thailand... on a fact finding mission. I thought Mr Badger would have known that." My words came out all in a rush - it's always the same when I'm nervous. Quinn sighed (unnecessessarily melodramatic, I thought). "All right son, go and speak with your mother. But think carefully about what I said."

Mother and I left the room. Outside the door she put a finger to her lips, and led me to the downstairs cloakroom. Once inside she turned on both washbasin taps. "Mother, what are you doing? You know there are people in Africa dying for lack of water. " I admonished.

"George, I think the house is bugged." Mother looked a little worried.
I was horrified. "What do you mean?"
"That man Quinn is a policeman - well a sort of a policeman. He's looking for your father."
"But I've just had a text from father, I -"
"Give me your phone!"
"But mother -"
"Give me the bloody phone!"
I handed it over. She took out the SIM card, wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper and flushed it down the lavatory. I was aghast." But mother, all my contacts were on that" I protested.
"Oh shut up, George," she replied, "I've got more to think about than your bloody contacts."

I felt this was an unreasonable attitude and - not for the first time - began to question whether parents were the best people to bring up children. Father was always distant (I don't mean in Thailand - which he wasn't, by the way) and mother was erractic in her relationship to me. To say she was unpredictable would be to understate her behaviour - Upon reflection, I think neurotic would be a better term. She  certainly suffered from mood swings - a condition I think I might have inherited.

But before I could remonstrate further with my mother, there came a knocking on the cloakroom door, and a voice called, "Open the door please". It was Quinn.

Happy Christmas one and all.

My laptop seems a bit better.

I will post Part V of 'Home for Christmas' within the next 24 hours.

Home for Christmas - Part IV

But I couldn't sleep.

I got up and looked on top of the wardrobe. Yes it was still there; mother had kept dear old Olive.

I took her down and placed her gently upon my bedside table. There's nothing like an old manual typewriter for 'telling it like it is'. So - sheet of paper under the roller, and here goes:

PROBLEMS WITH LAPTOP

HOPE TO SORT

Home for Christmas - Part III

Borris speaks excellent English - albeit with an accent, which I suppose must be Latvian, although it sounded to me a bit like Aberdeen.  Such a credit to mother's teaching. She told me she had always wanted to be a teacher, but father had said to her 'No wife of mine goes out to work.' and indeed his previous three wives had all stayed at home to look after the children. It was late in life when father embraced female emancipation.

My new friend shared one of his herbal cigarettes with me. I was a bit concerned about the hygiene hazards endemic in accepting a cigarette from the lips of another man but, remembering mother's injunction not to offend, I accepted his kind offer. And mother was right: the cigarette certainly had a calming affect upon my nerves. Never before had I experienced such a feeling of inner peace and tranquility. Indeed, when I returned to the house I felt I was floating upon air.

I had to cross the kitchen to reach the main staircase, and cook grabbed me again. 'Come here, mi young lad, and give old cookie one o' them special kisses.' I sailed on the billows of her bosom, a tide of euphoria sweeping me away.
' 'Ere, you been at the wacky backy?', expostulated cook, withdrawing her tongue from my mouth.
'I have no idea what you are talking about.' I whispered, dreamily.

We were interupted by a thunderous knocking at the front door. 'Annie!' shouted cook. But there was no sign of the maid.  'Where the bleedin' 'ell are you?' Cursing, she shoved me away. 'You'd best go and see who that is, while I try and find that lazy Slovak slapper.'
'Oh, I say, ' I protested, 'that's not the kind of language to use in front of a young gentleman'.
'Well go and open the friggin door, dear.' she hissed in my ear.

You can imagine my surprise when, upon opening the door, I discovered my father's colleague, Badger, standing on the step, his hat and shoulders covered in snow. And beside him, a large gentleman in a long black overcoat, whom I did not recognise. He wore no hat and his hair was plastered to his head with the snow. He did not look happy.

'Wotcha, Georgie boy' beamed Badger.
'Good evening Mr Badger. I replied, politely. (I don't think Badger is his real name: I think it's a sort of pet name father has used since they were school-chums at Harrow, but he didn't seem to mind my calling him 'Mr Badger')
'Home for the hols eh George! That's the ticket. And how's things at St Wetherspoons?'
'St Welchesters, sir.' I politely corrected him.
'Of course - just joshing. Well, aren't you going to invite us in?'

I stepped aside and they entered the hall, shaking snow everywhere. Mother will be furious, I thought

'We've called to see your father.' The other man spoke for the first time.

'Oh, father is in Thailand, on a fact-finding tour', I said.

The two men exchanged glances.

'George, 'said Badger, not unkindly, 'Perhaps we could speak with your mother?'

'She is in the drawing room at the moment,' I replied, 'dealing with a small domestic matter. But if you would like to take off your coats I will arrange for mince-pies and a glass of sherry to be served to you in the study, while I go and get her.'

'Capital!', enthused Badger. His companion said nothing.

Showing them into father's study, I went back into the kitchen. Cook had found Annie and was berating her most unmercifully. Politely interrupting, I acquainted them with the news of our two visitors and their need of sustenance.

Without waiting for a reply I went to my room, for I was feeling rather dizzy and felt the need to lie down. Perhaps it was all the excitement, I thought. Nothing a little nap would not put right.


(to be continued)

A Metaphysical Response

Things get broken

Home for Christmas

Part II


'What's this I hear about you being up the old plum duff, Elsie, gel?' laughed mother.

'I think there has been some misunderstanding, mother' I stated calmly.

'Doesn't look like a misunderstanding to me', trilled mother, in that beautiful soprano she can attain when drunk.

Elsie just glared meaningfully at me, and then back to mother.

'No, the thing is mother', I expained, 'Elsie seems to think I am the father - but that is impossible.'

'Impossible!' scoffed Elsie, 'So I just imagined all that stuff in the Billiard Room!'

Mother threw up her hands in horror 'George how could you! You know how much your dear father loves that billiard table. I hope you took off your boots before you climbed upon it. '

'Mother,' I said, imploringly, 'How can you think that your son would do such a thing:  climb on father's billiard table - with or without my boots on.'

'I believe you, my boy'. Mother belched violently, and went on 'So all this copulation business is lies?'

'Well, not exactly,' I demurred, 'It is true that, much to my shame, I allowed cousin Elsie to have carnal knowledge of me, but I cannot have fathered a child because we did it standing up - against the cue-rack.

I'm afraid I must have embarassed mother, because her face flushed, a sort of deep pink. ' But George, whatever makes you think that you cannot make a lady pregnant if you do it standing up?' she enquired of me.

'Well, Farmerson told me that if you do it standing, all the little sperms cannot swim upwards - not like salmon - and therefore never reach the egg... cell... whatever. And they just... fall out.'

Elsie sniggered.

'George,' said mother, gently, 'You should not believe everything your chums tell you - I think they tease you sometimes.'


'But Farmerson's not a chum,' I protested, 'he's our biology teacher'.

Mother's expression softened. 'George, why don't you go and have a chat with Borris. You will find him in the potting shed, having a smoke.'

'But mother, that is a filthy, disgusting habit: cigarette smoking. I know that you and father like your pipes, but that is different - isn't it?

'Of course, my sweet. But Borris smokes these special herbal cigarettes, which are very good for calming the nerves, and generally relaxing a person. In fact, in his country it is customary to to share one of these cigarettes as a token of friendship. So if he offers (he may actually use the word 'toke') it would be churlish of you to refuse.'

'But mother -'

'Run along now, while I have a little chat with cousin Elsie.' interrupted mother.

With my shoulders drooping disconsolately, I left the drawing-room. 



(to be continued)                        

'Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...'

I don't know why I started with that quote... it just came into my head.

Anyway... Thanks to R J Adams and 'anonymous' ( I'm not often told that I've been missed... so thanks.)

A friend of mine said that you shouldn't post on your blog anything you wouldn't nail to your front door. Well, you should see the stuff I do nail to my front door (perhaps I'll take a photo and post it here).

I didn't get dressed until 4pm today. I told Amy, my granddaughter, that I was training to be a teenager. She said 'Well, everyone's entitled to a lazy day.' Which bucked me up.

I haven't got much done though.  Somebody said I should make a list - but I've got so much to do that I haven't time to make a list. Christmas is always a stressful time for me. Now if I were a psychotherapist - which I once was - but am not now - I might have some ideas about that...

So I walked to the pub to have a think. Pubs are great for thinking in - a sort of 'think tank', that's what a pub is.

I said 'Come landlord fill the flowing bowl, until it doth run over'.
'Are you taking the piss.' he growled.
 'Sorry,' I said, 'a pint of lager please.'

I often write when I'm in a pub. You're never alone with a notebook and pen. Of course, I'm not always on my own. Oh no - I often meet with Arfon and Geoff and Tony...

They say tomorrow is another day. But a day is something we make up - just for convenience. Really it's all just slabs of light and dark, one after the other. The Indians used to mark their 'days' in moons - I learned that from cowboy movies.

Goodnight.

Christmas comes but once a year...

And I find it difficult. So I have written a Christmas story to try and cheer myself up.
For those of you unlucky enough not to live in Merry England, here is a tale which I think reflects the spirit of our traditional English Christmas.

Home for Christmas

I stepped down from the train. Snow was falling. Yes it was going to be a White Christmas – just like the ones we used to know. In fact I’d been dreaming of a white Christmas and now my dream was to come true.

Wilkins was waiting for me with the one-horse open sleigh, and it was such fun to ride across the fields, dashing through the snow, listening to the sleigh bells jingling. A veritable winter wonderland.

“I hope there are hot chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”  I said to Wilkins.

“Oh yes, master George, and the hall is decked with boughs of holly.”

“Tra la la la la.” I enthused. “For tis the season to be jolly.”

“Tra la la la la”, responded Wilkins, heartily.

“And I suppose mother will have a glass of hot toddy ready? For Jack Frost has been nipping at my toes.”

“Cook will serve the hot toddy master George; your mother is at the food bank in the village distributing provisions to the poor and needy.”

“But surely there are no poor people these days?” I queried.

“Immigrants!” Sniffed Wilkins, disapprovingly.

“Come, Wilkins,” I reproached, “Good will toward men, and all that.”

“Tra la la la la,” Replied Wilkins, rather unenthusiastically.

“Yes, we are going to have a very merry Christmas, Wilkins. We’ll make the Yuletide bright, soon our troubles will be out of sight.”

Wilkins perked up. “Yes, and old friends who are dear to us, will be near to us once more.”

“That reminds me,” I said, “I hope cousin Elsie will be coming for Christmas? For ‘twas in Springtime, when last we met. When birds did sing, hey ding a ding a ding.”

“Hey ding a ding indeed.” echoed Wilkins. “Cousin Elsie has already arrived – and has put on weight since her last visit.”

“She’ll have to go easy on the plum pud, eh Wilkins.” I joshed

“I fear she will have to go easy on everything, master George,” vouchsafed our old coachman, “considering her somewhat delicate condition”

“What – you don’t mean she’s…”

“About seven months, I should say.” replied Wilkins, nodding sagely.

“Good Lord!” I expostulated.

 I was about to ask him to slow down as I felt one of my giddy spells coming on, but just then we rounded a bend in the lane and there was the house. What a welcoming sight it was, with smoke curling up from the tall chimneys and all the windows ablaze with light. I made a mental note to ask Mother if she had changed her energy supplier to Eon as I had advised.

 

When we arrived I quickly downed two large glasses of Cook’s hot toddy. How she gets away with making that stuff without a licence I shall never know. Then, fortified somewhat, I went to talk with father, only to be informed by Mrs Browning that he would not be here for Christmas; the Foreign Office having sent him on a fact-finding tour of Thailand. I was crestfallen, but at the same time proud to have a father whose duties to his country came before his own pleasures.

I glanced through the window; although it was almost dark, the curtains had not been drawn and I could see that the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even. And I could just make out a figure, bent double with with a sack on his back, trudging through the snow.  

I called to our housekeeper. “Tell me Mrs B - Yonder fellow, who is he? And what is he doing on our land?”

“Sir, he is a goodly man, gathering winter fuel.” replied the housekeeper.

“An immigrant, more like’” I retorted. And then, remembering this was the season for goodwill toward one’s fellow man I added, “Then we shall not charge him for the sticks he collects. Get Wilkins to go out and wish him a Merry Christmas.”

Just then Mother came in, her face flushed from the cold weather, a merry twinkle in her eye. Behind her stood a tall stranger, with a beard and a brooding face. “George, this is Borris,” said Mother. “He comes from a far off land called Uzbekistan, to seek gainful employment in our country. Unfortunately he does not speak the language so I have offered to give him English lessons. He will be staying with us over Christmas. Won’t that be fun? He can be a chum for you – that is, when I am not giving him lessons.”

 

A tear came unbidden to my eye, as I realised how lucky I was to have a mother who was prepared to give unstintingly of her time and hospitality a complete stranger; a foreigner, too. And yes, it would be fun to have a chum. I could teach him to play Monopoly. Oh, this was going to a great Christmas. Then I remembered Elsie, and I wondered if I should speak to Mother, but she had gone upstairs to show Borris to his bedroom.

 

So I went into the kitchen in search of Cook and her hot toddy. Cook is such a jolly lady and, clasping me to her ample bosom, she gave me a big wet kiss – which quite took my breath away. In fact she was still kissing me when Elsie came into the kitchen. Cook let me go, wiping a trace of lipstick from my face with the hem of her pinnafore and whispering in my ear, "And there's plenty more where that came from".

 

“George, a word, if you please – in private” said Elsie, rather peremptorily, I thought.

“Certainly.” I replied, cheerfully. Though I must confess with some misgiving.

I followed her into the drawing room; I could not help noticing now she seemed to walk with a sort of waddle, not unlike one of our ducks, and for some reason I was filled with a strange foreboding.

“Close the door, George”. I did as she bade. “What is it, Elsie, dear?” I enquired, solicitously.

“George – I am with child”.

“Good Lord” I exclaimed. “Have you any idea who the father is?”

“It’s you, you bloody fool.” She shouted.

I was taken aback. It was most unlike cousin Elsie to use profanities, but I thought perhaps this was not the right time to admonish her for her bad language. I was trying to think of something reassuring to say when mother entered the room. Her hair was mussed up and there was a strong smell of gin about her person.

(to be continued…)

Wednesday

Bit tired tonight - but tomorrw... a story for Christmas!

Flying by the seat of my pants...

Upside down, nothing on the clock and still climbing...

Monday

Still a bit under the weather... hoping to revive soon...

Sunday

Not too good at the moment.

Leaving on a jet plane

************************************************

Tomorrow I fly to Jersey.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

When tripadvisor 
Can't advise yer?
And you sit and stare
At gocompare -
Knowing the answer isn't there?
And you daren't log on
To lastminute.com?
'Cos you're  scared to find the last boat's gone?

When the letter lies unopened on the mat,
Because you feel
You just can't deal with that;
More trouble when you just don't need it -
It hasn't happened, 'till you read it.
And so you leave it lying there
And reach for the telephone in despair -

But stop!
Have you thought what you would do
If the Samaritans hang up on you?

There's an app for that!

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There's an app for everything now - well, nearly everything. We have become 'app happy'.

But that's ok. That's fine. It is so easy to mock some of the excesses of technology - and there are many - but where would we be without it? It is allowing me to scatter my thoughts to the four winds of cyber space, in the hope that they might interest, amuse or even help somone; someone I shall never meet, never know.

Well, why don't you get on with it then!
Okay, I will.

NO REST FOR THE WICKED
Part II

But I digress.

A final thwack, for good luck. All done.

 I thought: well, that’s given me a head start. And I began to laugh as I realised I’d made a pun. I like puns.

‘Mental illness’ is a meaningless expression. After all, if we are going to talk about ‘mental illness’ then there must be some concept of ‘mental health’, and that is pretty well impossible to define. But some people are just not right in the head. That’s not a politically correct term, but we all know it, surely? Anyway, if you’d been on as many psychiatric wards as I have, you’d be aware that there are some pretty strange folk in our community – and not all of them locked up, I might add.

Take Nigel, for example. I met him in 1976… or was it 77? My memory plays me up sometimes – I think it’s all the drugs. Anyway, I know it was the hottest summer we had had for decades, and quite frankly, Mortimer Ward stank. Well, what can you expect with eighteen adult males banged up in a room originally designed for half that number; a room with all the windows locked tight and barred, so no one could leap out and smash their brains on the concrete, four floors below.

Nigel was diagnosed ‘paranoid schizophrenic’ – whatever that’s supposed to mean. He’d attacked a social-worker with a claw hammer. He hadn’t killed her but she parts her hair on the opposite side now. It was the voices that told him to do it. In the end he had a lobotomy. It was only a partial success. He used to go around shouting: Speak up ya buggers, I can’t hear ya.

 I started to walk quickly. With a bit of luck I would be back inside the hospital before anyone missed me. I was sweating even though it was a cold November night, and I was naked under my track-suit.

St. Botolph’s is a big, ugly, red-brick building, built in the days when a spade was called a spade, and a lunatic asylum a lunatic asylum. Now, of course, it is a ‘psychiatric hospital’ and the old strait-jackets have been replaced by the more humane - but much more efficient – chemical variety.

The bag, an old leather Gladstone, was heavy – even without the head – and it kept bumping against my leg. I suppose I could have used a plastic carrier-bag (Sainsbury’s do a nice size, and quite strong), but he deserved something a little more elegant. The Gladstone has character and was, I felt, more fitting to the occasion.  More dignified.

He would never have gotten better. We all knew that – staff and patients alike. But we all colluded in the game. Why? Didn’t old Hippocrates say anything about the quality of life?

 HE knew it, too. He wanted out of it. Only he couldn’t tell anybody. He couldn’t speak. Not properly. Not after the lobotomy. Just used to go around shouting obscenities at unseen tormentors. It was disturbing the other patients.

The tablecloth! I’d forgotten all about it. Oh sod it, I thought, I’ll chuck it in one of the laundry baskets, nobody will notice. The poor buggers that work in the laundry never look at what they are shoving into those huge machines. I’m not surprised - the stink that comes from some of the sheets and towels! And the stains. Well, it’s best not to look. The staff in the laundry wear those thick industrial rubber gloves, so they don’t catch anything. Even so, I wouldn’t like the job. Actually, I nicked a pair of those gloves – clean ones of course – for this job. They could go in the furnace, along with the old Gladstone. Pity about the bag, but I’d never get it really clean again.

 I could see the tower in the moonlight. At the top of the tower is a siren. It is supposed to be sounded when a dangerous lunatic escapes. It’s never been used for years. I crept around the perimeter wall until I came to the small gate that led into the staff quarters. It’s kept locked, but of course, I had a key.

The old hospital moaned and groaned softly as it slept. The huge vaulted corridors had security lights let into the walls and covered by wire grilles. They cast sickly splotches of light that only served to emphasise the darkness. Anything might be lurking in the deep pools of shadow, any sort of evil the imagination was capable of conjuring up. After all, this was a place of tormented souls. A place of deranged minds; minds taken over by demons. A place full of unspeakable horrors. The stuff of nightmares.

Reaching my room I looked at the bedside clock: three thirty-five. The whole business had taken less than an hour and a half. I took off my track-suit and climbed into bed. The feel of the cold sheets against my naked skin was quite sensual. I started to think of him.

My reverie was interrupted by the buzzing of the bedside phone; the soft orange, light pulsating from the white plastic, emphasising the urgency. An emergency! Well, of course – what else could I have expected?

I reached out and lifted the receiver. ‘Now calm down, Sister’, in my best professional voice, a nice mix of authority and reassurance, ‘I’ll be there right away.’ Replacing the handset I sighed and climbed out of bed. As I opened the wardrobe door and reached for my ‘work clothes’, I glimpsed my face in the mirror: a serene rather than beautiful face. It would not stand out in a crowd – or a police line-up for that matter. But the eyes – now they were remarkable: large, intensely blue, they held your gaze with a sincerity, an openness that made you want to pour your heart out. It was a face you could trust.

 I dressed quickly, but not hurriedly; I was used to ‘emergencies’, although admittedly this one was going to be a bit out of the ordinary. Finally I reached for the white coat: the symbol of authority in this place. My coat even more so:  pinned to the lapel was a small rectangle of blue plastic, its white letters announcing: Dr. Amanda Foggitty: Directory of Psychiatry.

I opened the door and strode purposefully down the corridor. No rest for the wicked.

Thanks for your comment RJ.(sparrowchat.com). This story started off as a sentence; a sentence that just popped into my head... 'When I'd walked so far into the wood...'. I had no idea what was going to come next. But it wrote itself. Amanda Foggitty only appeared near the end... but I might develop the story, based around her character. 

Yes, I too miss Anna, and hope to hear from her. Meanwhile, in the absence of 'a good sorting' which I certainly need, I have been doing a bit of bicycling. I pedalled past my first house yesterday. If I had hung on to it, instead of seeking upward mobility, I would have been quite well off today - financially and (possibly) mentally. But who knows.

Anyway, as Shirley McLane said, 'You can get there from here'.

Another story

NO REST FOR THE WICKED

 (Part one)

When I’d walked so far into the wood that if I’d gone any further I’d have been walking out again, I stopped and took the head out of the bag. A red stain was starting show through the tablecloth in which I had hastily wrapped it. I found this somehow quite distasteful.

I rummaged in the bottom of the bag and found the small shovel. I began to dig in the soft earth. It was surprisingly easy. I began to hum a tune – people say I have perfect pitch. Soon I had a hole about a foot and a half deep, plenty big enough. It had never occurred to me before to wonder how big a human head was. Actually they are quite small, when detached from the body – even HIS head. And he was a big man. Of course he’s nowhere near as big now, without his head.

A train hooted in the distance. I like trains. there’s something romantic about the hoot of a train. Melancholy  and yet somehow romantic.  Especially at night: Adventure. Excitement. Lovers fleeing from their families, to spend the night in the ‘Railway Hotel’ in some anonymous city. Of course there is also sadness: Parting. Separation.

I unwrapped the, now sticky, tablecloth. I thought it perhaps best to bury that in a separate place, to be on the safe side. Although the police aren’t that smart; I’ve had dealings with detectives before, and from my experience, you practically have to draw them a diagram before they can ‘detect’ anything. Anyway I lifted the head out by the hair. The eyes were open – staring at me. And I thought how often I’d said to him: why won’t you look at me when I’m talking to you. And here he was, staring at me, and I wasn’t even talking to him.

You might be wondering why I didn’t just leave the head by the railway line. With the rest of him. I’m not religious, but I thought that at least a part of him deserved a decent burial. Perhaps I’m just old fashioned.

It was his own fault, you know. I’d given him every opportunity. I really had. But he could be so obstinate. Well, his mother said he’d always been like this – even as a lad. Oh yes, I had spoken to his mother. On several occasions. Nice woman, his mother. She had one of those little shopping trolleys on wheels. Tartan it was. I’ve seen men using them too.  I hate them. I’d never use one, no matter how elderly I was. They’re so naff. Anybody pulling a little tartan shopping trolley behind them looks silly. But, apart from the shopping trolley, Elsie was nice woman

I dropped the head into the hole. It made hardly a sound. Shovel, shovel, shovel, and soon it was lost to view. I patted down the fresh smelling earth - I remember thinking, it wouldn’t smell that fresh for long. Not with his head in there. As I gave the little mound a few last thwacks, it took me back to when I was a kid making sand-castles on the beach at Southport. I loved Southport. It’s funny, isn’t it; you think back to your childhood: happy, innocent days. Or do they only seem like that now? Could anyone have foreseen, then that things would go the way they have? Was my future written in the Southport sand? 

... to be continued

Linkedin

*********************************

I have been asked, several times now, to become 'Linkedin'.

I don't wish to appear churlish, or even ungrateful, but what does being 'Linkedin' mean? It seems to imply that, at the moment, I am out in the cold - and perhaps I am. I certainly wouldn't say no to  a few more friends!

But virtual friends?  I'm not so sure.

I think I would prefer friends I could touch (?) or at least get within a couple of feet of. (I don't mind my personal space being invaded!)

Of course, I know it is all about Networking! (Who coined that word), and I can understand how useful this might be for people who are bent on updating their CVs,  being put touch with job opportunities, furthering their careers and so on. I appreciate that you need to put yourself about a bit - this is the real world. (bit of irony there!)

I'm not a technophobe; I think modern technology is wonderful. Skype is marvelous for keeping in touch with someone the other side of the world, but for someone just the other side of town...? Why don't you get off your arse and go and see them? Arrange to meet them for a coffee (or a green tea). Do a bit of intermingling of personal spaces.


I feel we need a bit of tactility in our world. We've become too cerebral (too cognitive, as Ruby Wax puts it in her excellent book, Sane New World)

So I'm off - to put myself about bit! Going tactile, as you might say. Keeping linkedin with the masses. Mind you, there are some funny buggers out there, but I'll save those for my virtual world.