Just when you thought it was safe to...

In response to Mr Adams:


Much has been happening this summer.


I may return to the blogosphere soon.


Anna is alive and well, although keeping a low profile!


George

BOO!

Whose hands are these on the end of my arms... 'Planck time' - could we eventually come up with 'Splinter time' - for events happening still faster  - Events that appear before they have happened...

... a hotbed of indifference... how do horses clean their teeth...

Why has using your left brain become sort of infra dig?


I think that in everything there's a time to move on... What do we want permanence... because it gives us a feeling of security - false security.

GLORIOUS UNCERTAINTY


Sometimes the river needs pushing,,,

'Nobody famous was injured' (newspaper report)

'I sang you my love song in 32 bars,
Now you can buy your own beer, dear'...

The camera never lies, but sometimes the photographer does...

When I'm feeling pretty chocker,
I take a Beta Blocker -
And when my Beta's blocked
I feel ok.

But it doesn't last for long,
So I sing a ragtime song -
And that is sure to drive the blues away...

George suddenly found himself in the wrong novel...

A man of knowledge is a man of action
(that is unless his leg's in traction)...

Have you spoken to my husband yet?
Yes, he said: Isn't the weather unusually wet.
Not the sort of remark you'd forget.
Indeed

All art is an attempt to connect with that other reality - the underlying reality...

Thrown into the waste-paper basket of Life...

We need something bigger than ourselves - but what...

If something is funny, it transcends taste - good or bad - and cannot give offence...

I tried to explain to Elaine,
When she caught me down Lovers Lane,
I was picking wild flowers
In between the showers -
Of course I was high on cocaine

They gave the Pope a 21 nun salute...

It's hard to measure the quality of Life, but it's easy to measure whether someone is alive or dead...

What do flies find so interesting about shit?

If we shouldn't scratch - then why do we itch?

Would you rather be created out of the passion of a one night stand or the planned timing of a sensible marriage?

It was so cold the birds were frozen to the branches of the trees...


Why did you do it?
If only I knew...

She said - We could make sweet music together.
I said - Well, I suppose we could knock out a tune...

Are we just a chemical factory on legs?

If only we could blame somebody - but there's no one to blame...

I was engaged to a winsome young girl, but she left me. Still, win some, lose some...

Does your live scan, like a beautiful poem, or does it stutter and jar?

'We are that which others allow us to be': Discuss

He's brilliant but erratic-
Keeps his mother in the attic...

Listen to the different kinds of silence...

Thought for the day

The darkest hour is just before you switch the light on.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Half an hour ago
I decided to go with the flow;
But now the tide has turned
And my bridges all are burned.

As the sands of time are running out,
My whisper rises to a shout:
They serve, who only stand and wait,
Helpless in the grip of fate.

And so I ask - no, I implore -
Find me another metaphor.

saturday

It's raining and there is a dove sitting in the tree at the end of the garden. And the dove is facing north. What can this mean? I must look it up in my 'Boys book of portents and omens'

Today is the Grand National. I wont be having a bet. I used to be a gambler but now I have no interest in a wager - of any kind. Funny how something just 'leaves' you. Perhaps instead of desperately trying to give something up, we could just wait until it gives US up.

Ten o clock strikes and I have much to do.

I shall return.

And now for something completely different

ipso facto, virgo intacta; inter alia, genitalia


I couldn't cope

With being Pope,

I haven't got the Latin;

And apart from that,

I'd feel a twat,

Dressed up in silk and satin.


Now, C of E

Is more like me,

But even they wear frocks;

And Bishops wear those gaiters,

Over their purple socks.


In their fancy dress,

Priests seek to impress -

They do it all the time;

But transvestite clerics

Give me hysterics,

Make up your own last line!

Father explains

An hour later, we were all gathered in the drawing room, at father's behest.

Mother, Borris, Elsie, Mrs Brownlow, Lilly, Cook (fuuny but I've never known her real name) and myself.

Father had had a bit of a scrub-up since his sudden appearance in the music room and looked more like his old self - although he had not shaven his beard off. His voice was grave as he addressed the assembled company. He spoke thus:

'First, I should like to wish you all a very merry Christmas, although it is not as merry as one might wish. I am on the run! Yes it sounds melodramatic but there is no other way to put it. I have, as the current parlance has it, blown the whistle, on the organisation for which I work. And these people do not like whistle -blowers.

I was taught, at my old school, that loyalty is the most important quality a man can have, and I have always stuck by this admirable principle. But sometimes one has to question the moral - and legal - implications of what one is being asked to do.

I will not go into details - the less you know , the safer you will be - suffice it to say,   I have spoken out against the recent immoral and, yes, illegal activities of  a certain government department. I say recent because I have been proud to have devouted my life, for these past thirty years, to this department. A department, I may add, that has kept this country safe for us and our children to grow up in.

'Gosh, father, you mean all this time you have been working for the Security Services?' I cried, admiringly.

'Shush George - no names no pack drill, eh?'

I had heard father use this expression before, and had never really understood it. I just knew it meant shut up. So I did.

'This gentleman ,' (and here father pointed to Borris), 'is helping me to write an article for his newspaper exposing these recent activities.

'His name's not Borris, and its the Guardian, ain't it?' interjected cook, rather cheekily.

'Now then, Bessie, no names no pack drill.' Responded father.

BESSIE. So that's her name. I shall remember this when next she is rude towards me. I said this to myself of course.

'Me - I prefer the Daily Mail..' Went on our cook, notwithstanding.

'Well, I take the Telegraph.' said mother, 'It's a jolly good read.'

'I like the Daily Mirror,'  Piped up Lilly, 'And I can do the crossword.

'Shut up! All of you.' Said father. Your reading habits are irrelevant at this time.

I had been going to say that I thought the Observer to be the only real quality newspaper - but I didn't, as I could see father was getting cross.

'Now look here,'went on father, 'Borris (no it's not his real name)  and I will be leaving shortly, because I expect Badger and Quinn to return at any moment. And this time they won't take NO for an answer.'

As if on cue, there was a furious knocking at the front door. Lilly made as if to answer it.

'Leave it!' snapped father, 'They'll have picked the lock in a minute.' And so saying, he grabbed a bottle of Black Label off the drinks table and, motioning for Borris to follow, he made for the window. 'Oh, just once thing,'  he paused with his leg over the sill. 'Since the only male at Christmas Dinner will be my son, I want George to carve the turkey.'

And he was gone. Borris, following close behind.

I was elated. I was now 'man of the house' and had the important honour of carving the turkey. I would not, I resolved, let father down.

The knocking started up again.

Anna returns ???

I've had a mysterious voice-mail from Anna. Very brief. Says she may be coming back for the election!

Now this is strange. She does not have British citizenship so she cannot vote.

When I tried to ring her back it said the number was no longer in use!

What's going on!

Keep taking the tablets

I am having trouble with my computer/broadband connection.
Im typing this on a borrowed tabet.

Hope to be publising soon.

George

Here's a tip

The Number 2 was peeling off the table, but the coffee was good, and the scrambled eggs on toast: a nourishing meal for £3.50. I gave a 50p tip. I was going to say 'of course', but there's no 'of course' about it; you give a tip if you feel the service has been good - well, I do. Some people don't give tips; they reason that if they don't get tipped in their job, why should waitresses, barmaids, hairdressers get tips. When I was a college lecturer, I would occasionally get a bottle of wine, or a case of beer, at Christmas, and it made me feel good, appreciated.

There is an old story about the vagrant who stops a passer-by and says, 'Could you spare me a fiver for a cup of coffee?'

'A fiver!' exclaims the man, 'for a cup of coffee?'

The vagrant shrugs, 'Well, I like to tip.'

Now that's style.

First sighting?

This morning I heard the unmistakable call of the lesser-spotted lawnmower. I rushed to the window, and was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly fine specimen hovering over the garden across the road.

I ran upstairs to get my camera but unfortunately when I came down it had gone.

Is this, I wonder, the first sighting of this harbinger of Spring?

Time to upgrade?

I've had a text from my network supplier suggesting it's time I upgraded my phone.

Maybe they are right. Perhaps it is a good idea to keep abreast with technology. On the other hand, I think we should bear in mind that technology is for us - not us for technology, and resist being led by the nose by this wonderful human development.

It's a question of individuals choosing  what bits of technology are really useful to them.

I was thinking, what if this 'upgrading' philosoply could be applied to non-technology!

 Imagine getting a text saying 'It's time you upgraded your house? Your job?

 Or, how about 'It's time you upgraded your partner. You've had him/her for 5 years and there have been a lot of improvements since then.

It would be interesting to see the response.

WESTMIINSTER

WESTMINSTER. The name has a certain ring to it: a paedophile ring - allegedly.

Politicians, peers, judges, senior figures of the establishment, even the Metropolitan Police - the news is full of it. Of course these are just allegations. It remains to be seen if any evidence is forthcoming. But it strikes me that if there is any truth in all of this, then maybe the role of Jimmy Saville needs to be re-evaluated.

Is this the most haunted pub in England?

NO - IT ISN'T HAUNTED AT ALL

But the picture wasn't photo-shopped or manipulated in any way - this is how it came out of the camera

Sunday

Scientists tell us that, in a few million years, the star we call our 'sun' will burn out. This will leave planet earth a barren rock, incapable of sustaining life.

But this doesn't help me to decide which shirt to wear today.

Scary, or what?

I have recently been studying the various 'conspiracy theories' surrounding the events of 9/11.

At first, I thought they were just plain daft. Could anybody seriously believe that the US government would 'mastermind' the destruction in New York on that day?

But so many people: airline pilots, scientists, demolition experts, CIA Whistle-blowers and even some politicians are putting forward all sorts of 'explanations' challenging the official account of what happened.

From what I can see, these theories range from holograms to  drones; real planes, but not piloted by jihadis to real hijackers whose intentions were known in advance by the government (or some part of it) and allowed to go on anyway.

These theories cite the 'false flag' practice, allegedly routinely carried out by security services around the world: rigging some sort of 'atrocity' and then blaming some other country.

As regards the 'hologram' theory, which sounds so far-fetched as to be laughable - it is pointed out that military technology is '50 to 100 years advanced of anything we can imagine.'

If any of these 'explanations' are true, then what are we to think? Of governments? the security services? the military? Are we so 'out of touch' with what is really going on?

If so, should we be truly afraid?

Notes from the pub (you're never alone with a notebook and pen)

Enter a couple... in their thirties. I've seen them before. They usually sit at the tall table in the middle of the pub, where she dangles her patent-leather slippered feet. This time they go to the bar. He crooks his arm around her neck, draws her to him, kisses her. I wonder, idly, if this is an office romance.

Three young girls are playing pool and drinking from bottles with straws.

I am sitting, alone, in a corner of the room.

I was served with my pint by that nice blonde barmaid. 'I like your nails'. They are two-toned, orange and black.
 'Thankyou.'

'Kroenenburg?' she had asked.
Bitter please'
'We've run out.' She'd smiled apologetically.
'I'll have a pint of Foster's'

 A colleague of mine, Billy, used to have a saying 'No wonder barmaids drown their young'. He used the phrase whenever Derek, the office-boy, made a mistake.

I like it in here. It's warm and friendly. Like William Blake's 'alehouse'.


Two very tall women walk in. They could be models, although I don't think they are.

I'm down to the last inch of my pint, and the beer is just starting to hit my legs. Shall I have another one? I don't want to go home yet.

I watch the barmaid - Sharon? Sylvie? Stella? pulling a pint, and it occurs to me that barmaids have a life outside of the pub, and these lines come into my head:

This barmaid has a life

When she goes away from here –

What d’you think she’s pulling

When she isn’t pulling beer?

Later these lines turned into this:

On the Pull

This barmaid has a life

When she goes away from here –

What d’you think she’s pulling

When she isn’t pulling beer?

Perhaps she’s pulling wool

Over unsuspecting eyes –

Perhaps she’s pulling rabbits

Out of hats – as a surprise.

Perhaps she’s pulling up her socks,

Resolving to do better –

Perhaps she’s pulling out the rug

From under from under some go-getter.

Perhaps she’s pulling ropes

To make the church bells ring –

Perhaps she’s pulling tails

On cats – the naughty thing.

Perhaps she’s pulling faces

To make her boyfriend smile –

Perhaps she’s pulling up her skirts

To climb some rustic stile.

Perhaps she’s pulling on the oars

Of rowing boat or skiff  –

Perhaps she’s pulling out her gear

To roll herself a spliff.

 Perhaps she’s pulling up the weeds

To make her garden pretty –

Perhaps she’s pulling crackers

And reading jokes, so witty.

 

Perhaps she’s pulling down her blind

Before she goes to bed –

Perhaps she’s pulling out the corks

And watching wine flow red.

Perhaps she’s pulling out all stops,

Some gentleman to please –

Perhaps she’s pulling muscles

And dislocating knees.

For there are oh so many things

A girl like her could pull –

So when she’s finished here tonight,

I bet her life’s not dull.

 

A bird on a pole

A bird on a pole;
Does this bird have a soul,
That will fly away when it dies?
That will soar up above
On the wings of God's love,
To a home in some heavenly skies?

Or will it just rot,
Right there on the spot
Where it fell off its perch in the sea?
A meal for some crabs,
Flounders and dabs?
- The answer is quite beyond me.

ELECTION - latest news

For those of you who live in foreign lands, and may not have heard, we in Britain are having a General Election in May.


There is no truth in the rumour that a team of observers from Afghanistan will be sent over to see the election is conducted fairly.

The latest poll suggests that there will be a coalition comprising: Green, UKIP and Monster Raving Looney parties.

At a dinner in London last night, David Cameron said, 'They didn't give us many peas, did they!'


This blog, in keeping with its hard-hitting yet neutral political stance, will be keeping you updated on the latest election news.

Home for Christmas: unforseen complications

'Happy Christmas, lover.'

Elsie came forward and gave me a big kiss. She tasted very different from cook. 'Here's your present.'

I took it from her; it felt soft and squashy. What could it be? What did I want that was soft and squashy?

I tore off the paper, and - joy of joys: A Christmas sweater. With a reindeer's head, antlers and all. The reindeer had a red nose. But who was bothered with minor innacuracies at a time like this. Certainly not me.
'Oh, thankyou Elsie, you have restored my faith in the Yuletide season.' I blubbed

'Well, and where's mine?' demanded Elsie.

I was dumbfounded, embarassed and a little fearful. And it's hard to be all three at the same time.

I had forgotten to get her a present, but I couldn't tell her that. 'Ah, well... err... I prevaricated.

'You haven't got me one, have you?' Elsie was omminously quiet. And I knew that, when omminously quiet, she was dangerous' Of course I've got you a present. Do you really think I would forget?'

'Well, where is?' Elsie sounded suspicious.

I had a sudden brainwave. 'It's in my bedroom. I wanted to surprise you by presenting it to you at dinner, in front of the whole family.'

'Oh, you're so romantic, darling.I wonder what it can be!' And Elsie winked, and then kissed me again - hard and lasciviously.

'Not in hear, my precious,' I said, 'Someone might come in.'

'So what!' demanded the brazen hussy.

I was saved from answering by the appearance of Mrs Brownlow in the doorway. 'Ah, there you are, you little lovebirds,' she said. 'your mother wishes you to partake of a glass of sherry with her and Mr Borris, on the terrace.'

'On the terrace, Mrs B! ' I expostulated. 'But it's freezing cold - and I do believe it is starting to snow!'

'Yes, but your mother is sharing a herbal cigarette with Mr Borris. And you know she won't allow smoking inside the house.'

'But father smokes his pipe in the house.' I objected.

'Look, why don't you just do as you're bleedin' well told!' hissed the housekeeper, in that ugly tone she can effect when faced with a superior intellect.

'Now look here,' I began... But Elsie was too quick  for me.

'How dare you speak to my fiancee like that!' She shouted.

'Yes, that's right, how dare - ' I stopped suddenly "Fiancee!". What on earth was Elsie talking about?

Mrs Brownlow sniggered. 'Fiancee my arse. I know all about your antics with that rugby team, you little tart.  I think most of them scored that night.'

'You nosey old cow.' screamed Elsie and straightaway went for the housekeeper.  I, fearing that an ugly fracas might ensue, tried to insinuate  myself  between them, promptly receiving a blow to the head from our housekeeper's mighty fist. I shouted out in pain, felt my vision blurr and slid to the floor.

'Sorry, George,' apologised Mrs B, 'that was meant for the harlot.' She bent down to assist me to my feet, giving Elsie the chance to kick her in the corsets. But Elsie, lifting her leg too high, overbalanced and fell on top of the housekeeper who fell on top of me.

We were all scrabbling in an undignified heap on the Axminster, when a voice, resonant with authority, irony and whisky, called called out, 'May anyone join in?'

It was father.

"Time" is an endagered species.

So why do people want to kill it?

You see them, on a train, a bus, an aeroplane, headphones welded to their ears, texting or phoning, reading a book or a Kindle, playing games on their tablet - anything to avoid being where they are. Why do they always want to be somewhere else? What's wrong with "here".

And when you get "there" it becomes "here" and you're looking for somewhere else to go.

Okay, if you are in pain or deeply depressed, then "here" is a painful place to be. But if you're just bored, well, why not have a closer look at that boredom; you might find something that surprises you.

People talk about "escaping into a book". Well, that's ok; I'm a bit of a reader myself, but there's a time and place. When I'm on public transport I like to look around: the scenery gliding past outside the window, the people, faces, colours. I like to feel the motion of the train or the bus, hear the sounds, smell the smells. Of course if someone sneezes or coughs loudly behind me, I curse them under my breath and hope I don't catch anything. But hey - there are risks attached to reality. Perhaps that's why so many prefer virtual reality.

I've a feeling I've said some of this before -but it's worth saying again. Isn't it? Oh well, suit yourself.

I'm off to bed.

Home for Christmas - a dissapointing start to the big day

I went in search of mother and found her in the kitchen, preparing the sprouts. Although cook is responsible for the food at Wynorin, mother always insists that she, herself,  prepares the sprouts at Christmas.
I don't know why she does this; one of her little idiosyncrasies.

Anyhow, I drew her attention to the missing presents.
'Ah, yes, I had been meaning to tell you,' she said, pausing, sprout in hand, 'I have used the money I was going to spend on your Christmas presents to buy a donkey for some people in Africa.'

'What!', I expostulated, 'What people?'

'Well, George, I felt it was time to consider those far less well off than us this Christmas. And I saw this piece in the paper where you could send a donkey to a disadvantaged family in that dark continent. I was horrified when I read about the conditions under which these folk are living. Do you know, these people are starving, and they have to walk miles to the nearest supermarket. And they haven't got a 4x4 like we have. So I thought you would not mind sacrificing your presents this Yeletide so that they could ride, in relative comfort, to get food and such.'

'But mother,' I protested, 'could you not have made a smaller donation? Say for half a donkey?'

'Don't be silly, George, what good would half a donkey be?' She gave me a withering look.

I ignored this. 'Anyway, how are you going to get a donkey to Africa?' I queried.

'George, you can be so obtuse at times. Of course I am not personally shipping the aninmal. You send the money to this company and they see to all the travel arrangements.'

 'If these people are that hungry they will probably eat the donkey.' I averred.

'Goodness me, I hope not.' Said mother, a note of alarm in her voice. 'As a token of thanks I was allowed to give the donkey a name; I have called him GEORGE. I should hate to think they have eaten my poor George.'

'You called an ass after your son!' I cried in disbelief. 'What sort of a mother does that?' I was quite cross.

Just then, cook came into the kitchen, and mother gave me one of her looks which meant 'Not in front of the servants.'

So I left, determing to go and sulk in the music room.

As I was crossing the hall, a gutteral voice bellowed 'Merry Christmas, kiddo!'

I hate being called 'kiddo' especially by some jumped up Aberdonian journalist. So I ignored Borris and continued into the music room. Alone at last, I gave way to my emotions, and shed a few tears. What a Christmas this was turning out to be, I despaired.

There was a soft knock at the door. Hurriedly composing myself, I wiped my eyes and called 'Come'.

It was Elsie, holding a large parcel wrapped in Christmas paper, with reindeer and robins and such.

A proper present. My heart leapt.

Tip for today

Don't anthropomorphise inanimate objects - they don't like it.

Stay cool, man

I am reading one of my stories at a literature festival tomorrow, and am feeling a bit apprehensive. It's not that I haven't done this sort of thing before, but this time it's a children's story - the first and only one I have written - and the audience will be mainly children.

I have read somewhere that Jesus said, 'Take no thought for the 'morrow.' I don't think he meant never do any planning or thinking about the future, but more like, 'relax and deal with things as they come'. But how do I know.

Still, I like to think that if he were here today, he would be a sort of hippie, and so he might say, 'Stay cool, man'.

Yeah. That'll do for now, man.

Nothing to do with me

Home for Christmas - The great day has arrived at last.

When I awoke, the dawn light of Christmas morning was filtering through the drapes.  I was so excited, and looked down to the bottom of the bed in eager anticipation of the pillow-case stuffed with presents, as has always been the tradition throughout my childhood. To my chagrin, horror, even, no pillowcase was to be seen.


I turned towards Elsie, only to discover that she had vanished. I felt the sheet where she had lain; it was cold. She must have been gone a while. Of course, this was only sensible: to return to her own room before the household began to awake. But then I was struck by a terrible thought: had my erstwhile lover stolen my Christmas presents? I was immediately ashamed of myself; why would Elsie steal my presents? Mens things would be of no interest to her - would they?

But where were they? My presents? Of course, in my early years I believed that Father Christmas had brought me all these wonderful gifts, for being a good boy. But I later discovered that it was my mother who crept into my bedroom in the night and deposited the goodies. I did wonder though, why she had told me a lie about this mythical, white bearded man. So unnecessary. I would have preferred to know from the onset  that my kind parents had gone out and bought my presents But I am digressing.

I lay back and reflected on last night's doings. I had been interrupted in my googling by a rapacious Elsie before I had had chance to resolve the question of  the rugby forward. However, when we had finished, I put it to Elsie, and she said she rembered now that he had  been a 'tight forward'. I therefore concluded it was a Rugby Union team upon whom  she had bestowed her favours, and decided to move on. There was stilll, of course, the matter of paternity, but we could let Jeremy Kyle sort that out later.

 I had other matters on my young mind. How should I comport myself during the coming Christmas Day? Should I tell mother that I knew about Borris? Or should I let her continue with her deception? If I pursued the latter course, then I would be also be guilty of deception. Mother and I had, hitherto, been totally honest with each other, so this was a difficult decision.

Then, of course, there was the question of father: would he be here for Christmas dinner? In the past he had always been the central figure at the festive board, carving the turkey and making  jokes about who wants stuffing. Oh the hilarity, the joy of my boyhood Christmases. But now, father - or so it seemed - was a fugitive. From what, though? From whom?

And then another thought struck me: if father was not present who would carve the turkey? Tradition held that it must be a male, and that left me and Borris. (I discounted Reverend Witherspoon who, although he would be present, would be, if past Christmases were anything to go by, be too drunk to be put  in charge of a carving knife.

I had never carved a turkey in my life, but the thought of the ghastly Aberdonian taking father's place filled me with horror. I wouldn't be surprised if he whipped out that knife he keeps strapped to his hairy leg. No, it was unthinkable.

I got out of bed and went into my bathroom.  My old scoutmaster used to enjoin us to have 'a clean mind in a clean body'. (I made a mental note to go and see him, now that he had been moved to an open prison.).

With loofah and brush I made a thorough job of removing all traces of last night's debauchery. But no soap and water could not remove the stain upon my conscience. How had I been led astray so easily?

I dressed quickly and left my room. The house slept, for it was not yet nine o clock. I tip-toed down the corridor and paused to listen at mother's bedroom door. I don't know what I was expecting to hear: the creaking of bed-springs, perhaps? But there was no sound. I continued downstairs. As I reached the first-floor landing, 'Merry Christmas, you young scallywag.'. Before I could respond to cook's raucous greeting, she had be in her bear-like hug and planted a kiss on my (already chapped) lips. I tasted sherry on her tongue.

I managed to extricate myself and, when I had recovered my breath, 'And a Merry Christmas to you, cook' I replied, mustering what little enthusiasm I could.
 'I got a little surprise for you, Master George.' slurred cook, 'you just pop into the kitchen later.'. And with that, she pinched my bottom and proceeded unsteadily down the stairs.

I followed, at a distance, wondering what the day had in store for me.

Halfway down the stairs...

Halfway down the stairs is a stair where I sit,

There isn't any other stair quite like this.

I'm not at the bottom,

I'm not at the top,

So this is the stair where I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs,

it isn't up it isn't down,
It isn't in the Nursery it isn't in the town,
And all sorts of funny thoughts,
they run through my head,
It isn't really anywhere,
its somewhere else instead...

Halfway down the stairs is a stair where I sit,
There isnt any other stair quite like this,
I'm not at the bottom
I'm not at the top,
So this is the stair where I always
Stop.

 Evanescence -

Fiddling while Rome burns?

Syria, Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, the Ukraine, and a former Home Secretary buried in an unmarked grave.

And here I am telling stories on a blog!

Home for Christmas - Ruminations in the early hours

The church clock struck midnight. Christmas Day was here at last.

But something was niggling me. That clock had been stopped at three for as long as I could remember. Mother told me that some fellow had written a rhyme about it and then had become a famous poet. So the poem had become famous too. Apparently people came from all over the country to see this famous... church clock still at three. Turned out to be a nice little earner for local business: shops, cafes and what not, and because of that the Church Council had never had the clock fixed.

So how come it was striking midnight?

But I had a still more niggling thought (I am plagued by niggling thoughts) and it was this: I am not a rugby fan but I seemed to recollect that Prop Forward is a Rugby League position - not Rugby Union (who have a Loose Forward and a Tight Forward). So if one of Elsie's lovers was a prop forward, then she must have been with a Rugby League team.Now, I am not a snob, and it would not have bothered me had she been with men who played this barbaric northern game. Certainly not. What did conern me was the question of statistics: Since there are only thirteen players in a League team as compared to Fifteen in a Union team, if Elsie had been unfaithful to me with a League side, then she would have been unfaithul with a greater percentage of the team that if it had been a Union side!

The percentage difference would have been slight, I grant you, but it bothered me, and I resolved to satisfy myself on the matter.

I took my phone from the bedside table and switched it on, under the duvet, so as not to wake Elsie.
I reasoned that, even if my SIM card had been flushed down the pan, I would still be able to access the internet, and Google. I ducked my head under the duvet and began to type.

Suddenly. 'George, what are you doing down there? You naughty boy.' Elsie was propped on her elbow, fumbling for her glasses.

I jerked my head from under the duvet. 'I... I...' I faltered. 'I was just Googling.'

'Well why didn't you wake me, you silly boy. I would have Googled for you. My fingers are more nimble than yours.'

'Oh it doesn't matter now.' I said.

'Come here.' Commanded the wanton woman. And, before I could object, her arms were around me and we were threshing about the bed. Unfortunately, I had not had the wit to get back into my pyjamas after our last sexual encounter and, well... I succumbed once more to her licentious arts.

Why keep a dog if you can bark yourself? (old northern proverb)

The weather in this part of the world has been very cold.

 That's not a really attention grabbing headline.

How about: Ice causes huge cracks in pavement (sidewark for you Americans)

or

Mother of three frozen to handles of pram: Fire Brigade called to free her.

I live in the north west of England. I didn't choose to be born here. Have you ever considered the implications of an 'accident of birth'.?

I don't suppose Prince Charles chose to be born into the Royal Family.

Of course, this argument:  assumes that I (and Prince Charles) existed somewhere before we were born. We would have to, in order to make the choice.

I know there are some religions who believe this to be the case: that we are a 'soul' who has to come on earth many times, in order to learn. I'm not sure what it is we are susposed to learn, but the idea is that each time you 'reincarnate' you choose to be born to parents and in an environment which will enable you to learn more... I guess it's like expanding your CV.

So, according to this theory, I felt I needed to know what it was like to live in the north west of England as the son of working-class parents. Whereas Prince Charles felt the need to experience the life of an English Prince.

I'm not sure whether this means that Charles has already done a stint as a working-class northerner, and that I have already been a prince. (I don't remember ever being a prince but I don't suppose you would be allowed to under this system because you would need a completely fresh start).

I think this may be the Hindu idea. Although others believe in reincarnation, including Chad Varah, founder of 'The Samaritans' (I have his autobiography, the title of which is 'Before I die again.)

Enough for now, I have only 7% battery left.

Home for Christmas: A cousin confesses

Elsie (for it was she) wriggled closer. I stayed facing the other way because I did not want to be tempted by carnal desire. But, as she pressed her warm naked body up against my flannelette pyjamas, I felt a stirring in my loins. I tried to ignore it and continued facing the wall.

'George,' she breathed heavily into my ear, 'I have a confession to make.' I did not turn round, even though I now had a wet ear but, speaking softly into the darkness, said,  'Elsie, do you really think you ought to be in my bed, in my house, with my mother just down the corridor?'

'Your mother is, at this moment, giving Borris some more English lessons. Although, I should tell you that Borris is not a Latvian immigrant but comes from Aberdeen, and is an investigative journalist in the employ of the Guardian newspaper.

Well, this time metaphors failed me! All I could think of to say was, 'But this just cannot be.'

'Oh but it is.' replied the strumpet in my bed. 'However, what your mother chooses to get up to in her own house is of no interest to me. Did you not hear what I said - I wish to make a confession.'

'Elsie,' I said, 'do you really think this is the time, or the place, for confessions?'

'Yes, I don't want to leave it a moment longer. It would not be fair.'

'For whom?' I asked, in my best sarcastic voice. 'People who say they want to make a confession usually want to load their guilt onto someone else.'
Elsie pushed even closer into my back, and wrapped an arm around my stomach. Had I not been wearing thick pyjamas I think I might have lost control.'George, I have been unfaithful to you'. Her words poured  a hot stream into my ear.
'What are you talking about?' I still did not turn around. 'With whom have you been unfaithfull to me?'
'The Mickle Trafford rugby team.'
'What!' I twisted round to face her. I think I must have twisted a bit too quickly because we bumped heads, and I knocked her glasses off. 'The whole fifteen of them?' I ejaculated.
'Off course not. What do you take me for? Some common tart? It was just the two wingers and the prop-forward. You and me were on a break at the time.' She added, hastily.

'What do you mean - on a break?'
'Well you had returnd to school at the end of the Easter hols.'
'But that doesn't constitute a break!' I was near to tears. 'I had to return to school. And remember how we kissed on the station platform and you swore your undying love?
'A woman has her needs, George.'
I grasped her shoulders.  'You harlot'  I shouted, shaking her roughly, 'I've a good mind to get my scout-belt and give you six of the best.'

'Oooh George,' she whispered. 'You can be so masterful when you are angry. 'I am a shameful woman, and deserve to be beaten.'
'And so you shall.' I leapt out of bed - then remembered I'd lent my scout-belt to Wiggins, when his trousers fell down on Sports Day. 'Damn!' I don't often swear, but could not help myself. The thought of punishing this wayward woman was beginning to appeal to me, in a strange way I did not understand.
'Here, use this.' Elsie was out of bed and had torn the length of heavy cord tassel from off the window drapes. Mother would be furiousl, I thought, but I would be shirking my duty if I did not discipline this girl; set her back on the path to righteousness.

So I did.

Later, as we lay together between the hot, damp sheets, a thought occurred to me. 'Hang on a tic,' I said, 'I might not be the father of this child you carry in your womb. It could be the prop-forward's. Or even one of the wingers.'

'Yes, George, and that is why I have telephoned the Jeremy Kyle show to seek a DNA test. A child has the right to know who its biological father is.' Elsie snuggled up to me. 'Oh, isn't it exciting, George?'

By the time I had thought of a suitable reply, Elsie was snoring peacefully.

The city, glimpsed through an ambulance window.

I had a ride in an ambulance in the early hours of Monday morning.

Only the second time in my life; the first was when I was ten years old and had an acute appendicitis.

I woke up at 2.30 am with what I thought was indigestion. This soon settled into a focussed pain in my stomach/abdomen. The pain got worse. I stuck it for as long as I could, then rang 111. They were very good and asked me some detailed questions. A doctor then decided that I needed hospital treatment, and arranged an ambulance.

Within minutes a paramedic had arrived at the house, quickly followed by an ambulance. I was being asked  questions, having my blood pressure, checked, heart tested, eyes looked into, temperature taken, then a blood sample taken...

Was this really happening? A couple of hours ago I had been fine, and now I was surrounded by medics with all their hi-tech gear. I knew one thing though: the pain was real.

One of the medics gave me a couple of pain-killers, then I was in the ambulance and on the way to hospital.

Amazing how a familiar landscape looks different in the early hours of the morning and caught in glimpses through the window of an ambulance,

Six am in A&E - No one in the waiting area. The ambulance driver decants me from the wheelchair into one of the seats. 'Good luck' he says, and disappears.

The pain is getting worse. I am sweating. After ten minutes or so I get up and approach the desk: .Is someone going to see me? The pain is getting worse.
A nurse is on her way, the man says.
She arrives, in her maroon two-piece overall - very smart - with stethoscope around her neck. She introduces herself. I don't catch her name: she is Pakistani or maybe Indian. I am so pleased to see her, reassured. She tells me what's going to happen. Tests: Blood samples, urine sample, blood pressure, heart trace, x rays, and a physical examination (poking and prodding).
Usually I would be filled with apprehension, but the pain is so bad I don't care what they do, so long as they do it quickly. 
I am shown where the lavatory is and given a little plastic container. Whilst in the cubicle I suddenly need a shit. Phew! That feels a bit better.

Then the tests: the different staff involved are friendly and efficient, and eventually I am back in my cubicle. 'I'm going to do a rectal examination' says my nurse.

 (When I woke at 2 am this morning I never thought that in the space of 5 hours I would have an Asian lady's  finger up my arse) 

 She calls in another nurse as a 'chaperon', and before I can plead: treat me gently - it's all done. No problem.

The tests revealed nothing untoward so, after being told to see my doctor to request a CAT scan,  I was allowed to go home in the afternoon.

Well, at least I've had a good going over.

Two days later my doctor examined me and said he would send me for an ULTRASOUND not a CAT scan as he thought I may have an inflamed gall bladder.

I'm feeling much better that I did a few days ago, and am now waiting to be called for the scan. If that doesn't show anything, then it's all a bit of a mystery. A mystery I would not like to be repeated.

Not a bad advert for the NHS, though?

Things aint what they seem

I look at the page; the print is blurred.
I put on a pair of glasses; the print is sharp and clear.

What is the reality? Blurred print? Or sharp print?

Home for Christmas - Part something or other.

What had Boris and my father been up to in the old toolshed?

I felt the ground shifting beneath my feet, my head was spinning, my reality was disintegrating... there were probably other metaphors happening at the same time but these three are the ones I recall.

As I watched the pair walking away towards the house I was at a loss as to what to do. If only Matron were here; she was the one I could always turn to when I was in a pickle at school. I could always rely on Matron to advise me what to do. But she wasn't here.

I watched them enter the house through the kitchen door - the same door out of which I had come only minutes before. I straightened up. My knees were stiff from the prolonged crouching I had had to endure behind the wheelbarrow.

The door was unlocked. I entered. I don't know what I expected to find as I flashed my torch around the old tool-shed, but I saw nothing except old tools. Mystified, I snapped off my torch and left.

I returned to the house, only to find the kitchen door locked! Luckily I had left my bedroom window open, and I quickly shinned up a convenient drain-pipe and gained access. I lay for a while on my bed, thinking. But recent events were so bizarre that I could not come up with a useful plan of action. So I fell asleep.

It could not have been more than half and hour when I felt a stirring beside me in the bed, and a familiar female smell (although I could not, at the time place it) pervaded my nostrils. I stiffened. Who could be invading my personal space in the middle of the night? And then, a voice, husky, and heavy with emotion - either that or its owner had a bad cold. I hoped it was not the latter as I catch colds so easily and I have to watch my chest.

Holding my breath, I turned to face the intruder in my bed.


(to be continued...)

Wednesday

Due to the success of my 'blank post'... (see R J Adams' comment)I intend to make this a regular feature of the blog.

I sometimes think we use too many words; that we are too cognitive. So consider a blank post a sort of 'detox' from words.

Of course I like words; they are my stock-in-trade, as you might say, but when you find yourself waking up in bed writing a complicated philosophical essay in your head, you feel that perhaps you need a rest now and then.

Recently, I have been reminded of an expression a friend of mine used to use: busy brain. I don't know if she meant the same kind of thing but it seems to fit my experience.

So I am taking more photographs. Here is one took a little while ago: an unknown youth on a village railway platform - and then... I found myself writing a story about it!!

A chance snap leads to ...

A crackly voice causes him to jerk his head up:

Northern Rail apologise for a delay of something, something, something to their 10.17 service to something something… 

He’s not really listening. He’s in no hurry. And anyway, he hasn’t bought a ticket. The reason he hasn’t bought a ticket is not just because the ticket office is shut – it usually is – but because he’s not sure he’s going to board the train when it does arrive.

…because of an incident on the line…

He hears this. But what does it mean? Some leaves have blown onto the track? Or, more ominously, someone has jumped in front of the train?

Such a messy way to go. They must have been desperate.

He’s desperate. But not that desperate. Is he?

What’s he doing here, when he could be at home, in bed? It’s a waste of time anyway.  He knows he won’t get the job. He doesn’t even want it.

And even if he gets the job, it won’t last long. They never do. How many jobs has he had in the last eighteen months? He’s lost count. He means to stick at them - it's just that he gets bored. By the time they’ve told him where to hang his coat, and shown him where the lavatory his, the yawning starts. Of course he hides it – or tries to. But they soon cotton on. Lack of motivation. That’s what they say. And they’re right.

But how do you get motivated? You can’t just make yourself motivated; motivation has to come from the outside; from somewhere else. And, for him, it never seems to come.

Of course he should have stayed at university. Studied for his doctorate, like they wanted him to.  But he met her. And they got married. And then he needed a job. 

He stares down the line. A red light blinks to green. Does that mean a train’s coming? A thought crosses his mind.  What if he... No more interviews, no more jobs. No more HER. But he doesn’t really have bottle – or the motivation.

The train approaches.  He has an idea: If it’s full, if there are people standing, he will take that as a sign that he should not go for the interview. 

The train arrives. He can see that it’s full. But there’s no one standing. But if he gets on he will have to stand. So does that count as people standing? Difficult call. While he’s thinking about it, doors shut and the train moves off. Well that’s it. He obviously wasn’t meant to go for the interview.

He heads for the bus stop. If a No 26 comes first, he will get that and go home. If the 27a comes first, he will take that into town, and have a couple of drinks and something to eat in the Feathers. Once again, he will let fate decide.

It’s a No. 26. But it’s full. There are people standing. And, right behind it, comes a 27a!

What was it that Jung talked about: Synchronicity?

This post has been deliberately left blank

9.55 on a cold and froggy morning

She wrote, "I will love you 'till the snow on this Christmas card melts."

Course we get some pretty mild winters in these parts.

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

I wonder why there are no Hindu fundementalists. Have they nothing to get pissed off about?


Come to think of it - has no one asked the Moslem fundementalists: Okay, lads. Just who are you pissed off with? And why?

Of course, the Hindus used to be pissed of with the Moslems - but since the Moslems moved to Pakistan perhaps the Hindus are quite happy.

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

Everything is 'sort of'...

Did you have a lot to drink last night?

Sort of.
Is your head hurting?
Sort of.
Do you fancy sex?

Sort of.

 Life is 'sort of'...

An everyday tale of urban life

 

He leaves for work

On leaden legs,

His mortgage on his back –

Another nine to five' er,

Taking up the slack

Policies paid up in full,

Front and back lawns mown,

He’ll miss the flowering cherry –

My, how that tree has grown

Today, he makes a slight detour,

Turns left instead of right,

At the end of Hawthorne Avenue –

His throat feels rather tight

The railway bridge is up ahead,

The eight o five is due,

He falters, only slightly –

He knows what he must do

He leans against the parapet,

The stone feels damp and cold,

He doesn’t want to go yet –

He’s thirty six years old

The train approaches in the distance,

Doing eighty on this stretch;

A few more seconds still remaining,

He’s feeling sick – he’s going to retch

He jumps – the driver sees him –

The squeal of steel on steel,

Too late – a bump - it’s over –

No second chance, no last appeal

There is a certain irony –

Though stark and rather grim –

Each day he caught the eight o five,

Now the eight o five’s caught him

A ripple in a suburban pond,

Soon fades and dies away,

A paragraph in the local press?

Is that all we’ve got to say?