Friday, February 27, 2015

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.


Sunday, February 22, 2015

Tip for today



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

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

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




Monday, February 16, 2015

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.





Saturday, February 14, 2015

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.

Monday, February 09, 2015

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!

Sunday, February 08, 2015

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.


Thursday, February 05, 2015

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.


Monday, February 02, 2015

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?