Four days in another country

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What a four days they were, eh, Anna. 

How do they make socks?

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That thought struck as I was pulling on a sock this morning.

I mean, we take socks for granted - don't give them a second glance. But suppose we had to make out own? Knit them? How would we get the elastic in? The elastic that stops them from slipping down?

Then again, there's underpants. I cannot begin to understand how they manufacture underpants. And yet, somebody has to. If someone asks you what you do for a living, and you say 'I'm a surgeon', they're impressed. But if you said 'I make underpants' they would probably laugh. But they wouldn't laugh if their underpants kept falling down because they'd not been made properly. Or, even worse, it they had no underpants at all, and had to suffer the resultant itchiness throughout the day.

It's these little, seemingly unimportant things that matter in Life.

By the seaside

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You'd like it here, Anna.

The sun is shining on this very British (well, Victorian) seaside town.

I have just been to the top of the Great Orme. I travelled up by tram but walked down. Then I fortified myself with a lemon and sugar crepe - and a pot of tea. Excellent.

I have located suitable lodgings for us - you and me - and I am sure you will approve. The food is good, the beds are soft; what more could one ask for.

Looking forward with eager anticipation.

Your George

Memories of a village childhood

I was thinking about all the games we used to play as kids. We had to amuse ourselves back then; there were no computers, or even television. We played outside in the street, and we were healthier for it.

Tick; hide and seek; spin the bottle; they were just a few of the games I remember. 

Although I do have a hazy recollection of a game; I think it was called ‘Vlad the Impaler’. I don’t remember much about it, ‘cos I was only little, but the name sticks in my mind. I know it involved them spiky iron railings at the end of Froggit Street. And for some reason I seem to associate it with my first ride in an ambulance. But my memory isn’t what it used to be so I may be mixing things up.

We didn’t play the game for long though. Now I think back, we stopped playing it about the time that policeman came to the school to talk to us. 

 And Daft Derek – the lad who invented the game – went away.

And He never came back.

And the council pulled down the railings.

Anyway we moved from the village just after that.

Happy days.

Ok. Here's a story

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Tea in a badly-stained mug.

They gave me tea in a badly-stained mug. I could see it was stained when the lady took it from under the counter. I didn’t say anything. Well, you don’t like to, not when it’s charity.

Even so, you’d think they’d be more particular. My mother was very particular; she used bleach when the cups got stained. Oh yes, we had cups, not mugs. Our family had a bit of class. And once you have class, you never lose it – even if you’ve fallen on hard times.

‘Fallen on hard times’. Funny expression that. Old fashioned. I suppose ‘Down on my luck’ sounds better. And it’s true. I’ve just had a run of bad luck. That’s all. Bad luck.

It was a white mug so it really showed the staining. I expect if it had been brown I wouldn’t have noticed. But it was white.
I drank the tea. It wasn’t just that it was a cold day; I didn’t like to offend the lady. She was a volunteer. And when somebody volunteers their free time to help folk like me you don’t want to appear ungrateful, do you.

But that’s really not the point. It’s the fact that because you have to turn to charity, they think they can give you a stained mug. One of the residents – Harry – said that he’d drunk tea out of a jam-jar before now. I said: Well, Harry, that may be all right for you, but I was brought up to appreciate the finer things of life.

I’ll bounce back, though. Once I’ve got the drinking under control. I used to drink whisky. Can’t afford that now. Still, white cider’s just as good – once you get used to the taste. Alcohol isn’t allowed inside the building. If you’re caught with a bottle in your room you’re liable to be kicked out.

I used to hide a bottle in the bushes just behind the wall. But I’ve had a couple stolen – there are some bloody thieves in this place, I can tell you. So, you know what I did? I got myself a flask – of those cheap plastic ones. It holds a pint. I buy a litre of cider, and drink some in the alley behind the off-licence. Then I pour the rest into the flask. That way, I can sit in the park and it looks like I'm  just having a cup of coffee. Also nobody questions me when I take it into the hostel.

If I can get into the kitchen when no one’s looking, I’ll smash that mug. Drop it on the floor. I mean, it’s not just a question of hygiene; it’s about keeping up one’s personal standards.

My new writing space

And, I have discovered classical music, Anna! Right there, on that radio.

The reason for I am not responding is not because I am carousing in public house - I am too busy for this and must keep clear head for the moments.

No, the reason I do not respond is because I do not know how to advise you on this problem of whether to publish stories on blog. On the first hand it would make available to wider readership the stories but on second hand no payment or royalties would be forthcoming and also it might jeopardise copyright and when you do publish in book form lots of people may have read. And they may say, I do not wish to read more of this sort of stuff. Of course they may also say, what splendid writing is this, give me more. But on the third hand it may awaken the appetite for your work in peoples whom never heard of you and then may wish to read more.

So as they say on the tennis court - the ball is back in your court.

It is just occurring to myself that perhaps you could select stories (and poems) you think would be suitable to small readership of blog.
Dipping one's toe in the pond, as you say.

Another idea would be to start separate blog for stories and give name on this blog.

Anyway, I can spend no more time upon this thorn bush of a question. I need to study. But remember that in two weeks time I shall be up your neck of the forest and better you had sorted this problem out by then because I have need of you for other purposes.

Lustfully yours

Anna

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You haven't answered my question about whether or not I should publish my stories and poems on this blog.

Ok. So your busy with your finals but surely you can spare ten minutes?  An exam only last 3 hours - 4 at the most. I know because I have been there. Remember.

I bet you find time to go down the pub with your mates and your personal tutor - what was his name? I've forgotten.

Anyway, I am not going to publish anything until I hear from you. 

Stories

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I am thinking of publishing some of my short stories here on the blog. What do you think, Anna? Do you think they would appeal to a global readership?

Did I tell you that I have enrolled on this 'film' course? It is sponsored by the British Film Institute and covers everything from 'script to screen'. I have done two sessions and find it fascinating. 

Of course you always said that the true outlet for my work was the cinema, reaching as it does, a far larger audience. And I am coming around to your way of thinking. I have hitherto turned my nose up at film as an art form, believing that nothing could compete with the printed word. However, I have changed my mind. Some of the films I have seen recently, during my enforced exile, have convinced me that the screen offers another dimension to a work of art - well, two really: sound and vision. To see one's characters brought to life on the screen, the dialogue actually spoken aloud, not to mention the music and effects... well, what better way could there be of telling a story?

It's not about money, Anna, it's about bringing your message (yes, I am not afraid to use that word, despite what Sam Goldwyn said) to as many people as possible. And when I say 'film' I include, of course, television. Thousands, millions watch television who never (or rarely)  pick up a book. This is where our audience is today. Yes 'audience', not 'readership'. Of course I shall always be a reader.  Television was in its infancy - a novelty - when I was growing up. It was books or 'the pictures', which is what we working class called the cinema.

I can't wait to see you, when I hope you will, as you say, rectify matters. It seems ages since I last had a good rectifying.

Anyway, best of luck with the exams.

George

I am hoping to see you soon and rectify matters.

Anna