Deep Heather

From a distance, 

A bruised birthmark

On the face of a steep hill

Closer,

The wind spoon stirs,                                    

One twist amethyst

The next, mallard green

Bees, like boxers

Dodge the nodding punch balls.

Waiting for a snatch of pollen,

Not concussion.

So thick it lies,

So deep and strong.

Built for novice comets

To have a second try

Lethal Symmetry

I don’t know about you, but I never think Funerals look right on a beautiful day. It should either be pouring with rain or blowing a gale, or both. Take mine for instance - Not a cloud in the sky, hardly a breath of wind and to top it all, it’s unseasonably warm.

Everyone’s crowded around my little white coffin, (which, by the way looks absurd) to witness the awkward ‘lowering in’ bit. I thought white was only used for Babies and isn’t it supposed to signify purity or innocence? There’s nothing remotely pure or innocent about me. I know I’m still using the present tense, but after 15yrs it’s a hard habit to break.

Right, while the mourners pay their collective respects and the crusty old vicar does his best to remember what my mother told him to say, I’ll tell you a little more about what brought me here today.

My name is Timothy Newton. I’m 15 years old and two weeks ago I suffered the acute embarrassment and misfortune of being ordered to go on holiday with my parents. If this wasn’t bad enough, when they told me the holiday destination I almost died. I can say that now because it sounds ironic and funny, but I assure you, at the time it wasn’t. I remember standing in the lounge shouting - “I’d rather end my own life than spend two weeks on a narrow boat with you two!”

In the finish, I opted for the less lethal, scaled down version of running up to my room and slamming the door. After two hours of through the keyhole negotiations my Dad finally talked me down with the promise of a kindle, a day at Alton Towers and the Lord of the Rings Blue Ray box set. I would have settled for the kindle, but I sensed he’d give me more.

Anyway, my Mother insisted on showing me pictures of ‘our boat’ which had the ridiculous name of Anastasia of Salford. Part of me wonders if there’s a similar boat in Russia called ‘Betty of Leningrad’. My Dad even bought a skipper’s cap, complete with gold oak leaves and crossed anchors – I ask you! The brochure used words like ‘spacious’ and ‘homely’, which I imagined were code for cramped and medieval. Anastasia or Ana for short belonged to their ‘vintage collection’. If my father’s vintage Bugatti was anything to go by, the narrow boat would probably be laid out on the bank in a hundred pieces and we’d have to build her before we set sail.

Having spent several miserable weeks in Abersoch in a two berth caravan, living much too close to my sweaty parents, I imagined the narrow boat offered competing levels of humiliation. This is only partly true. Caravans zip along at up to 55mph like two-wheeled blood clots looking for places to cause a stroke or heart attack. Narrow boats all move at the same funereal speed (3-5mph). So the likelihood of a ‘canal jam’ is fairly remote. I’ll come to locks later on.

As the name implies, they are fairly narrow. I found it quite easy to stand in the middle of my bedroom, (sorry ‘cabin’) and touch both walls. Once I got used to living in a waterborne corridor everything was almost fine. All of ‘Watery Dreams’ (not a name I’d have gone with) vintage collection were entirely wood based. Wooden beds, wooden, tables, chairs, mattresses, televisions, showers. Ok, I made up the last two, but you’d think in this age of super -lightweight materials like aluminium and carbon fibre, someone would want to build a cooler, trendier boat? When I asked my Dad why all barges were hollowed-out oak trees fitted with lawnmower engines, he raised his eyebrows, put on his captain’s hat and gave me a finger –wagging lecture on the many differences between barges and narrow boats.

How do you pack for such a holiday? For some guidance, I sneaked a peek at what my parents were taking. From the amount of Gore-Tex, and fleece being stuffed into their suitcases, I gathered we were embarking on some kind of Polar Voyage. The phrases “You never know” and “just in case” kept cropping up. When I asked if there was an I-Pod dock on board my Mother almost had a seizure. Then she explained this was a ‘gadget free’ holiday where we could indulge in some good old family fun. Mum had only ever used those words twice before. Once when a freak typhoon turned the Abersoch caravan site into a lake, and another time when we had a power cut on Christmas Day and had to find Grandma by candlelight.

My coffin’s been lowered in to the grave and now everyone’s queueing up to drop a handful of dirt onto my pristine white lid. I understand the significance of the whole ‘ashes to ashes’ thing - but it still feels like a bit of a cop out. When Nana Bostock died I refused to drop a filthy great clod on top of her. Instead, I left my own personal tribute. When everyone was making their way back to the shiny black limo’s I took out a small cling-filmed parcel from my pocket and carefully unwrapped it.  Inside was one of her incredibly strong pickled onions. I remember sniffing it and thinking it was far better than any smelling salts. I can’t recall my last few words, but it was along the lines of ‘something for the journey Nan’. Then I flicked the dark brown jewel into the hole. It made a great noise as it bounced along the wooden lid, coming to rest by her brass name plate. I think she’d have had a good laugh about that.

I’ve got loads of things they could throw into my hole. My fossilised trilobite, that Grandpa Miller gave me on my ninth birthday. My signed Duncan Fernley cricket bat. Mind you, perhaps they want to look at them a little while longer, before they give them a good home?

Where was I? Oh yes, good old family fun. The only gadget they allowed me to take on the boat was my brand new e-kindle, which I crammed full of all the freebies I could download. Boggle and Scrabble were compulsory, as were my Dad’s ‘holiday binoculars’ and Instamatic camera. According to the Watery Dreams’ information booklet, this particular stretch of the Cauldon Canal was teeming with all sorts of aquatic rarities. I think if the booklet had said, ‘watch out for trainee mermaids’ my dad would have believed them.

So we arrived at the Marina, (which incidentally is only four miles from my house) on a beautiful day like today. You know, those days when everything’s still and the sky is so blue and bright it hurts your eyes to stare at it? Dave, our Watery Dreams rep was busy inhaling clouds of diesel fumes as Anastasia of Salford put-putted into life.

While I wondered if Ana was equipped with gas masks, Dad did his best Captain Pugwash impression, complete with crappy salute.

          “Permission to come aboard Sir?” Dave fanned a way through the acrid smoke and beckoned us onto the boat with a lazy wave of his hand. I expect he’d heard every nautical phrase in the book, from “Thar she blows!” to “Splice the main brace.” He gave us the full scripted tour, complete with bad boat jokes and a very lack lustre safety drill. Then he instructed us on the basic rules of canal travel and demonstrated the opening and closing of locks with a big aluminium handle called a windlass, similar to those used to start up vintage cars. I don’t think my Dad was listening to any of it. He just wanted to start crashing into things as quickly as possible.

I soon discovered that narrow boats are scaled down oil tankers. The driver, (sorry skipper) needs to think about turning way before a bend appears. Stopping is half close your eyes and pray and half throw it into full reverse and wait for the bang. Dave took us on a few laps of the marina to demonstrate the various steering and stopping manoeuvres. Dad insisted on holding onto the tiller the whole time like he was taking Dave on a date. 

Eventually, an hour and a half later we were underway. Captain Dad took position at the helm, while Mum and I unpacked our fleeces. My cabin smelled like an old mop, so I set about opening all the tiny round windows (sorry, portholes). Out of the three, two were rusted shut, so I wedged open the third with a training shoe and stuck my head out.

Once I’d gotten used to my Dad screaming “Locks ahoy!” or “Tunnel’ahead!” every few minutes, things started to settle down. Mum wasn’t impressed with him at all. She said ‘he was behaving in exactly the same childish manner as he did at home’. She also said ‘he’d swapped the T.V remote for the tiller handle and woe betide anyone who tried to take it from him’. After a heated discussion lasting all of three minutes where Mum threatened to insert the windlass somewhere below his waterline, he agreed to let her take control whenever she ‘had the urge.’ I, on the other hand was only allowed to steer under the supervision of an adult.

I could tell this holiday was going to be a riot, so I vowed to jump ship as soon as another one came into view. Whereas Dad was Captain Ahab, Mum was ‘Queen of the Locks’. Every time we approached a new one, she’d get me to run ahead and start winding while she put her work shoes on. By the time she’d sashayed up to me in her spotless white trainers, most of the hard work was already done. If she was in a good mood she’d let me swing her round on the gate while she studied the route.

The secret to surviving on a canal boat is to try and slow everything down. I’m not saying you should sit in the lotus position and meditate the whole time, just try and relax into it. Once you realise that this isn’t a normal, ‘rush everywhere and see all the sights at breakneck speed’ holiday, you’re fine. I saw it as a kind of prolonged stupor, punctuated with bouts of intense exercise.

There was one day when I actually felt reasonably okay. I was sitting in amongst some spare tyres on the bow, watching the canal bank slip by. The reflection in the water was pin sharp and the trees and bushes were held in perfect symmetry. I asked Dad if I could borrow his camera, but he said the batteries were flat. Cheers Dad. When I was sure no one was watching I leaned right over the front of the boat, hooking my feet through the tyres to stop myself from falling in.

I stared at my own reflection, lowering my face, so I almost kissed the murky water. I got a whiff of diesel and something rotten, like a vase of flowers that’s been left on a sunny window ledge too long. Then I dropped both my hands in, scooping up the water like a slow-motion paddle steamer. I enjoyed the tickling sensation as the liquid ran down my arms and off my elbows. Feeling slightly more daring, I plunged both arms in, up to my biceps and wondered how deep it went. Occasionally, a piece of vegetation would brush against my forearm, so I pulled it out, thinking it might be a hungry pike, or a diving duck.

With both arms fully submerged, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. The only sounds I could hear were the faint purling’s of displaced water and the boat’s diesel engine beating out its own steady rhythm. Then it happened. Something grabbed one of my hands. I tried pulling it out, but whatever had latched on, pulled harder. I tried shouting, and realised that neither my mouth nor eyes would open. I heaved as hard as I could and the fingers – yes, they were actual fingers, loosened their grip a little. Then I used my other hand to try and prise them off, but another one grabbed it and I felt like I was holding onto to an enormous weight…

They’ve all gone now - The mourners I mean. Pretty soon the gravediggers will return with their mini-JCB to seal me in for good. I suppose there are worse places to be buried. It’s better than one of those vast inner city cemeteries with tarmac paths and landscaped graves. At least here I’ve got an infant school on one side and a nice field with horses on the other.  Anne, my sister’s only two rows down, so at least I’m near family.

The end of my story is a little fuzzy, but I’ll do my best. I remember feeling as though the hands dragging me down through the cold, dark soup of weeds and mud were vaguely familiar. They were about my size, but whenever I attempted to let go or find its head it pushed me away- not aggressively, like a mother lion would if one of her cubs was behaving a bit more rough than tumble.

Then, it all went black, and I found myself here, on this Indian Summers day, watching my own funeral. The weird thing is I know it’s me lying there in the coffin, but it doesn’t feel like it’s totally me. It’s hard to describe. If I try and remember things about my life and my family, there are gaps. Big chunks are missing. What’s even stranger is I have memories I’m not sure are even mine. It’s as though I’m looking down a long passage and every few feet there’s a door. If I open one, and go inside it’s like I’m walking round someone else’s thoughts. The more doors I enter, the more the memories start stacking up. Some are so real I can almost taste them. Others are so faint I can hardly remember anything - like a string of tiny sighs.

Anyway, I’d better go before I really get confused.  It’s not exactly how I thought being a spirit or a ghost, (or whatever I am) would feel. I mean, why am I still so wet? And why do I feel drawn to the canal? You’d think that was the last place I’d want to go. Wouldn’t you?

Wind Boy

If I were to ask you what super power you’d like to possess, I expect there’d be the usual suspects - flying, x-ray vision, super strength, time travel etc. But I wonder how many of you would like my special super-power? I think it’s far better than any of the ones I’ve already mentioned, because it allows me to be something I’ve always wanted to be.

I’m not saying I have the ability to summon any meteorological phenomenon at the click of a finger, although that would be cool.  No, my super power is a bit more subtle. If I think hard enough, and for long enough about (say for instance) the wind, something rather magical starts to happen. Most of the time it starts with my hair. If I’m indoors, this always makes people stop what they’re doing and stare. If I’m outside, the staring comes later.

A few of my neck hairs stand up, as though someone’s just opened a door or a window. Then the hairs on my head join in - flapping my long fringe like the wing of a small bird. By now, anyone standing nearby is doing double takes or nudging family members in the ribs. If I were a complete show off I could just stay put and soak up all the awe and disbelief like some great big arrogant sponge – but I’m not like that.

Next, I calmly walk outside and find a quiet spot that’s away from any audience – captive or otherwise. This can prove problematic in a busy market town, like Leek, and nigh on impossible in a big metropolis like Birmingham or Manchester. Thank God for dark alleyways and giant rubbish skips, that’s what I say.

So, by now my hair is flying all over the place, like there’s an invisible dryer blowing the bejesus out of it. The next thing to change is my skin. It gets really pale, really quickly and soon becomes virtually transparent. If I lift up my shirt I can see all my internal workings going about their bodily business. If I was a watch I’d be a glass back.

Then, with the winds version of a hey presto, (but without the smoke), I disappear altogether. The coolest thing is I still have a consciousness. It’s not the same as my old one, more of a ramped-up sensory version. I feel like a kite that’s broken free from its string, or a sheet that’s blown off someone’s washing line. It’s quite scary, but deep down I know I’ve become part of something much bigger and more powerful. I also get the feeling there are others joining me, but I can’t be totally sure.

At this point you’re probably thinking when does the fun start? When does he begin his ‘wreaking havoc’ phase? Well, once I’m absorbed into the wind I have no say at all about where I go or what I get up to. Let me explain. The other day I found myself flying through a tall line of poplars in Brough Park. If you happened to be passing underneath, and bothered to look up at the trees you’d notice the leaves changed from green to silver and then back to green again. That was me. Well, a bit of me anyway. This is what it’s like. Each time is different.

I’d better tell you how it all started. How one day an ordinary 12 year old boy living in Leek, went up the White Peaks on his mountain bike and came back without it.

Mum had warned me against going because she said it was far too dangerous, and I might get blown off my bike and into the path of a juggernaut. Luckily, Dad offered to run me up there in his truck, as he was building a dry stone wall nearby. Mum wasn’t convinced, but I think the combination of my downcast expression and a few well timed sighs from Dad managed to swing it.

Dad doesn’t say very much. He believes in speaking when there’s something to say. He says plenty of people blather on about the price of cheese or the ‘bloody weather’ because they can’t handle their own silence. I asked him if I belonged to the ‘blathering fraternity’ and he just patted me on the head and laughed. I think that was a yes?

Anyway, I threw my old bike in the back of his truck and climbed up into the cab. It stinks of cheese and onion crisps and sweaty B.O. Dad says ‘honest toil’ is a dam sight more preferable to any bloody air freshener. He says ‘bloody’ a lot. When I asked him why he swears, he said bloody doesn’t count - it’s just a filler. His car radio’s covered in dust and grime and all the buttons and dials are missing. He says he took them off so no one would change his station. His station is Moorlands radio. It plays old hits from the sixties and seventies. Dad calls it the ‘golden age of music’.

So off we went, with Dad humming some old tune and me drawing ‘breath smiley’s’ on the passenger window. It’s only a fifteen minute ride to the Roaches – the last bit of the Pennines, laid out like the tail of some giant Lizard. All the hills are called clouds. My favourite is Hen Cloud, because it has Peregrine Falcon’s nesting in it’s comb.

I love it when we leave the streets and houses of Leek behind, and drive into open country. As soon as we emerge from Devils Hollow I can see the Roaches rising up in front of me. On a clear day, I can just make out the narrow road that skirts the bottom of Ramshaw Rocks. The cars are quite easy to spot, all bunched together near the main entry point. Today, the road was clear. After a few minutes we turned off the main road and onto the narrow, weaving bottom lane leading to my stop.

          “Anywhere here’s fine.”  I said, releasing my seatbelt.  Dad pulled over onto the grass verge and tried to scrub my head with his knuckle. I was too quick though, ducking out of the way of his big hard dirty fist. Then he jumped into the trailer and passed my bike down, before driving off without a word. I stood in the middle of the road and waited until he was almost out of sight. Then, right on cue he stuck his arm out the window and raised his thumb. He gave three short blasts on his air horn. This was my Dad doing his own rendition of a fly by. I did the biggest double handed wave I could muster and watched until he disappeared behind a hill.

I liked the fact it was deserted. The wind kept slamming into me every few seconds, so I decided to push my bike up to the start of the trail. I was glad there weren’t any fresh footprints or bike tracks in the peaty sludge. I felt like an explorer.

If I thought it was windy down by the road, nothing could prepare me for the battering up on the cliff edge. The sound was deafening. Everything was brought alive or into motion by the wind. Swaying trees creaked and groaned as though in pain. Flattened grasses hissed like angry snakes and every now and then I could hear the metallic ratchet of a spooked grouse.  Even the giant rocks growled as the wind forced itself into deep fissures and gulleys.

I clipped on my helmet, mounted the bike and started pedalling into the gale. The effort it took just to stay upright was enormous.  When I thought I’d cracked it, the wind would either shift direction or vary in strength, pushing me off balance, or into a rock. Any sensible person would have gone a couple of hundred yards and then given up. I was determined to find a way through, even if it meant testing myself to the limit. Mum said I was a boy of extremes, and one day, if I wasn’t careful I’d come unstuck.

Up ahead, the trail dropped down about fifty feet and a clump of kind pine trees acted as a sort of wind break. I leant against one of these and took a drink from my water bottle. Not even Mary, the ‘never say die’ fell runner was out today, and I’d seen her and her pumping chicken legs brave blizzards and flash floods. Then I thought about what Mum had said and wondered if I was becoming an adrenalin junkie. I didn’t get a rush or a buzz from putting myself in peril, I just felt like I needed to push myself. She also said I was like fly paper for danger. I still use that one today.

Dad said he went through a weird patch after his Mum died. He said he couldn’t bear to think about her, so he started doing crazy things to distract himself. One Christmas Eve, when a few beers had loosened his talking muscles, he told me how he tried to climb an old factory chimney in the dark. He said he managed to haul himself up by the copper lightening conductor, but bottled it after about fifty feet. He said when he lost his footing he felt the ‘cold spike of fear’ stab him in his guts’. When he said ‘guts’ he jabbed a finger in his beer belly.  His mates had to get a big ladder to help him down. He told me to swear never to tell Mum, because she’d kill him. I said he’d have to buy me a new mountain bike first and then I might think about it.

Down in the windless dip it was difficult to imagine it could be the same day. From here I had two options. I could go left and cycle through the woods for a few miles and pick up the road further down or just carry on along the cliff edge and battle the elements. My head said wood and my heart said cliff. I spun the bike round a few times, before heading uphill. As soon as I pedalled past the tops of the trees the wind was waiting for me. This time it punched me in the back and pushed me up the steep gradient like an unseen hand. For one brief moment I thought about taking my feet off the pedals. Then the path veered off to the left and it was coming at me head on again.

I was finding it hard to get my breath as the wind kept pushing it back down into my lungs. At the top, exhausted, I threw the bike in a ditch and lay on a long table of flat rock, watching the clouds racing by. Once I’d gotten my breath back I stood up and leaned right into the wind. Again, the kind hand chose to prop me up. No matter how far I leaned over it supported me. I even tried running and then leaning, but it still wouldn’t let me fall. Then I did something really stupid. I walked to the cliff edge and with my arms fully extended I leaned right over. I wasn’t an expert, but the wind speed must have been close to a hundred miles an hour. At first it just roared at my face, making my eyes water. Then it must have got bored with its new game.

Three hundred feet isn’t a very long way when you’re falling straight down. My high-pitched scream was flung away by the returning wind. My brief life never flashed before my eyes, there wasn’t time. At the very moment a question started to form in my head about how painful this death would be, compared to say, being hit by a car, I ceased to be.

I didn’t suffer a heart attack or explode on the rocks like a ten stone balloon filled with blood. It was as though someone had dialled the gravity down to zero and turned my body into a parachute made of spider silk. I couldn’t see anything. Not even blackness. My only remaining senses were touch and hearing. I knew my body had gone, but I could still feel its trace, like when you stare at a light bulb and then close your eyes. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t know if I was dead or alive, but I do know I felt safe, as though nothing could hurt me anymore. I thought about Dad building his wall in the howling gale, and wondered if he’d remembered to pack his flask of hot tea. I thought about Mum and her kind hands, stroking my head when I was feverish, and Oscar the Siamese cat digging his claws into my bare legs.

After what seemed like an age there was this sort of intense spinning feeling and I realised I was sitting at the bottom of the cliff, looking up. The farmer who found me said I was screaming my head off. He said it took him ten minutes to calm me down. I don’t remember anything after that. The next thing I remember is being carried out of an ambulance on a big clunky stretcher by someone who sounded like he had asthma. I felt no pain, just this odd dizzy feeling.

Dad said someone had nicked my bike, and I wasn’t getting another one until I was at least forty. Mum kept kissing my forehead and wringing all the worry from her hands. I kept telling them I was okay, but they insisted I stay in bed for a couple of days. It was obvious to everyone I hadn’t fallen, so I made up this story about climbing down to look at the falcon’s nest. All the local newspapers and radio stations called me the ‘Bird boy of Leek’.

Once I’d endured the regulation two week grounding I just carried on being myself. At school I was a minor celebrity. Bullies became buddies. Girls listened open mouthed, as I embroidered my ripping yarn. As with most ‘one hit wonders’, it all died down after a few days and I went back to being a typical adolescent. Well almost.

I’d like to think that what the wind and I do isn’t completely random. It’s a bit like when we’re feeling down in the dumps and suddenly something happens to cheer us up. I remember walking along the side of the canal, thinking that everyone and everything were against me, when a blue and gold blur shot past me. It was a Kingfisher. I’d never seen one before. I marvelled at its whirring, silent wings, the speed of which sealed its passing. Then it was gone.

So, the next time a breeze brushes your cheek or a crisp packet rises up in front of your face, spinning like a dervish, just stop to savour the moment. You never know, it could be me cheering you up. Conversely, if you’re forced into the back yard to sweep up the rubbish spilling out of your recently blown over wheelie bin then it could also be me having a bit of fun at your expense. 

Old

Old is where we watch.

Voyeurs at our own keyhole.

All we see is half a nipple,

One white pubic hair.

Old is where we sit

Partitioning our days into toilets and rests,

Shunning wood or moulded plastic

For blow-up heaven and plush velour.

Old is where we dream.

Sleep won’t allow it.

An alliance of firsts

Love, sex, youth and now loss.

Old is where we wait in-line

Joining those who nod slowly.

Retired bees with nothing to do

Honeyed tears running down our cheeks

And across our lips.

Old is where we remember.

Rewinding life’s colour,

Back through black and white photos

Tracing sepia smiles in hope

Of some kind Genie’s intervention.

Old is where we moan.

The glass is empty now.

An air-dried spider

Lies on an inch of dust

So, we blow him away

With all the puff we’ve saved up

From not blowing out a thousand glorious candles.

Granny Sketch

SCENE 1

A young woman is pushing her adorable Granny around a busy supermarket. She is in a wheelchair with a trolley attached to the front. The old lady is holding her handbag firmly with both hands, resting it on her lap. She is all smiles, nodding/saying hello to harassed mothers with babies and everyone that passes by. The young woman seems to be in a hurry. They stop at the deli. The young woman is called Sandra and the old lady is simply Granny.

SANDRA       (Sounds harried) Do you want anything from the Deli mother?

GRANNY      looking into the eyes of the deli assistant “This is my grand-daughter, Sandra. She’s in the city you know, buys premium bonds and sells them to rich gullible Americans.

SANDRA       Sighing. “Government bonds and gilts actually. She smiles. The young lady wants to serve you Granny, what would you like? Some bacon perhaps? Mmm, looks tasty?” Sandra points at the bacon behind the glass counter.

GRANNY      “Tell her about your last scam?” Granny looks up at Sandra.

                        You said it netted a handsome profit, once you’d paid off that man who gave you the inside track on that American company.”

SANDRA       (Nervously, in a wavering voice) “The young lady wants t-to serve you Granny. What would you like?”

GRANNY      “I’ve got a portfolio you know. Sandra helped put it together. Used some of her ill-gotten gains to set it up. (Giggles) All Blue Chop companies.” She pats her handbag, satisfyingly.

SANDRA       Looks at the shop assistant and whispers "she's got alzheimer's" a little too loudly, rotating her index finger over her ear at the same time. She points at her granny, then sticks her tongue out the corner of her mouth to symbolise her madness.

GRANNY      “Don’t whisper dear, it’s rude. (Pause) Have you got shares in Sainsbury’s?  Pause. The assistant looks worried as there is a large queue of people waiting to be served. Sandra will help you out won’t you Sandra?” She looks up at Sandra, smiling again. She’s expensive mind, but very determined. What is it you say about Stockbrokers? The difference between stockbrokers and Pawnbrokers?”

SANDRA       Looking resigned to humiliation. Said in a deadpan way, smiling thinly “Stock brokers have more balls.”

GRANNY      “More balls.”  Granny starts laughing. “More balls, get it?”

                        A couple of people snigger behind her. One person coughs impatiently.

                        Another starts sighing very loudly.

SANDRA       “That’s it!” Sandra snaps. Do you wants some ruddy bacon or what Gran? Granny looks worried; she shakes her head timidly. I’m sure these people have genuine requests for food, unlike you. You, on the other hand are quite happy making a fool of yourself and me. (Shouting) Does anyone want to buy a loony old lady? She’s low maintenance. Just plonk her in front of the telly and feed her chocolate biscuits, you won’t hear a peep out of her. Isn’t that right Granny?

GRANNY      Quietly, lowering her head. “I think I need the loo.”

SANDRA       “Oh I forgot. If you don’t ration the cups of tea she’ll ruin your expensive three piece, won’t you granny?” Granny looks upset. The onlookers look uneasy. No takers? Well, we’d better try somewhere else then. She starts to wheel Granny away. Hmm, perhaps there’s a batty old lady bin next to the bottle bank.”

GRANNY      Looks back at the assistant. “That Cheddar looked nice”

Swap

Why can’t eyes be fingers?

No need for a nervy stare

Just a soft tap

On someone’s wrist

To see if they care

Why can’t tears be laughter?

Daft as it sounds, it could work.

Mourners would laugh themselves silly at the graveside

And hopeless romantics could ditch the Kleenex

In favour of some special corset

Before sitting down to watch a laughie.

Why can’t hate be love?

Divorce would end in marriage

And all the tyrants and despots

On the planet

Would be canonised by the Pope on Sundays.

Why can’t death be life?

So the crowd gathered

Around my sister’s mini

Clapped and whistled her into this world,

Not stared her into the next.