Blind Date

Perhaps Sam's Mum was right after all? Where was the harm in joining a local club or society? He could meet people,with a shared common interest, and in a fairly none-threatening environment. He started listing all his hobbies and interests.

1.  Walking (uphill and down dale type of walking) not everyday stuff.

2.  Films (ones with directors and actors I admire)

3.  Photography

4.  Fine dining

He stopped writing and had a serious flashback. This was almost identical to his personal profile in all of those wretched dating sites. He remembered staring at the little empty box wondering how best to fill it. The prompts didn’t exactly help either.

Try to be spontaneous. Sell yourself (in no more than 400 characters.)

He’d felt inadequate and under pressure all at the same time. Reading other victims offerings didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. Apparently, a ‘fun loving’ female wasn’t someone who spent their days in a perpetual state of glee rushing from one hilarious activity to another with selfless abandon. For some reason, Sam thought of voluptuous clowns on trampolines, bouncy castles and water chutes - none of which he’d had the opportunity to try. Fun loving also had an easy, slutty connotation, which certain women would immediately distance themselves from.

I love to have fun, but not in an uncomplicated sex kind of way!

This confused Sam even more. He wondered why website moderators didn’t ban the use of the phrase altogether, unless it was accompanied by a full and detailed explanation of the type of ‘fun’ they loved to partake of. Another phrase that irritated him was ‘I have a great circle of friends’ which Sam translated as ‘I’m alone in a tiny, damp flat with more cats than I can count’.

Then there were the women who’d recently emerged from a bad relationship; damaged and bitter as gall dipped in acid. They underlined, highlighted or capitalised all the things they would not tolerate in a man (again) 

NO LIARS

NO SEX ADDICTS

NO SHREKS CLAIMING TO BE GEORGE FRIGGIN CLOONY’S

NO PETROL HEADS

AND ABSOLUTELY NO TIME WASTERS!

Sam concluded that such women had no intention of dating. They just saw the site as a succession of vengeful kicks to the male genitalia.

After filling in all the required fields in the questionnaire Sam’s index finger had hovered over the send button like a despot with second thoughts. He pictured lines of vultures with women’s faces all waiting for his pulse of digitised nonsense to knock them off their perches. Janice from Barnsley was the first candidate. She sent an ice breaker 45 minutes later:

Hi Sam. You look nice. Is the photo recent? I can’t stand men who publish their school photo lol. Anyway, just thought I’d say hi xx

Sam immediately clicked on Janice’s thumbnail image and thought it a bit odd that both boa constrictors were in focus, but Janice’s face was all fuzzy. When he asked for a picture minus the snakes she never replied. Apparently, Lol’s and xx’s were de rigueur on dating sites. Sam preferred to be actually funny than just stick a lol at the end of a sentence. Xx’s only really bothered him if there were more than 10. Some correspondents included more xx’s than words which made Sam wonder if they had Parkinson’s or epilepsy. He only felt comfortable leaving single x’s on the third or fourth email.

IM’s (instant messages) stressed him the most. These rapid fire conversations were quite dangerous as they never gave him time to compose a scintillating reply or lie through his teeth. Colleen from Scunthorpe had started sexting him, whether under the influence of drugs, alcohol or a group of girls all shouting ‘go on, I dare you!”. She even sent him a picture of her full bosomed torso with a brief message underneath

‘Go on then’ perplexed Sam. Was it simply a case of quid pro quo, or did she want him to up the ante?  She re-sent it a couple of minutes later, just as he was positioning his mobile on the mantelpiece at chest height. While he employed the services of Photoshop to darken his greying chest hairs she sent a third message

Sucker!

This turned Sam off dating sites for a few days. He decided that most of the genuine lonely hearts were being swamped by hoards of mendacious women who merely wanted to insult, embarrass or tease the gullible and vulnerable. After about a week of wondering who, if anyone had ‘viewed’ his profile he went back on-line determined not to be dragged into any more no-hope scenarios. Surprisingly, 40 women had looked at his profile, of which ten had indicated they wished to meet him. He clicked on the shortlist and set about whittling these down to a more manageable two or three.

Once he’d blocked Colleen from Scunthorpe and discounted four for no pictures, he was left with five. Of these five, two fitted the ‘recently divorced but up for it’ profile so that left three possibles. The first, Tracy from Stoke said she loved Indie films and had a passion for metaphysical poetry. The only downside was her love of Formula 1 racing which she devoted three paragraphs and several pit-side pictures to. Formula 1 was anathema to Sam. This stemmed from a private nursing job he’d taken a few years before, looking after Frank Williams. While all the screaming fans waved their tiny flags from the grandstands he sat alone in one of the rest rooms plugged into his personal hi-fi

Kath a.k.a Sugarbabe47 from Buxton seemed nice enough. To test the water he swallowed hard and started chatting with her. Kath chatted a lot. She liked cooking and loved food. Her profile pic was three years old but she assured Sam that since then Weight Watchers had worked its magic on her. Before long they were texting and Instant Messaging like crazy. Kath was very adept at proper texting while Sam preferred normal syntax. She used all the lingo, a lot of which Sam didn’t fully understand, but for every one of her LMAO’s and LOL’s he sent double the amount back. A week later she suggested they meet up for coffee at her local cafe in Buxton.

At first Sam thought this was a bad idea. He felt ok doing these low-risk cyber exchanges where the worst thing that could happen was a misintentioned comment or an internet hissy fit. An actual face to face filled him with dread because of his deep-seated desperation issues. He’d also created a safe, cosy image of a short, buxom lady who sat in her large leather armchair doing cryptic crosswords and researching recipes. She was blond with rosy cheeks and a kind motherly face. He liked to think she had a Persian cat on her lap most of the time and stroked it as she chatted to him.

What if she didn’t like me? What if the second she laid eyes on me she knew the chatty, confident cyber-me was all artifice and lies!

This was one of the many drawbacks of living alone - No one to reassure you; no one to give you feedback or bring you down to earth with a double dose of reality. Most of all there was no one to give you a hug when all else failed. Sam desperately needed someone to offer a little outsiders perspective - But who? He could phone his Dad? He’d still be up, forcing himself to stay awake until his night sedation (whisky) had kicked in. After all, a half-pissed Dad was better than no Dad at all. Sam dialled the number on his ancient bedside phone and waited.

     “Hello, Dad?” The voice on the end of the phone was a bit slurry.

     “Sam? Hello son. What’s up? Are you all right?” In the background Sam could hear a group of violins ramping up the tension in a late night horror film.

     “I know it’s late, but could I ask your advice about something?” There was a slight pause while his Dad took the whisky tumbler off his chest and placed it on a flat surface.

     “Er, yeah. If its food related though, I’d leave it for your Mum, in the morning?”

     “No it’s not food. I, I’ve met this woman.”

     “Is she rich?”

     “Dunno. Well, the thing is I said I’d meet her in Buxton, for a coffee.”

     “I thought you said you’d already met her?”

     “I have, on-line. Doesn’t that count?”

     “Gotta be careful son. She could be a twenty stone agoraphobic mummy’s boy, or a twelve year old girl. What’s she look like?

     “Ok, ordinary. She’s not a super-model if that’s what you mean.”

     “We’ve been chatting on line for a few weeks and she says she wants to meet me, in the flesh.”

     “Go for it. If I were you though, I’d have a back-up plan.”

     “What d’ya mean?”

     “Well, if she’s a troll or a manic depressive you need some sort of rapid exit strategy. One of the guys down the club met this girl on-line. Everything seemed fine and dandy until they met. She was huge. Not just regular huge - sofa in a dress huge. Anyway, before he met her he asked one of his mates to ring him after ten minutes to see if he wanted out.

     “Did it work?”

     “Yeah, He told the troll he had an emergency at home and left. I could be your wing man if you want?”

     “Erm, ok. I’m meeting her at 10am on Thursday.”

     “I’ll ring you at 10:30. You never know she might be kosher”

     “Thanks Dad. Love to Mum. Goodnight.”

Sam replaced the receiver slowly, as though he was returning a baby bird to its nest. He turned off the light and let the sounds of the cars lull him to sleep.

The next morning he texted Kath to confirm he was still on for Thursday. She joked about wearing a red carnation and Sam had to stop himself saying that he’d be easy to spot with a look of desperation tinged with terror. He spent the next three hours scouring his wardrobe for suitable attire. He settled for a shortlist of three outfits which he paraded before his parents when they came for their weekly snoop later that day.

His Zoolander impression left them cold as neither one of them had seen it nor particularly wanted to. His Mum was a bit of a prude when it came to films and Sam often joked about her propensity for innocuous animated classics such as Snow White and The Lion King. He gave up trying to educate her when she explained that the world was a violent, unholy place and she needed her regular dose of harmless escapism to cope with it all.

She convinced him to go with the sports jacket, flowery shirt and designer jeans ensemble assisted by an elbow-in-the-ribs ‘lovely’ from his Father. Before returning to his grey leisure suit he did a little twirl in front of the long bedroom mirror and thought he looked a little too James May and not enough James Bond for his liking.

The Met Office website had assured Sam that Thursday would be bright and cold with a slight risk of rain, late in the day. Thursday had other ideas. The weather was (to quote his mother) ‘proper lighthouse weather’ consisting of horizontal rain/sleet and gale force winds. As he didn’t possess a smart raincoat he was forced to don his lime green cagoule with detachable rain hood. There was no celebratory twirl this time, just a resigned sideways sigh in the small hall mirror before he set off for his rendezvous with Kath. Sam chased the retreating storm over to Buxton. The clouds were so low, like a slow pilgrimage of ghosts, their dripping mantles trailing rain in their wake.  

He parked the car in his favourite free spot, down a side road next to the Pavilion Gardens. The rain had stopped so he took off the Day-Glo obscenity and folded it over his arm. He chose the slightly longer walk through the park, to gather his thoughts and do a spot of deep breathing. While Sam rehearsed his lines and reviewed his relationship to date, his more nervous alter-ego walked on ahead mumbling like a drunk and fluffing his lines.

At the park entrance he stopped and wondered if he should just text Kath with an apology. She was bound to see through him.

     “Oh fuck it!” he announced and walked across the road and into the café. He spotted Kath straight away, sitting in her bright red coat, shaking the rain from her blue and yellow plastic brolly.  As he snaked through the tightly packed tables and chairs he wondered if Weight Watchers had a ‘no thin- no fee’ clause in their contract. Kath stopped shaking and smiled nervously.

     “You came then? Lousy weather”

     “I know. You been waiting long?” Sam could see by the six empty coffee cups she’d either stayed overnight or the waitress had forgotten to clear.

     “D’you want another?”

     “No, no I’m fine with this thanks.” She held up the large cup with both hands like a budding Oliver Twist. Sam ordered his large latte and sat down opposite, taking in the homemade heart tattoo on her right wrist as well as the closely bitten nails flecked with pink varnish.

     “Do you live in Buxton?” A millisecond after asking he remembered she did and bit his lip.

     “Yeah, just round the corner actually. This is my local haunt. Coffee’s good anyway.”  His coffee arrived and Sam was tempted to clink cups and say cheers. He settled for a loud slurp and a frothy tash. She was right; the coffee was good if a bit strong.

     “You’re right. The coffee is good.” Was this how it was going to be? He felt like someone at a team building event being asked to deliver a 10 minute lecture on the coffee bean.

     “Are you working today?” said Sam, feeling his enthusiasm draining away with each mouthful of coffee.

     “I’m always at work.” She patted her swollen Filofax and took another noisy swig of coffee. Sam had a brief flashback concerning his ex and her unwavering determination to tut or comment every time he made any noise whatsoever whilst eating or drinking. He remembered how an argument had sprung up when Sam refused to back down, saying ‘everybody makes some noise when they drink. You must be a freak!”

     “You’re back then?” said Kath waving her hand in front of Sam’s face.

     “Sorry. You’ll have to excuse me. I do drift off now and again”. He felt a sudden buzz in his trouser pocket and jumped up.

     “You all right?” Sam showed her his vibrating mobile, grinning like a simpleton and mimed ‘excuse me.’ He walked over to the door and took the call.

     “Hello.”

     “Hi Son. Is it thumbs up or down?”

     “Oh dear. Is she all right?”

     “Never mind. Plenty more fish…” Sam ended the call before his Dad could finish and popped the phone back in his pocket. He checked his reflection in the side of the coffee machine and rifled through his memories for something suitably traumatic. The random selection threw out a phone call from his Dad informing him that his Sister had been killed in a road accident near their house. Sam re-checked his face in the polished stainless steel. Even though the creased metal surface distorted his features he could still vaguely make out a look of dazed disbelief. This would have to do. He took a deep breath, turned round and walked back to the table.

Kath was busy checking her texts. As he gripped his chair with both hands she looked up.

     “What’s up? Is it bad news?”

     “Erm yeah. Mum’s not well. It’s, it’s a long standing thing” He managed to stop himself from saying chemo or relapse. He felt like an actor auditioning for the lead in some crappy ‘B’ Movie about a middle-aged widower coming to terms with grief and separation. Sam had assured the casting director he needed to save his tears for the next big scene where he explained to his three children that Mummy had gone to a better place.

     “It was nice to meet you Kath.”

     “And you Sam.” He turned to leave and she called after him

     “Wait! I’m leaving as well. Some crisis at the shop.” Sam paid for all the coffees and wasn’t sure whether to kiss or shake hands. Kath beat him to it, pulling him down to her height, planting a big wet one on both cheeks. She smelled of garlic and imperial Leather and Sam wondered if these were shop freebies. He felt a draft of cool air at the back of his neck and heard the doorbell chime. Not a modern synthesised beep, one of those ancient ‘Open all hours’ affairs. He fought the urge to smile and say ‘saved by the bell’.

     “I think someone’s trying to get your attention.” Said Kath, pointing behind him. Sam turned round and felt his jaw drop at least three inches.

     “Hello stranger. Your Dad’s been trying to ring you. I told him you’re probably in a black spot. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?”

     “Hi. Hi Mum”      

Symmetry

Trace a line down the middle,

Bisecting eye and nose.

Take a reading,

with callipers

on a graduated scale

and compare

with statistics

too long out of date.

Note the fullness of lips

anchored by a smile,

and predict the wear and tear

of countless pouts

at fashion shows,

and photo shoots.

Persuade her to

take a Polygraph test,

of sorts,

seen through Dr Nikon's eyes.

let the lens pose the questions

and the face tell the lies.

A glimpse into the writers mind

SENSES

The following sensory diary was written after attending an Arvon Writing Workshop in the Summer of ‘93’. This proved to be a very productive period in my life, where I completed numerous short stories, poems and novellas. I am now re-visiting this early writing to see if it’s worth saving.

Rain

(a)When the rain hits the leaves they seem to twitch with either anticipation or excitement. The first few drops offer the most tantalising sight; thereafter the foliage becomes alive in a shaking, fibrillating frenzy. After the shower has passed, the greenery appears to be of a more intense colour as if the rain had washed away the dust or weariness of the day. Perhaps the rain is like richly scented cologne on naked green skin.

(b) Strong cold wind in the eyes, blurring my vision slightly, onion stings my

eyes.

Poplars - in the wind

As I was driving along the road I passed the city crematorium grounds on my right. There is a large, neatly manicured lawn that slopes down to the road, where children play and old men take there even older dogs for walks. On the top of this lawn stands a line of about ten or twelve poplar trees. When the wind passes through them they look like enormous ostrich feathers plunged into earthy inkwells, but what will they write and why. Are they Gods pens perhaps?

Sunsets - various

Now here is a topic that could occupy an eternity. Last night I observed one that was a real show stopper. I had just taken a walk around West port Lake with my beloved, Nadine *now ex-beloved* The sun was like the glowing end of a molten glass rod drawn through a pool of quicksilver. The after- glow was also beautiful. A sort of powder pink and blue, redolent of the very first blush of colour in a ripe nectarine or peach that mottles its velvet skin. The clouds were like gossamer-spun candy floss bruises. Another addition to the bunch, I witnessed a low level one this evening that reminded me of barley sugars or perhaps amber almost iridescent. Yet another one, this time a slit or nick in the clouds flesh-sunlight oozing through, narrow but bright. The clouds behind grey and dense. A slashed sack of Maize spilling out through the clouds. The sun ploughing a furrow through the clouds.

Heat Haze

Whilst walking up park hall hills today I saw the heat haze over towards Werrington. It looked as if the sky's' stockings had fallen down. The density of the haze was such that it reminded me of a cross between smoke and steam beautifully diffuse and fine.

Double - sided leaves

Some trees have leaves that are varnished green on one side and silvery grey on the other. This is especially noticeable when the wind moves them. The silvery colour is achieved by the presence of thousands of little hairs or papilla on the underside of the leaf reflected in sunlight. Possible title of poem could be "grey-haired trees".

Buttercups in fields

From a distance the buttercups seem to be in suspension, like frozen golden snow or yellow frog spawn. There green stems disappear in the emerald sea around them. The yellow petals blow like spume on a green sea. Possible title for a poem could be Yellow, or the colour of summer

Summer storms

luminescent glow of light. weight of swollen clouds pressing down. Eerie anticipation. First clap of thunder count the seconds to a flash. Headache, fear, Absence of nature’s vocal chords i.e. bird song etc.

A Day on my own

It’s funny sometimes, when you have a day by yourself, away from friend’s relations and loved ones. You don't necessarily have to go anywhere to be on your own though. Today I was not with anyone at all, I went to see a movie called "falling down'' starring Michael Douglas. It described a man literally falling down or to put it another way 'cracking up' under tremendous personal, economical, and physical pressure. It was filmed in Los Angeles - a multi-racial or cosmopolitan city gripped by social and moral decay. The main character confronts certain issues, namely racial, sexual, social etc. He is in a way the feeble spanner thrust into the machine. After seeing this social indictment I visited Pizza Hut and ate alone. I felt angry and sad all at once. The film had left its sad, sad dirty mark on me. I wonder what it takes to do the same?

FINE RAIN

Yesterday the rain fell like dew. Its descent was slow like snow, moving around like house dust in bright sunlight. It stuck to everything like a fine mist and was probably one step away from it. Possible title of poem could be "Dew fall".

ARVON

Cobweb bullet holes, possible title for poem could be ARACHNID MAFIOSO. Fleshy creases in hillsides where water has collected and run off to form streams. All pervading smell of peaches and plums. Preserving in general REDOLENT OF JAMMING. Absence of noise. Ravine, Deep heather producing purple pollen like gas. Steep climb up track gradient of at least one in three. Public house relaxed and friendly. HORSES BITING EACH OTHER. nibbling necks folding their heads together, the beginning of a knot. Cobbled teeth worn down possible title for poem could be Midnight Cobbles describing how the downtrodden cobbles come alive at night. Cats, relief from stress and springboard for the senses, proliferation in town. Past poems adorn the walls of Arvon possible title for poem could be Wallpaper doodling. Pauline Melville’s reading previous book called SHAPE SHIFTERS. Chimneys in the ravine were once silk factories they look like enormous worm castes. Spring water. Collective meals. Group members themselves reluctant to divulge any personal details at all, only glimpse into their psyche with pieces of poetry read out. Confiding in anybody may weaken their poetical armour. SLUGS as big as sausages. Bilberries miniature toffee apples. Midge’s airborne itching powder.

HEATHER

While walking the dog up Park hall hills I was confronted by an enormous sprawling birthmark of heather coloured deep purple. As I got closer the brightness intensified reminding me of new snow in bright sunlight. I also had that slightly nauseous and irritated feeling one associates with    peeling onions. When I started to walk through the stuff I was surprised by how springy it was. The colour was wood pigeon-breast purple. the stems looked like bottle brushes. PURPLE FLIES on woody stems. Steep incline sinking nipple high damp underneath. Hiding rocks and other obstacles. Possible title for poem could be Heather blindness.

TELEVISION TEARS

Possible title for poem concerning my father who is upset by televisual emotions. Medal ceremonies, tributes to sportsmen. CLASSIC COMEDY. News reports etc. etc. Grieving for my sister who died four years ago.

SKYSCAPES

Just a few to be going on with. Milky blue sky when the clouds look partially dissolved in the blueness, a bit like milk in tea. The clouds were stippled white and grey across the ceiling of blue. Last night the moon was nestling in oily/singed clouds .Like a torch light shining through burnt muslin. The night sky was a lovely rich damson colour.

SEASON CHANGES- (growing old)

Whilst walking up the pine forest today I was seized with a feeling of sadness at the passing of the seasons. I suppose this mirrored my own self-denial of my age and fragile existence. There was also a dread of having achieved absolutely nothing and having contributed nothing to the world. Nadine looked lovely in a borrowed barber jacket from my mother. She complained of the cold wind causing her earache and pulled the high collar upwards to shield her ears. She also wore those high heeled bootees, and kept losing her footing on the uneven terrain. possible title for poem could be autumn’s pull.

CLOUDS

1. At sunset there appeared a sort of red powder haze over Longton. It was as if the Sun had beat a track towards the horizon sending up clouds of red dust as it went. Further away from the sun the clouds were at least four or five subtle shades of red. Like a small fire on a frozen lake viewed from below.

2. White clouds like spirals of dough stretched out across a blue table.

WATER ON THE LAND

1. Water running off the pine woods, leaving beautiful crescents of debris and pine needles (miniature dams)

2. Water on the land - adding a new dimension to nature, self-examination or looking glass.

3. Frozen run off water resembling glue paste or wallpaper paste.

4. Melting ice on lake made a half-squeaking-half-sighing sound. Boiled sweet appearance. (Whale Talk?)

5. Walking on the snow on hard ground reminded me of a creaking crepitation similar to arthritic bones. Frosty earth like the crust on a pie. Light snow like desiccated coconut.

6. This morning at George's *private patient, now deceased* I was struck by the appearance of the wallflowers and assorted vegetation in his back garden. It resembled threads pulled or tugged through a white cushion. On the way back through Hulme, the roads were flooded, and the recent lying snow was being washed away. The snow looks bluey white in the early dawn, almost minty. Its phosphorescent glow is quite beautiful.

7. Whilst driving in the car to I don't remember where there was a sudden fall of snow. Because the heater was directed at the windscreen the snow melted fairly quickly. It looked like tiny paw prints on the glass that exploded after a second or two. ''The snow lay there like a second chance''.

8. on a similar vein I remember watching the rain run down the window in my bedroom. The window looked as if it was bleeding or sweating with the water running down in vein like lines. The window bled rain.

9. Possible title for a poem or short story could be HAWK PRINT after the incident when I saw the perfectly reproduced print of a kestrel or sparrow hawk on the outside of the  bedroom window. It only lasted a few days.

10. Whilst walking in the pine forest I noticed a wind torn branch. It stood out very clearly, green white against the dense pine trees.

11. Whilst driving home from Nadine’s the other night I saw a tiny crescent of Moon. It looked like a brass lock flap almost shut, just showing a sliver of light (the moon).

12. On the fields at the back of our house I saw a burned out car. The charred metal reminded me of old ladies eye shadow, like a bruise.

13. Whilst walking up the pine forest with Ma and Pa on Sunday I noticed the light invading the forest was like drips of paint running down a wall.

14. Reading Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy, we discussed a character called Sue Bridehead. She is a very mixed up person and is sexually and spiritually repressed. I coined a phrase to describe her saying that she was like a “PALETTE FOR THE EMOTIONS''.

15. Sadness personified by STANDING HORSES, facing each other at odd angles. they look so forlorn and unhappy.

16. Ideas for poems or stories as follows:

(a) THE ACME THUNDERER. Story about a boy who upsets guardsmen at the station by blowing his whistle at the wrong time, and at a football match to bamboozle the referee.

(b) Vagrants and street people - suitable title could be, faded smiles, faded lives. This struck me on a visit to Manchester the other day where the street people behaved like tired out toys with defective batteries.

(b)BOOK SHOP BLUES. whilst in "Waterstones'' in Manchester the other day I suffered terrible neck ache and hunger pains after spending nearly two hours in the shop. They should make provisions for Aroma therapists or Masseurs. Oh and at the very least a vending machine.

(c) Story about a very realistic baby doll in Farnborough, when the mother picked it up by its head and I was mortified, to say the least. I rushed over to her thinking that she was abusing her child.

SINKING IN THE BATH

On the outward train journey to London yesterday I had an idea about using an experience to illustrate the feelings of grief:

When you've finished taking a bath and your body is suitably relaxed try this simple exercise. Stay as still as possible and wind the plug chain round your big toe until the line is tort. Yank the plug out and flick it over the tap or bath tray, whichever is easiest. Then, just lie there and close your eyes while the water level recedes. As the water disappears your body becomes heavier and heavier. Your arms descend to the bottom of the bath, while the rest of you sinks lower and lower. It is a very odd feeling, particularly with eyes closed. Eventually, when all the water has gone you feel about three times as heavy as you should, your body is suctioned to the vitreous enamel or fibre glass bottom. A metaphor for grief perhaps? A lifetimes fall, into what?

Jewish Lady

On the return journey I met a Jewess. She suggested that I stretch out my legs on the aisle side of the table while she splayed hers around the table leg. I could see that I had drawn the short straw when all the hungry passengers strode towards the buffet car in the next carriage. I was forced to adopt a slow motion Cossack dance, drawing my legs in and out as the people passed. She had the most wonderful face and mannerisms. She reminded me of a Sawn-off Howard Jacobson, with the lugubrious eyes of Clement Freud. Her engagement ring was truly of planetary proportions, no so much catching the light but captivating it. Her voice had that wavering in-between key, as if her voice hadn't yet broke, with a slow deliberate cadence. I acted as translator for all the garbled in train announcements while she offered me the use of her Daily papers.

Train Movements.

As I looked through to the next carriage all the sideways movement seemed greatly exaggerated. It seemed impossible to remain seated, never mind attempt a trip to another part of the train.

 Complexion

A face like a new apple, waxy and green

Murder Ideas

1.  Using a kettle to kill someone, by filling it with some inflammable liquid like meths or acetone. Informing the relatives that it is defective and you keep replacing the fuses. Practicing at home with different substances to achieve the perfect, untraceable method.

George

Conversation used to illustrate his stubbornness and idleness:

George ----- "You know, these blue pants I put on this morning are cutting me in two''

Simon ---- Would you like me to get you a new pair, George?''

George ---- "No its all right I'll suffer.''

Grandmothers' quotes

Whilst watching my Grandmother having lunch with us she commented on how the picture of my Sister Samantha was crooked. This upset my mother. Old people dwell on death 

Cats

When a cat is relaxed and sleepy you can mould it into any shape like a lump of clay, putty, or even plasticine.

Fields in winter

Up the hills (Park hall) I noticed that the clumps of grass were like the bristling angry ruffs on a dog’s neck.

Catching Up

I met an old pal, Nige Manning yesterday, over a Costa coffee. 30 odd years had elapsed since we last met, but it felt as though one of us had just popped out to fetch the paper, while the intervening years compressed into minutes. The best relationships dissolve time quicker than a soluble aspirin, and allow us to carry on where we left off without the impediments of jealousy, social convention and one-upmanship.

We traded memories about our time in Staffs Police Cadet force, each filling in the gaps made by the other. My present circumstances, being unemployed, skint and single didn’t seem to matter, even though Nige had risen through the police ranks, gotten married and had two sons. It would have been easy to embellish my own chequered past, or to omit the catalogue of personal traumas and apply a thin sheen of success over everything, but I didn’t. It felt ok to talk about our own private battles at home or at work. No matter how we dress up our lives, or airbrush our experiences there are always shared incidents or parallel circumstances that conspire to pull down our pants and laugh hysterically.

It is these common denominators that cement the best friendships. None of us wants to feel alone, stupid or worthless, so by playing the game of ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ we quickly realise that no matter how much our lives seem to change, essentially we are all the same. Given enough time and enough practice, anyone can bullshit their way through life. It is only when we interact with like-minded individuals that our true selves emerge from the dark recesses of our minds, sighing and stretching like dozing ghosts.

We’ve all dreaded those moments when we meet old school mates, praying that their open gambit won’t embarrass or humiliate us, especially if our own version of past events bears no comparison with theirs. I attended an Army reunion last year shortly after I’d lost my job, my wife and my sanity. On the journey over to Shrewsbury I practised all manner of alternate histories, searching for that note of authenticity amongst a plethora of lies and overblown successes. In the end I just fronted-up and told my old nursing buddies the truth. Most of them were sympathetic, a couple smiled thinly and stared into their respective glasses, but nobody sought to patronise or offer up some quick-fix panacea.

It seems that, for the most part, honesty is usually the best policy. I suspect that most people can smell bullshit at fifty paces and those that can’t are usually too steeped in it themselves to notice.   

Long Embrace (Two enormous branches rub together in a gale)

Two aged limbs embrace.

The beginnings of a rope unravel

sharing weight and purpose,

Old comrades, propped up like drunks 

touch and talk

shout insults at the wind,

rusty tugs with hawsers crossed - heaving hard.

A sylvan snake uncoils,

mummified with moss

and laced with lichen shrouds

A treetop conductor raises his baton,

the waiting wind clears her throat.

No soothing oils to stop the sound

no bandages to staunch the sap of boughs brought close

No frictions flame to cauterize the wound a wind-forced union,

weeps without eyes

A kissing game played out on bark-burned lips

crudely copied

by carefree,

rootless creatures

From Pills to Pilsener

The other day I was out with a friend in Burslem, when the heavens opened. So, brolly-less and dripping we dashed into the nearest shop for cover. Isn't it strange how happenstance can step in to liven up an otherwise unremarkable afternoon? The shop in question was The Beer Emporium. I was greeted by the smiling face of Yvonne Davies - one half of a wife and husband partnership. We exchanged platitudes about the capricious weather and August monsoon before I began to take in my new surroundings. From ground to ceiling were stacked gaily labelled bottles of lager and beer from all over Europe and beyond. As I moved around, the floor had that reassuring well-trodden creak and I could smell just a hint of beeswax coming from the tiers of 19^th century oak shelving.

            This was a traditional pub without a bar. Not the wretched themed variety festooned with rusting farm implements suspended from the roof by 'invisible' fishing wires or 'just-stitched' Victorian swags and tassels coated in drifts of fresh plaster. No, this was the real McCoy. I half expected the owner to say "What'll it be stranger? I aint seen you round these parts before."  Well, she might have asked me that if I was starring as a cowboy in a Wild West movie. As it was she sold me a bottle of blackcurrant flavoured 'lady lager' for my wife and a medal winning Weiss bier (wheat beer) called Erdinger for yours truly. After a couple of minutes her husband appeared with his aged Golden Labrador in tow and the whole Beer Emporium saga unfolded.

            Serendipity it seems is contagious. Steve Davies told me how he had passed the shop less than five months ago on the way to watch Port Vale play at home. He and his wife were looking for a place in South Cheshire to showcase rare bottled ales and lagers. They had never even considered Burslem as a location, but were intrigued by the half-hidden period charm of the property with its artex covered arches and abandoned wooden cases. Steve telephoned the landlord straight away who happened to live in Alsager, a stone’s throw from their own home. He quickly put in an offer which was duly accepted.

            The couple's appreciation of unusual beers and lagers stems from a lifelong love of walking when they and their three daughters would embark on countywide treks gathering elderberries, sloes and blackberries to use in homemade wines. Backroom brewed stouts and Elderflower wines 'blupp-blupped' into life in huge glass Demijohns stowed beneath towels in the family's airing cupboard. This was far removed from their previous job as employees in a clothing distribution centre in Chesterton where logistics and profit margins were the order of the day.

            Once Steve and Yvonne had 'gutted' the interior of the shop they   slowly began to reveal its business lineage. Apparently, in the early nineteenth century it was a large chemist, until the late 1960's when high-heeled fashion teetered onto the scene, in the name of 'Jeanette's boutique'. Shortly afterwards it ditched the stilettos in favour of  locally  produced 'Wade Pottery 'who took over before its  eventual demise in the late seventies, whereupon the place was boarded up and left to sleep awhile. To compliment the oak-clad interior the couple installed genuine cider apple crates and wooden egg boxes which they inverted and used as shelving.

            The original apothecary's display cabinet holds some of the Beer Emporiums headline acts, such as 'Samichlaus Bier', an Austrian brew which tops the bill at a stupefying 14% and is claimed to be the strongest lager in the world. Although the shop sells predominantly Belgian and Austrian varieties there are also examples from little known micro-breweries such as ' Goose Island ' and 'Brooklyn Pale Ale' in the USA . They even stock a fiery 6% ginger beer brewed by the Marble Brewery in Manchester .  Because of the owners fair trade considerations all of the regions local breweries share equal shelf space. 'Titanic', and 'Leek' beers sit side by side near the business end of the shop, as does the prestigious 'Slater's' ale from Stafford which is consumed at Westminster.  'Beowulf' brewery produces 'Dragon Smoke Stout' complete with fire breathing beast and sword-touting hero emblazoned on the label.

To celebrate Burslem's history three special beers were commissioned for the shop. These are Mother Town Cream Stout - a dark and complex brew,  Bursley Bitter - a wonderfully light and hoppy thirst quencher, and Molly's Tipple which is a 4.8% malty Ruby Ale commemorating the legend of Burslem's only witch, Molly Lee who was laid to rest in the nearby churchyard.

            When Steve and Yvonne aren't researching up-and-coming varieties on the net they're out and about scouting for new talent. They know only too well the perils of operating in a niche market and with this in mind they feel they need to offer the public little known Marques such as the Blythe Brewery in South Staffordshire.  This is a small family run outfit that eschewed the advances of a major supermarket because they felt they would lose their regular client base and end up operating in a fickle price-squeezed marketplace.

According to Steve "Instead of preserving our important buildings the local urban regeneration scheme seems to work on a bulldoze and start again principle". Yvonne wonders if the Beer Emporium is "a bit too niche for Burslem". I would argue that its Victorian black and white facade is by neighbouring standards a little anonymous and, if they wish to attract more customers they need to be a bit more creative in their marketing and promotion. Burslem isn't a particular wealthy area with new businesses coming and going like salesmen overnighting at a B&B. Beer doesn't have the glamorous image as say wine, although if you believe the effusive tasting notes on the back of some none-vintage plonk you'd think the vineyard had discovered the elixir of life.

            The Davies's have a dream that Burslem should one day return to its halcyon days when it was an important commercial and cultural centre. For this resurrection to take place they need more like-minded people, preferably with significant financial clout to push for cultural preservation and not urban decimation. For now, they are content to fly the local flag - albeit with a little extra help from their friends. Only Last week Steve telephoned a couple of associates Paul & Carol who were enjoying their caravanning holiday in Bridport with a plea to bring back a couple of cases from 'Palmers Brewery' nearby. They duly obliged and it was on the shelves the following week. This kind of 'low-carbon-footprint-free-trade initiative' has to be admired in a time when major distributors are slicing up the ozone every day. So, if like me you'd prefer to speak to a  couple of real enthusiasts and sample the complex brandy-like smoothness of a Trappist brew then pop into the Beer Emporium and drink in the ambience - oh, and tell them I sent you. 

Chasing the Storm

On a drive to Buxton,

chasing the storm

I felt I was coming back to myself.

The jammed-in jigsaw pieces 

re-ordered,  

A piece of sky swapped

for a piece of sun.

The clouds were so low  

a slow pilgrimage of ghosts,

mantles trailing rain in their wake.

Amid the palette of unending greys

Atoll’s of colour dimmed and flared

Trees, cows and fields

in full HD.

Leaves lent the wind flesh

to dance tarantellas on the grass

and dervish-like

spun crisp bags dry.

I swerved

to avoid the remains of a rabbit

pulped and pulverised into wet Papier Mache'

spread along three white lines

A loved-out cuddly toy

bloodless and unzipped.

Mind the Gap

As I walk to work, a fine rain is swirling about me. It coats everything and sticks to the pavements like sweat. When I turn the corner I half expect to see someone holding a giant aerosol can with RAIN EXTRA-FINE written on the side. There isn’t. I lower my umbrella and let the cool water droplets wash against my face. It quickly ages my cashmere Crombie coat from black and youthful to white and old, complete with fuzzy wet down.

Today is an excellent day for my Mother to venture outside. She suffers from an auto-immune condition called Sjogren’s syndrome which dries up her mucous membranes. She has difficulty swallowing, and her eyes don’t make enough tears. She says she had the symptoms for over two years before anyone put all the pieces together. Her dentist, a nice woman called Marion diagnosed her during a routine dental examination. She still sends her a birthday card and some flowers.

I won’t text her and tell her about the weather. She’s probably on the case anyway. Talking of cases, my Dad’s given me this old battered briefcase from when he was in the Navy. It makes me look like a businessman from the 1960’s- either that or a spy. I like the idea of being a spy. Although, I expect not many covert operatives are called upon to infiltrate the inner sanctum of Mind’s charity shop in the High Street. Not unless it’s some front for a terrorist cell or an organisation with a menacing acronym.

It does make me feel semi-important though. Mum says it completes my ensemble. She uses that word a lot when she’s watching Gok’s TV program. I do think my Crombie coat and briefcase lends me an air of authority and aloofness. Just the qualities one would expect in a Charity Shop Manager. My co-workers could learn a lot from my sartorial style, especially Darren who looks like he was born in his grubby black duffel coat and Hi-Leg German Paratrooper Boots. I know Margaret says he’s had ‘lots of problems’, but I still think he could dress better.      

I’m almost there now - just one steep hill and a cobbled street to negotiate. If I was in charge of roads and highways I’d ban cobbles altogether. Sure, they look pretty enough, and hark back to halcyon days of yore. I can’t believe I just said Yore, or for that matter halcyon. Cobbles belong in two places - automotive proving grounds and corny bread adverts. Anywhere else and they’re just foot-jarring monstrosities designed to trip and twist one’s ankle.

I can even feel them through my second-hand leather brogues. Before you say it, I did oven-bake them for two hours, (on the advice of Margaret) who says they came from a very respectable ex-Mason called Mr Sloane. She cherry-picked them for me, after I complimented her on her new elasticated jogging bottoms.

I hope there are lots of bin-liners sitting on the doorstep. Darren calls them Black Magic. Well, he would wouldn’t he. He’s obsessed with all things enchanted or Goblin related. Yesterday, during coffee break he bored me rigid with his account of a battle against the dark forces of Elfingor, and kept banging on about becoming some sort of Pink Wizard with a charmed unbreakable staff.  He got so animated and excited; you’d think he’d won the Lottery. Ten minutes later he’s sitting by the cash register, staring at his shoe laces and pulling hangnails.

Here we are. “Mind the gap!” I always say that when I step over the bags of donated clothes and shoes. No one gets it. Sometimes I even make two or three entrances just to see if anyone notices- they never do. It looks like Margaret’s already hard at work, looking for discarded doggy jumpers and fancy cat collars. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve told her people won’t donate pet-clothes to a mental health charity shop. I mean, when did you last see a Schizophrenic wearing a red kerchief embroidered with ‘Mommy’s little helper’?

I’d better give her a hand before she turns the place into a teenager’s bedroom.

          “Good Morning Margaret.”

          “Not yet.”

          “Excuse me?”

          “It’s not a good morning yet. I’ll tell you when it is.”

          “Ok. Do you fancy a coffee?”

          “We’re all out. Darren had the last cup this morning.” Darren likes his coffee. He says it helps him concentrate. If I consumed 12 to 15 cups of black sugary treacle, topped up with hot water I’m sure I’d concentrate myself into a cardiac arrest, or an ulcer, or both. I bet he sweats caffeine.

          “It’s lucky I bought my Aladdin Flask with me today.” This flask has been tested by the American armed forces and is guaranteed to work, even if you drop it from a height of five feet. The secret’s in the design - a stainless steel sleeve, surrounded by a vacuum, and definitely no glass. If I had a pound for every flask that’s failed the drop test. This morning, I filled it right up to the top. It will hold, (wait for it) seven mugs. And not your cheap, all china, and no mug mugs either. I’ve tested it. And no, I don’t work for Aladdin.

          “You take sugar, don’t you Margaret?”

          “Sweetener, half a sachet.”  Oh, I forgot, Margaret’s dieting. She generally diets every Wednesday morning after going to her Weight Watchers meeting every Tuesday night. By my reckoning she must be into her eighth year now. 

          “Where is Darren anyway?” I ask, tentatively.

          “He’s trying stuff on upstairs.” Oh crap! I’m not in the mood for Darren and his dressing up. Last Friday he decided it might be cool to try and put on all the new clothes at once. He said it required a lot of skill and meticulous planning to get the layering just right. He also said, “It’s no good squeezing into three Fair Isle cardy’s and then slipping on an M&S negligee. It won’t look or feel right.”  I couldn’t fault his logic. When he emerged from behind the changing curtain he looked like someone who’d rolled down a steep hill made of clothes, completely naked and covered in Super Glue. He said even though it was incredibly hot and suffocating he felt a sense of achievement at having accomplished the impossible. Margaret said a band of angry Grizzly Bears could attack him and he probably wouldn’t even notice. I wish she hadn’t said that because Darren started waddling out of the shop determined to find something savage to test her theory. Thankfully, he only made it twenty feet before the cobbles got him.

          “Morning Darren.”

          “Morning Peter.”

          “What do you think?” What do I think? I think if anyone other than myself and Margaret sees you dressed like this, they’ll more than likely call social services and the police.

          “Can I ask if this character has a name?” Please let it not be who I think it is?

          “Parvan the Pink of course. Do you like my staff? I Sellotaped three walking sticks together and used some old nail varnish for the business end – see?” 

          “Very Good Darren. Where did you find the robes?”

          “I found this big old nursing cape in the back room and modified it. Not bad eh?” The Paddington Bear wall clock behind the counter says eighty fifty five. Five minutes isn’t enough time to talk him out of his pink wizard get up. I’d better send him upstairs and hope he comes out of character before the regulars start coming in. Luckily, Margaret and I are on the same page and she gives Darren two heavy bags to sort through.

          “You know that scene in Fantasia…?” I have to stop him there, before he starts waving his staff around like some transvestite Harry Potter.

          “Just have a rummage through this lot, will your Darren? You never know you might find some sacred amulet to complete your ensemble,” (thanks Mum). Darren retreats to the rear of the shop and both Margaret and I set about opening up. I suspect the drizzle will bring people inside. You never know, there might be some genuine shoppers amongst all the moochers and malingerers. Yesterday an old lady (not a regular) had the temerity to try and haggle with me. The size 14 Debenhams skirt was only priced at £1.50p. She said the Homeless Cat place three doors down lets her haggle. Even when I explained about our ‘no haggle’ policy she just tutted and put the skirt back on the rail. I’d like to see her find a skirt for the same price in that smelly cat basket.

All the detritus is cleared away and the open sign is turned round. Margaret and I stand side by side in front of the till and wait, our arms folded and our backs straight. I always insist on this little ritual because I think it projects a certain air of efficiency and openness. Darren comes to join us; minus his wizard costume and for the first time I’m pleased to have a middle-aged, overweight, dishevelled German storm trooper at my side.

So here we all are. Ready to face another hectic day, filled with mystery and intrigue. The mystery bit is my favourite.  Some people prefer to dump their donations at the door and leave without saying a word. I like to think such people are the ‘recently bereaved’ and they probably feel sad enough already without announcing to all and sundry that they’ve ‘just popped in to drop off their dead Dad’s old suits’. Sometimes we find hospital I.D bracelets in the pockets, as well as half-eaten tubes of Mints. When this happens I try and picture the owner, full of life, striding down a street, sucking the life out of a menthol sweet. If I’m lucky enough to be in the vision I might say ‘Good Morning Mr Jones’ (if there’s an I.D bracelet). If not I just make one up.

You see, everything that comes through our door has a story to tell. From well-loved Teddy Bears to Magazine Racks. They’ve all been touched by humanity. Margaret says that we get the stuff no-one wants, but I disagree. I’m convinced that there are people out there, kind people who donate things because they want someone else to enjoy them as they have. It’s like when somebody brings in a pile of old books with notes pencilled in the margin and beautiful sentences underlined. They’re passing on a bit of themselves.

Only the other day, a frail, old gentleman bought in two pairs of ladies patent-leather dancing shoes. None of them had been worn. They were all tissue wrapped and boxed, in pristine condition. I could tell he only had one real leg because the other didn’t bend at the knee and he threw it out sideways when he walked. When he placed the boxes on the counter I noticed his right sleeve was partially rolled back. I could just make out two small numbers tattooed on his fore arm, in faded blue ink.