The hold up - quick story

Hello. Clara started her swimming lessons 3 weeks ago, and since Maria and Sonny used to go there they've introduced a new rule. Parents can no longer watch the little cuties learning to swim. Instead, the instructor has to tell us how good she was at jumping in without a float, how she dived to the bottom of the pool and gave someone a black eye when they tried to pinch her ball. Meanwhile, I have a little time to kill in the car. So today I wrote a little story, initially inspired by the news stories of people being trapped in cars because of sheet ice. The pen took over; I don't really recognise most of this story! Anyway, this might entertain you if you're really bored. Enjoy x

The Hold Up

Charlie stared at the three lines of traffic, red lights vanishing as motorists switched to the hand brake, resigning themselves to the wasted time ahead.

            ‘Shit, this is all we need. How far to our junction?’

            ‘Not far, but this traffic ain’t movin’. I think we’re here for the duration.’ Charlie lit a Marlboro light and passed the packet to Ahmed in the passenger seat. ‘Wind your window down, though, pal. Think my asthma’s playing up.’

            ‘OK. I’ll get on the phone to Benny. Let him know we’re stuck. You check the radio, see if you can get an update.’

            Charlie switched to a local station then heaved his heavy frame out onto the motorway tarmac, looking for movement amongst the huffing, impatient vehicles. Through the cold, thick air he struggled to identify any blue lights or fluorescent jackets, the warning signs of authority. The occupants of the smug cars roaring past in the other direction were still busy turning their heads back to their own futures, suggesting that the blockage wasn’t far ahead of them. A police car tore past them in the hard shoulder, two lanes to their left. He squished back into the car and shut the door, closing in the poisonous warmth and Ahmed’s farts.

            ‘Will that be OK in the boot?’ Ahmed asked, as he noticed Charlie’s nervous glance towards the rear of the stinky BMW.

            ‘It’ll have to be. They can’t exactly do anything without us. What did Benny say?’ Charlie gestured to the battered phone lying in the cup-holder.

            ‘They’re at the Bank, now. They said they’ll wait. No one suspects anything yet. He reckons we’ve got about an hour before things go tits-up.’

            Charlie turned up the volume dial on the radio, scratching his bristling cheeks as he concentrated on the traffic update.

            Stationary traffic between junctions five and six of the M5 after an accident. Emergency services are at the scene. As soon as we know more we’ll update you.

            Charlie banged the steering wheel with both palms. ‘Damn.’ Weeks of planning about to be wasted.

            ‘Don’t panic, Charlie. Plan B will have to kick in if we don’t make it.’

             ‘Plan B? Ahmed, there is no Plan B. We’ve got the gear in the boot. There’ll be no blast without that stuff there.’

            The men sat silently, pulling up the zips on their matching leather jackets as tendrils of icy air whispered around the car. Ahmed rubbed a circular pattern out of the steam on the window.

            ‘There’s a policeman, going car to car.’

            ‘Oh no. That’s not good. Sit tight, I’ll go and speak to him.’

            Charlie lumbered towards the silver people carrier a few cars in front. A boy stuck his tongue out at him. He flicked and swiveled his middle finger in return, before returning his hand to the depths of his pocket. The traffic officer looked up at him as he drew to a halt at the drivers’ door.

            ‘I was just telling this gentleman, Sir, that the road ahead is closed and probably will be all night. An oil tanker has spilled its contents across the carriageway and we have quite a number of casualties. Unfortunately, we’re all stuck here. I suggest you go back to your car and try to keep warm. ‘ Vapour pulsed into Charlie’s face in time with the policeman’s words. ‘I believe that we’re sending out a van shortly to provide soup and foil blankets. We don’t want another repeat of the M11 incident three years ago …’

            ‘Thanks, officer.’ Charlie said as he found a breathing space in the officer’s speech. ‘I’ve come from the navy BMW just there,’ he pointed to where he could see Ahmed’s blurred face peering back. ‘You won’t need to knock on our window. Thanks for the info.’

            Charlie’s mind raced as he strode back to the car. He pondered the urgency of the situation and their options for getting to the Bank according to the plan. He calculated that it was approximately a mile and a half from the next junction, which was after the bridge up ahead. The night was cold and they would have the gear in the boot to carry between them. It wasn’t unbearably heavy, but it was delicate. It would be hard to be discreet with two huge holdalls bulging with sharp points. They also ran the risk of returning later and finding the motorway open and their car gone, having been impounded. Still, they must persevere. This was a rare occurrence. Something that had been planned for months.

            ‘Come on, Ahmed, out. We’re gonna have to go on foot. I’ll get the gear out of the boot.’

            Ahmed blew out his cheeks as he stepped out of the car. He peeled his leather gloves from his jacket pockets, picking off bits of fluff and tissue remnants.

            ‘You carry the loot bag. I’ll take this one.’

            The two men walked quickly, shoulders aching beneath the piercing air. Eventually they turned onto the High Street.

            ‘I reckon we’ll make it, Charlie. I think I can see the Bank ahead.’

            At that moment his brother, Benny, visualised beneath a muted streetlight. Benny walked with a twisted gait, the legacy of a violent scuffle years before.

            ‘Thank God you’ve made it. I thought we were gonna have to do it without you. And Lord knows what Maggie would’ve done. All the money involved in this…’

            ‘Well we’ve had to leave the car on the motorway so we’ll need to  hitch a lift back home, if that’s OK.’

            ‘Fine. But just let’s do this.’

            The three men hefted the two bags between them up the street and through the doors of the Bank Top Inn. Charlie squashed through the doors alongside Ahmed, and they headed towards the raised seating area that had been set aside for them.

            Charlie grabbed the microphone attached to the karaoke system and tapped it against the table for silence. Ahmed had managed to remove the large white box from his holdall and placed it on the table, removing the lid to reveal a pair of breasts, nipples of red icing rising sweetly upwards. The heavier bag lay at Charlie’s feet.

            ‘Silence! Can I have everyone’s attention, please? Sorry to disturb your evening. But today is a very special day,’ Charlie scanned the faces until he picked out the squinty, one-sided smile of his father, ‘because today is Patrick Milford’s sixtieth birthday. A birthday we didn’t expect him to see. And we have a few surprises from all of the people who love him the most. His family and friends. Dad, come on up here and see what we’ve got here for you. Thanks, everyone. Let’s party!’

            The music resumed as Charlie winked at Ahmed, ‘That were close, sweet face.’

            He greeted his father as Maggie wheeled him up the ramp towards the cake and the bag of gifts.

            

Modern salad

I had to chop a real actual lettuce today, because I had decided to make something for tea that required lettuce. Not prepared salad or rocket leaves, but lettuce. Wow, do the shops still sell lettuces? Yes, apparently they do. But, apart from me whenever the moon shines blue in the sky, who buys them? I mean, you have to wash them then chop them all by yourself. Who needs that kind of shit at the end of a busy day? And it wasn't just the lettuce that caused a problem. I then had to microwave some taco shells, grate some cheese (I believe you can buy it ready-grated in certain shops. Woo hoo!), fry some mince with a sachet of spicy powder and set the table. The exhaustion unfortunately meant that I am now beyond being able to contemplate writing any poetry. Dear me, will I ever write a poem?!
     So I took the lettuce from the fridge, unwrapped it and held it above the chopping board. The knife in my right hand was ready to go. But go where? I went blank. I just didn't know what to do: should I place the lettuce on its stump and cut downwards, or turn it 90 degrees and cut parallel to the said stump? Or maybe cut diagonally? I'm sure there's a correct way, but I wondered whether it really mattered that much. I mean, lettuce doesn't really taste of anything anyway, so what's the point in worrying? A memory of chopping my way through A-Levels as a Saturday, Sunday and Wednesday afternoon girl at Debenhams staff canteen to fund my Friday nights (Merrydown cider in the park followed by snakebites in the pub and club) suddenly surfaced. I chopped tomatoes, onions, cucumber, pepper and lettuce. And they all had a specific way of needing to be sliced. Really. So which way was it?
     In the olden days (my olden days are the early 90s, when I hit my mid to late teens and discovered all the joys and none of the miseries of life) I could do anything. Is it really old age (I'm 35!) that turns the brain to mush and lets panic set in so easily, or is it that the world is turning that much faster? Someone asked me last week what my phone number was and I didn't even know. Then I realised that I didn't know anyone's phone number. Not a soul's. I used to know all of my friends numbers off the top of my head (I had 5 or 6 friends who I socialised with regularly. Now I have 74 at last count. I don't know how any of them smell - except my husband!). I can still remember them now. Maybe I should try and ring them and see what happens: 'Is Sarah in please?' 'No, she moved in with her husband 10 years ago and has 4 kids. She only comes here at xmas. What did you want her for?' 'Oh nothing. Just to see if she fancied a drink in the cemetery. I'll try on December 25th. Bye!' And yet I don't even know the number of my husband, my daughter or my dad. Nevermind, I have them on speed dial on my mobile.
     Then when my daughter asked me to sew a button on her favourite coat I nearly choked, reminding myself of Eddy on Ab Fab. 'Sew a button on? Don't be silly, chuck it in the bin and I'll buy you a new one at the weekend.' I do own a sewing kit. In fact, I think I own about 10. We have a carrier bag in the airing cupboard (we don't air anything in it - it just 'is') that stores everything that my husband relieves from overstocked hotels on his global travels. I should put the sewing kits in the cupboard with my mini screwdrivers, specifically designed and put into xmas crackers to assist with changing plugs. That's a joke. My husband is a design engineer and I bet even he couldn't - no, wouldn't - change a plug. I bet the cost of a plug nowadays is higher than the cost of a new kettle.
     What else can't I do? Write, funnily enough. My wrists have evolved in such a way that my handwriting is very slow and incredibly messy. In fact, I now write so slowly that I forget what I wanted to say before I get to the end of the sentence. So, for creative purposes I find it much easier to type. So in that respect, technology hasn't evolved quickly enough for me. I mean, I'm sitting on a salty cliff top watching the specific patterns of the different seabirds and inspiration strikes! Instead of a notebook I need something I can type into quickly. I don't own a laptop that will fit into my coat pocket, so I'm scuppered. 20 years ago this wouldn't have been a problem. Not only could I have expressed my feelings eloquently on-the-go, but I could have dashed back home and made a home-made salad. Except maybe on a day like today, when my car might not have started at all. Even with the now extinct skill of clutch, accelerator, clutch, clutch, hard accelerator, vroooooom!
     Would I go back to the olden days, when everything was done the long-way-round? Hmmmmm .... Maybe I feel the inspiration for a poem. Or maybe I'll just go and watch the Vicar of Dibley instead.

A bit of Hanky Panky

Hello again. Since I last blogged (yesterday) I've read a few more chapters of Stephen Fry's book and I'm fully conversant with Hendecasyllabic Iambic Pentameters with Trochaic and Pyrrhic Substitutions and, of course, variations with mixed feet. If there was a mid-term exam I'd fly through it. But I just can't feel inspired enough to actually create any. Yet. I've got 2 more weeks!
     However, my reading has freed me from the daily stomach-churning guilty conscience enough for me to tell you a bit about my visit to a new museum in Amsterdam: the Amsterdam Tattoo Museum (funnily enough!).
     When I was 15 or so my hero was Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Hero? That should be heart throb! Long hair and tattoos. And plenty of nakedness. And I obviously loved their music, I still do (with the exception of 2 albums, including their most recent). Anyway, hours and hours and hours of gazing at said AK on MTV (in the days when MTV played good music) prompted me to get my very first tattoo. So me and my friend caught the bus to a renowned tattoo studio in Wigan (renowned for tattooing underages very cheaply). And I got a swallow on my shoulder blade for a fiver. I don't know why I chose a swallow. I was so nervous (I was 15 and looked about 12) that I just pointed to the first thing I could see. I don't regret it; it was that little bird that started me on my tattoo journey and I'm still proud of it, despite the smug smirks of a few tattooists (who probably have a few 'early' tattoos of their own!). It looks a little faded and past-its-best now, but then so do I! I reckon I'll keep it and treasure it forever.
     Many of the tattoos adorning Mr Kiedis were done by the infamous Dutch artist, Henk Schiffmacher. He has more recently had his name linked to a famous tattoo studio in the red light district called Hanky Panky, although he doesn't tattoo there himself. When I read in a magazine recently that he had opened a new museum in Amsterdam I knew I had to add it to the January pilgrimage itinerary. So, on a very cold day we made our way from breakfast at the flower market, just a mile to its spot opposite the Artis zoo. And the temperature was so unbelievably low that we had to interrupt the journey with a beer-stop at a cute little bar with a friendly cat. Life is tough sometimes.
     The museum seems to be casually split into 2 sections: downstairs for a brief history of tattooing from ancient cultures including Egypt and the Pacific islands. Be careful, though. I got shouted at by a rather abrupt moustachioed bloke for stepping into a bamboo hut that looked as though it was supposed to be stepped into. Inside were photos tacked to the wall that you need good eyesight to view from outside. They could do with a sign. In fact, signage was a little lacking all over the museum, and what there was was mainly in Dutch. However, the artefacts were fascinating and generally spoke for themselves. But watch out if you're squeamish! I had a slight hang-over and wasn't altogether prepared for the random jars containing, amongst other things, preserved dogs, foetuses and removed fingers.
     Upstairs things got more interesting, for me anyway. We moved onto more modern tattooing, focussing mainly on old-school Dutch, British and American artists. There was even a reconstruction of the Bristol Tattoo Club bar with a non-stop DVD running on a TV set.
     It's hard to believe that Henk had all of this stuff stored in his house. It's good to see it all on display and I hope that the museum continues to grow. Even for non tattoo fanatics it's definitely worth a visit.
     On the other hand, I really wasn't impressed by my visit to the Van Gogh museum. But I'll leave that one for another day. Right now I'm going to get the kids to bed and watch Hawaii Five-0. Bye x

Face on my arm

Hi again (2 posts in a day? Avoiding poetry!).
I thought I'd share my latest addition with you all. I had it done by Job De Quay at Salon Serpent in Amsterdam on Wednesday. Hope you like it ... it's my new favourite.
Unfortunately, the temperature in Amsterdam was absurdly low and I spent the whole week freezing cold. So when I arrived at the studio I just couldn't warm up. You know that feeling where you're chilled to the bone and the only effect that standing against an open fire has is to melt your skin, but your bones are still frozen? Well that about sums up how I felt when I got there and for the first hour or 2 of the tattoo. I was shivering so violently that Job kept asking if I needed some soup or a cup of tea. But I knew that it wouldn't help. I was almost hypothermic. The moral of this little tale is that you should always wear full-length trousers and socks when the temperature is -4! You'd think that I'd know that, coming from the North East.
Anyway, you can't see the full design from this photo, as it wraps around my (inner fore-)arm. But the lady is supposed to represent me (not look like me though. That would be weird, ha ha). Then there are 3 little flowers for the kids (blue for Sonny and pink for the girls) and a heart for Dave. Although after his lack of activity over the last 2 days whilst I have tidied and cleaned the entire house and done countless loads of washing/drying/ironing/putting away makes me wonder if he deserves it! I'm hoping to catch Job at a future guest spot, as he does travel to the UK fairly frequently, so that he can fill in most of the rest of my lower right arm with some stylised hex flowers etc. Failing that, it might have to wait until next years' Amsterdam trip. Unless we manage to get there with the kids in the summer.
Anyway, hope you like it. Maria doesn't. But then she's 10 going on 15 and hates everything except Justin Bieber. As for me, I love it and can't wait for it to stop seeping and peeling and HURTING. Bye for now. I might get on with some poetry. Then again, I might watch Take Me Out instead.