Party time!

I thought that updating my blog page would be a fairly simple task. Until it opened in Arabic. And where I might be able to muddle through any other language, that just isn’t an option in this case. So, I fiddled around for half an hour, randomly clicking on various links and making all sorts of hopefully temporary changes to my page, before finally managing to get back to English. So, here I am in Abu Dhabi, at possibly the worst time to take a holiday. Eid, that crazy form of bank holiday only possible in a country where complete lack of enjoyment is pleasurable.

            The first clue we had of an approaching fun ban was yesterday afternoon. Of course, they don’t advertise these occasions. Well, not to us Westerners, anyway, who need the odd frozen beer to get us through the tedium of an afternoon in the sunshine lying by the pool. So we immediately found the urgent need to down as many cocktails as we could. Coconut mojitos, yum. And Dave decided that it would be necessary to head straight on down to the off license (not sure of the technical term for a shop that sells alcohol, here. After all, there is no license – the sale of alcohol being totally banned – so ‘off license’ can’t apply). However, after joining the end of an enormous queue of frustrated westerners, all on edge at the sudden announcement on a 24 hour closure of the bars, he reappeared bearing an industrial strength, discrete thick black carrier bag of champagne and red wine. But, because of the binge on fizzy cocktails during the afternoon, indigestion prevented me from indulging. Still, I’m sure it’ll get drunk!

            The bank holidays here, in comparison to those around Europe, definitely don’t involve getting shit-faced and having lots of fun. No. Aside from the lack of alcohol, we’re also prohibited from listening to music. So, the restaurant last night was fun. As you can imagine, I’m sure! A silent meal. And hearing Paul Summerbell ask for a Sprite was an experience I don’t think I’ll have again. Glum-faced and silently we perused the menu, which was down to chicken pie, mussels or sausage (beef sausage, like chewing on plasticine!). No beer-battered cod, or steak and ale pie. We would have had a joke about the sheer glumness of the situation, except the show of enjoyment would have broken a law and put us at risk of jail. So we persevered and celebrated with the locals by showing no happiness, then hotfooted it back to our suite and downed a bottle of red.

            Today is another dry one, until 7pm. Not that I’m counting down. Of course not. The local ladies around the pool are donning their best party attire – full-on black gowns with eye slits. And the men have swapped their keffiyes (headscarves) for baseball caps. The usual display of disgustingly bad manners by the local kids, who are off school, reminds me that strong beliefs don’t lead to respect for others.

            Roll on tonight. Fun times ahead!

The Tale of Brown Bear

There are eighty million of us in the United Kingdom, most of us largely left to our own devices. However from time to time one will appear that deserves some notoriety, like the one we nicknamed the Brown Bear. He, using the kind of wily behaviour many of us don’t possess the nous to use, became a hero.

            Some of you may remember when he made his first tentative steps towards infamy, making appearances on television whenever an important political story broke. This caused much embarrassment at the time, forcing those in charge of the country to recognise us, eventually reintroducing an ancient civil service post dedicated to attending to our kind.

            Brown Bear was forced to further his political career elsewhere, eventually finding himself at the domicile of an ancient and craggy decorated fellow. His cottage, known by the name that it had been given hundreds of years ago, already consisted of a well-established family. But Brown Bear, the charming traveller, managed to convince the group that he would be a worthy guest who would rid them of their troubles once and for all.

            His plan consisted largely of the hope that the old codger would stick to his strict daily routine, of which he knew through the lore that had managed to reach him during his time in London. His beastly deeds had decimated communities for decades, ensuring that no group could settle in his vicinity, or even trespass anywhere on his land for fear of death. His shotgun could be heard blasting nightly, his blood-thirsty craving for solace reaching out beyond the realms of our own kind.

            This behaviour hadn’t been ignored by a collection of do-gooders, who were all scratching their heads trying to find a way to put a stop to this selfish destruction. The leader of the gang had also been on the television on a number of occasions, proving himself a hero or a nuisance depending on your point of view.

            Night after night Brown Bear performed noisy tactical manoeuvres with military precision, forcing the retired Lt. Col. out of his cosy cottage, shotgun in hand. The nightly war raging across that quiet end of Amsley Worton, a village with a pub, but no shop and a village hall, but no school, soon attracted the return of the protectors, and of Matty Smith-Henderson with his even bigger shotgun. And in a mid-evening last September, he knocked on the door and shot him dead.

            Today, thanks to Matty, now incarcerated for twenty-two years, we have been able to live in peace. Brown Bear’s offspring number in their thousands, considerably more if you count the patchy offspring of his sisters and his mother that are said to have that same Brown Bear twinkle in their eye. With this army now gathering here at the end of the overgown garden beyond the little empty cottage we are creating a force to be reckoned with; unstoppable.

Sunday habits are hard to break ...

What started off as a Sunday treat has now become a Sunday habit.

            When I was growing up my Sundays consisted of sitting around the house with the smell of meat roasting. The kitchen was always steamy hot, and my mam, it was silently understood, should be left alone as she raced around the kitchen with a tea towel across one shoulder and a utensil in each hand. Sometimes a sharp knife, so it really was best to stick to watching TV in the living room. It was usually either Lost In Space, or University Challenge (do you remember when that was shown on a Sunday lunchtime?). Or Countryfile, when it was dull and mainly meant for farmers and people who lived in the countryside. Given those choices my kids would be going mad. But we used to accept it, because there was no chance of ever having a choice in the matter. Of course, my dad was usually in the pub, with the other dads. And not just any pub. Porters. A working man’s club with middle-aged saggy-breasted strippers. This may sound awful, but was an absolute must in the North East during the 70s and 80s. The working class North East, anyway. Is there any other? Maybe Ponteland, or Dinnington. They tend to class themselves as a cut above, but those towns are mainly overrun with working class Geordies who can now afford an enormous mock tudor mansion with a swimming pool, decorated in a completely unironic council house style. I’m talking about footballers, tax-avoiding owners of building companies and lottery winners.

            So, what started as a rebellion against the idea of reinforcing the stereotypes of bygone days and adding a bit of spontaneity into our weekends has now become a habit that is as hard to break.

            ‘So are we going to the Chinese buffet after swimming then, Mam?’

            It isn’t a question, merely a statement of fact. That clearly isn’t quite enough now, so it has become:

            ‘Can we go for a look around the shops before we go the Chinese buffet, Mam?’ Of course, the subtext being will you buy us something?

            Shopping today was a rare treat. Not rare because we don’t do it very often. Rare, because town was desserted. I thought I must have stepped into a film location, or a scene from the Walking Dead. I was listening out for a deathly groan, or some shuffling footsteps, when instead there was a huge cheer that had erupted from either the Scotia or the Ship and Royal. Or both. A few weeks ago the Criterion crowd would have joined the chorus, but now it’s another betting shop. Of course, derby day. Someone had mentioned it earlier in the week. And somebody else had been wittering on on Facebook about ‘drinking with the lads’ at eleven o’clock this morning, and posting pictures of themselves in football shirts and funny wigs. That godawful noise that came from the pub after the cheer was another reminder of the childhood traditions that I had chosen to break free of. The continuous monotone of a football match is enough to drive me to violence. Anyone who hates football and was forced to endure that noise in a small car for hours on the way home from some visit or other will understand. It only upset me slightly less than the teatime pools. So we quickly hotfooted it to the buffet, which was delightfully empty.

            Clearly, there were only eight people in the whole of South Tyneside who were ‘out there’ enough to break free from the restraints of the Sunday Roast and / or the football. And we were four of them. Of the other two middle-aged couples, the men looked as if they had been dragged there under sufferance.

            The couple that arrived seconds after we did made it clear to the waitress that they’d rather sit anywhere rather than next to a tattooed woman and her three kids. So they sat a few tables away and started off by giving us a few unsubtle looks. A few minutes in I started to think that they had asked to sit elsewhere so that we didn’t have to endure their manners. Or his. He sucked his fingers noisily after every Spare Rib, slurped his beer unashamedly and spoke to his wife with a full mouth of food. Not that I was staring, but it was hard not to notice when he was making such a foul racket.

            So we tried to distract ourselves by reminiscing about our summer road trip. We compared roller coaster experiences and laughed about how Sonny had cried on the log flume. Then we had a good giggle about the restaurant’s music. It’s usually ‘Dave’s most hated number 1s’ on repeat, with such classics as ‘I Will Always Love You’, ‘My Heart Will Go on’ and something by Mariah Carey. But today they were playing recent hits including ‘Country Roads’, Lady In Red’ and ‘Holding Back the Years’ (who doesn’t think of Rodney’s wedding when they hear that?). I always imagine that the owners of the restaurant asked the wrong person where to buy English music from when they first arrived in England (they’re all definitely authentic Chinese, with only a tentative grasp of the English language between them) and were told to head to the nearest Little Chef. There they could buy a variety of popular music CDs for the bargain price of £1.99 each, or 3 for a fiver.

            Aftwerwards, as I was paying the bill, the middle-aged woman of the unsubtle glances came over. Oh no, what was it? Was she going to accuse me of ruining her meal with my giggling, three-visits-to-the-dessert-table children?

            ‘We’ve been talking about you,’ she started. ‘We were saying that your children are the best behaved that we’ve ever seen. They just sit there and talk to each other and never fight. It’s lovely to see.’

            At that very moment Sonny decided to give Clara a shove, who screeched in response and high-kicked him in the back.

            ‘Mam, Clara’s kicking us.’

‘No, you started it, Sonny!’

Excellent timing.

‘See you next Sunday?’ asked the now-chatty Chinese lady. You have to go there quite a lot for them to attempt conversation.

‘Yes, I suppose you will.’

Why do I write?

I wonder what it is that makes people want to write? For me it’s the fact that it’s the only thing that I can do confidently. I think I’m quite good at it, and I don’t care if the rest of the world doesn’t agree. The things at which I excel are few and far between. I’m an OK cook, my speciality being Turkey Dinosaurs and waffles; I do Ok at the gym, as long as I don’t have to look at myself in the mirror either during or immediately afterwards; my kids are reasonably happy so I can’t be too bad at being a mother, except when I’ve got PMT, and I don’t shout or moan at Dave too much, mainly because he spends most of his time in different countries (no reflection on my wifely skills, I can assure you). But at writing I’m the best. Or typing, actually. My keyboard skills are far superior to those with a pen and paper, so I can subsequently get my ideas down on my laptop before they evaporate, which I struggle to do using the old fashioned notebook method. No, I could never have been a writer in the olden days, or even before I got this laptop for my birthday in June.

Yes, I’m the best. And I truly believe that, until I read a novel so good that I realise that not only am I lacking when it comes to vocabulary and sentence structure, but also characterisation and plot. And willpower, primarily the ability to stick with a story beyond two and half thousand words. So the answer is possibly to either stop reading completely, or stick to chick-lit, which I hate, but can confirm is written with very little skill or passion. Discuss.

Contrary to the opinion of my non-writing and largely non-reading friends, my desire to write has nothing to do with the fact that my kids are now at school and I’d like to make my fortune like JK Rowling, or EL James. As far as the latter goes, I’d rather chop my hands off than write anything as dreadful as that, despite the popularity of her books. No, I don’t think that writing is an industry you enter for the money. Maybe it’s for the telling of a story, which is obviously preceded by the creation of said tale. Yes, that’s fun. I love to sit with a blank Word document and just see what happens. It usually ends up totally different than what I intended when I started out. And that’s the fun part – when the story takes over and you become the conduit for what needs to be told. I don’t even care if other people don’t understand or like what I’ve written, as the joy is in the creation itself. I’m sure that many writers are driven to entertain others, as in the other arts. There must be a pleasure in seeing others absorbed by what you have written. There’s also pleasure to be had in discovering the myriad ways of telling a story. There are ways of creating an atmosphere just in the choice of words. But as long as I get that warm satisfaction from a piece of writing, then I don’t really care whether or not it gets lauded by the rest of the universe, or maybe even just the handful of souls who might happen to accidently find my blog (thirteen last month!), or who are forced to come up with some tactful response in one of my writing group forums. Of course, praise is lovely. But I can praise myself far better than anyone else can, and also fend off constructive criticism. Because I know that my superior intelligence makes me able to understand and appreciate literature that is just way beyond them.

So, in summary, I write because I am fantastic at it and it makes me feel good. Is there any better reason than that?

A Dirty Weekend

My brain's gone mushy after a day of study, housework and working out. So, instead of putting any effort into today's blog post I think I'll just share one of the stories I wrote a while ago.

A Dirty Weekend

            ‘That’s the last of the vodka. And the gin. Only brandy left. And one can of lager.’ And all blood warm, she imagined, since the power had gone off.

            ‘We should stop drinking, Darryl. We need to think about what to do.’

            ‘No we don’t, Penny. We need to drink this wonderful hotel dry and blot all this fucked up stuff out. Sit tight and see what happens. How does that sound for a plan?’

            Darryl sank into the desk chair. He had picked her up two days ago at Charing Cross Station, where she had been heading for the train back to Dartford. She had been racing down the packed platform, shoving through dawdlers, heading for the guard waving the paddle when everything had stopped. She had awoken to see Darryl, a regular on her daily commute, shaking the shoulders of still people, looking for a response. He had found one in her. They had quickly decided to head for The Savoy, it being somewhere nearby that they were both familiar with, for one reason or another. The opulence of their surroundings should have made their stay comfortable.

            ‘See if you can find anything on the TV,’ she sighed.

            He raised an eyebrow at her, before turning back to the desk and tipping the amber liquid into his glass. Penny closed her eyes and heard the sounds of the barman preparing Manhattans in the Roosevelt Hotel in New York, whilst a pianist played jazz somewhere nearby. She had barely registered the music at the time, so involved had she been in her happiness, yet the music was integral to her memory of the place.

            ‘This was a mistake,’ she said as she pulled the robe tightly around her shoulders. ‘Why are we sitting here like this?’

            ‘What do you want to do, Penny?’ Darryl asked, a note of agitation detectable in his voice. ‘Go shopping? Catch a show? I’d rather drink and fuck, if it’s all the same to you.’

            Penny felt the sandpaper soreness of her vagina; the sex had served it’s purpose, blotting out the futility of their situation for a few hours. Darryl liked it rough. She wondered if sex had been like that with his wife, but knew that she wouldn’t ask him. The situation was still too new, the emotions not yet pinned down. He had laughed when he had hit her, and she had enjoyed it. Then he had kissed her softly, his tongue filling her mouth with tenderness as well as passion. They had held each other afterwards, or they had held onto the present. To themselves. She wasn’t sure. But she was glad that she wouldn’t have to explain the red welts to her husband. Then she felt guilty for that relief.

            ‘I’d like to get something new to wear. Nothing flash, just comfortable and clean. I couldn’t face putting those things back on,’ she said, nodding towards her ripped skirt and stockings strewn across the patterned carpet.

            He watched her pulling both sides of the thick robe around her body, seeming to realise that there were practical aspects of their situation to be considered.

            ‘Selfridges isn’t far from here. You can have anything you like. On me. But get your sexy arse over here first.’ He looked at her tentatively. She thought he was wondering if she was going to tell him to fuck off.

            Afterwards, he pushed her off him and headed to the bathroom. Above the noise of his violent pissing she heard him ask, ‘What were you doing this time last week?’

            ‘Darryl, no. Talk about something else.’

            ‘Like what? Come on. Think. Last Sunday. Were you in church, praying that something like this wouldn’t happen?’

            She picked at the scab on her elbow, grateful that she hadn’t broken her arm when she’d hit the platform. That would have been a disaster.

            ‘I never go to church. Those places give me the creeps.’

            ‘OK, so what were you doing? Fucking your husband? What?’

            ‘Why do you want to know? Why does it matter?’

Darryl reappeared, slumping on the doorframe and stared at her with bloodshot eyes. Even hungover and with an untidy stubble he was an attractive man, with his heavy hair and strong eyebrows turning to grey. The unflushed toilet bothered her more than it should have done, though.

            ‘Do you want to go and raid the bar downstairs? We could check out what’s on tonight’s menu. I’m sick of mini bar snacks and fruit.’ He pulled two grapes from the wilting bunch and pushed them into his mouth.

            ‘God, I’d rather not. All those people …’ She dreaded the time, very soon, when she’d have to burst their bubble and face the rest of the world.

            ‘Is there any more of that brandy, Darryl?’

            Some time later Penny found herself sitting in the armchair, which she had pulled up to the bed so that she could stretch out her legs. She reached across to the silver fruit bowl on the side table and took an apple.

            ‘I’m glad we met, Darryl.’ She had been watching him walk in front of the mirrored inset wardrobe doors, back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel. He was daydreaming, and she wondered whether his thoughts were on the past or the future.

            ‘Me too,’ he responded, without looking up. ‘We should stay together, no matter what.’ He continued his pacing as she ate the apple.

                       

            The scene beyond the heavy curtains would be unpleasant. Penny stroked the edge, feeling the concealed weights that kept them completely still. She wondered whether it had been as silent in the last hotel she had stayed in. Her world was on this patterned side of the curtains, reality on the other. They had entered the hotel under a dark sky, the shock of their meeting and their adrenaline-fuelled rush to the hotel eliminating the clear details of their arrival in her mind. They had removed the key for their room from the unattended reception desk and ran up the stairs to the third floor collection of suites. She was glad that they had chosen one of the smaller ones; Darryl’s constant nearness was comforting. She turned to see him applying himself to an article in the pink Financial Times. From upside down it appeared to be about Lehman Brothers, the infamous bankrupt American bank. ‘I used to deal with these bastards. Ruthless. I was glad to get out of the City, in the end. It nearly gave me a nervous breakdown. Look at this guy!’ He held it up for her to see. ‘A fifty million dollar bonus. For what?’

            ‘Hey, don’t sweat it, Darryl. What use is it to them now?’ He shrugged and turned the page. She noticed the line on his wedding finger, where the skin was smooth and pale.

            ‘Did you bring many women here then?’

            He closed the newspaper and dropped it onto the floor.

            ‘A few. I wasn’t always what you’d call a … loyal husband. But that’s in the past. You can trust me now.’

Trust was something that she was reevaluating at the age of twenty-eight. It had occurred naturally during her first relationship that had lasted through University. But his betrayal had made it difficult for her to trust other men, resulting in a string of asphyxiated relationships. Then Davey had proved to be her restorative. He had won her over with his obvious adoration of her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it was love; she was too afraid of being hurt. But the eventual pain was something she was trying hard not to deal with. She turned back to the hyacinth design on the Italian linen drapes.

            ‘Open them, Penny. Let some light in.’

            ‘I’d rather not. I’d like to stay in our little bubble for a bit longer.’

            She turned from the window and sat down on the bed, making a nest of the fat pillow collection. Her brow creased as she concentrated on the print of the Empire State Building above the headboard.

            ‘Davey and me went to New York for our honeymoon.’ Darryl was sitting on the floor, ankles crossed loosely. His hands were folded in his lap. He looked up at her.

            ‘We had a list. The Empire State, Times Square, The Statue of Liberty, Central Park. Ice skating at the Rockerfeller Centre. We ticked them all off one by one. On the last day, when we’d finished the list, we decided to stay in the hotel room. Just the two of us and two bottles of cheap champagne. It was perfect.’

            Darryl watched liquid pearls slide down her cheeks. She sank down and let herself fall sideways, pulling her knees into her chest and holding them tightly to her with her arms. She felt the mattress give as Darryl crawled towards her. He settled behind her and wrapped his palms around her fists.

            ‘Shhh, it’s OK. Everything will be OK. We’ll make things work. One day at a time.’

            Instinctively she turned around into his body and cried. He cried too. They lay like that until daylight.

            ‘Jesus, Penny, you only had peanuts and chocolate yesterday. What’s making you so bloody sick?’

            The heat from his palm eased her convulsions until she felt able to lift her head from the toilet bowl. She replaced the lid and wiped her mouth on a towel.

            ‘Maybe stress. I’m strung out,’ she mumbled.

            ‘I know, baby. We need to make our move today before we both go mad. We need to face the world, be brave. Do you think you can?’

            ‘No. Oh God, no. I don’t want to. I don’t.’ She gripped the edge of the bath, breathing deeply as fresh waves of nausea approached.

            ‘Come on, let’s get our stuff together. I’ll be brave for both of us.’ He positioned his shoulder under her armpit and hauled her to her feet for the second time since they’d met. He lay her on the bed and moved around the room, gathering up their possessions. He removed the computer from his laptop bag and left it by the waste paper bin beneath the desk, squashing their items inside instead.

            ‘I was part of the team that redeveloped this place, you know. I know the place intimately, yet I’ve never stayed here. We both prefer country breaks, working in the city all week. Or foreign city breaks. Madrid, Verona, Singapore, New York …’

            Darryl paused to look at her again, his face angled slightly.

            ‘What did you do? Here, I mean.’

            ‘Staircases and lifts. They all had to be resized or repositioned to meet modern building regulations. A lot’s changed since this place opened at the end of the nineteenth century.’

            ‘You can say that again,’ he sighed.

           

            Pushing through the revolving art deco doors and out onto The Strand, the bright sunshine reflected off crushed and upended cars and buses, some of which had burned out. People lay strewn on the pavements as if asleep, handbags and silent mobiles still clutched in their stiff fists. A chorus of burglar alarms replaced the usual melee of engine noise and the hum of chatter. Smoke whispered skywards from the direction of Covent Garden and she wondered whether it was a fire lit by people, or just a result of the chaos. With one hand Penny clutched her belly, and in the other she took Darryl’s fingers.

            ‘Let’s find somewhere to go, away from here.’

            They stepped into the road and began their journey.

Evil Creatures

We miss her dearly, all of her children. So it’s comforting to know that she stands at my shoulder, gently persuading me to push the pockets flat before I run over them with the iron, reminding me to unbutton the shirts first and tutting as trousers emerge from the basket with flakes of white powdery paper clinging to the grey fabric. That really isn’t my fault, mother! Out of my remit. When the basket is finally approaching empty she wills me to sit down with a nice cup of tea. I prefer her to chat on in this way, willing her to imagine me in my little flat. Or better still, in her safe bungalow surrounded by china figuerines of the past forty years. In my mind I hear the three, four, five clicks of the gas ignition before the whoosh of the flame. I prefer narrow china cups that keep the liquid hot and stop the milk from forming its own pattern on the drink’s surface. My soul satisfied, I swirl cool water around the cup and upend it on the drainer ready for next time.

            In the room three doors away from the laundry area sits my computer. Next to it is the flat mesh tray containing a list of projects that I need to finish before the end of the week. The first one is a commission to create an image for a child’s bedroom wall. I’m a Graphic Artist in my real life, once I get past the banality of the everyday drudgery. My talents have been identified and are used to raise funds. I also make a living of sorts from the income it generates.

            ‘Any particular theme, Helen?’ I ask my supervisor. ‘Super-heroes, monsters, or what?’

            ‘It’s a girl. She’s only four, so maybe a fairy or something. Use your imagination. I’ve been told you’ve got one!’

            And indeed I have, especially when it comes to subjects of a mystical nature. Although they’re not mysterious to me. Or children. They believe; you can see it in their eyes. I choose the computer programme most suited to this type of image, preferring the sharp realistic lines of the vector software. I want this child to see the urgency of the situation, the death contained in the yellow teeth, the poisoned saliva running onto the chin and downwards to the mulch beneath its feet. This is what the forest creatures look like.

Sarah, my youngest sister, born prematurely and mollycoddled in the twenty-odd years since her birth, knows what I mean. Her eyes, as she watched me from the viewing area, communicated what she now understood. That I had tried to protect her, all of them. But I had failed. I watched them leave: Sarah, her husband, one of my other siblings and my recently widowed father. The creature had decimated the family, spilling their blood and poisoning their minds. Only I know the truth, and here it is in shades of ochre and sienna, forest green and blood red. 

Mastermind

Someone has asked me what my specialist subject would be if I were a Mastermind contestant. Initially I thought, ‘Oo that’s a good one.’ Then it depressingly dawned on me that I don’t have one. There isn’t a single thing that I could claim to know about in detail enough to confidently face an inquisition. I know well why this is so, as I sit on my bed with my current read spreadeagled on the duvet next to me. I’m typing this between checking my various forums and facebook pages, making sure that the kids are occupied and conversing with the other half on Skype. In the back of my mind I’m working on convincing myself that I should get in the shower, as I’m expecting a furniture delivery at any time. When I finally do get ready, I’ll be throwing clothes downstairs for the kids at the same time, and making beds and opening curtains. I’ll probably then take my laptop downstairs so that I can periodically check it or type up new ideas, whilst ironing and catching up on some of the recorded dramas on my V+ box (this queue of unwatched programmes is a constant source of stress, which reaches a crescendo after a holiday. You can only imagine the military precision of the catch-up regime after our three-week summer break!). Then I’ll be no doubt texting around various mothers, trying to organize a cinema excursion for this afternoon, whilst attempting to put together what will no doubt turn out to be a flat-packed dining table. Meals will have to be inserted somewhere into the schedule, and there’s always the possibility of mowing the lawn if the weather stays dry and the grass has dried out from yesterday’s deluge. My husband’s specialist subject would be ‘show control in entertainment environments’, as this is what he does all day every day. But mine? How to keep as many balls in the air as possible. And I’d lose.

Wronged

I wanted to repost a story that I wrote back in February in a cafe in Amsterdam's flower market. I took it down from my blog so that it could be published in an online magazine (http://www.pastichemagazine.com/). If you're of a sensitive nature, then this story comes with an attached warning. Otherwise, please enjoy.

I place the basket in the wedge cut out from the shop counter. Bread, milk, two microwaveable meals and some toilet roll. Enough essentials to see me through until the weekend, when I might feel brave enough to fill a trolley at the supermarket. Silly pop music bounces quietly from the music player nestled amongst the display of cigarette packets.

            ‘You can’t buy those things ‘ere. You’ll have to go somewhere else.’

            I look up and realise there’s no point in arguing with the shopkeeper, or defending my need for these things. His folded arms and accusing chin display the strength of his refusal.

            ‘Go on, sod off! Your sort aren’t welcome ‘ere.’ This comes from a slight woman clinging to a toddler, her cheeks flaming red.

            I pull up my hood and decide to walk through the rain to the next shop at the edge of the Tindall Street Estate, where they may accept me as a customer. It just depends on who’s serving. They’re less snobby up there; they serve almost anybody. Almost.

            Every day is a battle for survival in this town. I don’t need approval, or even acceptance. But I need to eat, to think without having things hurled at me. Words, glances, bricks, punches.

            The bus for the town centre splashes around the bend, the tyres making waves that spray the pavement. On a whim I put out my arm. I feel for the pass in my pocket, recognising that my unemployed status has some minor benefits attached.

            As the door unfolds I lift my foot to the step that the driver has kindly lowered. As I push back my hood I hear a barked ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell!’ before the door flips shut, almost crushing my toes. Rows of unblinking eyes stare at me as the bus roars away, leaving me dripping at the roadside. Between here and the shop on the estate is a small library. The rectangular edifice wasn’t designed, simply plonked. Yet the simple fact of a roof and thousands of books, stories, is just too tempting to ignore. The indiscriminating doors separate in invitation, coupled with an embrace of warm air from a stripy contraption above.

            Ideally I’d like to make some quick choices and leave. But the greed in me is triggered by the vast offerings, and I want to make the best selection possible. Should I opt for some romantic happy-ever-afters, or do they only satisfy when the dream is still alive in you? I head over to the crime-fiction shelves instead.

            A book with a spine so full of creases that it almost folds back on itself catches my attention. I sense the warmth of a thousand firesides, of countless laps and cups of tea. I can smell sweet vanilla sponge, floral bubble bath and tobacco. I can feel the indentations where damp fingers have held back the pages. But I return the book to its space and turn to a stiff, lonely book instead. I pull it from the middle shelf and open its title page. A single stamp bears a date of two years’ previous, before I even arrived here. Since then no one has wanted to take this book home, to open its pages, to savour its contents. Why? Because it’s cover is the wrong colour? An unappealing image? Some oversight by an editor that could do better?

            ‘Excuse me, you need to leave.’ A plump woman wearing a cardigan resembling a mediaeval tapestry speaks to me through thick lenses. I detect a couple of other people looking on from behind the counter, waiting for my reaction.

            ‘I just want to take this book.’ I gesture at the friendless novel, ‘Can I? I have a ticket.’ I try to repress the pleading tone in my voice. I know it gives them an entry into my armour.

            ‘No. You just need to leave. Now, please.’

            This rebuff sucks the final reserves of today’s strength. I decide to go back to the flat I have been appointed at the rougher end of town. Again, spray-painted words decorate the grill across my front window.

            GET LOST PEEDO!

            They can’t even spell, the half-wits!

            I make sure all of the bolts are slid across and secured before I head up to the bedroom and slide under the covers. I remember that little boy, the last one, with his curly mop of blonde hair and cute dimples. My hand slides down my body, down as I hear his little voice, pleading,

            ‘Stop. Please stop, Miss. I want to go home.’

Resolutions

It's been quite a while since I last posted on my blog. So I've resolved to do better and get on here every day, or whenever I've got something to say. I always find the start of the academic year a much greater motivator than the traditional 1^st January. For me, the dark days of winter just make me want to batten down the hatches and stuff my face with cheese and chocolate. So here I find myself at the beginning of a brand new OU module, looking out of the window at a crisp blue sky and wondering which of my new resolutions to attempt first. They are (in no particular order):

1. Go to the gym - I've bought 2 pairs of shorts, enrolled and been twice this week. Who'd have thought that as a stay-at-home mum I'd struggle so much to find the time! And I haven't worn the shorts yet because I keep forgetting to shave my legs. The problems with having an absentee husband!
2. Finish my unfinished stories - well, I've transferred them onto the dropbox folder that I can access from my laptop. So, they're there whenever I want to look at them. Any time soon ...

3. Show my virtual face in the writing group forum - I'm a member of All Write Then, a collective of writers who met at the OU who like to share stories. We have a blog (http://allwritethen.wordpress.com/). We're also writing a collection of stories and poems which we are attempting to get published to raise money for the Alzheimers Society. 

4. Keep up with my OU studies - I've even got a little bit ahead this week, because I know that I have a trip to the UAE in 10 days, so I don't want to end up falling behind. I'm really enjoying it so far, especially after the long break. But it's definitely tougher than last year. And the quality of the work posted by my tutor group is really high, so the pressure's on!

5. Write chapter 2 of my novel. Well, as with my other stories, it's accessible from my laptop. So, any time ...

6. Don't forget that I've got kids - oh crikey. I keep doing that. I suppose I'd better go and see what they're up to ... .