This was so much fun to write!
Goblin King
"Say your right words," I heard the voice whisper in my head "I wish the Goblin King would come and take you away, right now." A phrase that kept coming back to me over the years. I wasn't sure where I'd first heard it. Sometime in my childhood for sure, I remember my mother hissing it at me when I misbehaved. I'd had no reason to doubt her, the threat kept me terrified for years.
Of course, I was older now. The threat didn't quite hold the same sort of terror. After all, I had never seen a goblin, I doubted they actually existed. Nonetheless, it was a threat I had resolved to never use of my own children.
This wasn't quite the same. I was tired, and crabby, and I doubted Millie really cared.
"I wish the Goblin King would come and take you away," I said, then took a deep breath, "right now!"
For a moment, nothing happened. I laughed nervously. What did I actually expect to happen? Some small ugly green monster to appear and take Millie away?
Outside the house, the wind picked up. I heard a clattering as hail hit the window panes. Inside the house, the atmosphere changed a little, in the air, a slight odour of sulphur. There was a crack of lightning and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was there. The goblin.
It was about three feet tall, it's bald green head glimmering like a stagnant pond at midnight. It's face was ugly, almost deformed, with ears that stuck out like cup handles and fat protruding lips. It had a large bulbous nose complete with a large wart and arms that seemed a little too long for its body. It was dressed in rags that may once have been denim dungarees.
"That's not a baby," it said, and pointed to Millie.
"It's a cat," I said. "Are you really a goblin?"
"No," it replied, "I'm a fairy. Obviously."
We stared at each other. I hadn't really expected a goblin, and if I had, I certainly wouldn't have expected one with a developed sense of sarcasm.
"Why did you call us in for a cat?" It asked. "We don't do cats, only babies."
"You really take babies?"
"Up to two years old," the goblin, stuck a thick, gnarly finger into it's ear and wiggled it. It pulled its hand away and studied the finger, there was a small glob of brown wax stuck beneath its overgrown fingernails. "Maybe two and a half if they're small."
"Why not older?"
"They don't fit in the oven."
I looked at him (?) and wondered if he was being serious. "You cook them?"
"What did you think we did with them?"
"I thought goblins came from stolen babies." I said.
"I bet you also think the stork brings 'em."
"So you weren't someone's baby once?"
"Honey, we were all someone's baby once." It (he?) pulled out a rag from its pocket and blew its nose. Then it stowed the rag back in it's pocket and glared at me. "So you don't have a baby you want shut of?"
"No, just this cat."
"Looks a cute cat, why do you want shut?"
"Well," I said. I had no explanation, I hadn't even been serious. "It was a mistake. I'm just tired. Not sleeping, y'know? Damn cat whines to go out and five minutes later wants to come in. Twice already tonight. I'm just... weary."
The goblin nodded. "That's cats for you, contrary little bastards." It bent to one knee and extended a hand, Millie sniffed it, recoiled. The goblin sighed, straightened up. "I best be off, infants to collects, children to roast, potatoes to peel." He (it?) winked.
"You seriously cook and eat children?" I asked again, still not sure whether I was having my leg pulled.
The goblin grinned. "Do you really want to know?"
"Yes?"
"Even if it's really horrible?"
I thought for a moment. Was this creature going to give me a recipe? A step by step guide on how to cook a baby? Finally I nodded. "Yes, tell me."
He took a couple of steps closer, put his green blubbery lips to my ear. "When a mother gets really really desperate, and in those final stages of desperation calls upon the Goblin King to take her child away, we come in, and we take the child," he paused, "you really want to know?"
I wasn't sure I did any more, but I nodded again.
"We take the child, and we wrap it up tight..."
I swallowed nervously, imagining an infant swaddled up like a chicken dinner.
"... and then we rock them to sleep." The Goblin hoisted Millie up and gently tucked her into its (his?) long arms. "What do you think we are? Monsters?"
Thursday 31 January 2013
Tuesday 29 January 2013
Parenting Teens
SIX THINGS ABOUT PARENTING TEENAGERS
MOODSWINGS. Technically these start way before children are actually teenagers. In the same way that children develop the "terrible twos" at sixteen months, teenager tantrums usually start at about ten years old. These usually take the form of stomping around blowing the hair out of their long emo fringes, slamming doors and the screaming of "it's not fair!" Also to be expected is floods of tears (boys and girls), fits of depression and general waily waily. This is the time when you wonder if you are raising a sociopath, an anarchist or possibly even a kleptomaniac. Chances are they're just not through puberty yet.
MUSIC AND FASHION Mostly, it's terrible. Teens seem to go one of two ways during these years. Team Shite Pop or Team Screechy Metal. Team Shite Pop listen to the most horrendous crap the charts have to offer, they want to dress like pimps and prostitutes and walk around calling each other "ho" and "nigga". Or they favour Team Screechy Metal. Which involves wearing lots of black, dark eyeshadow (yes, even the boys) and not washing their hair for three weeks at a time. It doesn't matter what their listening to, to you it sounds like noise with words shouted over the top and you hate it. Both teams will wear lots of bad jewelry and eye up unsuitable tattoos. Take no heed, in twenty years time they will be sending their own teens back upstairs to change and wondering why music has gotten so bad.
BOUNDARIES. They want you to believe they are not children any more. You want to believe they still are, but as they get taller than you, the truth begins to sink in. Most of your battles are going to be about boundaries. What time they should come home is a popular one. Try a curfew, not too early, but not really late either. Be flexible if they have Important Shit to do and will be home late. Compromise is key. Letting your 13 year old out until 10pm if they are at their friend's two doors up is different from them wandering around the local park. Bedtime is another contentious area. Perhaps have a "bedtime" where they have to be upstairs, but don't have to be asleep. All teens are hell to get up in the morning, that's biology.
DRUGS AND ALCOHOL Teach your kids to drink. Or rather, teach them to drink responsibly. When you're at a family party and your thirteen year old is eyeing up the alcopops, tell them they can have one and to make it last. Tell your fifteen year old they have a limit of two beers. Drink responsibly in front of them. If they see you necking coke between the glasses of wine, they might just do the same. Teach them to know their limits. Despite all this, you're almost guaranteed for them to overdo it one night and you'll find yourself hanging a six foot child over a toilet and telling them that it's okay, they really are not going to die. Dole out paracetamol and mild pisstake the next morning and make them wash their own bedding. Or whatever they puked on. As for other drugs, arm yourself with shitloads of information. Arm THEM with shitloads of information.
SEX. They are going to do it. Try stop them. No really, have a go. You may be all smug and thinking that your sweet sixteen year old is still virginal when in fact they are getting it more often than you are. So once you accept the fact that your child is now almost an adult with sexual desires, the important thing is safety. Buy a stash of condoms and give them to your child, or tell them that they can get them free from the family planning centre. Talk to them. Yeah, it may be a contest to see who has the redder face, but if you managed the tampax talk five years ago, you can do this. Be nice to their boy/girlfriends, be nice to them when everything goes tits up. If your child decides they are batting for the other team, be their biggest supporter. And if safety fails and your child tells you that they are making you a grandparent ten years earlier than expected, wrap your arms around that child and tell them you'll be there for them.
MISTAKES. They are going to make them. Most will be small. Some will be huge, life-altering mistakes. Whether it's an indiscreet tattoo of a dolphin on their belly, a criminal conviction for shoplifting, or presenting you with a baby boy on your thirty-sixth birthday. If you can talk to your kids and keep the lines of communication open, you're a whole lot more likely to develop a different (but fulfilling) relationship with them as they transition to adulthood. You're no longer the boss of them, but a guide, an influence. Eventually, you may become good friends.
And that's when you can see you did a great job being a parent. Except it doesn't stop there. My dad used to say the first twenty years were the worst. And then I hit that, so he upped it to twenty-five years.
He's still upping it...
MOODSWINGS. Technically these start way before children are actually teenagers. In the same way that children develop the "terrible twos" at sixteen months, teenager tantrums usually start at about ten years old. These usually take the form of stomping around blowing the hair out of their long emo fringes, slamming doors and the screaming of "it's not fair!" Also to be expected is floods of tears (boys and girls), fits of depression and general waily waily. This is the time when you wonder if you are raising a sociopath, an anarchist or possibly even a kleptomaniac. Chances are they're just not through puberty yet.
MUSIC AND FASHION Mostly, it's terrible. Teens seem to go one of two ways during these years. Team Shite Pop or Team Screechy Metal. Team Shite Pop listen to the most horrendous crap the charts have to offer, they want to dress like pimps and prostitutes and walk around calling each other "ho" and "nigga". Or they favour Team Screechy Metal. Which involves wearing lots of black, dark eyeshadow (yes, even the boys) and not washing their hair for three weeks at a time. It doesn't matter what their listening to, to you it sounds like noise with words shouted over the top and you hate it. Both teams will wear lots of bad jewelry and eye up unsuitable tattoos. Take no heed, in twenty years time they will be sending their own teens back upstairs to change and wondering why music has gotten so bad.
BOUNDARIES. They want you to believe they are not children any more. You want to believe they still are, but as they get taller than you, the truth begins to sink in. Most of your battles are going to be about boundaries. What time they should come home is a popular one. Try a curfew, not too early, but not really late either. Be flexible if they have Important Shit to do and will be home late. Compromise is key. Letting your 13 year old out until 10pm if they are at their friend's two doors up is different from them wandering around the local park. Bedtime is another contentious area. Perhaps have a "bedtime" where they have to be upstairs, but don't have to be asleep. All teens are hell to get up in the morning, that's biology.
DRUGS AND ALCOHOL Teach your kids to drink. Or rather, teach them to drink responsibly. When you're at a family party and your thirteen year old is eyeing up the alcopops, tell them they can have one and to make it last. Tell your fifteen year old they have a limit of two beers. Drink responsibly in front of them. If they see you necking coke between the glasses of wine, they might just do the same. Teach them to know their limits. Despite all this, you're almost guaranteed for them to overdo it one night and you'll find yourself hanging a six foot child over a toilet and telling them that it's okay, they really are not going to die. Dole out paracetamol and mild pisstake the next morning and make them wash their own bedding. Or whatever they puked on. As for other drugs, arm yourself with shitloads of information. Arm THEM with shitloads of information.
SEX. They are going to do it. Try stop them. No really, have a go. You may be all smug and thinking that your sweet sixteen year old is still virginal when in fact they are getting it more often than you are. So once you accept the fact that your child is now almost an adult with sexual desires, the important thing is safety. Buy a stash of condoms and give them to your child, or tell them that they can get them free from the family planning centre. Talk to them. Yeah, it may be a contest to see who has the redder face, but if you managed the tampax talk five years ago, you can do this. Be nice to their boy/girlfriends, be nice to them when everything goes tits up. If your child decides they are batting for the other team, be their biggest supporter. And if safety fails and your child tells you that they are making you a grandparent ten years earlier than expected, wrap your arms around that child and tell them you'll be there for them.
MISTAKES. They are going to make them. Most will be small. Some will be huge, life-altering mistakes. Whether it's an indiscreet tattoo of a dolphin on their belly, a criminal conviction for shoplifting, or presenting you with a baby boy on your thirty-sixth birthday. If you can talk to your kids and keep the lines of communication open, you're a whole lot more likely to develop a different (but fulfilling) relationship with them as they transition to adulthood. You're no longer the boss of them, but a guide, an influence. Eventually, you may become good friends.
And that's when you can see you did a great job being a parent. Except it doesn't stop there. My dad used to say the first twenty years were the worst. And then I hit that, so he upped it to twenty-five years.
He's still upping it...
Monday 28 January 2013
Parenting, part 2
PARENTING SCHOOL AGE CHILDREN
Seven things about parenting kids from 5 to 13...
SCHOOL. At last they are at school and off your hands most of the day. This brings a fresh set of challenges. If you are the sort of person who is not great at being organised, now is the time to invest in a big calendar and notice board. They have a lot of days off. Some of these you will not remember until you pull up outside the school and find the gates are locked. Or, conversely, when the school rings you up to enquire why your child is absent. Extra points if the phone-call got you out of bed.
UNIFORM. They look very sweet in their uniform, all smart and grown up. This lasts for about a week. Then they get paint on their jumper (water based allegedly, good luck getting it off), their new school pants gather ripped knees and you end up sending them in odd socks because there is a whole carrier bag of socks clean and no two are the same. Children also have a tendency to shoot up in August. What fit them in July when you bought it, will look like it needs passing down by September. PE kits are a pain in the arse and will hide in the laundry pile when you suddenly remember your child is supposed to take it with them.
SCHOOL FRIENDS. Boys and girls differ here. Boys will choose their friends on the criteria of they are the same age, they both like football and are both into the power rangers. Girls on the other hand have a friendship network that is more akin to national politics. Alliances are formed, and broken, best friends carefully selected, and catagorised. The girls who were best friends last week, may hate each other this week. It helps if you stay neutral. Expect lots of tears.
ATTITUDE. Once you're past the toddler years, you sort of expect the tantrumming stage to be over and you've got a few shining years before teenager stroppiness takes over. Wrong. They may not throw themselves to the floor and shriek in the supermarket (actually, they still might) but are more likely to have a stand-up argument with you. This becomes a problem when you discover they are better at arguing than you are. Compromise is always a good tactic, but you may have to get a little sly. Grounding can work, if you are prepared to have a sulky nine year old trailing around you all day whining. They do still whine. A lot.
PUBERTY. This is happening younger and ever younger. Face it, you're going to have talk to your kids about tampax. And sex. Tell them they can ask you anything, and give them honest replies. This will backfire when your seven year old asks you what an orgasm is whilst you're in Tesco. The day when you discover your child masturbates is a shock. But not as big a shock as the day when you catch them at it. Learn to knock before you walk into their bedrooms.
SIBLINGS. By now, you probably have more than one child. Siblings are great, your children always have someone else to rely on, to play with and to fight with. They will spend a lot of time fighting. Each one will think they are the least favourite, that you treat the other one better, that they never get anything and it's not fair. Be as fair as you can be. Think back to your own childhood and the relationships with your own siblings. With a bit of luck you won't hate each other any more.
PARENTAL GUILT. Yup, it's still there. When every other mother has delivered a batch of home-made buns for the school fayre and your child has brought in a packet of fairy cakes bought from the shop on the way, when you take your child in uniform because the letter for book day didn't actually manage to make it home, when you completely forgot it was photo day and sent your child in yesterdays jumper complete with yellow paint splodge on the collar (and here's a thing, your child will always fall and bruise their face the day before photo day. It's like a law, every parent has that photograph where their child looks like a poster child for the NSPCC because they decided it would be fun to skateboard down the front steps). And again, let it go. You're raising kids and nothing is ever going to be perfect.
Seven things about parenting kids from 5 to 13...
SCHOOL. At last they are at school and off your hands most of the day. This brings a fresh set of challenges. If you are the sort of person who is not great at being organised, now is the time to invest in a big calendar and notice board. They have a lot of days off. Some of these you will not remember until you pull up outside the school and find the gates are locked. Or, conversely, when the school rings you up to enquire why your child is absent. Extra points if the phone-call got you out of bed.
UNIFORM. They look very sweet in their uniform, all smart and grown up. This lasts for about a week. Then they get paint on their jumper (water based allegedly, good luck getting it off), their new school pants gather ripped knees and you end up sending them in odd socks because there is a whole carrier bag of socks clean and no two are the same. Children also have a tendency to shoot up in August. What fit them in July when you bought it, will look like it needs passing down by September. PE kits are a pain in the arse and will hide in the laundry pile when you suddenly remember your child is supposed to take it with them.
SCHOOL FRIENDS. Boys and girls differ here. Boys will choose their friends on the criteria of they are the same age, they both like football and are both into the power rangers. Girls on the other hand have a friendship network that is more akin to national politics. Alliances are formed, and broken, best friends carefully selected, and catagorised. The girls who were best friends last week, may hate each other this week. It helps if you stay neutral. Expect lots of tears.
ATTITUDE. Once you're past the toddler years, you sort of expect the tantrumming stage to be over and you've got a few shining years before teenager stroppiness takes over. Wrong. They may not throw themselves to the floor and shriek in the supermarket (actually, they still might) but are more likely to have a stand-up argument with you. This becomes a problem when you discover they are better at arguing than you are. Compromise is always a good tactic, but you may have to get a little sly. Grounding can work, if you are prepared to have a sulky nine year old trailing around you all day whining. They do still whine. A lot.
PUBERTY. This is happening younger and ever younger. Face it, you're going to have talk to your kids about tampax. And sex. Tell them they can ask you anything, and give them honest replies. This will backfire when your seven year old asks you what an orgasm is whilst you're in Tesco. The day when you discover your child masturbates is a shock. But not as big a shock as the day when you catch them at it. Learn to knock before you walk into their bedrooms.
SIBLINGS. By now, you probably have more than one child. Siblings are great, your children always have someone else to rely on, to play with and to fight with. They will spend a lot of time fighting. Each one will think they are the least favourite, that you treat the other one better, that they never get anything and it's not fair. Be as fair as you can be. Think back to your own childhood and the relationships with your own siblings. With a bit of luck you won't hate each other any more.
PARENTAL GUILT. Yup, it's still there. When every other mother has delivered a batch of home-made buns for the school fayre and your child has brought in a packet of fairy cakes bought from the shop on the way, when you take your child in uniform because the letter for book day didn't actually manage to make it home, when you completely forgot it was photo day and sent your child in yesterdays jumper complete with yellow paint splodge on the collar (and here's a thing, your child will always fall and bruise their face the day before photo day. It's like a law, every parent has that photograph where their child looks like a poster child for the NSPCC because they decided it would be fun to skateboard down the front steps). And again, let it go. You're raising kids and nothing is ever going to be perfect.
Sunday 27 January 2013
Parenting The Under 5s
something a wee bit different for the next couple of days.
TEN BITS OF ADVICE FOR PARENTING THE UNDER-FIVES
1) SLEEP. You used to love sleep. Used. To Love. Actually, you still do love sleep. Except now you get to love it in slices of an hour. Two hours. Maybe an entire night if you bribed someone else and are in a different house to your children. The parenting books tell you to prepare for a few months of sleepless nights. Months is accurate. Your child may learn to sleep through in two months. You child may not learn to sleep through until they are 40 months old. You learn to function on three hours and a half hour nap whilst Fireman Sam is on.
2) FOOD. Yes, of course you were going to spend your time pureeing bananas and lovingly preparing home-cooked weaning food. And yes, a year into this gig you find yourself giving your child a 3rd yoghurt in as many hours and sharing a bag of quavers. That's okay, welcome to the club. We all intended to give them mashed swede and instead resorted to baked beans. And any seasoned parent knows that toddlers live on a diet of fresh air and whatever they can pull out of the folds in the sofa. This section is alternatively entitled "how do you have so much energy when you won't eat a blasted thing?"
3) POO. It comes with the territory, you knew you were going to have to change shitty nappies. But despite all the information given in pregnancy, nobody managed to get through to you just how hard it is to wipe merconuim off a newborn's arse (seriously, the stuff clings better than paint). Here is more helpful information... a child will always crap in a clean nappy, a child will only have the squits when your stock of nappies is looking low, and will definitely always do a surprise crap when you have to be somewhere else in ten minutes.
4) PUKE. Newborn sick smells of milk. Toddler sick smells of puke. Proper adult puke. Here's what they don't tell you; children will vomit when they are ill, over-excited, in cars, on rides that barely move, because they saw the dog puke, in temper, and sometimes for no reason whatsoever. My pro-tip for puke is this: cat litter. Throw over offending mess, go have a pot of tea, sweep up. You're welcome.
5) ILLNESS. All the 'S's. Sicks, squits, snots, spots and seriously ill. For the first four just accept you've got several days of whining, endless juice making, snacks that won't be eaten, temperature taking, medicine giving (use a syringe, trust me) and no sleep. And more whining. A bit of luck, they'll be recovered just in time for the next one to go down with it. For Seriously Ill, find a professional. Prepare for quite a bit of thinking your child is Seriously Ill, only for said child to make a miraculous recovery in the GP surgery.
6) PARASITES. You expect a puppy to get worms and fleas. Yes, your child is no different. They will get worms, they will get headlice. The puppy is easier to treat. You are going to be on first name terms with your pharmacist. Buy a nitty gritty comb and prepare to do battle.
7) WHINING AND TANTRUMS. You're going to have days where all you want to do is whine and throw a paddy. Unlike a toddler, it's probably not going to get you anywhere. If your child is doing it, calmly carry on with a smile plastered on your face ignoring the shocked looks of your fellow shoppers. Resist the urge to bribe your child, it only makes them do it again. And yes, every mother-to-be has vowed never to use the "I will leave you here if you don't stop!" line. And every parent has used it. When you feel yourself heading towards a tantrum, self medicate with tea. And five minutes locked in the bathroom.
8) CRYING. You expect them to cry. But maybe you didn't expect them to cry for five hours straight. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they do that ear-splitting howl for no reason you can see other than the cat looked at them funny. Change them, feed them, rock them. If all else fails, bung them in the cot and have five minutes in the bathroom with a cup of tea and let them scream. Have a bit of a cry yourself. Also, try loud music.
9) PLAYING. Bung them on the floor with lots of toys. Stick cbeebies on. Invite another mother and toddler round. Here's a factlet; you will never have enough toys to keep them happy. Give them a wooden spoon and a pan to bash it with. Give them three baths a day when that is the only thing they want to do. Take them to the park. Even when it's raining.
10) PARENTAL GUILT. Let it go. They say the first five years are the hardest. All you have to do is survive it. You got your child to school age. They are fit, toilet-trained, verbose, independent creatures. Drop them off at nursery with a smile on your face, try not to cry until youare past the school gates. If they cried, they will be fine. Honest. Go home and pretend to relax for two hours. Try not to cry at the state of your house.
Tomorrow... parenting school-age children...
TEN BITS OF ADVICE FOR PARENTING THE UNDER-FIVES
1) SLEEP. You used to love sleep. Used. To Love. Actually, you still do love sleep. Except now you get to love it in slices of an hour. Two hours. Maybe an entire night if you bribed someone else and are in a different house to your children. The parenting books tell you to prepare for a few months of sleepless nights. Months is accurate. Your child may learn to sleep through in two months. You child may not learn to sleep through until they are 40 months old. You learn to function on three hours and a half hour nap whilst Fireman Sam is on.
2) FOOD. Yes, of course you were going to spend your time pureeing bananas and lovingly preparing home-cooked weaning food. And yes, a year into this gig you find yourself giving your child a 3rd yoghurt in as many hours and sharing a bag of quavers. That's okay, welcome to the club. We all intended to give them mashed swede and instead resorted to baked beans. And any seasoned parent knows that toddlers live on a diet of fresh air and whatever they can pull out of the folds in the sofa. This section is alternatively entitled "how do you have so much energy when you won't eat a blasted thing?"
3) POO. It comes with the territory, you knew you were going to have to change shitty nappies. But despite all the information given in pregnancy, nobody managed to get through to you just how hard it is to wipe merconuim off a newborn's arse (seriously, the stuff clings better than paint). Here is more helpful information... a child will always crap in a clean nappy, a child will only have the squits when your stock of nappies is looking low, and will definitely always do a surprise crap when you have to be somewhere else in ten minutes.
4) PUKE. Newborn sick smells of milk. Toddler sick smells of puke. Proper adult puke. Here's what they don't tell you; children will vomit when they are ill, over-excited, in cars, on rides that barely move, because they saw the dog puke, in temper, and sometimes for no reason whatsoever. My pro-tip for puke is this: cat litter. Throw over offending mess, go have a pot of tea, sweep up. You're welcome.
5) ILLNESS. All the 'S's. Sicks, squits, snots, spots and seriously ill. For the first four just accept you've got several days of whining, endless juice making, snacks that won't be eaten, temperature taking, medicine giving (use a syringe, trust me) and no sleep. And more whining. A bit of luck, they'll be recovered just in time for the next one to go down with it. For Seriously Ill, find a professional. Prepare for quite a bit of thinking your child is Seriously Ill, only for said child to make a miraculous recovery in the GP surgery.
6) PARASITES. You expect a puppy to get worms and fleas. Yes, your child is no different. They will get worms, they will get headlice. The puppy is easier to treat. You are going to be on first name terms with your pharmacist. Buy a nitty gritty comb and prepare to do battle.
7) WHINING AND TANTRUMS. You're going to have days where all you want to do is whine and throw a paddy. Unlike a toddler, it's probably not going to get you anywhere. If your child is doing it, calmly carry on with a smile plastered on your face ignoring the shocked looks of your fellow shoppers. Resist the urge to bribe your child, it only makes them do it again. And yes, every mother-to-be has vowed never to use the "I will leave you here if you don't stop!" line. And every parent has used it. When you feel yourself heading towards a tantrum, self medicate with tea. And five minutes locked in the bathroom.
8) CRYING. You expect them to cry. But maybe you didn't expect them to cry for five hours straight. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they do that ear-splitting howl for no reason you can see other than the cat looked at them funny. Change them, feed them, rock them. If all else fails, bung them in the cot and have five minutes in the bathroom with a cup of tea and let them scream. Have a bit of a cry yourself. Also, try loud music.
9) PLAYING. Bung them on the floor with lots of toys. Stick cbeebies on. Invite another mother and toddler round. Here's a factlet; you will never have enough toys to keep them happy. Give them a wooden spoon and a pan to bash it with. Give them three baths a day when that is the only thing they want to do. Take them to the park. Even when it's raining.
10) PARENTAL GUILT. Let it go. They say the first five years are the hardest. All you have to do is survive it. You got your child to school age. They are fit, toilet-trained, verbose, independent creatures. Drop them off at nursery with a smile on your face, try not to cry until youare past the school gates. If they cried, they will be fine. Honest. Go home and pretend to relax for two hours. Try not to cry at the state of your house.
Tomorrow... parenting school-age children...
Friday 25 January 2013
Awesome
For Darren. Today's muse. Cheers Dazz!
Awesome
Bobby Suarez was innocent. He had always maintained this, even as the police officers laid down the evidence before him. They told him they had caught him bang to rights. His DNA was all over the place.
Bob told them he didn't give half a shit where his DNA was or wasn't. He hadn't been to the barbers that day and he knew nothing about the robbery.
The police told him that they knew the West Side Rippers had been involved. They pointed out that Bob was wearing the traditional red and purple colours of the Rippers. Bob denied being a gang member and told them that his clothes were merely a coincidence. He thought he looked good in red and purple. Matter of fact he looked good in anything, that's why he was known on the streets as "Awesome".
The police told him that they had witnesses. People who had seen him there, could put him right at the scene during the robbery. Bob told them that as far as he was concerned, they could witness the back of his ass. They had nothing.
Unfortunately for Bob "Awesome" Suarez, the judge tended to see things differently. He sentenced Bob to ten years.
He still protested his innocence, even as they took him away. But by then, it was far too late.
They never got anyone else for the Barber Shop robbery. But then, why would they look? The witnesses they found (or more likely bribed, Bob was apt to tell people) said there was only one guy, and that guy was Bobby Suarez.
Bob had his own theories on who had taken a gun into Old Joe Feeney's shop and bludgeoned the poor guy half to death for the meagre takings. He reckoned it was certainly one of the Rippers, and he had his suspicions who. Right name, wrong brother.
His brother Billy was two years younger, three inches taller and twice as stupid. They had more than a passing resemblance to each other and during the middle years of Billy's teens, could have passed for twins. People frequently mistook Billy for Bob and Bob for Billy. Even their mother had to look twice.
On the day of the robbery the brothers had been smoking weed together in the Ripper's clubhouse. Bob missed that place. It wasn't a house as such, more of a dilapidated shack ready to collapse. The sort of place where you didn't lean too heavily on the walls. There had been three of them; the Suarez brothers and Dinky Mahoney, so called for his diminutive height of almost seven feet. It certainly wasn't him the witnesses had seen. They would have certainly remembered him.
They'd been arguing. Dinky had announced that he was the biggest and baddest of the three of them. Billy had disagreed, adding that not only was he far better a criminal than either of the other two, he was also more intelligent, better looking and, of course, possessed the most superior genitalia. At this Bob and Dinky fell about laughing.
"Prove it," Bob had said, "I don't wanna see your dick though, I've seen that," he crooked his little finger and Dinky guffawed again.
Billy had blushed. "I will so prove it. Tonight, we'll meet again. Whoever has the biggest stash is the winner."
"Money from what?" Dinky asked, "You gonna go sell that fine ass of yours?"
"A robbery," Billy announced. "You gotta go knock somewhere off."
It had seemed a good idea at the time, and Bob had willingly agreed to it. The three of them had gone their separate ways. Billy, obviously, had not wandered far. Feeney's Barbers was just two streets away from the clubhouse. Bob had no idea whether Dinky had managed to find a victim or not, at the time when they were supposed to be meeting up and comparing notes, Bob was sat in the back of a patrol car with his hands cuffed behind his back, already denying all the charges against him.
So he was in jail. He wasn't too worried, his lawyers were already on the case. The DNA that the judge had used to convict him was going to set him free. Bob knew damn well there was DNA of his there, but it wasn't from the robbery, it was from the day before when Joe Feeney had almost sliced the top of his ear off. The guy was half blind. Turned out his lawyers had found some other witnesses, including the EMT who'd been attending something else entirely and had wandered in to take a look at the guy with blood spurting out of his ear. So no, Bob wasn't worried at all.
Besides, because the cops were so hell-bent on framing him for that robbery, it hadn't even occurred to them that he could have been involved in the bank heist across town. Bobby grinned to himself. He wasn't just a good criminal, he was Awesome.
Awesome
Bobby Suarez was innocent. He had always maintained this, even as the police officers laid down the evidence before him. They told him they had caught him bang to rights. His DNA was all over the place.
Bob told them he didn't give half a shit where his DNA was or wasn't. He hadn't been to the barbers that day and he knew nothing about the robbery.
The police told him that they knew the West Side Rippers had been involved. They pointed out that Bob was wearing the traditional red and purple colours of the Rippers. Bob denied being a gang member and told them that his clothes were merely a coincidence. He thought he looked good in red and purple. Matter of fact he looked good in anything, that's why he was known on the streets as "Awesome".
The police told him that they had witnesses. People who had seen him there, could put him right at the scene during the robbery. Bob told them that as far as he was concerned, they could witness the back of his ass. They had nothing.
Unfortunately for Bob "Awesome" Suarez, the judge tended to see things differently. He sentenced Bob to ten years.
He still protested his innocence, even as they took him away. But by then, it was far too late.
They never got anyone else for the Barber Shop robbery. But then, why would they look? The witnesses they found (or more likely bribed, Bob was apt to tell people) said there was only one guy, and that guy was Bobby Suarez.
Bob had his own theories on who had taken a gun into Old Joe Feeney's shop and bludgeoned the poor guy half to death for the meagre takings. He reckoned it was certainly one of the Rippers, and he had his suspicions who. Right name, wrong brother.
His brother Billy was two years younger, three inches taller and twice as stupid. They had more than a passing resemblance to each other and during the middle years of Billy's teens, could have passed for twins. People frequently mistook Billy for Bob and Bob for Billy. Even their mother had to look twice.
On the day of the robbery the brothers had been smoking weed together in the Ripper's clubhouse. Bob missed that place. It wasn't a house as such, more of a dilapidated shack ready to collapse. The sort of place where you didn't lean too heavily on the walls. There had been three of them; the Suarez brothers and Dinky Mahoney, so called for his diminutive height of almost seven feet. It certainly wasn't him the witnesses had seen. They would have certainly remembered him.
They'd been arguing. Dinky had announced that he was the biggest and baddest of the three of them. Billy had disagreed, adding that not only was he far better a criminal than either of the other two, he was also more intelligent, better looking and, of course, possessed the most superior genitalia. At this Bob and Dinky fell about laughing.
"Prove it," Bob had said, "I don't wanna see your dick though, I've seen that," he crooked his little finger and Dinky guffawed again.
Billy had blushed. "I will so prove it. Tonight, we'll meet again. Whoever has the biggest stash is the winner."
"Money from what?" Dinky asked, "You gonna go sell that fine ass of yours?"
"A robbery," Billy announced. "You gotta go knock somewhere off."
It had seemed a good idea at the time, and Bob had willingly agreed to it. The three of them had gone their separate ways. Billy, obviously, had not wandered far. Feeney's Barbers was just two streets away from the clubhouse. Bob had no idea whether Dinky had managed to find a victim or not, at the time when they were supposed to be meeting up and comparing notes, Bob was sat in the back of a patrol car with his hands cuffed behind his back, already denying all the charges against him.
So he was in jail. He wasn't too worried, his lawyers were already on the case. The DNA that the judge had used to convict him was going to set him free. Bob knew damn well there was DNA of his there, but it wasn't from the robbery, it was from the day before when Joe Feeney had almost sliced the top of his ear off. The guy was half blind. Turned out his lawyers had found some other witnesses, including the EMT who'd been attending something else entirely and had wandered in to take a look at the guy with blood spurting out of his ear. So no, Bob wasn't worried at all.
Besides, because the cops were so hell-bent on framing him for that robbery, it hadn't even occurred to them that he could have been involved in the bank heist across town. Bobby grinned to himself. He wasn't just a good criminal, he was Awesome.
Wednesday 23 January 2013
The door.
The Door
Danny found the video on youtube. He wasn't sure quite how he'd stumbled over it, he was actually looking for a music video by his favourite band; a local punk band that was currently calling itself Asylum Escapee. He didn't find the song he was looking for but the links on the sidebar suggested a lot of other videos all featuring abandoned asylums.
Of course, he'd heard of urban exploration, and he'd even heard of some of the asylums featured. Hellingly, High Royds and Cane Hill. These names rang bells somewhere in the back of his mind. He idly clicked through the links, which mainly showed a lot of shaky camera work in very dark places, lots of nervous laughter and not a little illegal trespassing. But some of the videos were glorious; excellent shots of nature taking root in these lost and forgotten places.
And then he found the video. That video.
It had been uploaded a couple of years ago by someone called Notcrazy. The view count was dismal, barely a hundred people had seen it, there were no votes on it. Nor any comments. The video itself was called 'two weeks later'. It was barely two minutes long.
He almost didn't play it, but the thumbnail shot looked interesting. Well, not interesting as such. It was just a door in a wall, but it had such an air of familiarity about it. he was pretty sure he knew that door. So he clicked on it, if only to garner a few more clues as to it's location.
The video started with the same shot as he'd seen in the thumbnail. A door in a wall. The door was brown, weathered and had no discernible features. No window, no numbers no letterbox, and, strangely, no handle. The wall was built of grey discoloured stone. There was something scrawled to the far right of the shot, almost out of sight. It was undecipherable.
At twenty seconds in the camera wavered and a voice whispered "here it is."
The voice was male, breathless. Anonymous behind the camera.
It panned around a little, showed more of the wall. It seemed to go on for twenty feet or more in each direction. No windows, just that endless unbroken stone. It panned upwards and eventually the wall ended, seemingly showing a clump of grass.
"See that?" the cameraman said. "There's nothing above it but housing., they closed it all off and built over it, but that's just a ..." The sound of several cars passing drowned out his next words. "... I know different."
"We found the key," the anonymous voice said. "I didn't go in. John did."
A strangled sound. A muffled cough and a sniff.
"The door slammed. I couldn't get it open." He sniffed again. "So I went to get help, but it was dark, and I didn't see the car."
A hand entered the shot. A boy's hand, slender with bitten nails. It is encased in a grubby off-white plaster pot. The fingers protruding from the cast are scabbed, almost healed. The unseen narrator placed his hand flat on the door.
"When I woke up, I asked if they'd found him." A pause. "They told me John had gone away."
Another stifled sob.
"I told them about the door, and how he'd gone in, they didn't believe me."
The hand made a fist. Knocked on the door. One, two, three.
And then. Moments later. An answering knock. Just one.
Over the next few days Danny couldn't get the video out of his head. He knew the door was familiar. He knew he'd seen it somewhere about, as if it was somewhere he walked past every day without actually noticing it. He began searching the news archives online, looking for articles on a missing teenager called John. He didn't find anything.
Two weeks later, he found it.
It was completely by chance. He'd gone to one cashpoint and, finding it out of service, decided to go to another one down the hill, taking a shortcut past the cemetery. He was listening to his iPod, oblivious to his surroundings. Until he tripped over his shoelace, and as he bent to tie it, he glanced over the road and there was the door.
He turned the iPod off. Walked across the road.
It was definitely the same door.
He stood for a moment. He still could not see a handle, but there was a keyhole. It was small, and filled in with dirt. At first glance it could pass for a knot in the wood. Danny raised a fist to the door. Knocked loudly.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing.
He laughed to himself. What did he expect? The video was a year old. It was probably a joke. What the hell did he think he was doing? He laughed, took another step and tripped over his lace again.
And as he bent to the floor he heard it.
A single answering knock.
********
By the way, this door exists. I know where it is.
And what it is.
Danny found the video on youtube. He wasn't sure quite how he'd stumbled over it, he was actually looking for a music video by his favourite band; a local punk band that was currently calling itself Asylum Escapee. He didn't find the song he was looking for but the links on the sidebar suggested a lot of other videos all featuring abandoned asylums.
Of course, he'd heard of urban exploration, and he'd even heard of some of the asylums featured. Hellingly, High Royds and Cane Hill. These names rang bells somewhere in the back of his mind. He idly clicked through the links, which mainly showed a lot of shaky camera work in very dark places, lots of nervous laughter and not a little illegal trespassing. But some of the videos were glorious; excellent shots of nature taking root in these lost and forgotten places.
And then he found the video. That video.
It had been uploaded a couple of years ago by someone called Notcrazy. The view count was dismal, barely a hundred people had seen it, there were no votes on it. Nor any comments. The video itself was called 'two weeks later'. It was barely two minutes long.
He almost didn't play it, but the thumbnail shot looked interesting. Well, not interesting as such. It was just a door in a wall, but it had such an air of familiarity about it. he was pretty sure he knew that door. So he clicked on it, if only to garner a few more clues as to it's location.
The video started with the same shot as he'd seen in the thumbnail. A door in a wall. The door was brown, weathered and had no discernible features. No window, no numbers no letterbox, and, strangely, no handle. The wall was built of grey discoloured stone. There was something scrawled to the far right of the shot, almost out of sight. It was undecipherable.
At twenty seconds in the camera wavered and a voice whispered "here it is."
The voice was male, breathless. Anonymous behind the camera.
It panned around a little, showed more of the wall. It seemed to go on for twenty feet or more in each direction. No windows, just that endless unbroken stone. It panned upwards and eventually the wall ended, seemingly showing a clump of grass.
"See that?" the cameraman said. "There's nothing above it but housing., they closed it all off and built over it, but that's just a ..." The sound of several cars passing drowned out his next words. "... I know different."
"We found the key," the anonymous voice said. "I didn't go in. John did."
A strangled sound. A muffled cough and a sniff.
"The door slammed. I couldn't get it open." He sniffed again. "So I went to get help, but it was dark, and I didn't see the car."
A hand entered the shot. A boy's hand, slender with bitten nails. It is encased in a grubby off-white plaster pot. The fingers protruding from the cast are scabbed, almost healed. The unseen narrator placed his hand flat on the door.
"When I woke up, I asked if they'd found him." A pause. "They told me John had gone away."
Another stifled sob.
"I told them about the door, and how he'd gone in, they didn't believe me."
The hand made a fist. Knocked on the door. One, two, three.
And then. Moments later. An answering knock. Just one.
Over the next few days Danny couldn't get the video out of his head. He knew the door was familiar. He knew he'd seen it somewhere about, as if it was somewhere he walked past every day without actually noticing it. He began searching the news archives online, looking for articles on a missing teenager called John. He didn't find anything.
Two weeks later, he found it.
It was completely by chance. He'd gone to one cashpoint and, finding it out of service, decided to go to another one down the hill, taking a shortcut past the cemetery. He was listening to his iPod, oblivious to his surroundings. Until he tripped over his shoelace, and as he bent to tie it, he glanced over the road and there was the door.
He turned the iPod off. Walked across the road.
It was definitely the same door.
He stood for a moment. He still could not see a handle, but there was a keyhole. It was small, and filled in with dirt. At first glance it could pass for a knot in the wood. Danny raised a fist to the door. Knocked loudly.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing.
He laughed to himself. What did he expect? The video was a year old. It was probably a joke. What the hell did he think he was doing? He laughed, took another step and tripped over his lace again.
And as he bent to the floor he heard it.
A single answering knock.
********
By the way, this door exists. I know where it is.
And what it is.
Sunday 20 January 2013
The Break Up
GOSSIP
"What I don't get, is why she doesn't leave him," Beanie said.
Mack rolled his eyes. "She'll never leave him."
"She ought to," Beanie stretched out over the sofa until her feet bumped the sofa end, she curled up, flipped onto her back. "She's obviously not happy."
"Well, any fool can see that," Mack glanced upwards, "why else would she be upstairs crying and him out somewhere, yet again?"
"Have you been up to see if she's okay?"
"I tried, she just shut the bathroom door. I could still hear her sobbing, but she shouted at me when I tried again. Told me to go downstairs."
"I'd go up, " Beanie said, "but the last time I did that, she shut me in the bedroom."
"Did she?"
"Two hours I was in there. I wasn't happy, I can tell you."
"I thought I heard you crying the other day," Mack said, he rubbed at his nose, "so you were in the bedroom?"
"Yup. Until she came in and threw herself on the bed. Then he came in and they argued some more and I thought I'd better leave them to it." Beanie paused. "She used to be so much happier, before she started seeing him."
Mack cocked his head, "I wasn't here then."
"No, you moved in a couple of months later. Jenkins was here then." She struggled to remember, it was a few years back. "Did you meet Jenkins?"
Mack had, briefly. "I met him, I don't think he was still actually living here. More just using it as a place to crash every so often. What happened to him?"
"I'm not sure. He was here, then he was here but not here. Still around, but not every day, and he was definitely eating somewhere else. Then he just upped and disappeared. I thought I'd seen him a few weeks later, at the end of the street. It looked like him, but it was dark, it may not have been him."
"I tell you who was here then," Mack suddenly animated, "Lola. She wasn't here long, but oh my, I loved Lola."
"Lola wasn't living here, she was just staying for a few weeks. She went back home." Beanie wrinkled her nose, "I wasn't keen on Lola, she was... antisocial. Untidy. Left her shit everywhere."
"She was young."
"She was a pain in the arse. And so noisy."
"Young," Mack repeated. "And gorgeous."
"If you like that sort of thing," Beanie sniffed. "I'm surprised you haven't seen her since. She's usually out in the park most afternoons."
"Ah," Mack had the good grace to look ashamed, "we don't go to the park anymore."
"Why not?"
"There was that huge bust-up. I got into a fight. Ended up in the duck pond."
"You or him?"
"Both of us." Mack sighed, "but there were threats and a lot of arguing. It's just simpler to avoid some areas."
Beanie listened. From upstairs the sound of sobbing had subsided. Instead there came a different noise. It sounded as though something was being thrown against the wall. "I wonder what she's doing now? Shall I go up and look?"
"You can," Mack went back to watching television, "I'm not."
He watched Beanie walk out of the living room. He didn't know what was going on upstairs but he was damn sure he didn't want to be in the middle of it. Not again. He listened for raised voices but there was only that strange bumping noise. Then the sound of something being scraped across the floor.
Beanie returned. "Well, you were wrong, she's packing."
Mack looked surprised. "Really?"
"Half wrong. It's not her stuff she's packing, but his." Beanie flung herself back on the sofa. "So, it looks like she's kicking him out."
Mack started to look worried. "Can she do that?"
"It's her place."
"So why did you say she should leave him?" Mack demanded, a note of worry entering his voice. "I don't like this."
"Like you have a choice," Beanie regarded her nails, chewed at a ragged bit of skin. "Don't look so worried, I'm sure things will be okay."
"For us or them?" Mack said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the sound of bin bags tumbling down the stairs startled him. "I mean, you are hers, but I'm his. Will I have to go too?"
Beanie's tail flicked uncertainly. She knew it was different for dogs, if her owner packed up and buggered off, she'd be okay either way, worst came to worst, she could always join the colony of feral cats up the street. Mack on the other hand, his future was looking uncertain.
"I'm sure you'll be fine," Beanie said.
"What I don't get, is why she doesn't leave him," Beanie said.
Mack rolled his eyes. "She'll never leave him."
"She ought to," Beanie stretched out over the sofa until her feet bumped the sofa end, she curled up, flipped onto her back. "She's obviously not happy."
"Well, any fool can see that," Mack glanced upwards, "why else would she be upstairs crying and him out somewhere, yet again?"
"Have you been up to see if she's okay?"
"I tried, she just shut the bathroom door. I could still hear her sobbing, but she shouted at me when I tried again. Told me to go downstairs."
"I'd go up, " Beanie said, "but the last time I did that, she shut me in the bedroom."
"Did she?"
"Two hours I was in there. I wasn't happy, I can tell you."
"I thought I heard you crying the other day," Mack said, he rubbed at his nose, "so you were in the bedroom?"
"Yup. Until she came in and threw herself on the bed. Then he came in and they argued some more and I thought I'd better leave them to it." Beanie paused. "She used to be so much happier, before she started seeing him."
Mack cocked his head, "I wasn't here then."
"No, you moved in a couple of months later. Jenkins was here then." She struggled to remember, it was a few years back. "Did you meet Jenkins?"
Mack had, briefly. "I met him, I don't think he was still actually living here. More just using it as a place to crash every so often. What happened to him?"
"I'm not sure. He was here, then he was here but not here. Still around, but not every day, and he was definitely eating somewhere else. Then he just upped and disappeared. I thought I'd seen him a few weeks later, at the end of the street. It looked like him, but it was dark, it may not have been him."
"I tell you who was here then," Mack suddenly animated, "Lola. She wasn't here long, but oh my, I loved Lola."
"Lola wasn't living here, she was just staying for a few weeks. She went back home." Beanie wrinkled her nose, "I wasn't keen on Lola, she was... antisocial. Untidy. Left her shit everywhere."
"She was young."
"She was a pain in the arse. And so noisy."
"Young," Mack repeated. "And gorgeous."
"If you like that sort of thing," Beanie sniffed. "I'm surprised you haven't seen her since. She's usually out in the park most afternoons."
"Ah," Mack had the good grace to look ashamed, "we don't go to the park anymore."
"Why not?"
"There was that huge bust-up. I got into a fight. Ended up in the duck pond."
"You or him?"
"Both of us." Mack sighed, "but there were threats and a lot of arguing. It's just simpler to avoid some areas."
Beanie listened. From upstairs the sound of sobbing had subsided. Instead there came a different noise. It sounded as though something was being thrown against the wall. "I wonder what she's doing now? Shall I go up and look?"
"You can," Mack went back to watching television, "I'm not."
He watched Beanie walk out of the living room. He didn't know what was going on upstairs but he was damn sure he didn't want to be in the middle of it. Not again. He listened for raised voices but there was only that strange bumping noise. Then the sound of something being scraped across the floor.
Beanie returned. "Well, you were wrong, she's packing."
Mack looked surprised. "Really?"
"Half wrong. It's not her stuff she's packing, but his." Beanie flung herself back on the sofa. "So, it looks like she's kicking him out."
Mack started to look worried. "Can she do that?"
"It's her place."
"So why did you say she should leave him?" Mack demanded, a note of worry entering his voice. "I don't like this."
"Like you have a choice," Beanie regarded her nails, chewed at a ragged bit of skin. "Don't look so worried, I'm sure things will be okay."
"For us or them?" Mack said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the sound of bin bags tumbling down the stairs startled him. "I mean, you are hers, but I'm his. Will I have to go too?"
Beanie's tail flicked uncertainly. She knew it was different for dogs, if her owner packed up and buggered off, she'd be okay either way, worst came to worst, she could always join the colony of feral cats up the street. Mack on the other hand, his future was looking uncertain.
"I'm sure you'll be fine," Beanie said.
Saturday 19 January 2013
Depression
A few thoughts on depression.
Depression. It's the black dog by your side, the constant cloud blocking out the sun, the terrible emotional quicksand that buries you. I've struggled with depression on and off since my early teens. I am not depressed at the moment. Here are some things I would like to say about it.
Being pissed off is not depression. Being upset in reaction to something sad is not depression.
You have to learn to distinguish normal negative moods from the deeper, more sinister depths of depression. If you have a bad week, the sort of week where the baby woke up four times in the night, your favourite shoes started leaking and you had an argument with the postman, then it's quite okay to be out of sorts and grumpy. If, on the other hand, the postman brought news of a job offer, the baby took her first steps and you got a fabulous pair of shoes on sale and all you can think is "meh," then it may be time to look closer at your state of mind. The point of this is not to say to people "you don't know what depression is, stop being a drama queen!" but because if you can recognise why your mood is temporarily bad, it saves the whole depressing "I'm depressed, and now I'm more depressed because I'm dealing with this shit again." Because sometimes you've had a bad week, and feel like shit and then it strikes you that the Big D has gripped you again, which only serves to drive you downwards. But if you can recognise a legitimate grumpy state of mind and separate that from the Big D, it may give you the energy to claw your way back out of it before you slide.
People who say to you "Why are you depressed? You have <insert positives here>, cheer up!"
This is so patronising and not helpful. Firstly it's not helpful because it implies that you're putting it on for the sympathy vote ("oh woe is me, my life is terrible!!!!") or because you're an ungrateful sod who can't see all the good things you have. It's simply not true. Because any positive thing in your life will be flipped up and skewed through the filter depression gives you. You have great kids (I don't know how, I'm a shit mother), you have a good job (I hate my job, I'm crap at it), you have a nice home (I feel trapped here/ I don't deserve it/ I only rent, it's not mine). See? If a normal person won the lottery, smiles all round. If a depressed person won the lottery, they'd more likely think "oh god, now I have to deal with begging letters and publicity etc".
Secondly it's not helpful because it's saying the depressed person has chosen to be a miserable sod. Cheer up! Yes if only that was made possible by the mighty power of your magic words.
But, it is possible to come through it. And if, like me, you've been swamped in the Big D more than once, you come to realise that life does go on, all the shit passes and you find yourself living free again. It may take drugs, or counselling, or some sort of behaviour therapy, but you can beat it. And if you've beaten it once, you can beat it again. And again. Sometimes the only thing to cling onto is that thought, that it's not going to be like this forever. Even if it feels like it. And the depression filter will tell you that this time it is never going to end, this time it's going to be easier to give in. That's not the truth. That's depression talking. Trust me on that.
And finally, one last thought. It is so very easy for someone with depression, or who is developing depression to cut themselves off. So much easier to slump on the sofa rather than drag yourself out and socialise. It's not helpful. If you ask them what is wrong, they will say "Nothing,", "I'm fine," or "I'm just tired." What they mean is "I'm drowning." If you have depression, admit it. Tell your best friend, tell a sibling, your parents, your GP. Think of it as a war, you need your army. People who love you, who care for you, will fight this war with you. Maybe by prescribing meds, by being a friendly ear to cry into, maybe by dropping in and bring the social life to you. You may not appreciate this at the time, but they are on your side.
I was once described as an antisocial miserable bitch. Probably true at the time for anyone who didn't understand what state my head was in. That is not my real character. Quite the opposite. I have also been described as bubbly. It took me a long time to get from one to the other. But it was worth it.
Depression. It's the black dog by your side, the constant cloud blocking out the sun, the terrible emotional quicksand that buries you. I've struggled with depression on and off since my early teens. I am not depressed at the moment. Here are some things I would like to say about it.
Being pissed off is not depression. Being upset in reaction to something sad is not depression.
You have to learn to distinguish normal negative moods from the deeper, more sinister depths of depression. If you have a bad week, the sort of week where the baby woke up four times in the night, your favourite shoes started leaking and you had an argument with the postman, then it's quite okay to be out of sorts and grumpy. If, on the other hand, the postman brought news of a job offer, the baby took her first steps and you got a fabulous pair of shoes on sale and all you can think is "meh," then it may be time to look closer at your state of mind. The point of this is not to say to people "you don't know what depression is, stop being a drama queen!" but because if you can recognise why your mood is temporarily bad, it saves the whole depressing "I'm depressed, and now I'm more depressed because I'm dealing with this shit again." Because sometimes you've had a bad week, and feel like shit and then it strikes you that the Big D has gripped you again, which only serves to drive you downwards. But if you can recognise a legitimate grumpy state of mind and separate that from the Big D, it may give you the energy to claw your way back out of it before you slide.
People who say to you "Why are you depressed? You have <insert positives here>, cheer up!"
This is so patronising and not helpful. Firstly it's not helpful because it implies that you're putting it on for the sympathy vote ("oh woe is me, my life is terrible!!!!") or because you're an ungrateful sod who can't see all the good things you have. It's simply not true. Because any positive thing in your life will be flipped up and skewed through the filter depression gives you. You have great kids (I don't know how, I'm a shit mother), you have a good job (I hate my job, I'm crap at it), you have a nice home (I feel trapped here/ I don't deserve it/ I only rent, it's not mine). See? If a normal person won the lottery, smiles all round. If a depressed person won the lottery, they'd more likely think "oh god, now I have to deal with begging letters and publicity etc".
Secondly it's not helpful because it's saying the depressed person has chosen to be a miserable sod. Cheer up! Yes if only that was made possible by the mighty power of your magic words.
But, it is possible to come through it. And if, like me, you've been swamped in the Big D more than once, you come to realise that life does go on, all the shit passes and you find yourself living free again. It may take drugs, or counselling, or some sort of behaviour therapy, but you can beat it. And if you've beaten it once, you can beat it again. And again. Sometimes the only thing to cling onto is that thought, that it's not going to be like this forever. Even if it feels like it. And the depression filter will tell you that this time it is never going to end, this time it's going to be easier to give in. That's not the truth. That's depression talking. Trust me on that.
And finally, one last thought. It is so very easy for someone with depression, or who is developing depression to cut themselves off. So much easier to slump on the sofa rather than drag yourself out and socialise. It's not helpful. If you ask them what is wrong, they will say "Nothing,", "I'm fine," or "I'm just tired." What they mean is "I'm drowning." If you have depression, admit it. Tell your best friend, tell a sibling, your parents, your GP. Think of it as a war, you need your army. People who love you, who care for you, will fight this war with you. Maybe by prescribing meds, by being a friendly ear to cry into, maybe by dropping in and bring the social life to you. You may not appreciate this at the time, but they are on your side.
I was once described as an antisocial miserable bitch. Probably true at the time for anyone who didn't understand what state my head was in. That is not my real character. Quite the opposite. I have also been described as bubbly. It took me a long time to get from one to the other. But it was worth it.
Friday 18 January 2013
Figgis 12: Not so very weird...
Not So Very Weird
Figgis stood outside his house. It was well aflame. In fact, there wasn't much left of it at all, and even as he watched, the roof fell in.
"I am so sorry," Theresa said.
Figgis slumped to the floor. There was nothing he could do about his house. He couldn't even rush up to the firefighters and claim it as his, for the sympathy vote if nothing else. He suspected if he tried, he'd find himself locked in the back of the fire engine for his own safety. Either that or in a cage destined for the local dog pound. Where he would probably be adopted by some obese middle-aged lady and renamed babykins. The way his life was going recently, this didn't look at all far-fetched.
"What are you going to do?" Theresa asked.
Figgis tried to shrug. It made him look like he was being attacked by a particularly savage flea between his shoulder-blades. Did dogs have shoulders? He wasn't even sure. He mentally ran through his list of canine body gestures. Tail-wagging was too happy, growling too belligerant and howling just seemed a little dramatic, even for this situation. He settled on throwing himself to the floor and whining.
"Looks like it's your house or bust," Bel advised.
Theresa nodded. After a few more minutes watching Figgis's life smouldering, they walked off down the street.
"So," Bel tried again, "your parents, why are they weird?"
"Oh, you'll see," Theresa said. "Would you mind turning invisible again?"
Bel obliged.
Theresa's parents lived in a very normal house in the middle of the street. The lawn was neat and tidy (though Figgis did notice the presence of Gnomes, which he felt really did indicate some form of social abnormality), the front door was quite ordinary and the windows were all adorned with clean and rather pretty net curtains. A house you could walk past a hundred times and not remark on it. Given it's location, Figgis probably had.
Theresa didn't knock, but opened the door and walked straight in. The hallway was also neat; a large mirror ran down one side, a shelf ran beneath it covered in small ornaments. As she turned to close the door, she knocked several of these off. They clattered on the tiled floor.
"Theresa? Is that you?" A woman's voice.
Figgis wasn't sure what he had expected. Theresa had described them as weird. Her mother looked very normal. Late forties, blonde hair going a little grey, slim. Nothing weird at all.
"You're back," her mum said, then paused, "and you've brought a dog."
"His name is Figgis," Theresa said. "He's very good with cats, I checked."
Figgis wasn't sure what she meant by that but dismissed it, obviously they owned a cat, no big deal. He watched with a smile as mother and daughter embraced. It seemed that Theresa was more welcome back at home than she'd imagined.
They embraced so long that Figgis actually turned away in embarrassment. He turned his gaze to the ornaments on the shelf. Each one a small, porcelain kitten. Then he noticed the door at the end of the hall. It had a cat flap in it. Unusual for an interior door.
As he watched, a cat came through it. A small grey tabby. Swiftly followed by a ginger tom. Okay, so they owed two cats. That was okay, he wasn't a fan exactly, but he could cope with two.
"Why have you got a dog?" her mother asked, "and where have you been?"
"I, um, stayed with friends. I had to bring the dog, he's been made homeless. I promise he'll be no bother, I'll keep him in my room, he's fine with cats." Theresa begged. "Is Dad in?"
"In the lounge."
Figgis followed them into the living room. Then stopped.
It looked more like a cattery than a house. Two black cats adorned the window sill. A brown tabby and two kittens snoozed in front of the fire. Three more laid on the back of the sofa. One was preening itself on the coffee table. There was a cat sat beside a large television, another on the top. The armchair held another three. The other armchair was occupied by a small man reading a newspaper; he had one cat on his lap and another on his shoulder.
"Bloody hell," Bel whispered, "it's the house of the mad cat lady. I'm really really glad I don't have a sense of smell any more."
Figgis did, and to be honest, the smell could have been worse. They must all be very clean cats.
"So" Bel whispered, very quietly into his ear, "let the pussy jokes begin,"
Figgis stood outside his house. It was well aflame. In fact, there wasn't much left of it at all, and even as he watched, the roof fell in.
"I am so sorry," Theresa said.
Figgis slumped to the floor. There was nothing he could do about his house. He couldn't even rush up to the firefighters and claim it as his, for the sympathy vote if nothing else. He suspected if he tried, he'd find himself locked in the back of the fire engine for his own safety. Either that or in a cage destined for the local dog pound. Where he would probably be adopted by some obese middle-aged lady and renamed babykins. The way his life was going recently, this didn't look at all far-fetched.
"What are you going to do?" Theresa asked.
Figgis tried to shrug. It made him look like he was being attacked by a particularly savage flea between his shoulder-blades. Did dogs have shoulders? He wasn't even sure. He mentally ran through his list of canine body gestures. Tail-wagging was too happy, growling too belligerant and howling just seemed a little dramatic, even for this situation. He settled on throwing himself to the floor and whining.
"Looks like it's your house or bust," Bel advised.
Theresa nodded. After a few more minutes watching Figgis's life smouldering, they walked off down the street.
"So," Bel tried again, "your parents, why are they weird?"
"Oh, you'll see," Theresa said. "Would you mind turning invisible again?"
Bel obliged.
Theresa's parents lived in a very normal house in the middle of the street. The lawn was neat and tidy (though Figgis did notice the presence of Gnomes, which he felt really did indicate some form of social abnormality), the front door was quite ordinary and the windows were all adorned with clean and rather pretty net curtains. A house you could walk past a hundred times and not remark on it. Given it's location, Figgis probably had.
Theresa didn't knock, but opened the door and walked straight in. The hallway was also neat; a large mirror ran down one side, a shelf ran beneath it covered in small ornaments. As she turned to close the door, she knocked several of these off. They clattered on the tiled floor.
"Theresa? Is that you?" A woman's voice.
Figgis wasn't sure what he had expected. Theresa had described them as weird. Her mother looked very normal. Late forties, blonde hair going a little grey, slim. Nothing weird at all.
"You're back," her mum said, then paused, "and you've brought a dog."
"His name is Figgis," Theresa said. "He's very good with cats, I checked."
Figgis wasn't sure what she meant by that but dismissed it, obviously they owned a cat, no big deal. He watched with a smile as mother and daughter embraced. It seemed that Theresa was more welcome back at home than she'd imagined.
They embraced so long that Figgis actually turned away in embarrassment. He turned his gaze to the ornaments on the shelf. Each one a small, porcelain kitten. Then he noticed the door at the end of the hall. It had a cat flap in it. Unusual for an interior door.
As he watched, a cat came through it. A small grey tabby. Swiftly followed by a ginger tom. Okay, so they owed two cats. That was okay, he wasn't a fan exactly, but he could cope with two.
"Why have you got a dog?" her mother asked, "and where have you been?"
"I, um, stayed with friends. I had to bring the dog, he's been made homeless. I promise he'll be no bother, I'll keep him in my room, he's fine with cats." Theresa begged. "Is Dad in?"
"In the lounge."
Figgis followed them into the living room. Then stopped.
It looked more like a cattery than a house. Two black cats adorned the window sill. A brown tabby and two kittens snoozed in front of the fire. Three more laid on the back of the sofa. One was preening itself on the coffee table. There was a cat sat beside a large television, another on the top. The armchair held another three. The other armchair was occupied by a small man reading a newspaper; he had one cat on his lap and another on his shoulder.
"Bloody hell," Bel whispered, "it's the house of the mad cat lady. I'm really really glad I don't have a sense of smell any more."
Figgis did, and to be honest, the smell could have been worse. They must all be very clean cats.
"So" Bel whispered, very quietly into his ear, "let the pussy jokes begin,"
Tuesday 15 January 2013
Dead People
DEAD PEOPLE
Tom could see dead people.
He wasn't sure how long he'd had this ability. For all he knew, he'd always been able to see them and it was only recently that he'd begun to notice them.
The dead looked pretty much like everyone else, so they blended in pretty well. They did not present themselves covered in blood, the remains of nooses hanging from their necks, nor with knives sticking out of their backs. They did not carry vials of poison, they did not wear badges.
It was something in the eyes, something in the way they moved. As if seeing, and walking was an effort. Something in their posture, a certain bend to the spine, a looseness of the hands. Mostly though, it was the eyes. They all shared the same sort of eyes, vacant, without interest.
Once he realised he could see them, he began to look for them.
He saw a woman in the supermarket, studying the same two oranges for almost five minutes. One cradled in each hand, she simply stared at them. As if one of them would suddenly grow into an orange tree or something. Finally she dropped both back onto the display and walked away.
Or the young boy in the park, sitting all by himself on the swing. Not swinging, just sitting. His fingers entwined in the steel ropes, his dirty trainers dug slightly into the floor. He wore a school uniform but no coat, though the day was cold. He seemed impervious, his small body as still as any sculpture.
He saw old men on benches, young women staring into shop windows, mature ladies at bus shelters.
He tried to speak to them. Often they looked at him but through him, as if they could not see the man before them. As if they could not comprehend him talking to them. As if speech was beyond them.
Sometimes they grunted at him.
But mostly, they sighed. Silently.
Tom wondered how lonely their lives must be. To live within society and yet not be a part of it. To be forever an observer, standing on the sidelines, silently watching.
That's if they were watching, sometimes he wasn't sure. Their vacant stares gave no indication that they actually realised where they were, or what they were looking at. He'd seen them sit oblivious to the roar of an estactic crowd, to walk past snarling dogs and to have their eyes on the floor as fireworks went off overhead.
He once saw one be run over. A young guy. He just walked off the pavement and under a truck. He'd not even slowed in his laborious trudging, had not turned to meet his demise. It was if he hadn't seen it. At first Tom thought the guy had been wearing headphones and not heard it. But no, there were no headphones, no music. Just oblivious leading to oblivion.
Since then he'd seen several others narrowly miss the same fate. Each and every one had stood afterwards, as the brakes squealed and the people shouted, had just stood. Dazed, disorientated. Almost catatonic.
Tom was afraid that one day he would join them.
He'd been studying the process. It was not quick, but insidious, creeping. They hadn't died suddenly, but gradually fading to grey. It began with vacances and spread. The shoulders slumped, their words slurred and finally silenced. They could talk, but... they didn't. A slow but sure shutting down of the mind and body.
Some days Tom was sure he was dying. He would open his mouth to talk, but find the words dead on his lips. He'd find himself slumped on the sofa, unaware of the last few hours.
He became louder to compensate. Jollier, more social. It staved it off for a bit but these nights left him exhausted. He stopped trying. Stopped talking. Stopped going out. Stopped washing. Stopped caring.
It seemed that Tom had become one of them.
Some weeks later he found himself walking around the supermarket. He wasn't sure why he was there. He knew there had been a reason, a few hours back, but now it eluded him. He trudged up and down the aisles. Staring at the bright labels, unable to comprehend the names on the tins. He picked up a packet and studied it. The label had round green things on it. He didn't know whether he wanted it, it didn't even matter what was inside.
And then he heard it.
Laughter.
It was the woman with the oranges. She was standing at the corner of the aisle with someone else. She was laughing, her eyes ablaze with mirth, tears running down her face.
And he saw hope.
That he could live again.
Tom could see dead people.
He wasn't sure how long he'd had this ability. For all he knew, he'd always been able to see them and it was only recently that he'd begun to notice them.
The dead looked pretty much like everyone else, so they blended in pretty well. They did not present themselves covered in blood, the remains of nooses hanging from their necks, nor with knives sticking out of their backs. They did not carry vials of poison, they did not wear badges.
It was something in the eyes, something in the way they moved. As if seeing, and walking was an effort. Something in their posture, a certain bend to the spine, a looseness of the hands. Mostly though, it was the eyes. They all shared the same sort of eyes, vacant, without interest.
Once he realised he could see them, he began to look for them.
He saw a woman in the supermarket, studying the same two oranges for almost five minutes. One cradled in each hand, she simply stared at them. As if one of them would suddenly grow into an orange tree or something. Finally she dropped both back onto the display and walked away.
Or the young boy in the park, sitting all by himself on the swing. Not swinging, just sitting. His fingers entwined in the steel ropes, his dirty trainers dug slightly into the floor. He wore a school uniform but no coat, though the day was cold. He seemed impervious, his small body as still as any sculpture.
He saw old men on benches, young women staring into shop windows, mature ladies at bus shelters.
He tried to speak to them. Often they looked at him but through him, as if they could not see the man before them. As if they could not comprehend him talking to them. As if speech was beyond them.
Sometimes they grunted at him.
But mostly, they sighed. Silently.
Tom wondered how lonely their lives must be. To live within society and yet not be a part of it. To be forever an observer, standing on the sidelines, silently watching.
That's if they were watching, sometimes he wasn't sure. Their vacant stares gave no indication that they actually realised where they were, or what they were looking at. He'd seen them sit oblivious to the roar of an estactic crowd, to walk past snarling dogs and to have their eyes on the floor as fireworks went off overhead.
He once saw one be run over. A young guy. He just walked off the pavement and under a truck. He'd not even slowed in his laborious trudging, had not turned to meet his demise. It was if he hadn't seen it. At first Tom thought the guy had been wearing headphones and not heard it. But no, there were no headphones, no music. Just oblivious leading to oblivion.
Since then he'd seen several others narrowly miss the same fate. Each and every one had stood afterwards, as the brakes squealed and the people shouted, had just stood. Dazed, disorientated. Almost catatonic.
Tom was afraid that one day he would join them.
He'd been studying the process. It was not quick, but insidious, creeping. They hadn't died suddenly, but gradually fading to grey. It began with vacances and spread. The shoulders slumped, their words slurred and finally silenced. They could talk, but... they didn't. A slow but sure shutting down of the mind and body.
Some days Tom was sure he was dying. He would open his mouth to talk, but find the words dead on his lips. He'd find himself slumped on the sofa, unaware of the last few hours.
He became louder to compensate. Jollier, more social. It staved it off for a bit but these nights left him exhausted. He stopped trying. Stopped talking. Stopped going out. Stopped washing. Stopped caring.
It seemed that Tom had become one of them.
Some weeks later he found himself walking around the supermarket. He wasn't sure why he was there. He knew there had been a reason, a few hours back, but now it eluded him. He trudged up and down the aisles. Staring at the bright labels, unable to comprehend the names on the tins. He picked up a packet and studied it. The label had round green things on it. He didn't know whether he wanted it, it didn't even matter what was inside.
And then he heard it.
Laughter.
It was the woman with the oranges. She was standing at the corner of the aisle with someone else. She was laughing, her eyes ablaze with mirth, tears running down her face.
And he saw hope.
That he could live again.
Sunday 13 January 2013
Perfect Day
I have no idea what this is! But the writing is done for the day!
The Perfect Day
It had been a perfect day.
They had risen in the late morning, the sun already high, blasting the side of the cottage with light and heat and the glorious promise of a lazy Sunday afternoon. One of those days that you know will deliver. One of those days that you remember years later, a memory to treasure.
She'd woken and smiled at him. He brushed strands of hair from her eyes and she'd laughed. She said her hair needed brushing, he thought it was perfect how it was, all tousled and sexy.
The room still had that lingering aroma of love, that heady mix of arousal and massage oil.
When she got out of the bed he watched her, appreciated her long, lithe legs and the way the sun shone through his white shirt, outlining the curves of her breasts.
They breakfasted on toast, flicking the crumbs from the bedsheets, their coffee cups cradled precariously on the duvet. The coffee stains never came out. Printed as indelibly on the duvet cover as the day was on his memory.
He said they should go out somewhere. He didn't care where, particularly, just somewhere. She agreed. They had a brief discussion on possible locations, whether to take the car, whether to ride there instead. Eventually they decided to walk.
The canal was busy, full of people with small children dawdling too close to the edge, dogs that raced and sometimes jumped in the water, bike riders flying past with barely a thank you. They strolled, hand in hand. People smiled at them. The couple smiled back. They laughed a lot. Shared jokes, rambling conversation with no beginning, no end, no actual point. Just sharing the day and the sunshine.
They ate ice-cream served from a hatch on a narrowboat. Multi-hued ice-cream that dripped down their hands and soggied the cones. She licked the creamy rivulet from her wrist, held out her cone for him to try it. He pulled her into an embrace, kissed the excess from her lips.
Later on they found a shady spot beneath some trees. Sitting on the grass, her in his arms, they watched the world go by. She talked about her plans for the coming year. He listened without listening, gazing down at the twin mounds of her breasts. He did not want to hear her plans. He wanted this day to last forever.
She said she was developing sunburn and held out her arms to prove it. He ran a hand over her creamy skin, there was no hint of redness, they were barely pink. He asked if she wanted to head back and she nodded.
They didn't go back. Instead they found themselves in a waterside restaurant and dined out on rather expensive fish and chips, washing it down with chilled white wine. Outside the sun dimmed a little, the air cooled from uncomfortably warm to a lovely ambient temperature. He toasted her health and she tipped her glass, the rims touching briefly.
Darkness crept in and the day's warmth disappated into a tolerable chill. They walked back along the canal, his arm around her shoulders, her face pressed into his chest. Holding her as they walked, it felt right.
Back at the cottage, she opened a bottle of wine. Threw her clothes on the floor. He smiled, pulled his teeshirt over his head, joined her on the floor. Joined with her. And afterwards as they lay, still panting. He told her that he loved her.
She said she knew that. She'd always known it. She always would.
He lit the fire, despite the season. They sat and, wrapped together in a large blanket gazed into the flames. He felt himself melt into her, wanted to imprint her on his skin, so that she would always be a part of him. He knew it was ending. Knew these were their final hours together.
All things must end, night had fallen and fatigue overcame them. They doused the fire and went to bed. Both exhausted, neither able to sleep. They made love again, but the passion was fading. There was no promise of better yet to come, just the knowledge of time slipping by. All their first were over, now all they had left was finals.
In the morning they dressed in silence. He walked her to the door of the cottage. He offered to take her to the station, but she shook her head. She put the case down on the floor and put her arms around him, rested her head against his lips, his tear-streaked cheeks.
And then she left.
The Perfect Day
It had been a perfect day.
They had risen in the late morning, the sun already high, blasting the side of the cottage with light and heat and the glorious promise of a lazy Sunday afternoon. One of those days that you know will deliver. One of those days that you remember years later, a memory to treasure.
She'd woken and smiled at him. He brushed strands of hair from her eyes and she'd laughed. She said her hair needed brushing, he thought it was perfect how it was, all tousled and sexy.
The room still had that lingering aroma of love, that heady mix of arousal and massage oil.
When she got out of the bed he watched her, appreciated her long, lithe legs and the way the sun shone through his white shirt, outlining the curves of her breasts.
They breakfasted on toast, flicking the crumbs from the bedsheets, their coffee cups cradled precariously on the duvet. The coffee stains never came out. Printed as indelibly on the duvet cover as the day was on his memory.
He said they should go out somewhere. He didn't care where, particularly, just somewhere. She agreed. They had a brief discussion on possible locations, whether to take the car, whether to ride there instead. Eventually they decided to walk.
The canal was busy, full of people with small children dawdling too close to the edge, dogs that raced and sometimes jumped in the water, bike riders flying past with barely a thank you. They strolled, hand in hand. People smiled at them. The couple smiled back. They laughed a lot. Shared jokes, rambling conversation with no beginning, no end, no actual point. Just sharing the day and the sunshine.
They ate ice-cream served from a hatch on a narrowboat. Multi-hued ice-cream that dripped down their hands and soggied the cones. She licked the creamy rivulet from her wrist, held out her cone for him to try it. He pulled her into an embrace, kissed the excess from her lips.
Later on they found a shady spot beneath some trees. Sitting on the grass, her in his arms, they watched the world go by. She talked about her plans for the coming year. He listened without listening, gazing down at the twin mounds of her breasts. He did not want to hear her plans. He wanted this day to last forever.
She said she was developing sunburn and held out her arms to prove it. He ran a hand over her creamy skin, there was no hint of redness, they were barely pink. He asked if she wanted to head back and she nodded.
They didn't go back. Instead they found themselves in a waterside restaurant and dined out on rather expensive fish and chips, washing it down with chilled white wine. Outside the sun dimmed a little, the air cooled from uncomfortably warm to a lovely ambient temperature. He toasted her health and she tipped her glass, the rims touching briefly.
Darkness crept in and the day's warmth disappated into a tolerable chill. They walked back along the canal, his arm around her shoulders, her face pressed into his chest. Holding her as they walked, it felt right.
Back at the cottage, she opened a bottle of wine. Threw her clothes on the floor. He smiled, pulled his teeshirt over his head, joined her on the floor. Joined with her. And afterwards as they lay, still panting. He told her that he loved her.
She said she knew that. She'd always known it. She always would.
He lit the fire, despite the season. They sat and, wrapped together in a large blanket gazed into the flames. He felt himself melt into her, wanted to imprint her on his skin, so that she would always be a part of him. He knew it was ending. Knew these were their final hours together.
All things must end, night had fallen and fatigue overcame them. They doused the fire and went to bed. Both exhausted, neither able to sleep. They made love again, but the passion was fading. There was no promise of better yet to come, just the knowledge of time slipping by. All their first were over, now all they had left was finals.
In the morning they dressed in silence. He walked her to the door of the cottage. He offered to take her to the station, but she shook her head. She put the case down on the floor and put her arms around him, rested her head against his lips, his tear-streaked cheeks.
And then she left.
Friday 11 January 2013
Figgis 11: A little breather...
More Figgis!
A Little Breather...
The police let them go. They had to really, no crime had been committed. Not to mention their prime suspect was now sitting in the back of the car, waving his tail and dropping fur everywhere. The male officer got out and opened the back door, Figgis jumped down. The officer closed the door again. He wore an expression of complete bemusement.
"So he can change into a dog?"
"He was meant to be a werewolf" Theresa said, "and I was supposed to become a vampire. Hence the wings." She waggled them, almost knocking off the off-side wing mirror.
"They fucked up," Bel said. "And now they have done a moonlight flit and left us all in this predicament."
"Where do we contact you about funeral arrangements?" Female officer asked, "and the car?"
Bel gave them Figgis's address and the police drove off.
"So what do we do now?" Theresa asked.
"Back home," Bel replied.
Figgis was a little annoyed at Bel's presumption that they were still all going to be living at his place, but given his regained canine status, didn't feel in a position to argue. As he'd already noticed, no matter how much barking and chasing around he did, neither of the women saw it as anything but enthusiasm. Instead he kept his mouth shut and sniffed the pavement.
The paving stones had suddenly taken on a whole new dimension. As a human, he'd look down and see stone, maybe a bit of litter, possibly some weathering. As a dog however, they gave up so much more. He knew (although he wasn't quite sure how), that a female dog had walked down this street just half an hour before, not only that, but the matching human trail was also female, was a cat owner, and had a preference for cheap perfume. There was a masculine trail that reeked of sweat and sex, the scent of rats and on the breeze, the waft of something on fire. He raised his nose and sniffed. Dismissing it, he turned his attention back to his companions.
"What we need," Theresa said, "is a long term plan."
"What I need," Bel replied, "is an afternoon where sod all goes wrong."
Theresa dropped her hand down to Figgis's head and idly stroked his ears. He wasn't sure whether to be offended or just enjoy the sensation, though he was startled to discover his back leg jerking as she scratched. "I'm grateful for you hospitality, but I think I need something more permanant."
"Can't you go back to your parents?" Bel asked.
"I don't think so."
"We should go see them," Bel decided. "Come on, where do you live?"
Theresa gave her the address then added "we really shouldn't, they were freaked out enough at the wings, I'm not sure turning up with a ghost and a dog is going to help."
"Do you want to know what I can do?" Bel asked. Then she vanished.
Figgis knew she was still standing with them, he could smell her. Bel's scent wasn't quite human. It was more a suggestion of a scent, like the whiff of electricity, ions and particles in the air. And also of blueberries.
"Hey look!" Bel cackled. "Oh, you can't, I'm invisible."
Figgis wanted to point out that if Bel wanted to argue Theresa's case with her parents, invisibility was probably not an advantage. But he was a dog, so didn't.
Bel reappeared. "Let's go see your mum and dad."
Theresa reluctantly agreed. It turned out that she didn't live too far from Figgis, just a couple of streets away from him. They would pass his house on the way to hers. He thought it was a shame that he had not met her before this entire transformation debacle. And again, it was a pity he was now a dog. Although the wing thing, he liked that, he'd like to wrap himself up in her wings. Preferably naked.
"My parents," Theresa began, "I just want to prepare you, they are a little... um, different."
"What do mean different? They can't be that bad."
"You might think them a little strange," Theresa warned.
"Really? I can deal with strange. Seriously, why are they weird? Born again Christians? Hoarders? Can't be that bad."
"No, nothing so normal," Theresa frowned.
"So, what is it?"
They were passing the end of Figgis's street now. He glanced down and was startled to see two fire engines parked halfway down. He stopped. Stared.
"No, they are..."
Figgis barked. A shrill, panicked shriek of surprise.
"Oh shit," Bel said, "his house is on fire!"
A Little Breather...
The police let them go. They had to really, no crime had been committed. Not to mention their prime suspect was now sitting in the back of the car, waving his tail and dropping fur everywhere. The male officer got out and opened the back door, Figgis jumped down. The officer closed the door again. He wore an expression of complete bemusement.
"So he can change into a dog?"
"He was meant to be a werewolf" Theresa said, "and I was supposed to become a vampire. Hence the wings." She waggled them, almost knocking off the off-side wing mirror.
"They fucked up," Bel said. "And now they have done a moonlight flit and left us all in this predicament."
"Where do we contact you about funeral arrangements?" Female officer asked, "and the car?"
Bel gave them Figgis's address and the police drove off.
"So what do we do now?" Theresa asked.
"Back home," Bel replied.
Figgis was a little annoyed at Bel's presumption that they were still all going to be living at his place, but given his regained canine status, didn't feel in a position to argue. As he'd already noticed, no matter how much barking and chasing around he did, neither of the women saw it as anything but enthusiasm. Instead he kept his mouth shut and sniffed the pavement.
The paving stones had suddenly taken on a whole new dimension. As a human, he'd look down and see stone, maybe a bit of litter, possibly some weathering. As a dog however, they gave up so much more. He knew (although he wasn't quite sure how), that a female dog had walked down this street just half an hour before, not only that, but the matching human trail was also female, was a cat owner, and had a preference for cheap perfume. There was a masculine trail that reeked of sweat and sex, the scent of rats and on the breeze, the waft of something on fire. He raised his nose and sniffed. Dismissing it, he turned his attention back to his companions.
"What we need," Theresa said, "is a long term plan."
"What I need," Bel replied, "is an afternoon where sod all goes wrong."
Theresa dropped her hand down to Figgis's head and idly stroked his ears. He wasn't sure whether to be offended or just enjoy the sensation, though he was startled to discover his back leg jerking as she scratched. "I'm grateful for you hospitality, but I think I need something more permanant."
"Can't you go back to your parents?" Bel asked.
"I don't think so."
"We should go see them," Bel decided. "Come on, where do you live?"
Theresa gave her the address then added "we really shouldn't, they were freaked out enough at the wings, I'm not sure turning up with a ghost and a dog is going to help."
"Do you want to know what I can do?" Bel asked. Then she vanished.
Figgis knew she was still standing with them, he could smell her. Bel's scent wasn't quite human. It was more a suggestion of a scent, like the whiff of electricity, ions and particles in the air. And also of blueberries.
"Hey look!" Bel cackled. "Oh, you can't, I'm invisible."
Figgis wanted to point out that if Bel wanted to argue Theresa's case with her parents, invisibility was probably not an advantage. But he was a dog, so didn't.
Bel reappeared. "Let's go see your mum and dad."
Theresa reluctantly agreed. It turned out that she didn't live too far from Figgis, just a couple of streets away from him. They would pass his house on the way to hers. He thought it was a shame that he had not met her before this entire transformation debacle. And again, it was a pity he was now a dog. Although the wing thing, he liked that, he'd like to wrap himself up in her wings. Preferably naked.
"My parents," Theresa began, "I just want to prepare you, they are a little... um, different."
"What do mean different? They can't be that bad."
"You might think them a little strange," Theresa warned.
"Really? I can deal with strange. Seriously, why are they weird? Born again Christians? Hoarders? Can't be that bad."
"No, nothing so normal," Theresa frowned.
"So, what is it?"
They were passing the end of Figgis's street now. He glanced down and was startled to see two fire engines parked halfway down. He stopped. Stared.
"No, they are..."
Figgis barked. A shrill, panicked shriek of surprise.
"Oh shit," Bel said, "his house is on fire!"
Wednesday 9 January 2013
Music
Not fiction today, but rather a sharing post.
Music. I love music. All sorts of music. I'm not an album buyer, I am a cherry picker of songs. I find them on the internet, on links posted by friends. I found my favourite artist from a link in someone's signature on a forum, sometimes I find them on adverts. Occasionally I've even been known to discover them on the radio, despite the vast amounts of dross in the charts these days <insert obligatory remark about being old and another about 'back in my day'>. These are some of the songs I love and some of the moods they put me in.
Music I Have Known Forever
These are the songs from my childhood. The songs my parents played a lot. I don't consciously think about them, I know all the words and they transport me into memory. I'm talking 'Bat Out Of Hell' (my mum) and Paul Simon/ Simon & Garfunkel (my dad). Those are the artists I associate with my parents, but there are so many more. From all the decades from the '50s until the '90s but heavily focussed at the end of the '70s. So many great tracks. Other stand out artists: Queen, Bob Dylan, Neil Diamond.
Boyfriend Music.
When you love someone, you tend to get into the same stuff they are into. Even long after the relationship has ended, there will be songs that take you back to a time and a person. My first real boyfriend was a lad called Bobby. Bob was into rock music and metal. From our time together I was introduced to Iron Maiden, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi and lots of rock tracks. Songs I associate with him include 'Can I play with madness' by Iron Maiden, 'Always' by Bon Jovi, 'Hysteria' by Def leppard and 'Ballad Of Jayne' by the LA Guns. Strangely, although Bob never heard it (he had passed away by then) the song 'Hear You Me' by Jimmy Eat World gives me the same reaction.
My first husband was a U2 fan. Any U2 track will take me back but I have a special place in my heart for 'One', 'With or without you' and 'The sweetest thing'. Also tied to him is the song 'Always and forever' by Donna Lewis. I don't associate many songs with my second husband. His musical tastes never much impacted my own.
Balm To The Soul Songs
You know the ones. Break up with your boyfriend, row with your partner, have a shitty day. They are the songs you play on a loop until you feel better. They are songs that ward off the world, that speak to you on some deep level. They are talismans. I have only a few of these but they have never failed me yet. Jason Webley's 'Against the night', 'map', 'without' and 'train tracks'. Also his cover of 'Aeroplane over the sea', though I'm not really keen on the original. 'Midnight Radio' from the Hedwig And The Angry Inch soundtrack,, Paul Simon's 'Only Living boy in New York' and 'the boxer', Stereophonics 'dakota'. I could play these on a loop for hours.
Sing It Fucking LOUD
Whack it on, turn it up bloody loud and sing until the neighbours complain. This is a wide catagory. This is the sort of music you put on whilst you're cleaning, I'm not even going to name individual tracks here but artists include Kings Of Leon, Elbow, Bowling For Soup, Reel Big Fish, The Killers, The Felice brothers, Queen, The Kaiser Chiefs, Rancid, Guns N Roses, The Beautiful South and many more.
The Silly, Stupid And Just Pure Fun.
I once made a mix CD for a car trip. We had three kids in the back. My second husband had brought a whole bunch of chart music for us to listen to but the mix tape stayed on for hours. These are songs that are just fun. Kids love them, adults love them, great for car trips and dancing like eejits in the kitchen... trust me on this: Chumbawumba's 'Tub thumping', 'The Banana Boat Song' and 'Jump In The Line' by Harry Belafonte, 'Don't worry, be happy' by Bobby McFerrin, 'Eleven Saints' by Jason Webley, 'Hey Ya' by Outkast. There's probably a few more.
Current Favourites.
Songs come and go, but at any one time I've probably got about a dozen 'gotta spin it again' songs. These are the songs I'll actively look for on my mp3 player, or look up on youtube despite having them on my laptop. The songs I have stuck in my head. So, currently these are... Fun's 'we are young' and 'carry on', 'Ghost in the shell' (don't ask me what version, I have no idea), 'Aeroplane over the sea' performed by Jason Webley and also by him 'Saviour', 'Pork ghoulash' and 'In this light', 'Werewolves of London' by Warren Zevon, 'Fire at the pageant' and 'Frankie's Gun' by The Felice Brothers and 'Ho hey' by The Lumineers.
Honorable Mentions.
for the most adrenaline fueled writing songs ever: 'Dominant view' by King Prawn and The Vandals '54321-1'
for being the most beautiful piece of classical music: 'The Flower Duet' by um. Someone.
for being the most ridiculously catchy video game songs: Portal's 'I want you gone' and 'still alive'
for being the weirdest cover that I prefer to the original: Katzenjammer's 'Land of confusion'
for being the flirtiest song ever sung by a man in drag: 'Sugar daddy' from The Hedwig soundtrack
for being the song nobody can fail to be cheered by: The Jam's 'A town called Malice'
...and currently playing in my ears? 'big parade' by the Lumineers.
Music. I love music. All sorts of music. I'm not an album buyer, I am a cherry picker of songs. I find them on the internet, on links posted by friends. I found my favourite artist from a link in someone's signature on a forum, sometimes I find them on adverts. Occasionally I've even been known to discover them on the radio, despite the vast amounts of dross in the charts these days <insert obligatory remark about being old and another about 'back in my day'>. These are some of the songs I love and some of the moods they put me in.
Music I Have Known Forever
These are the songs from my childhood. The songs my parents played a lot. I don't consciously think about them, I know all the words and they transport me into memory. I'm talking 'Bat Out Of Hell' (my mum) and Paul Simon/ Simon & Garfunkel (my dad). Those are the artists I associate with my parents, but there are so many more. From all the decades from the '50s until the '90s but heavily focussed at the end of the '70s. So many great tracks. Other stand out artists: Queen, Bob Dylan, Neil Diamond.
Boyfriend Music.
When you love someone, you tend to get into the same stuff they are into. Even long after the relationship has ended, there will be songs that take you back to a time and a person. My first real boyfriend was a lad called Bobby. Bob was into rock music and metal. From our time together I was introduced to Iron Maiden, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi and lots of rock tracks. Songs I associate with him include 'Can I play with madness' by Iron Maiden, 'Always' by Bon Jovi, 'Hysteria' by Def leppard and 'Ballad Of Jayne' by the LA Guns. Strangely, although Bob never heard it (he had passed away by then) the song 'Hear You Me' by Jimmy Eat World gives me the same reaction.
My first husband was a U2 fan. Any U2 track will take me back but I have a special place in my heart for 'One', 'With or without you' and 'The sweetest thing'. Also tied to him is the song 'Always and forever' by Donna Lewis. I don't associate many songs with my second husband. His musical tastes never much impacted my own.
Balm To The Soul Songs
You know the ones. Break up with your boyfriend, row with your partner, have a shitty day. They are the songs you play on a loop until you feel better. They are songs that ward off the world, that speak to you on some deep level. They are talismans. I have only a few of these but they have never failed me yet. Jason Webley's 'Against the night', 'map', 'without' and 'train tracks'. Also his cover of 'Aeroplane over the sea', though I'm not really keen on the original. 'Midnight Radio' from the Hedwig And The Angry Inch soundtrack,, Paul Simon's 'Only Living boy in New York' and 'the boxer', Stereophonics 'dakota'. I could play these on a loop for hours.
Sing It Fucking LOUD
Whack it on, turn it up bloody loud and sing until the neighbours complain. This is a wide catagory. This is the sort of music you put on whilst you're cleaning, I'm not even going to name individual tracks here but artists include Kings Of Leon, Elbow, Bowling For Soup, Reel Big Fish, The Killers, The Felice brothers, Queen, The Kaiser Chiefs, Rancid, Guns N Roses, The Beautiful South and many more.
The Silly, Stupid And Just Pure Fun.
I once made a mix CD for a car trip. We had three kids in the back. My second husband had brought a whole bunch of chart music for us to listen to but the mix tape stayed on for hours. These are songs that are just fun. Kids love them, adults love them, great for car trips and dancing like eejits in the kitchen... trust me on this: Chumbawumba's 'Tub thumping', 'The Banana Boat Song' and 'Jump In The Line' by Harry Belafonte, 'Don't worry, be happy' by Bobby McFerrin, 'Eleven Saints' by Jason Webley, 'Hey Ya' by Outkast. There's probably a few more.
Current Favourites.
Songs come and go, but at any one time I've probably got about a dozen 'gotta spin it again' songs. These are the songs I'll actively look for on my mp3 player, or look up on youtube despite having them on my laptop. The songs I have stuck in my head. So, currently these are... Fun's 'we are young' and 'carry on', 'Ghost in the shell' (don't ask me what version, I have no idea), 'Aeroplane over the sea' performed by Jason Webley and also by him 'Saviour', 'Pork ghoulash' and 'In this light', 'Werewolves of London' by Warren Zevon, 'Fire at the pageant' and 'Frankie's Gun' by The Felice Brothers and 'Ho hey' by The Lumineers.
Honorable Mentions.
for the most adrenaline fueled writing songs ever: 'Dominant view' by King Prawn and The Vandals '54321-1'
for being the most beautiful piece of classical music: 'The Flower Duet' by um. Someone.
for being the most ridiculously catchy video game songs: Portal's 'I want you gone' and 'still alive'
for being the weirdest cover that I prefer to the original: Katzenjammer's 'Land of confusion'
for being the flirtiest song ever sung by a man in drag: 'Sugar daddy' from The Hedwig soundtrack
for being the song nobody can fail to be cheered by: The Jam's 'A town called Malice'
...and currently playing in my ears? 'big parade' by the Lumineers.
Tuesday 8 January 2013
The Dead Girl
Something a wee bit different....
The Dead Girl
She lay in the grass; ankles crossed, arms spread wide. Staring up at the grey sky with dull, sightless eyes. Her left eye was completely obscured by clotting blood, a flaking smear of the stuff ran across her cheek like badly applied blusher. One of her teeth was missing. Her bleached blonde hair fanned out across the grass, except for the matted clump stuck to her forehead.
She wasn't naked. She wore skinny jeans that rode low on her emaciated hips and a bright red blouse that failed to cover the lacy pink bra underneath. The buttons of the blouse had been done up in a hurry, mismatched to their respective button-holes. Her feet were bare, and filthy. As if she'd run through the field before she fell. Her cheap red stilettos were several feet away, one on top of the other. The side of one of the vicious looking heels was a different shade of red to the rest of the shoe. Maroon instead of scarlet.
Blood, Detective Inspector Mike Garland thought. Hers, not the assailants. Though the lab would confirm that.
He stood a few feet away from the corpse, listening into to his colleague's patient questioning of the man who had found her. Constable Jo Perry was new, still finding her feet. This would be her first murder, Garland however was an old hand at it. He stretched. he was aching, definitely getting too old for stuff like this.
"So you walk through this field every morning? Mr, um?"
"Harrison," the guy said. "Tom Harrison."
Garland studied the man. He was young, twenty-two he'd said, though he looked older. Ex-drug addict, Garland surmised, or one hell of a paper-round. His face was pale, sweaty. He looked nervous, guilty. His hand kept reaching down for the Border Collie by his side. The dog whined.
"I bring Manson here in the mornings," Harrison explained. "We play fetch."
The guy did indeed have a tennis ball with him. Garland noted how pristine it looked.
"Manson?" Perry's eyebrows lifted, "funny name for a dog."
Closet serial killer fetishist? Garland wondered, although Charles Manson had not been a serial killer but a mass murderer. It was surprising how many people did not know the difference. He was impressed Perry picked up on that detail.
"Goth girlfriend," Harrison explained.
Funny, Harrison himself didn't look the type, and Goths usually stuck to their own kind. It was something else they'd look into. Sometimes it was these tiny, throwaway lines that cracked cases.
"Nice dog, well behaved," Perry smiled, reached her hand down to stroke the animal's head. Garland's eyes followed the movement, noticed she was wearing pink nail polish. He frowned. Perry tickled the dog's ears and then got back to business. "So you got here about six am?"
"About ten past," Harrison shuffled his feet. "I set off at six, I always do. It takes about ten minutes to get here."
"And you walk here?"
Not that it mattered. the body had not been dumped here. The girl had been killed right here in the field. Stangled as she lay on her back, the bright stars the last thing she ever saw. Something else the lab boys would confirm later.
Harrison nodded. He raised an arm and pointed over the fields towards the council estate just visible through the trees. "I live over there."
"Address?"
Harrison spelt out his address for Perry. Garland knew it well, a side-street full of undesirables. Not a week went past that didn't see the arrival of an emergency service vehicle of one sort or another.
"So you got here at ten past six and found her lying here, just as she is now?" Perry asked.
"Manson found her." Harrison said, "I threw the ball and he didn't bring it back. Just started barking."
Oh really? Garland thought, it really was one well trained dog. it took months to get a cadaver dog to do that. Maybe they should employ the dog.
"And you haven't touched her or anything?"
Harrison paled even further. he hesitated. "The ball hit her. On the chest. I picked it up."
There was no mark on the chest. No mark on the ball. Garland held out an evidence bag. "We'll need to take the ball." He held the bag open and Harrison obediantly dropped it inside. Garland sealed it. Took a pen from his pocket and filled in the front panel.
Perry asked Harrison a few more questions and Harrison answered them all. By the end of the interview his skin had gone from pale to almost transluscent. His voice was shaking. Garland laid odds of two to one that the guy was going to lose his breakfast in the next five minutes. As he and Perry watched him walk off they saw him bend over a clump of bushes. Garland smirked as he heard Harrison retching.
"It's true," Perry remarked, "It's always the dog-walkers who find them."
Garland nodded.
"I don't think he did it though," Perry continued, "he looked genuinely shocked."
"Best not to immediately dismiss anyone as a potential subject," Garland advised. "Appearances can be very deceptive." The dead girl certainly had. She'd been a skinny willowy thing but she'd fought like a tiger when Garland's hands had been around her neck. He was going to have the bruises for weeks.
***
This idea came to me whilst I was out with my dog, walking down a really really dark lane. You know when you see something on the ground, and it looks like a body? Imagine if it was....
The Dead Girl
She lay in the grass; ankles crossed, arms spread wide. Staring up at the grey sky with dull, sightless eyes. Her left eye was completely obscured by clotting blood, a flaking smear of the stuff ran across her cheek like badly applied blusher. One of her teeth was missing. Her bleached blonde hair fanned out across the grass, except for the matted clump stuck to her forehead.
She wasn't naked. She wore skinny jeans that rode low on her emaciated hips and a bright red blouse that failed to cover the lacy pink bra underneath. The buttons of the blouse had been done up in a hurry, mismatched to their respective button-holes. Her feet were bare, and filthy. As if she'd run through the field before she fell. Her cheap red stilettos were several feet away, one on top of the other. The side of one of the vicious looking heels was a different shade of red to the rest of the shoe. Maroon instead of scarlet.
Blood, Detective Inspector Mike Garland thought. Hers, not the assailants. Though the lab would confirm that.
He stood a few feet away from the corpse, listening into to his colleague's patient questioning of the man who had found her. Constable Jo Perry was new, still finding her feet. This would be her first murder, Garland however was an old hand at it. He stretched. he was aching, definitely getting too old for stuff like this.
"So you walk through this field every morning? Mr, um?"
"Harrison," the guy said. "Tom Harrison."
Garland studied the man. He was young, twenty-two he'd said, though he looked older. Ex-drug addict, Garland surmised, or one hell of a paper-round. His face was pale, sweaty. He looked nervous, guilty. His hand kept reaching down for the Border Collie by his side. The dog whined.
"I bring Manson here in the mornings," Harrison explained. "We play fetch."
The guy did indeed have a tennis ball with him. Garland noted how pristine it looked.
"Manson?" Perry's eyebrows lifted, "funny name for a dog."
Closet serial killer fetishist? Garland wondered, although Charles Manson had not been a serial killer but a mass murderer. It was surprising how many people did not know the difference. He was impressed Perry picked up on that detail.
"Goth girlfriend," Harrison explained.
Funny, Harrison himself didn't look the type, and Goths usually stuck to their own kind. It was something else they'd look into. Sometimes it was these tiny, throwaway lines that cracked cases.
"Nice dog, well behaved," Perry smiled, reached her hand down to stroke the animal's head. Garland's eyes followed the movement, noticed she was wearing pink nail polish. He frowned. Perry tickled the dog's ears and then got back to business. "So you got here about six am?"
"About ten past," Harrison shuffled his feet. "I set off at six, I always do. It takes about ten minutes to get here."
"And you walk here?"
Not that it mattered. the body had not been dumped here. The girl had been killed right here in the field. Stangled as she lay on her back, the bright stars the last thing she ever saw. Something else the lab boys would confirm later.
Harrison nodded. He raised an arm and pointed over the fields towards the council estate just visible through the trees. "I live over there."
"Address?"
Harrison spelt out his address for Perry. Garland knew it well, a side-street full of undesirables. Not a week went past that didn't see the arrival of an emergency service vehicle of one sort or another.
"So you got here at ten past six and found her lying here, just as she is now?" Perry asked.
"Manson found her." Harrison said, "I threw the ball and he didn't bring it back. Just started barking."
Oh really? Garland thought, it really was one well trained dog. it took months to get a cadaver dog to do that. Maybe they should employ the dog.
"And you haven't touched her or anything?"
Harrison paled even further. he hesitated. "The ball hit her. On the chest. I picked it up."
There was no mark on the chest. No mark on the ball. Garland held out an evidence bag. "We'll need to take the ball." He held the bag open and Harrison obediantly dropped it inside. Garland sealed it. Took a pen from his pocket and filled in the front panel.
Perry asked Harrison a few more questions and Harrison answered them all. By the end of the interview his skin had gone from pale to almost transluscent. His voice was shaking. Garland laid odds of two to one that the guy was going to lose his breakfast in the next five minutes. As he and Perry watched him walk off they saw him bend over a clump of bushes. Garland smirked as he heard Harrison retching.
"It's true," Perry remarked, "It's always the dog-walkers who find them."
Garland nodded.
"I don't think he did it though," Perry continued, "he looked genuinely shocked."
"Best not to immediately dismiss anyone as a potential subject," Garland advised. "Appearances can be very deceptive." The dead girl certainly had. She'd been a skinny willowy thing but she'd fought like a tiger when Garland's hands had been around her neck. He was going to have the bruises for weeks.
***
This idea came to me whilst I was out with my dog, walking down a really really dark lane. You know when you see something on the ground, and it looks like a body? Imagine if it was....
Sunday 6 January 2013
Figgis 10: The Corpse In The Boot
The Corpse In The Boot
"So what now?" Theresa asked.
Figgis shrugged.
They walked home. It was four miles. Bel moaned the entire journey. She complained about leaving her body in the car, she moaned that she hated that she had no way of knowing where she was, she said she'd wring the necks of the bastards who nicked the car but she didn't have a physical presence to do it with. Figgis suggested she go haunt them instead and this was met with a snippy reply. Apparently this was all his fault. They wouldn't have nicked it if she's still been on the back seat. She berated him for being careless, for being unfeeling and for being an insensitive prick. Figgis suggested if she didn't like his company, perhaps she should just fuck off.
So she did. Five minutes from home she announced she was going to find someone who appreciated her situation and stormed off in the opposite direction. Theresa sighed.
"I'll go after her," Theresa offered.
"Do what you like," Figgis replied. He watched the ghost stomping silently down the pavement and the winged bat-angel run after her, trip and fall flat on the pavement. For a moment he considered going after them. But they weren't his problem. If they wanted him, they knew where he lived. He had other things to do.
Back at home he was going to report the car stolen. He still hadn't reported the burglary. He figured he may as well do both at the same time. But first, tea.
He didn't get a chance to phone the police, they knocked on the door not ten minutes later.
he opened the door to two burly police officers who seemed to have been cut from the same mold; five foot six, two feet wide, stern eyes and stubble. Even the female officer.
"Figgis?" The woman officer asked. "Mr..."
"Yes, that's me." Figgis replied.
"We're here about your vehicle."
Figgis smiled. "Oh, that was quick, I was just about to phone you."
"Do you own a Volkswagon Beetle? A purple, white and blue Beetle?"
"I do."
"And do you know anything about the contents of the boot?"
"Yes, there's a body in it," Figgis said. "We put it in there for safekeeping whilst we were in the pub."
The male officer turned to the female officer. "Excellent. Cuffs?"
The smile dropped from Figgis's face. "Wait, it's not a dead body,"
"Oh really?" Female officer checked her notes. "Well, we'd like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Regarding this not-dead corpse."
"It's not a corpse." Figgis said. "Look, I can explain."
Male officer's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Oh really? Let's get you down to the station and you can tell us the tale."
Figgis was led to the car and invited to sit in the back seat. The drive to the station was short. Figgis tried to tell them that the body was not a corpse, but was detached from the spirit, that its owner was still very much alive and whinging and would probably appreciate her body back. The officers ignored him.
Figgis had all but given up when they drove past Theresa and Bel. Figgis had never been so glad to see anyone in all his life.
"Look! It's her body! Her there!"
The car stopped.
"That woman has wings," female officer said.
"It's not her body. The other one." Figgis tried to open the car door. It didn't open, the police not being overly trusting of potential criminals.
The male officer wound down his window and called to Bel, who stomped over to the car, her face still not a picture of cheerfulness.
"What have you done now?" Bel demanded of Figgis.
"I didn't do anything!" Figgis snapped. "Tell them it's your body in the boot of my car."
"It's my body." Bel said. "Is it okay?"
The officers looked at each other. "You're a ghost?"
"Yes."
"And he didn't kill you?"
"Nope. Although if I was reunited with my body I might consider killing him, bloody careless imbecile."
"We were victims of a fly-by-night transformation studio," Theresa said, "I am a vampire - sort of - and Bel was seperated from her body. We put it in the boot whilst we went for a pint. Nobody killed anyone, we were just trying to think of something to do with it,"
"So if we could just come with you and collect it, all will be sorted out, won't it?" Bel asked. "I'm going to look into some sort of long term storage, I hear they have these things now."
The officers looked at one another again. Finally the woman spoke. "I'm afraid I have some really bad news for you. The car was involved in a rather serious collision. I'm afraid your um body, is now definitely dead."
"And my car?" Figgis asked.
"Never mind your bloody car!" Bel shouted, "I'm dead and all you can think of is your bloody piece of crap car?"
"To be fair, you were mostly dead before," Theresa commented mildly.
Figgis opened his mouth to complain but found the world going swimmy. He felt the most odd sensations in his skin and his bones. He opened his mouth again. Barked.
Oh great, he thought, I'm a dog again.
"So what now?" Theresa asked.
Figgis shrugged.
They walked home. It was four miles. Bel moaned the entire journey. She complained about leaving her body in the car, she moaned that she hated that she had no way of knowing where she was, she said she'd wring the necks of the bastards who nicked the car but she didn't have a physical presence to do it with. Figgis suggested she go haunt them instead and this was met with a snippy reply. Apparently this was all his fault. They wouldn't have nicked it if she's still been on the back seat. She berated him for being careless, for being unfeeling and for being an insensitive prick. Figgis suggested if she didn't like his company, perhaps she should just fuck off.
So she did. Five minutes from home she announced she was going to find someone who appreciated her situation and stormed off in the opposite direction. Theresa sighed.
"I'll go after her," Theresa offered.
"Do what you like," Figgis replied. He watched the ghost stomping silently down the pavement and the winged bat-angel run after her, trip and fall flat on the pavement. For a moment he considered going after them. But they weren't his problem. If they wanted him, they knew where he lived. He had other things to do.
Back at home he was going to report the car stolen. He still hadn't reported the burglary. He figured he may as well do both at the same time. But first, tea.
He didn't get a chance to phone the police, they knocked on the door not ten minutes later.
he opened the door to two burly police officers who seemed to have been cut from the same mold; five foot six, two feet wide, stern eyes and stubble. Even the female officer.
"Figgis?" The woman officer asked. "Mr..."
"Yes, that's me." Figgis replied.
"We're here about your vehicle."
Figgis smiled. "Oh, that was quick, I was just about to phone you."
"Do you own a Volkswagon Beetle? A purple, white and blue Beetle?"
"I do."
"And do you know anything about the contents of the boot?"
"Yes, there's a body in it," Figgis said. "We put it in there for safekeeping whilst we were in the pub."
The male officer turned to the female officer. "Excellent. Cuffs?"
The smile dropped from Figgis's face. "Wait, it's not a dead body,"
"Oh really?" Female officer checked her notes. "Well, we'd like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Regarding this not-dead corpse."
"It's not a corpse." Figgis said. "Look, I can explain."
Male officer's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Oh really? Let's get you down to the station and you can tell us the tale."
Figgis was led to the car and invited to sit in the back seat. The drive to the station was short. Figgis tried to tell them that the body was not a corpse, but was detached from the spirit, that its owner was still very much alive and whinging and would probably appreciate her body back. The officers ignored him.
Figgis had all but given up when they drove past Theresa and Bel. Figgis had never been so glad to see anyone in all his life.
"Look! It's her body! Her there!"
The car stopped.
"That woman has wings," female officer said.
"It's not her body. The other one." Figgis tried to open the car door. It didn't open, the police not being overly trusting of potential criminals.
The male officer wound down his window and called to Bel, who stomped over to the car, her face still not a picture of cheerfulness.
"What have you done now?" Bel demanded of Figgis.
"I didn't do anything!" Figgis snapped. "Tell them it's your body in the boot of my car."
"It's my body." Bel said. "Is it okay?"
The officers looked at each other. "You're a ghost?"
"Yes."
"And he didn't kill you?"
"Nope. Although if I was reunited with my body I might consider killing him, bloody careless imbecile."
"We were victims of a fly-by-night transformation studio," Theresa said, "I am a vampire - sort of - and Bel was seperated from her body. We put it in the boot whilst we went for a pint. Nobody killed anyone, we were just trying to think of something to do with it,"
"So if we could just come with you and collect it, all will be sorted out, won't it?" Bel asked. "I'm going to look into some sort of long term storage, I hear they have these things now."
The officers looked at one another again. Finally the woman spoke. "I'm afraid I have some really bad news for you. The car was involved in a rather serious collision. I'm afraid your um body, is now definitely dead."
"And my car?" Figgis asked.
"Never mind your bloody car!" Bel shouted, "I'm dead and all you can think of is your bloody piece of crap car?"
"To be fair, you were mostly dead before," Theresa commented mildly.
Figgis opened his mouth to complain but found the world going swimmy. He felt the most odd sensations in his skin and his bones. He opened his mouth again. Barked.
Oh great, he thought, I'm a dog again.
Thursday 3 January 2013
The Lane
I wasn't sure whether to actually post this. Wrote it for 750 words, but it's not really fiction and isn't really about anything.
The lane was in darkness. All the street lights were out and the nearest houses fifty or more feet away. The road beneath her feet was a darker ribbon of blackness winding between the dark greys of the bushes, the wall and the field. The brightest object around was actually the dog; a mostly white creature that sniffed at something unseen in the undergrowth.
It was creepy, but also, quite peaceful. Quiet.
This is how things used to be she thought, years ago before the advent of electric lighting. This is what my great-grandparents would have seen, would have walked streets like these. Except the lane a hundred years ago was no more than a dirt path, if it had been that at all. She wasn't sure what exactly had been here a hundred years back. Not even that, the estate was barely seventy years old.
Unlike the farmhouse. That was Grade 2 listed so she supposed it had been there a while. Mind you, it was derelict now, the roof had fallen in, exposing the timbers charred from a dozen or so fires. Local kids usually.
She remembered walking down the lane one night and seeing the inside of the roof lit up orange. The flames were not visible, just the glow, and the dark smoke pouring from the roof. She'd gone closer, and timidly peered through one of the glassless window frames at the front of the house, wondering if the fire was being tended. It wasn't, so she'd rung the fire brigade. Once the call had been made she'd almost regretted it. The fire wasn't that big, but she reckoned it may grow to be bigger, all that wood. It had been summer, and dry at that. Best to catch a fire before it grew into an inferno. She'd told herself that even as the fire engines drew closer. Two of them.
She'd seen no more fires in the old farmhouse since then.
When she'd moved to the area, ten years earlier, the farmhouse had been occupied. A sign at the side advertised fresh eggs and potatoes. It didn't specify what sort of eggs it sold. Possibly goose eggs, though she'd have thought the sign would specify if they had been. There was a big herd (?) of geese there. A gaggle of loud, belligerant beasts that honked and flew at anyone who got too close. She didn't buy her eggs there, unwilling to brave the demonic birds.
The dog chose a spot on the grass, peed.
They walked further up the lane. To her left was a scrubby field, scored with muddy grass-less paths and full of horse manure. Often there were ponies tethered here. Bony, unhealthy looking beasts. They looked unkempt and half feral. To her left, a paddock for the riding stables, one of maybe a half dozen fields owned by them. Their horses were groomed, beautiful and proud. Quite a contrast to the ponies.
Another new addition, an indoor riding area, loomed up above her, blocking out the view. She'd watched it being built; first the metal beams and then the wooden panels. Some people had objected but she quite liked it. Wood and stone buildings rarely looked out of place. For somewhere deep in the urban metropolis of the city, it all looked very rural.
Beyond the riding stables, the lane curved around and out of sight. She pondered walking further along the dark road. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness and she could see well enough to make her way along the road but it just looked creepy. Not to mention unsafe. People always warned you about walking down unlit roads at night. Which was probably good advice.
She turned and walked back past the farmhouse, towards the bright lights of the estate. Possibly a more frightening place in the day than the lane was at night. And ugly. Of course, there had been improvement in recent years. New fencing, new pebble-dashing, but you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. It would never be a nice place to live.
She stood for a moment at the top of the lane, looking towards the farmhouse, to the dark fields behind it, the inky black woodland and the spread of lights across the space between her and the distant horizon. Miles and miles away she could see a set of blue flashing lights, travelling through a myriad of orange, yellow and red lights.
And somewhere close, very close, the sound of sirens.
The lane was in darkness. All the street lights were out and the nearest houses fifty or more feet away. The road beneath her feet was a darker ribbon of blackness winding between the dark greys of the bushes, the wall and the field. The brightest object around was actually the dog; a mostly white creature that sniffed at something unseen in the undergrowth.
It was creepy, but also, quite peaceful. Quiet.
This is how things used to be she thought, years ago before the advent of electric lighting. This is what my great-grandparents would have seen, would have walked streets like these. Except the lane a hundred years ago was no more than a dirt path, if it had been that at all. She wasn't sure what exactly had been here a hundred years back. Not even that, the estate was barely seventy years old.
Unlike the farmhouse. That was Grade 2 listed so she supposed it had been there a while. Mind you, it was derelict now, the roof had fallen in, exposing the timbers charred from a dozen or so fires. Local kids usually.
She remembered walking down the lane one night and seeing the inside of the roof lit up orange. The flames were not visible, just the glow, and the dark smoke pouring from the roof. She'd gone closer, and timidly peered through one of the glassless window frames at the front of the house, wondering if the fire was being tended. It wasn't, so she'd rung the fire brigade. Once the call had been made she'd almost regretted it. The fire wasn't that big, but she reckoned it may grow to be bigger, all that wood. It had been summer, and dry at that. Best to catch a fire before it grew into an inferno. She'd told herself that even as the fire engines drew closer. Two of them.
She'd seen no more fires in the old farmhouse since then.
When she'd moved to the area, ten years earlier, the farmhouse had been occupied. A sign at the side advertised fresh eggs and potatoes. It didn't specify what sort of eggs it sold. Possibly goose eggs, though she'd have thought the sign would specify if they had been. There was a big herd (?) of geese there. A gaggle of loud, belligerant beasts that honked and flew at anyone who got too close. She didn't buy her eggs there, unwilling to brave the demonic birds.
The dog chose a spot on the grass, peed.
They walked further up the lane. To her left was a scrubby field, scored with muddy grass-less paths and full of horse manure. Often there were ponies tethered here. Bony, unhealthy looking beasts. They looked unkempt and half feral. To her left, a paddock for the riding stables, one of maybe a half dozen fields owned by them. Their horses were groomed, beautiful and proud. Quite a contrast to the ponies.
Another new addition, an indoor riding area, loomed up above her, blocking out the view. She'd watched it being built; first the metal beams and then the wooden panels. Some people had objected but she quite liked it. Wood and stone buildings rarely looked out of place. For somewhere deep in the urban metropolis of the city, it all looked very rural.
Beyond the riding stables, the lane curved around and out of sight. She pondered walking further along the dark road. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness and she could see well enough to make her way along the road but it just looked creepy. Not to mention unsafe. People always warned you about walking down unlit roads at night. Which was probably good advice.
She turned and walked back past the farmhouse, towards the bright lights of the estate. Possibly a more frightening place in the day than the lane was at night. And ugly. Of course, there had been improvement in recent years. New fencing, new pebble-dashing, but you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. It would never be a nice place to live.
She stood for a moment at the top of the lane, looking towards the farmhouse, to the dark fields behind it, the inky black woodland and the spread of lights across the space between her and the distant horizon. Miles and miles away she could see a set of blue flashing lights, travelling through a myriad of orange, yellow and red lights.
And somewhere close, very close, the sound of sirens.
Wednesday 2 January 2013
Figgis 9: Body Disposal
Body Disposal
BODY DISPOSAL
"So what do you want us to do with your body?" Theresa asked, it was, at that moment, hung limply between her and Figgis, they looked like a pair of inept grave-robbers. Berk and Hairy perhaps.
Bel ummed and aahed. "I don't really want myself abandoning..." she began.
"I don't really fancy looking after a breathing corpse either," Figgis said. "I just met you, and I feel I don't know you well enough to be doing, um intimate things."
Bel cackled, "too close to necrophilia?"
Too close to nursing, Figgis had thought. Whilst getting up close and personal to female genitalia was always high on his list of priorities, it didn't include the sort of care usually reserved for infants.
"Let's get you into the car and then we'll decide what to do while we have a pint?" Figgis suggested.
Bel and Theresa seemed to find this quite agreeable. Except for when Figgis requested they put the body in the boot. Bel wasn't keen on that idea. She didn't find it very respectful. Figgis pointed out that driving around with an unconscious body in the back seat was not only likely to draw attention, it was also seriously creepy. It put him off his driving.
"I've got a blanket in there," he said. "You'll be lovely and warm?"
"And if she suffocates?" Theresa asked.
Figgis was of the opinion that if Bel's body actually carked it whilst they were in the pub, at least it would be easier to get rid of. He'd watched enough crime programs to be able to think of a dozen good places to hide a corpse. Or, they could just call an undertaker. Y'know, like normal folks. Bel would attend her own funeral, not many people could do that - not and be conscious of it, anyway - and at least she'd be able to have the service she wanted. Figgis suspected with Bel in charge it would be less a funeral and more of a death-themed carnival.
"Well, I can't stop you putting me in the boot," Bel complained, "it's not like I can stop you."
"So that's sorted," Figgis grinned.
It was surprisingly hard to jam the body in the boot. Despite Bel's short stature, the boot was not quite the right shape. They had to bend her into the feotal position, this was probably the only advantage to the body merely being unconcious instead of dead; rigor mortis would have been a bitch to deal with. Figgis had some rope in the boot but it would really interest traffic police when they saw a boot tied down and feet sticking out of the end of it. Or so he presumed.
The nearest pub was one of those Old Man pubs, all the decor done out in wood panelling and dark red brocade. The name on the swinging sign read The Long Drop Inn and featured a cheery wooden tower. It looked a lot like gallows. Figgis hoped this wasn't an omen. All of the beers were hand-pulled and listed on the chalk board above the bar. It appeared the most popular was a stout called Bongwater. Figgis ordered a pint of that and asked Theresa what she was drinking.
"Do you do wine?"
"Ayuh," the barman said, taking his pipe from the corner of his mouth to speak, his lips were lost in a tangle of grey bristles, a mighty beard that any wizard would be proud of.
"What sort do you have?"
"White or red," the barman gestured towards two dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. So dusty in fact, it wasn't actually possible to tell what colour the contents were.
"White please," Theresa said.
They watched as the barman reached out a hand, paused, then pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. The liquid inside was indeed white and a barely audible collective sigh of relief was heard. He sloshed it into a glass, considered the level and then added another splash. Figgis didn't know what sort of measurement the old guy was using, but he figured there wasn't much call for wine here.
"There y'go," the barman said. "'Undred fifty."
Figgis forked over a couple of notes and they took their drinks over to a table by the window. It was covered by heavy curtains and barely let in enough light to penetrate the gloom. Theresa pulled the curtain a little and sunshine burst into the room, startled, she dropped the curtain back into place.
"Well, this is nice," Bel said.
Figgis nodded and too a swig of the Bongwater Stout. It tasted slightly meaty. "So what now?" he asked.
"Well, I think we ought to..." Theresa began but was interupted by the shotgun blast bang of a car outside backfiring.
Figgis knew what that sound was, a sound he'd become only too familiar with over his years of car ownership. he leapt up at the window and yanked the curtain aside.
"Oh fuck."
Theresa appeared by his side, followed swiftly by Bel. The three of them watched in silence as Bertha backfired and zigzagged her way down the street, it veered left and took the corner on two wheels. Then, in one final plume of smoke, disappeared from sight.
BODY DISPOSAL
"So what do you want us to do with your body?" Theresa asked, it was, at that moment, hung limply between her and Figgis, they looked like a pair of inept grave-robbers. Berk and Hairy perhaps.
Bel ummed and aahed. "I don't really want myself abandoning..." she began.
"I don't really fancy looking after a breathing corpse either," Figgis said. "I just met you, and I feel I don't know you well enough to be doing, um intimate things."
Bel cackled, "too close to necrophilia?"
Too close to nursing, Figgis had thought. Whilst getting up close and personal to female genitalia was always high on his list of priorities, it didn't include the sort of care usually reserved for infants.
"Let's get you into the car and then we'll decide what to do while we have a pint?" Figgis suggested.
Bel and Theresa seemed to find this quite agreeable. Except for when Figgis requested they put the body in the boot. Bel wasn't keen on that idea. She didn't find it very respectful. Figgis pointed out that driving around with an unconscious body in the back seat was not only likely to draw attention, it was also seriously creepy. It put him off his driving.
"I've got a blanket in there," he said. "You'll be lovely and warm?"
"And if she suffocates?" Theresa asked.
Figgis was of the opinion that if Bel's body actually carked it whilst they were in the pub, at least it would be easier to get rid of. He'd watched enough crime programs to be able to think of a dozen good places to hide a corpse. Or, they could just call an undertaker. Y'know, like normal folks. Bel would attend her own funeral, not many people could do that - not and be conscious of it, anyway - and at least she'd be able to have the service she wanted. Figgis suspected with Bel in charge it would be less a funeral and more of a death-themed carnival.
"Well, I can't stop you putting me in the boot," Bel complained, "it's not like I can stop you."
"So that's sorted," Figgis grinned.
It was surprisingly hard to jam the body in the boot. Despite Bel's short stature, the boot was not quite the right shape. They had to bend her into the feotal position, this was probably the only advantage to the body merely being unconcious instead of dead; rigor mortis would have been a bitch to deal with. Figgis had some rope in the boot but it would really interest traffic police when they saw a boot tied down and feet sticking out of the end of it. Or so he presumed.
The nearest pub was one of those Old Man pubs, all the decor done out in wood panelling and dark red brocade. The name on the swinging sign read The Long Drop Inn and featured a cheery wooden tower. It looked a lot like gallows. Figgis hoped this wasn't an omen. All of the beers were hand-pulled and listed on the chalk board above the bar. It appeared the most popular was a stout called Bongwater. Figgis ordered a pint of that and asked Theresa what she was drinking.
"Do you do wine?"
"Ayuh," the barman said, taking his pipe from the corner of his mouth to speak, his lips were lost in a tangle of grey bristles, a mighty beard that any wizard would be proud of.
"What sort do you have?"
"White or red," the barman gestured towards two dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. So dusty in fact, it wasn't actually possible to tell what colour the contents were.
"White please," Theresa said.
They watched as the barman reached out a hand, paused, then pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. The liquid inside was indeed white and a barely audible collective sigh of relief was heard. He sloshed it into a glass, considered the level and then added another splash. Figgis didn't know what sort of measurement the old guy was using, but he figured there wasn't much call for wine here.
"There y'go," the barman said. "'Undred fifty."
Figgis forked over a couple of notes and they took their drinks over to a table by the window. It was covered by heavy curtains and barely let in enough light to penetrate the gloom. Theresa pulled the curtain a little and sunshine burst into the room, startled, she dropped the curtain back into place.
"Well, this is nice," Bel said.
Figgis nodded and too a swig of the Bongwater Stout. It tasted slightly meaty. "So what now?" he asked.
"Well, I think we ought to..." Theresa began but was interupted by the shotgun blast bang of a car outside backfiring.
Figgis knew what that sound was, a sound he'd become only too familiar with over his years of car ownership. he leapt up at the window and yanked the curtain aside.
"Oh fuck."
Theresa appeared by his side, followed swiftly by Bel. The three of them watched in silence as Bertha backfired and zigzagged her way down the street, it veered left and took the corner on two wheels. Then, in one final plume of smoke, disappeared from sight.
Tuesday 1 January 2013
Jan 1st words
This is the first 750 words thing I did.
"Write," he said.
"I don't know what to write," I replied. "I am all out of ideas, all out of energy."
My muse considered this. He turned away from me, so that all I saw of his face was his profile, almost obscured in the late winter sunshine. "I'm not here to do it for you," he said eventually. "I mean, I turn up, and we talk. I'm here to bounce ideas off, I'm here to spark your creativity, but what I usually do is just listen to your bullshit and whining and your excuses."
I didn't know what to say. My mouth shut in slightly shocked silence. Never before had my muse spoken to me like that. He'd always been there, firstly as a childhood imaginary playmate and then simply as a voice in my head. Many times I thought I'd lost him, that he was lost to me, but he always came back eventually. Swaggering back into my life with all the confidence of someone who knows he'll always be welcome, no matter how long the absence, no matter what terms we parted on.
"You call yourself a writer," he said, "you say you want to write and yet you don't. Not as much as you could, not nearly as much as you should."
"I'm no bloody good at it," I said.
"You're whining again."
"No, I'm not." I was. I realised then I was, and I shut my mouth again.
"Of course you're not as good at it as you would like," he said, "how do you get good at something? You do it. Lots and lots. Even when it's hard, even when it looks like all your effort is wasted, even when you read work of someone else's and think you could never be as good. You keep on doing it, and you'll get better."
"Life gets in the way," I mumbled, and knew I was making excuses.
"Oh really?" My muse laughed, "so other people don't have lives?"
"Yes, but..."
"But fuck all. If you want to write, you'll write. You're just a lazy slacker." He said this last with amusement in his voice, a goading banterish comment but it cut deep. He pretended not to see. "Make time. Turn the TV off, turn bloody facebook off."
"I don't watch TV," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Facebook?"
Guilty as charged there, and I knew I was. I opened my mouth to speak but didn't. Everything I wanted to say was either a whine, an excuse or some sort of bitter comment. I stared at my nails instead, bitten ragged, the nicotine staining on my finger not yet faded.
"Change," he whispered, "you've done most of it, keep going, more changes, think of yourself as a work in progress. Don't stagnate."
Stagnation, he was right, it had almost killed me once. Like the boy and horse in the Neverending Story, I had almost sunk. I'd used small goals like knots in a rope to pull myself out. I thought I was clear of all that.
"Out of the swamp maybe," he said, my thoughts as always, his thoughts too. "But where are you now? Not in the grassy meadow are you? You're on the muddy slope of the swamp, and if you just sit on your arse, pretty soon you'll be back in the middle."
He was right, he was always right.
"Make some more goals," he suggested. "Those you didn't hit, scale them down, go for them again. Those you failed, have another go. It's only failure when you stop trying."
"I still don't know what to write."
"Does it matter? If you start, something will turn up eventually. It may not be any good, it may not be what you wanted to write, but at least you're not sitting there making excuses and bitching that you don't have time to do anything."
"I won't keep up to it," I sighed, knowing he couldn't counter that. I'm not sure I'd ever managed to keep to anything in my whole life.
He shrugged. "So you miss a day, hell, maybe you miss a week. So go back to it," he laughed, "at least it's easier than weight loss, if you skip a couple of days it doesn't set you back a week! It's still more words than what you had before. It's a no-lose proposition."
I agreed. There was nothing to lose by having a go, if nothing else it would give me something to look back on this time next year. I smiled at him and my muse winked. I hoped we were going to have a lot of fun together.
"Write," he said.
"I don't know what to write," I replied. "I am all out of ideas, all out of energy."
My muse considered this. He turned away from me, so that all I saw of his face was his profile, almost obscured in the late winter sunshine. "I'm not here to do it for you," he said eventually. "I mean, I turn up, and we talk. I'm here to bounce ideas off, I'm here to spark your creativity, but what I usually do is just listen to your bullshit and whining and your excuses."
I didn't know what to say. My mouth shut in slightly shocked silence. Never before had my muse spoken to me like that. He'd always been there, firstly as a childhood imaginary playmate and then simply as a voice in my head. Many times I thought I'd lost him, that he was lost to me, but he always came back eventually. Swaggering back into my life with all the confidence of someone who knows he'll always be welcome, no matter how long the absence, no matter what terms we parted on.
"You call yourself a writer," he said, "you say you want to write and yet you don't. Not as much as you could, not nearly as much as you should."
"I'm no bloody good at it," I said.
"You're whining again."
"No, I'm not." I was. I realised then I was, and I shut my mouth again.
"Of course you're not as good at it as you would like," he said, "how do you get good at something? You do it. Lots and lots. Even when it's hard, even when it looks like all your effort is wasted, even when you read work of someone else's and think you could never be as good. You keep on doing it, and you'll get better."
"Life gets in the way," I mumbled, and knew I was making excuses.
"Oh really?" My muse laughed, "so other people don't have lives?"
"Yes, but..."
"But fuck all. If you want to write, you'll write. You're just a lazy slacker." He said this last with amusement in his voice, a goading banterish comment but it cut deep. He pretended not to see. "Make time. Turn the TV off, turn bloody facebook off."
"I don't watch TV," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Facebook?"
Guilty as charged there, and I knew I was. I opened my mouth to speak but didn't. Everything I wanted to say was either a whine, an excuse or some sort of bitter comment. I stared at my nails instead, bitten ragged, the nicotine staining on my finger not yet faded.
"Change," he whispered, "you've done most of it, keep going, more changes, think of yourself as a work in progress. Don't stagnate."
Stagnation, he was right, it had almost killed me once. Like the boy and horse in the Neverending Story, I had almost sunk. I'd used small goals like knots in a rope to pull myself out. I thought I was clear of all that.
"Out of the swamp maybe," he said, my thoughts as always, his thoughts too. "But where are you now? Not in the grassy meadow are you? You're on the muddy slope of the swamp, and if you just sit on your arse, pretty soon you'll be back in the middle."
He was right, he was always right.
"Make some more goals," he suggested. "Those you didn't hit, scale them down, go for them again. Those you failed, have another go. It's only failure when you stop trying."
"I still don't know what to write."
"Does it matter? If you start, something will turn up eventually. It may not be any good, it may not be what you wanted to write, but at least you're not sitting there making excuses and bitching that you don't have time to do anything."
"I won't keep up to it," I sighed, knowing he couldn't counter that. I'm not sure I'd ever managed to keep to anything in my whole life.
He shrugged. "So you miss a day, hell, maybe you miss a week. So go back to it," he laughed, "at least it's easier than weight loss, if you skip a couple of days it doesn't set you back a week! It's still more words than what you had before. It's a no-lose proposition."
I agreed. There was nothing to lose by having a go, if nothing else it would give me something to look back on this time next year. I smiled at him and my muse winked. I hoped we were going to have a lot of fun together.
New Year Evolutions
So, that's 2012 out of the way; another non-apocalypse survived, a year of onscreen sport almost completely avoided, celeb news ignored and another birthday notched up. And it's customary at this time of year to decide how this next year is going to be better. How one is going to be fitter, healthier, wealthier and happier. Or in other words, how not to fuck up this year as badly as we did last year. I am not immune to this.
A couple of years ago, I decided either I would have to change everything in my life, or just give up. Entirely. Big sweeping changes. Some of these changes were emotionally very hard, not just for me, but for those closest to me. The breaking eggs metaphor never seemed so apt. But, I made those changes. Some are easier than others. And some things are easier to change when you know it just has to be done once. And then there's the other things, that remain a daily challenge. Often the hardest things of all.
These are my daily challenges. I will probably fail, a lot, but let's face it, even 100 days on the wagon is better than 365 off.
To help me with this, I'm using the internet. I have the attention span of a housefly, it helps to be nagged, cajoled, prodded and downright bullied into remembering things.
For the calorie counting and exercise, I'm using Food Focus
For the writing, I'm using a site called 750 words , I may or may not post the wordage on here too. Depending on what I've actually written.
For the smoking? I'm not really going to keep track of that.
Let's see how we do this year!
A couple of years ago, I decided either I would have to change everything in my life, or just give up. Entirely. Big sweeping changes. Some of these changes were emotionally very hard, not just for me, but for those closest to me. The breaking eggs metaphor never seemed so apt. But, I made those changes. Some are easier than others. And some things are easier to change when you know it just has to be done once. And then there's the other things, that remain a daily challenge. Often the hardest things of all.
These are my daily challenges. I will probably fail, a lot, but let's face it, even 100 days on the wagon is better than 365 off.
- No cigarettes. Ecigs are allowed, but no real ones.
- To keep my calorie count what it should be (ie lose weight, but you can't lose every day, I'm hoping it will be a happy side effect)
- To give exercise every day. Usually this will be just dragging the dog out for a half hour walk. This ties in with the losing weight.
- Write every day.
To help me with this, I'm using the internet. I have the attention span of a housefly, it helps to be nagged, cajoled, prodded and downright bullied into remembering things.
For the calorie counting and exercise, I'm using Food Focus
For the writing, I'm using a site called 750 words , I may or may not post the wordage on here too. Depending on what I've actually written.
For the smoking? I'm not really going to keep track of that.
Let's see how we do this year!
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