The memories of those warm summer days were all that was left to it now. Day trips to the river with the man and his son. Sunlight flashing and sparkling on the slow-moving water. Early morning mist and the distant muted sound of weekend traffic on the bridge, making its way into the city. Back then the phrase "retail therapy" hadn't been invented, but that's what they would call it now.
It felt useful, on those days. The man's work-roughened hands were warm and strong as he fitted it into place. Into its well-worn groove. It liked that. Being in the groove. It sounded modern. Which for an antique piece was an exciting thing. Slotting into the groove had been part of its experience for countless years. It had belonged to the man's father. And before that, to his father. During those most recently remembered summer mornings by the river, there was no hint that the family tradition wouldn't be continued with the son. The boy who accompanied them on these frequent trips to the water's edge and sat disconsolately munching on a chocolate bar to keep him from fidgeting and disturbing the prey.
On such working days, there would be time to think. Out in the fresh air, tainted with the damp green smell of the river, the faint oily scent of the traffic fumes from the bridge, there were long periods of inactivity. Of gentle contemplation and relaxation. Occasionally there would be conversation between the man and his son. Quiet words, so as not to scare off the timid prey, but deep too. The kind of subject matter that a father would share with his son. The wisdom of ages. The reminiscences. The juvenile, innocent questions. A bonding experience it felt privileged to be a part of, even if only a supporting role.
Then, on good days, there would occasionally be a burst of excited activity when the prey took the bait and its full abilities would be tested to their limits as the battle raged, sometimes short, others long, until the prey was secured and the bait cast out again.
Distant memories, long gone. Now it occupied a lonely corner of a window sill in the old shed. The sill too high to catch sight of anything outside. Gardening activities had stopped soon after the outings to the river, and the shed was rarely opened up any more. Whole seasons, entire years went by with no visitors except the woodworm that rasped at its dull mahogany surface and the spiders who covered it in gossamer.
Soon, even the spiders left. Died out through lack of food in the closed-up shed, or left to seek their fortunes in more well-stocked larders. Their ancient cobwebs slowly gathered dust, hiding it further from sight, and from memory, one mote at a time. Its handsome varnish had long been worn away by the hands of erstwhile owners, and the exposed woodwork decayed gradually under the influence of the damp air of the shed. Brass ferrules and chasings had long lost their shine and become tarnished and pitted.
The shed door opened. A remembered voice disturbed its reverie.
"God. All this too."
"Ugh! I can't go in there. Too spidery. What's that round thing on the sill?"
"What, this?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, wow! My Dad's old reel! Haven't seen this for years."
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
100TWC - Day 34: Shades of Grey
How many shades of grey do you think there are? I'm guessing that, unless you've been entirely out of touch with the zeitgeist over the last few months, the first and possibly only answer that's popped into your head is: 50.
I haven't read it. I don't intend to read it. Not my kind of thing at all. But I have read reviews of it, and while I'm the first to admit that one should never judge anything solely on the basis of reviews of that thing, the reviews I've read of 50 Shades of Grey have been universally condemnatory. Sometimes exceedingly eloquently so. And other times side-splittingly amusingly so.
So, armed with my Shield of Smug, I will continue to protect myself from being sullied by any and all exposure to the actual text of the document in question. Unfortunately my shield is of little use against other works of similar "quality," many of which regularly crop up as book club choices. I can't remember how old I was when I began to think, while reading, "God. I could write better than this," but I was almost certainly still in short trousers.
In the intervening (*counts on fingers*) 46 years, things haven't got much better. Of course, I've read some good stuff during those years. Many, many examples of excellent writing that have thrilled, captivated, engaged and transported me to their writers' worlds. But there's an almost equal number of appalling turkeys in the mix, and the question that comes back to me, time after time, is: how on Earth does this drivel ever get published?
As a writer myself (if you hadn't noticed) I'm all too painfully familiar with the concept of a publishing gatekeeper. Enough of them have slammed their blimmin' gates shut in my face over the years, so I should be. They have SUCH little time, and SO many submissions, and they can ONLY take on ONE new writer this year. So I'm sorry, your manuscript is not what we're looking for, or we're not actually looking for anything at all, or we're too busy with our existing client base, yadda yadda yadda.
So if all that's true, wouldn't you think that they would expend their oh-so-precious time and resources actually sifting out the nuggets from the endless piles of dross that fly across their desks every day? Is it just that they become so exposed to utter crap that when they eventually bother to read a piece that's just this side of crap, they think they've uncovered the next Virginia Woolf? A woeful lack of perspective brought on by living too close to worthless rubbish.
A little while ago I read an interesting bit of speculative insight into what might be going on. It debated the success of books that are really quite badly written, versus the opposite story, often told, of the well-written book that doesn't do well with sales. There's an example of this latter category in the side bar over there on your right. Cough. It's a common theme with self- or e-publishing that the gatekeeper I referred to above -- agents and traditional publishers, editors, etc -- has been removed from the process and hence (potentially) the floodgates have been opened to (yet more) half-arsed dross. But through all this, the interesting point of the article was that really successful books have a compelling story AND are well-written, but books will also generally do reasonably well if they have the former but not the latter.
That is to say, a poorly written book that has a compelling story will still be read. A well-written bore will not. This is an unpalatable truth for those of us writers who take utmost pride in the craft of writing. Grammar, spelling, punctuation, tone, vocabulary -- selecting EXACTLY the right word to replace the ALMOST right one -- this takes a lot of effort. It took me, for War of Nutrition, years. Literally. Although admittedly part-time. To the majority of readers? It doesn't matter. They absolutely do not care if I chose one word or the other. Whether I keep to the point-of-view rules or not.
Whether they can't tell the difference, or they don't notice, or they DO notice but they don't care because the story is SUCH a page-turner… I don't know. But even quite a few 1-star reviews complaining about grammar and spelling will not slow the sales of a book that also has a good smattering of 5-star reviews saying "I couldn't put it down." It's galling, and I would never lower my standards to get a book out faster based on that truth, but that doesn't make it any less of a truth.
In the case of 50 Shades of Grey, many many reviewers bemoan the awful English. The poor sentence structure and grammar. The parroting of hackneyed phrases. The bad word choice. But the sad fact is the subject matter had a popular launch point (as Twilight fan fic) and has an even more popular, naughty, faux shocking, main subject. And it sells by the million.
So have I told you how good my book is? It's got chases and set backs and world-wide sickness and a hero who... [spoiler deleted]. And it's got a bit of risqué sex. And some regular sex. And every single person who has read it has told me how much they enjoyed it, and what a page turner it is, and some of them have even gone into print on t'Interweb to say so. Publically. For which I'm sincerely grateful. But as of now, it's not selling millions. Unfortunately.
I live in hope.
I haven't read it. I don't intend to read it. Not my kind of thing at all. But I have read reviews of it, and while I'm the first to admit that one should never judge anything solely on the basis of reviews of that thing, the reviews I've read of 50 Shades of Grey have been universally condemnatory. Sometimes exceedingly eloquently so. And other times side-splittingly amusingly so.
So, armed with my Shield of Smug, I will continue to protect myself from being sullied by any and all exposure to the actual text of the document in question. Unfortunately my shield is of little use against other works of similar "quality," many of which regularly crop up as book club choices. I can't remember how old I was when I began to think, while reading, "God. I could write better than this," but I was almost certainly still in short trousers.
In the intervening (*counts on fingers*) 46 years, things haven't got much better. Of course, I've read some good stuff during those years. Many, many examples of excellent writing that have thrilled, captivated, engaged and transported me to their writers' worlds. But there's an almost equal number of appalling turkeys in the mix, and the question that comes back to me, time after time, is: how on Earth does this drivel ever get published?
As a writer myself (if you hadn't noticed) I'm all too painfully familiar with the concept of a publishing gatekeeper. Enough of them have slammed their blimmin' gates shut in my face over the years, so I should be. They have SUCH little time, and SO many submissions, and they can ONLY take on ONE new writer this year. So I'm sorry, your manuscript is not what we're looking for, or we're not actually looking for anything at all, or we're too busy with our existing client base, yadda yadda yadda.
So if all that's true, wouldn't you think that they would expend their oh-so-precious time and resources actually sifting out the nuggets from the endless piles of dross that fly across their desks every day? Is it just that they become so exposed to utter crap that when they eventually bother to read a piece that's just this side of crap, they think they've uncovered the next Virginia Woolf? A woeful lack of perspective brought on by living too close to worthless rubbish.
A little while ago I read an interesting bit of speculative insight into what might be going on. It debated the success of books that are really quite badly written, versus the opposite story, often told, of the well-written book that doesn't do well with sales. There's an example of this latter category in the side bar over there on your right. Cough. It's a common theme with self- or e-publishing that the gatekeeper I referred to above -- agents and traditional publishers, editors, etc -- has been removed from the process and hence (potentially) the floodgates have been opened to (yet more) half-arsed dross. But through all this, the interesting point of the article was that really successful books have a compelling story AND are well-written, but books will also generally do reasonably well if they have the former but not the latter.
That is to say, a poorly written book that has a compelling story will still be read. A well-written bore will not. This is an unpalatable truth for those of us writers who take utmost pride in the craft of writing. Grammar, spelling, punctuation, tone, vocabulary -- selecting EXACTLY the right word to replace the ALMOST right one -- this takes a lot of effort. It took me, for War of Nutrition, years. Literally. Although admittedly part-time. To the majority of readers? It doesn't matter. They absolutely do not care if I chose one word or the other. Whether I keep to the point-of-view rules or not.
Whether they can't tell the difference, or they don't notice, or they DO notice but they don't care because the story is SUCH a page-turner… I don't know. But even quite a few 1-star reviews complaining about grammar and spelling will not slow the sales of a book that also has a good smattering of 5-star reviews saying "I couldn't put it down." It's galling, and I would never lower my standards to get a book out faster based on that truth, but that doesn't make it any less of a truth.
In the case of 50 Shades of Grey, many many reviewers bemoan the awful English. The poor sentence structure and grammar. The parroting of hackneyed phrases. The bad word choice. But the sad fact is the subject matter had a popular launch point (as Twilight fan fic) and has an even more popular, naughty, faux shocking, main subject. And it sells by the million.
So have I told you how good my book is? It's got chases and set backs and world-wide sickness and a hero who... [spoiler deleted]. And it's got a bit of risqué sex. And some regular sex. And every single person who has read it has told me how much they enjoyed it, and what a page turner it is, and some of them have even gone into print on t'Interweb to say so. Publically. For which I'm sincerely grateful. But as of now, it's not selling millions. Unfortunately.
I live in hope.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
100TWC - Day 33: Seeing Red
[ this is a companion piece to "Exploration" which immediate precedes it in the writing challenge - on Day 32 ]
Yevgeny Orlov stopped, unable to move, at the last rung. Twenty centimetres above the rust-red dust of the Martian surface, on the very brink of achieving his lifelong dream, Yevgeny froze. Inside his environment suit, a miracle of modern engineering designed to protect him from external extremes far beyond what he was likely to experience on Mars, a fan whirred into life, spurred to action by the suit's sensors which detected a considerable increase in humidity from the sweat which now stood out on Yevgeny's brow. The biomonitors reported his condition to the lander.
Doctor Singh's voice crackled into his ears. "Problem, Yev? Your stress levels just spiked like I have never seen."
He cleared his throat, which seemed to be reacting to the still-settling dust cloud the lander had thrown up, even though none of it could possibly have breached his seals.
"Give me moment," he managed. "This big event for me."
"For all of us, Orlov," Captain Hu broke in. "But Richards and Kowalski still need to get down here, so if you would be so kind as to get a move on, we can get on with our tasks."
He passed a gloved hand over his visor, wiping away the thin layer of dust that static had attracted, and looked out again at the dimly lit landscape. The sun, close to its zenith, shone pale and tiny in the ochre sky. Forcing his hands to unclamp themselves from the ladder, Yevgeny stepped at last onto his first new world.
He took a tentative step away from the lander, remembering to compensate for the less-than-half gravity compared with Earth that they had practised under during the months of training for this mission. Jan Kowalski appeared at the rim of the hatch above him.
"Look out below!" he yelled, launching himself out into the thin atmosphere, catching the ladder with one hand and sliding down it like a clown entering the ring. "Wheeee!" he shouted, causing Yevgeny to reach for his intercom volume adjuster. The engineer had no sense of occasion. He behaved like he'd just arrived on a day trip to the solar system's biggest playground.
Yevgeny turned his back on Kowalski's childish antics and set off in the direction of Curiosity, which they had overflown during landing. He intended to retrieve the rover's data set before too much was overwritten, duplicating what their lander and the Red River still in orbit above them were already recording. If their last reports were accurate, there had been considerable seismic activity recently, completely at odds with everything they thought they knew about Mars' geology.
Captain Hu said something unintelligible. Yevgeny increased the gain on his intercom.
"Say again, Captain?"
"Don't waste too much time on your pet rover," Hu repeated. "We have a full schedule of tasks as it is, without wasting energy on an almost-dead probe."
Wasting energy? Didn't the man realise they wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the trailblazing, plucky little rover? The least Yevgeny could do was grab its data. By now he had emerged from the artificial dust cloud. He had a clearer view across the plain towards Mount Sharp, where the rover had completed its mission. Flicking controls on his arm console, he deployed the telephoto lenses mounted on his visor and panned the horizon.
After ten minutes scanning the entire crater wall in this quadrant, and checking back with Richards that this was definitely the direction from which they had made their final approach, Yevgeny had to admit: there was absolutely no sign of Curiosity.
Yevgeny Orlov stopped, unable to move, at the last rung. Twenty centimetres above the rust-red dust of the Martian surface, on the very brink of achieving his lifelong dream, Yevgeny froze. Inside his environment suit, a miracle of modern engineering designed to protect him from external extremes far beyond what he was likely to experience on Mars, a fan whirred into life, spurred to action by the suit's sensors which detected a considerable increase in humidity from the sweat which now stood out on Yevgeny's brow. The biomonitors reported his condition to the lander.
Doctor Singh's voice crackled into his ears. "Problem, Yev? Your stress levels just spiked like I have never seen."
He cleared his throat, which seemed to be reacting to the still-settling dust cloud the lander had thrown up, even though none of it could possibly have breached his seals.
"Give me moment," he managed. "This big event for me."
"For all of us, Orlov," Captain Hu broke in. "But Richards and Kowalski still need to get down here, so if you would be so kind as to get a move on, we can get on with our tasks."
He passed a gloved hand over his visor, wiping away the thin layer of dust that static had attracted, and looked out again at the dimly lit landscape. The sun, close to its zenith, shone pale and tiny in the ochre sky. Forcing his hands to unclamp themselves from the ladder, Yevgeny stepped at last onto his first new world.
He took a tentative step away from the lander, remembering to compensate for the less-than-half gravity compared with Earth that they had practised under during the months of training for this mission. Jan Kowalski appeared at the rim of the hatch above him.
"Look out below!" he yelled, launching himself out into the thin atmosphere, catching the ladder with one hand and sliding down it like a clown entering the ring. "Wheeee!" he shouted, causing Yevgeny to reach for his intercom volume adjuster. The engineer had no sense of occasion. He behaved like he'd just arrived on a day trip to the solar system's biggest playground.
Yevgeny turned his back on Kowalski's childish antics and set off in the direction of Curiosity, which they had overflown during landing. He intended to retrieve the rover's data set before too much was overwritten, duplicating what their lander and the Red River still in orbit above them were already recording. If their last reports were accurate, there had been considerable seismic activity recently, completely at odds with everything they thought they knew about Mars' geology.
Captain Hu said something unintelligible. Yevgeny increased the gain on his intercom.
"Say again, Captain?"
"Don't waste too much time on your pet rover," Hu repeated. "We have a full schedule of tasks as it is, without wasting energy on an almost-dead probe."
Wasting energy? Didn't the man realise they wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the trailblazing, plucky little rover? The least Yevgeny could do was grab its data. By now he had emerged from the artificial dust cloud. He had a clearer view across the plain towards Mount Sharp, where the rover had completed its mission. Flicking controls on his arm console, he deployed the telephoto lenses mounted on his visor and panned the horizon.
After ten minutes scanning the entire crater wall in this quadrant, and checking back with Richards that this was definitely the direction from which they had made their final approach, Yevgeny had to admit: there was absolutely no sign of Curiosity.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
100TWC - Day 32: Exploration
"Three minutes to ion ignition."
Yevgeny Orlov stared through the observation window beside him. At this distance Mars was still a small red blob, but the ion engines required a much longer burn than the old chemical rockets. He checked his velocity and attitude readouts again to confirm the captain's burn countdown.
Still many thousands of kilometres distant, there was no visible sign of Curiosity. The old Mars rover that had paved the way for the first manned exploration had long since stopped broadcasting, although WSA technologists, some of whom were old enough to have worked on the Curiosity project, still kept alive a flicker of hope that the craft would have some small reserves of energy remaining. It was programmed to continue monitoring operations even if transmission was interrupted, cycling its buffers until contact was reestablished. Remotely, or manually.
The thought of manually retrieving Curiosity's records -- making actual physical contact with the rover after all these years -- sent a thrill down Yevgeny's spine. A thrill that was interrupted by Captain Hu's announcement.
"Ion burn initiated. Commence orbital insertion procedures."
The dull red arc of Mars filled Yevgeny's observation window as the Red Rider completed orbital insertion. The operations cabin was filled with muted voices calling out readings and the click and beep of switches being thrown and computers responding, signalling, or calling for attention. At this stage of the journey, Yevgeny had little to do except support the others. As the mission's planetary scientist his work wouldn't really start until they achieved planetfall.
Just about every other station on the Rider was occupied by crew members whose fierce concentration on this critical phase was almost tangible. Richards, the astrogator, monitored her course by the second. Doctor Singh kept tabs on all the physiological telemetry readouts for the crew. Several of his outputs glowed amber, indicating high stress levels which were only to be expected, but thankfully none of them had yet strayed into the red. The only red in the cabin of the Rider was the glow from beyond the windows. Mars rotated slowly beneath them, beautiful and -- despite the masses of information transmitted by Curiosity over the previous twenty-seven years -- mysterious.
A low bell-like chime sounded, indicating successful orbit had been achieved. The crew cheered, high-fived and exchanged relieved smiles. Time for a brief but well-earned rest before moving on to the next phase of the mission: preparing their lander for launch. Once again Yevgeny thrilled at the thought that the culmination of his life's ambitions -- actually setting foot on an alien world, seeing first-hand the strange and unique landscape, and investigating the seismology, geomorphology and mineralogy without any interstitial robots or radio links -- was now only hours away.
[ this is a companion piece to "Seeing Red" which appears next in the writing challenge - on Day 33 ]
Yevgeny Orlov stared through the observation window beside him. At this distance Mars was still a small red blob, but the ion engines required a much longer burn than the old chemical rockets. He checked his velocity and attitude readouts again to confirm the captain's burn countdown.
Still many thousands of kilometres distant, there was no visible sign of Curiosity. The old Mars rover that had paved the way for the first manned exploration had long since stopped broadcasting, although WSA technologists, some of whom were old enough to have worked on the Curiosity project, still kept alive a flicker of hope that the craft would have some small reserves of energy remaining. It was programmed to continue monitoring operations even if transmission was interrupted, cycling its buffers until contact was reestablished. Remotely, or manually.
The thought of manually retrieving Curiosity's records -- making actual physical contact with the rover after all these years -- sent a thrill down Yevgeny's spine. A thrill that was interrupted by Captain Hu's announcement.
"Ion burn initiated. Commence orbital insertion procedures."
*
Just about every other station on the Rider was occupied by crew members whose fierce concentration on this critical phase was almost tangible. Richards, the astrogator, monitored her course by the second. Doctor Singh kept tabs on all the physiological telemetry readouts for the crew. Several of his outputs glowed amber, indicating high stress levels which were only to be expected, but thankfully none of them had yet strayed into the red. The only red in the cabin of the Rider was the glow from beyond the windows. Mars rotated slowly beneath them, beautiful and -- despite the masses of information transmitted by Curiosity over the previous twenty-seven years -- mysterious.
A low bell-like chime sounded, indicating successful orbit had been achieved. The crew cheered, high-fived and exchanged relieved smiles. Time for a brief but well-earned rest before moving on to the next phase of the mission: preparing their lander for launch. Once again Yevgeny thrilled at the thought that the culmination of his life's ambitions -- actually setting foot on an alien world, seeing first-hand the strange and unique landscape, and investigating the seismology, geomorphology and mineralogy without any interstitial robots or radio links -- was now only hours away.
[ this is a companion piece to "Seeing Red" which appears next in the writing challenge - on Day 33 ]
Monday, August 27, 2012
100TWC - Day 31: Colours
"Samdip! Another juice?"
The bar was unusually crowded, even for a Friday, and I could see he was uncomfortable, but I hoped he'd stay for at least one more. It was hard enough to get him to come with us after work as it was, without the added disincentive of a loud, rebellious crowd. He looked over to me, then at his glass, then back to me, the turmoil clear on his face.
"Go on then. One more."
I smiled as I turned back to the bartender and added Sam's drink to my order. As I waited I became aware of a small group of tattooed men in grubby work clothes further down the bar.
"Samdip?" one said to his mates. "Kind of a name is that?"
"He'll be sam deep in the shit if I get my hands on him," a second one added as the others laughed.
I risked a glance in their direction. They had clearly been drinking for a while. Probably knocked off early and spent the afternoon in the pub. Several of them swayed gently where they stood and all were red-faced despite the day having a distinct autumn chill. The one who had spoken last caught my eye as I turned away. Too late.
"tchoo looking at?" he challenged in the universally recognised prelude to thuggish confrontation. I ignored him, hoping he would lose interest as rapidly as he had reacted to my stare. No such luck.
"You. I'm talking to you. Friend of Samdip."
His mates let rip with a chorus of mixed laughter, jeers and taunting repeats of "friend of Samdip." They were still in fairly good humour, but their notional leader was just getting into his provoked stride. He swaggered over and leaned on the bar beside me, his pudgy, red, sweaty face inches from mine as he repeated menacingly, "I'm talking to you."
His breath smelt like the bottom of a fish tank. I backed away.
"I'm not looking for any trouble," I murmured.
"I think you brought some with you," he sneered, jerking his thumb towards the window. "Ol' Samdip there. Friend of yours, is he?"
"I work with him, yes."
"Did I ask what you do for a living?" Fish Tank Breath leered, following me as I tried to avoid death by halitosis. "I said: is he a friend of yours?"
"I guess, yeah. He's a good bloke."
By now FTB's hangers-on had sensed the beginning of what they probably thought of as entertainment and began to gather round. The barman set a glass of orange juice down beside the rest of my order.
"That's twenty pounds and forty-nine pence altogether, please."
I looked over at my group. All were still deep in conversation, none of them looking my way. I guessed the crush in the bar would make it hard to tell the difference between regular punters and those just about to embark on halitocide, but even so I'd hoped at least one of them would have offered a hand with the drinks. I realised Fish Tank Breath was talking again.
"... pie on his head?"
"Sorry?"
"God. Are you deaf as well as ignorant? I said why does your best mate Sandip wear that pork pie on his head?"
"It's a turban. He's a Sikh."
"What's he seeking?" asked the man who had spoken first, earlier. This clearly qualified as the height of humour among his fellows as they all made a big deal of falling about laughing and holding their splitting sides. Fish Tank Breath ignored his mate's question. He changed the subject.
"That Samdip's drink, is it?" he asked, indicating the orange juice.
I handed a twenty and a five to the barman. "Keep the change. Yes, that's right. Sikh's don't drink alcohol."
"We'll see abaht that," Fish Tank Breath muttered, turning to the barman. "Put a double voddie in there mate, willya? My shout."
The barman reached for Samdip's glass. I covered it with my hand. "No, it's OK. Leave it."
"S'matter?" Fish Tank Breath asked, moving even closer to me and exhaling aromatically. "My drinks not good enough for ya?"
The bar was unusually crowded, even for a Friday, and I could see he was uncomfortable, but I hoped he'd stay for at least one more. It was hard enough to get him to come with us after work as it was, without the added disincentive of a loud, rebellious crowd. He looked over to me, then at his glass, then back to me, the turmoil clear on his face.
"Go on then. One more."
I smiled as I turned back to the bartender and added Sam's drink to my order. As I waited I became aware of a small group of tattooed men in grubby work clothes further down the bar.
"Samdip?" one said to his mates. "Kind of a name is that?"
"He'll be sam deep in the shit if I get my hands on him," a second one added as the others laughed.
I risked a glance in their direction. They had clearly been drinking for a while. Probably knocked off early and spent the afternoon in the pub. Several of them swayed gently where they stood and all were red-faced despite the day having a distinct autumn chill. The one who had spoken last caught my eye as I turned away. Too late.
"tchoo looking at?" he challenged in the universally recognised prelude to thuggish confrontation. I ignored him, hoping he would lose interest as rapidly as he had reacted to my stare. No such luck.
"You. I'm talking to you. Friend of Samdip."
His mates let rip with a chorus of mixed laughter, jeers and taunting repeats of "friend of Samdip." They were still in fairly good humour, but their notional leader was just getting into his provoked stride. He swaggered over and leaned on the bar beside me, his pudgy, red, sweaty face inches from mine as he repeated menacingly, "I'm talking to you."
His breath smelt like the bottom of a fish tank. I backed away.
"I'm not looking for any trouble," I murmured.
"I think you brought some with you," he sneered, jerking his thumb towards the window. "Ol' Samdip there. Friend of yours, is he?"
"I work with him, yes."
"Did I ask what you do for a living?" Fish Tank Breath leered, following me as I tried to avoid death by halitosis. "I said: is he a friend of yours?"
"I guess, yeah. He's a good bloke."
By now FTB's hangers-on had sensed the beginning of what they probably thought of as entertainment and began to gather round. The barman set a glass of orange juice down beside the rest of my order.
"That's twenty pounds and forty-nine pence altogether, please."
I looked over at my group. All were still deep in conversation, none of them looking my way. I guessed the crush in the bar would make it hard to tell the difference between regular punters and those just about to embark on halitocide, but even so I'd hoped at least one of them would have offered a hand with the drinks. I realised Fish Tank Breath was talking again.
"... pie on his head?"
"Sorry?"
"God. Are you deaf as well as ignorant? I said why does your best mate Sandip wear that pork pie on his head?"
"It's a turban. He's a Sikh."
"What's he seeking?" asked the man who had spoken first, earlier. This clearly qualified as the height of humour among his fellows as they all made a big deal of falling about laughing and holding their splitting sides. Fish Tank Breath ignored his mate's question. He changed the subject.
"That Samdip's drink, is it?" he asked, indicating the orange juice.
I handed a twenty and a five to the barman. "Keep the change. Yes, that's right. Sikh's don't drink alcohol."
"We'll see abaht that," Fish Tank Breath muttered, turning to the barman. "Put a double voddie in there mate, willya? My shout."
The barman reached for Samdip's glass. I covered it with my hand. "No, it's OK. Leave it."
"S'matter?" Fish Tank Breath asked, moving even closer to me and exhaling aromatically. "My drinks not good enough for ya?"
Sunday, August 26, 2012
100TWC - Day 30: Faith
Early morning sun filtered through the intricately-patterned windows, stretching gentle fingers of blue, red and gold into the dust laden air. Individual motes sparked and glinted, moving at the insistence of unseen currents and draughts. Despite these small movements, the atmosphere inside the chapel felt still and calm as Moira closed the heavy wooden door behind her. It moved silently and smoothly on ancient, worn, but well-oiled hinges. The latch clicked into place, unnaturally loud in the quiet of the nave.
The building was deserted. Although services were still held regularly, Moira had come in the middle of the working day, when worship was the last thing on most people's mind. She had chosen the time deliberately, craving the silence and solitude. She started up the aisle towards the altar, wondering briefly how the gleaming woodwork and worn leather pews stayed so clean in the midst of so much dust. The air was heavy with it. The smell of age, tinged with the slight damp of decay, was everywhere. Yet the stalls looked newly polished, and the gold design on the pulpit was as bright as if it had been wrought that very morning.
She sat down in the front pew, stroking the woodwork unconsciously with her hands. She dropped her head, chin resting on her thin cream blouse, eyes staring unfocussed at the old corded hassock in front of her. She had come here to pray, but now that she came to it, the question she had meant to ask of her God eluded her. She was certain He knew what it was already, of course, but He still needed to be asked, although Moira wasn't entirely sure why.
She hadn't forgotten her problem. Problems, in fact, since they were many. But earlier it had seemed to her that all her troubles had come together, forged themselves into one burning question. If only she had the answer to that question, everything else would be alright. Or, if not alright, then somehow it wouldn't matter so much. Gripped by her need of an answer, she had hurried here to pray. But now, surrounded -- no enveloped -- by the serenity of the chapel, all urgency had deserted her. And so, it seemed, had the question.
The anguish welled up inside Moira again. Stronger now. Coloured by frustration and anger. Those problems -- those agonising quandaries and life-sapping convoluted complexities -- were still out there waiting for her. Outside the church, were all was not serene and old and quiet. Why wasn't God out there, where he was needed, instead of keeping himself shut away in here surrounded by gold and stained glass and polished oak? And why didn't he answer her question straight out? When he must know what it was, even if she couldn't remember it?
She stared up at the face of the plaster Jesus, hanging from his cross behind the pulpit. His blind white eyes stared at the floor in front of the altar. That did look dusty, Moira noticed. The stone flags, worn into hollows by hundreds of years of faithful feet, looked as if they had been covered with all the dust left over from the woodwork and leather, marble and gold.
Moira began to sob quietly.
The building was deserted. Although services were still held regularly, Moira had come in the middle of the working day, when worship was the last thing on most people's mind. She had chosen the time deliberately, craving the silence and solitude. She started up the aisle towards the altar, wondering briefly how the gleaming woodwork and worn leather pews stayed so clean in the midst of so much dust. The air was heavy with it. The smell of age, tinged with the slight damp of decay, was everywhere. Yet the stalls looked newly polished, and the gold design on the pulpit was as bright as if it had been wrought that very morning.
She sat down in the front pew, stroking the woodwork unconsciously with her hands. She dropped her head, chin resting on her thin cream blouse, eyes staring unfocussed at the old corded hassock in front of her. She had come here to pray, but now that she came to it, the question she had meant to ask of her God eluded her. She was certain He knew what it was already, of course, but He still needed to be asked, although Moira wasn't entirely sure why.
She hadn't forgotten her problem. Problems, in fact, since they were many. But earlier it had seemed to her that all her troubles had come together, forged themselves into one burning question. If only she had the answer to that question, everything else would be alright. Or, if not alright, then somehow it wouldn't matter so much. Gripped by her need of an answer, she had hurried here to pray. But now, surrounded -- no enveloped -- by the serenity of the chapel, all urgency had deserted her. And so, it seemed, had the question.
The anguish welled up inside Moira again. Stronger now. Coloured by frustration and anger. Those problems -- those agonising quandaries and life-sapping convoluted complexities -- were still out there waiting for her. Outside the church, were all was not serene and old and quiet. Why wasn't God out there, where he was needed, instead of keeping himself shut away in here surrounded by gold and stained glass and polished oak? And why didn't he answer her question straight out? When he must know what it was, even if she couldn't remember it?
She stared up at the face of the plaster Jesus, hanging from his cross behind the pulpit. His blind white eyes stared at the floor in front of the altar. That did look dusty, Moira noticed. The stone flags, worn into hollows by hundreds of years of faithful feet, looked as if they had been covered with all the dust left over from the woodwork and leather, marble and gold.
Moira began to sob quietly.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
100TWC - Day 29: Dark
[ this is a companion piece to "Light" which immediate precedes it in the writing challenge - on Day 28 ]
She's in there. Bustling around in the light. Light in every room. Why does she do that? Always leaves it to me to turn the lights off everywhere. We'd have a bill like Blackpool illuminations if it was left to her. Can't bear it unless it's incandescent. Like everywhere needs to be under noonday sun, even in the middle of the night. Most of the time, the light from the next room is enough for me. Or even from outside. I prefer it dark, me. You can think in the dark. Cogitate.
In the light, everything is right there. Visible. Open. There's no hiding in the light. No mystery. And no room for rational, careful thought when all of life is crashing in on you at 100 watts. Most folk make do with 60 watts. Or even 11, if it's an energy saver. Not her. It's 100 watts or nothing with her. How can you even start to think straight when there's so much... stuff... to look at. It doesn't help to close your eyes. Not with 100 watts. All you can see is the pattern of veins on your eyelids. Can't think when you're wondering where each little pathway leads, or thinking about how many blood cells are racing through the network.
Must have been wonderful back in the days of gas lamps and candles. Must have been a dream. All those soft, flickering shadows. No hard edges. Nothing demanding your attention the whole time. Time to think. It's no wonder we don't come up with as many inventions now as they did back then. It's not that everything's already been discovered or invented. It's that people could think by gas light. They didn't have highly polished surfaces winking at them or glinting chrome and glass yelling into their eyes and brains. I would have told our children that, if I'd had the chance. If you want to think, I'd have said, really think, turn the light off. Nothing to be afraid of in the dark. Course, I never did get the chance, what with one thing or another.
No, I have to have the light off. Especially to sleep. Can't stand it when she gets up in the night. Bedside light? Click. Landing light? Click. Bathroom light? Click. I'd rather grope about with just the light from the street. We get plenty from there as it is, especially with those broken curtains. They won't shut properly, see? Some nights, if the moon's up and the street lights haven't gone out yet, it might as well be daytime in our bedroom. Easily enough light to get any normal person to the bathroom and back without burning out the retinas of those poor souls still trying to sleep. I'm going to have a look at that track one of these days. There must be something wrong with it.
See, the thing about the dark is, it's cool. So much easier to keep calm in the dark. Things always look clearer, you know? Easier to work out. It's funny that - that things are easier to see when you can't see very much. It's all a question of focus. Concentrating on what's important. And there's another thing, too. You can lose yourself in the dark. Don't need any other kind of disguise. My face takes on a kind of scowl when I'm thinking. People are always telling me. Well, I don't need that kind of aggro do I? When I'm thinking in the dark, I don't need to worry what I look like. Or who's watching.
She'll be out here soon. I can hear the dishwasher. That's always the last thing. That, and a glass of wine. No more thinking for me tonight, I'm guessing. Talking, maybe. Thinking, no.
"Don't you want a light on out here?"
"If you like."
She's in there. Bustling around in the light. Light in every room. Why does she do that? Always leaves it to me to turn the lights off everywhere. We'd have a bill like Blackpool illuminations if it was left to her. Can't bear it unless it's incandescent. Like everywhere needs to be under noonday sun, even in the middle of the night. Most of the time, the light from the next room is enough for me. Or even from outside. I prefer it dark, me. You can think in the dark. Cogitate.
In the light, everything is right there. Visible. Open. There's no hiding in the light. No mystery. And no room for rational, careful thought when all of life is crashing in on you at 100 watts. Most folk make do with 60 watts. Or even 11, if it's an energy saver. Not her. It's 100 watts or nothing with her. How can you even start to think straight when there's so much... stuff... to look at. It doesn't help to close your eyes. Not with 100 watts. All you can see is the pattern of veins on your eyelids. Can't think when you're wondering where each little pathway leads, or thinking about how many blood cells are racing through the network.
Must have been wonderful back in the days of gas lamps and candles. Must have been a dream. All those soft, flickering shadows. No hard edges. Nothing demanding your attention the whole time. Time to think. It's no wonder we don't come up with as many inventions now as they did back then. It's not that everything's already been discovered or invented. It's that people could think by gas light. They didn't have highly polished surfaces winking at them or glinting chrome and glass yelling into their eyes and brains. I would have told our children that, if I'd had the chance. If you want to think, I'd have said, really think, turn the light off. Nothing to be afraid of in the dark. Course, I never did get the chance, what with one thing or another.
No, I have to have the light off. Especially to sleep. Can't stand it when she gets up in the night. Bedside light? Click. Landing light? Click. Bathroom light? Click. I'd rather grope about with just the light from the street. We get plenty from there as it is, especially with those broken curtains. They won't shut properly, see? Some nights, if the moon's up and the street lights haven't gone out yet, it might as well be daytime in our bedroom. Easily enough light to get any normal person to the bathroom and back without burning out the retinas of those poor souls still trying to sleep. I'm going to have a look at that track one of these days. There must be something wrong with it.
See, the thing about the dark is, it's cool. So much easier to keep calm in the dark. Things always look clearer, you know? Easier to work out. It's funny that - that things are easier to see when you can't see very much. It's all a question of focus. Concentrating on what's important. And there's another thing, too. You can lose yourself in the dark. Don't need any other kind of disguise. My face takes on a kind of scowl when I'm thinking. People are always telling me. Well, I don't need that kind of aggro do I? When I'm thinking in the dark, I don't need to worry what I look like. Or who's watching.
She'll be out here soon. I can hear the dishwasher. That's always the last thing. That, and a glass of wine. No more thinking for me tonight, I'm guessing. Talking, maybe. Thinking, no.
"Don't you want a light on out here?"
"If you like."
Friday, August 24, 2012
100TWC - Day 28: Light
He's out there. Sitting in the dark. Why does he do that? How can he? Always leaves it to me to shoo our guests home, collect their unfinished glasses of wine and stack the dishwasher. While he steps out into the night. Sits on the deck with his bloody pipe and his glass of single malt. Cogitating.
Why doesn't he put a light on? I've given up asking. Never get a straight answer. I don't know how he can sit in the dark like that. I hate it. The dark. Too many awful memories. Don't ask. I probably couldn't even explain half of them. Buried, they are. Or cremated. With candles, tea-lights, open fires. Anything that banishes the darkness. But mostly the blessed, bright, searing light of a decent 100-watt bulb. That'll banish the dark from even the most intransigent corner. I felt uneasy when they stopped making 200-watt ones, but you can still find the 100-watts if you know where to look.
Don't know how they managed in the old days. Gas lamps and such. Nightmare. All those shadows that seemed empty but could have been filled with God knows what. Carrying a candle up to bed and trying not to let it blow out. Its wispy yellow flicker trying to light your way. And failing. Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper... Ugh! I always said we wouldn't play those mind games with any children of ours, though of course we never had the chance. One way or the other.
No, I have to have a light on. Even if I get up in the night. Bedside light. Landing light. Bathroom light. If it was up to me I'd probably have them all on all night. He won't have it though. Can't sleep with the light on, he always says. What about us who can hardly sleep with it off? If it wasn't for the street lights I'd never get any sleep at all. Sometimes I crack the curtains to let more of it in. He thinks the track needs adjusting. But it's OK. He won't even get round to looking at it for another six months, and anyway I don't do it every night. So he forgets.
I could never live in the country. We went on holiday to Cornwall, once. Stayed in a country cottage. It was pitch black at night. Absolutely pitch black. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face. I had to sleep downstairs.
Things always look jollier when it's bright, don't you think? It's not just darkness that gets obliterated. Other bad things go too. Moods. Tempers. Even dark thoughts turn brighter with a decent light on. And it's easier to get things done. Better than sitting dwelling on... No, you need to be able to see what you're doing, I always say.
I saw a film once. The Unbearable Lightness of Being it was called. If I'd made it I'd have called it the Bearable Lightness. Or the Wonderful Lightness. There's already too much darkness in this world. What we need is more light. They say that eventually, in a few million years, the world will stop spinning and one side will be permanent day, the other always night. I know which side I'd live on!
He wouldn't be able to sit out on his damned dark deck on my side of the world! Anyway, everything is tidy now. Dishwasher's on. Leftovers are in the fridge, all covered up. I quite fancy one last drink on the deck myself.
"Don't you want a light on out here?"
[ this is a companion piece to "Dark" which appears next in the writing challenge - on Day 29 ]
Why doesn't he put a light on? I've given up asking. Never get a straight answer. I don't know how he can sit in the dark like that. I hate it. The dark. Too many awful memories. Don't ask. I probably couldn't even explain half of them. Buried, they are. Or cremated. With candles, tea-lights, open fires. Anything that banishes the darkness. But mostly the blessed, bright, searing light of a decent 100-watt bulb. That'll banish the dark from even the most intransigent corner. I felt uneasy when they stopped making 200-watt ones, but you can still find the 100-watts if you know where to look.
Don't know how they managed in the old days. Gas lamps and such. Nightmare. All those shadows that seemed empty but could have been filled with God knows what. Carrying a candle up to bed and trying not to let it blow out. Its wispy yellow flicker trying to light your way. And failing. Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper... Ugh! I always said we wouldn't play those mind games with any children of ours, though of course we never had the chance. One way or the other.
No, I have to have a light on. Even if I get up in the night. Bedside light. Landing light. Bathroom light. If it was up to me I'd probably have them all on all night. He won't have it though. Can't sleep with the light on, he always says. What about us who can hardly sleep with it off? If it wasn't for the street lights I'd never get any sleep at all. Sometimes I crack the curtains to let more of it in. He thinks the track needs adjusting. But it's OK. He won't even get round to looking at it for another six months, and anyway I don't do it every night. So he forgets.
I could never live in the country. We went on holiday to Cornwall, once. Stayed in a country cottage. It was pitch black at night. Absolutely pitch black. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face. I had to sleep downstairs.
Things always look jollier when it's bright, don't you think? It's not just darkness that gets obliterated. Other bad things go too. Moods. Tempers. Even dark thoughts turn brighter with a decent light on. And it's easier to get things done. Better than sitting dwelling on... No, you need to be able to see what you're doing, I always say.
I saw a film once. The Unbearable Lightness of Being it was called. If I'd made it I'd have called it the Bearable Lightness. Or the Wonderful Lightness. There's already too much darkness in this world. What we need is more light. They say that eventually, in a few million years, the world will stop spinning and one side will be permanent day, the other always night. I know which side I'd live on!
He wouldn't be able to sit out on his damned dark deck on my side of the world! Anyway, everything is tidy now. Dishwasher's on. Leftovers are in the fridge, all covered up. I quite fancy one last drink on the deck myself.
"Don't you want a light on out here?"
[ this is a companion piece to "Dark" which appears next in the writing challenge - on Day 29 ]
Thursday, August 23, 2012
100TWC - Day 27: Lost and Found
The city shivered. And with it, Carl. Sat on his favourite corner of Mason, leaning against the cold marble of a high-rise office block, his hat on the sidewalk in front of him. A dog-eared cardboard sign was propped at a dangerous angle behind the hat.
VIETNAM VET. PLEASE HELP.
He watched the people. They ignored him. Intent on their Christmas shopping, wallets and purses bulging with cash, or gold credit cards, they rushed from one retail opportunity to the next with scarcely time to draw breath. Their attention was nailed to the sales signs, bright window dressing and 2-for-1 offers. They had none to spare for him. Thirty years on from his last trip to 'Nam and he was still flying beneath the radar.
"Woof!"
A dog's bark jolted him from his war memories. Between the criss-crossing legs of the Yuletide shoppers, Carl caught a brief glimpse of a black-and-tan collie nervously checking out the faces of the rapidly passing throng. The dog ran first one way, then the other, its head permanently held at an upward angle, its eyes flicking from face to face. Occasionally the collie's tail would wag tentatively before curling back down between its hind legs in fear.
"Here, boy!" Carl called, uncertain whether the dog was in fact male but figuring it wouldn't be offended. "Come on! Come here!"
Attracted by the sound of a friendly voice directed toward it, the collie stopped, staring across the few yards of pavement that separated them. Trying to decide if this was a friend, or a trick.
Carl rummaged in his filthy knapsack for the remains of his meagre breakfast. The last inch of a cereal bar was all he had left. He held it out to the still waiting dog.
"Here y'are fella! Come and get it!"
The dog cocked its head to one side, considering. A kindred lost spirit, thought Carl. He could understand its reluctance to trust a stranger. He set the crumb of comfort down on the sidewalk beside his hat and sat back, regarding the dog with what he hoped was a friendly expression in canine terms.
After a moment's further hesitation the collie approached, sniffed the cereal bar, and snapped it up in a single bite. Carl held out his hand for the dog to sniff. It wagged its tail and came closer. Carl ruffled the nape of its neck gently.
"There boy. See? You can find a friend in the strangest places. Lost, are ya? Lost your folks?"
The dog whined and lay down on the sidewalk beside Carl. He had just begun to consider the benefits of having a dog to attract greater sympathy from the passing crowd when an excited voice cut through the street noise.
"Roger! He's here!"
A young woman in expensive looking jeans and a cut-off top that reminded Carl of his Vietnam lifesaver vest struggled to push her way towards him through the mass of people who all seemed to be rushing in the opposite direction.
"Vince! Vince! Mummy's here boy!" she called. Carl noticed a man a few yards behind the woman, an empty leash trailing from one hand. Roger, he guessed. The woman had successfully negotiated the crowd and crouched down beside the dog. Vince looked at her, panting. Carl would've sworn the dog was smiling.
"Ruff!" the dog exclaimed quietly, starting to lick the woman's hand.
"Thank God you found him," the woman exclaimed. "We thought we'd never get him back in all this mad crowd."
"Actually, he found me," Carl began to say as Roger breached the last of the shoppers and joined his wife and dog by the wall.
"Hey fella!" Roger said. Carl was unsure if he was addressing the dog, or him. The dog, still intent on washing his mistress's hand, ignored Roger. Roger reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and fished for a bill.
"Here, buddy. Thanks for looking after Vince. We thought--"
"You'd lost him. Yeah, your wife said. It was nothing, really. He found--"
"No, take this," Roger said, holding out a hundred-dollar bill.
Carl's eyes widened. More money than he'd seen in a month. He hesitated.
"Come on, take it. Look as if you could use it, and we might never have found Vince if he hadn't stayed with you. He doesn't normally take to strangers."
Carl took the bill. He turned it over in his hand.
"Vietnam eh?" Roger went on. "Did two tours in Iraq myself. Tough times. No worse than what you went through, I guess."
"I guess."
"Listen, do you have a place to stay friend?"
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 81 in "A Place to Belong" ]
VIETNAM VET. PLEASE HELP.
He watched the people. They ignored him. Intent on their Christmas shopping, wallets and purses bulging with cash, or gold credit cards, they rushed from one retail opportunity to the next with scarcely time to draw breath. Their attention was nailed to the sales signs, bright window dressing and 2-for-1 offers. They had none to spare for him. Thirty years on from his last trip to 'Nam and he was still flying beneath the radar.
"Woof!"
A dog's bark jolted him from his war memories. Between the criss-crossing legs of the Yuletide shoppers, Carl caught a brief glimpse of a black-and-tan collie nervously checking out the faces of the rapidly passing throng. The dog ran first one way, then the other, its head permanently held at an upward angle, its eyes flicking from face to face. Occasionally the collie's tail would wag tentatively before curling back down between its hind legs in fear.
"Here, boy!" Carl called, uncertain whether the dog was in fact male but figuring it wouldn't be offended. "Come on! Come here!"
Attracted by the sound of a friendly voice directed toward it, the collie stopped, staring across the few yards of pavement that separated them. Trying to decide if this was a friend, or a trick.
Carl rummaged in his filthy knapsack for the remains of his meagre breakfast. The last inch of a cereal bar was all he had left. He held it out to the still waiting dog.
"Here y'are fella! Come and get it!"
The dog cocked its head to one side, considering. A kindred lost spirit, thought Carl. He could understand its reluctance to trust a stranger. He set the crumb of comfort down on the sidewalk beside his hat and sat back, regarding the dog with what he hoped was a friendly expression in canine terms.
After a moment's further hesitation the collie approached, sniffed the cereal bar, and snapped it up in a single bite. Carl held out his hand for the dog to sniff. It wagged its tail and came closer. Carl ruffled the nape of its neck gently.
"There boy. See? You can find a friend in the strangest places. Lost, are ya? Lost your folks?"
The dog whined and lay down on the sidewalk beside Carl. He had just begun to consider the benefits of having a dog to attract greater sympathy from the passing crowd when an excited voice cut through the street noise.
"Roger! He's here!"
A young woman in expensive looking jeans and a cut-off top that reminded Carl of his Vietnam lifesaver vest struggled to push her way towards him through the mass of people who all seemed to be rushing in the opposite direction.
"Vince! Vince! Mummy's here boy!" she called. Carl noticed a man a few yards behind the woman, an empty leash trailing from one hand. Roger, he guessed. The woman had successfully negotiated the crowd and crouched down beside the dog. Vince looked at her, panting. Carl would've sworn the dog was smiling.
"Ruff!" the dog exclaimed quietly, starting to lick the woman's hand.
"Thank God you found him," the woman exclaimed. "We thought we'd never get him back in all this mad crowd."
"Actually, he found me," Carl began to say as Roger breached the last of the shoppers and joined his wife and dog by the wall.
"Hey fella!" Roger said. Carl was unsure if he was addressing the dog, or him. The dog, still intent on washing his mistress's hand, ignored Roger. Roger reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and fished for a bill.
"Here, buddy. Thanks for looking after Vince. We thought--"
"You'd lost him. Yeah, your wife said. It was nothing, really. He found--"
"No, take this," Roger said, holding out a hundred-dollar bill.
Carl's eyes widened. More money than he'd seen in a month. He hesitated.
"Come on, take it. Look as if you could use it, and we might never have found Vince if he hadn't stayed with you. He doesn't normally take to strangers."
Carl took the bill. He turned it over in his hand.
"Vietnam eh?" Roger went on. "Did two tours in Iraq myself. Tough times. No worse than what you went through, I guess."
"I guess."
"Listen, do you have a place to stay friend?"
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 81 in "A Place to Belong" ]
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
100TWC - Day 26: Forever and a day
Try as I might I cannot get past the hyperbole of this topic. "Forever and a day" might only be "one of those sayings" to most people, but to a dyed-in-the-wool pedant like me it's an irritating reminder of how meaning is lost through overuse, or how casually words are thrown around without, it seems, conscious thought.
Forever is, by definition, infinite. It means the same as eternity. The whole of time. And, as with all infinite numbers, adding one to them doesn't make any difference. Forever and a day is, literally, no longer than forever. So while the massed populace thinks they're expressing something that means they're going the extra mile, doing something more, making a special effort, actually all they're communicating is their paucity of imagination or understanding.
Here's another: 110%.
I gave it 110%. No you didn't. You can't. If you've somehow managed to do more than you did last time, all that means is you gave less than 100% last time. Or alternatively, that your capacity to give was smaller back then, and you gave 100% at that time, and THIS time you have an increased output and you're giving 100% of that. In the same way that eternity, or forever, means the whole of time, 100% means the sum total of whatever it is you're talking about.
Imagine eating 110% of a cake. It's impossible, right? Once you've eaten 100% of the cake there is no more cake. Unless you've hidden a second cake somewhere and you've stuffed 10% of that down your gullet as well. But that's a different cake. It's not an extra 10% of the first cake. That would be like having your cake and eating it too. Which if I was feeling like writing another diatribe on physics might lead me on to a debate about the impossibility of creating (or destroying) matter (or energy). But I won't stray down that path.
In fact since I've been sitting here staring at the screen for the last two minutes with not even an extra 1% of an idea of where to take this argument next, it appears I'm not going to be straying down any path. Even the one I thought I was on. Maybe I should just call it a day. Since I've been arguing against ever saying "forever and a day" we could agree that the "day" we're going to call it is the day we've just subtracted from "forever and a day."
Makes no difference to me. Or you for that matter. Because in the same way you can't add a day to forever, you can't take one away either. Infinite numbers, eh? I could write about them forever...
Forever is, by definition, infinite. It means the same as eternity. The whole of time. And, as with all infinite numbers, adding one to them doesn't make any difference. Forever and a day is, literally, no longer than forever. So while the massed populace thinks they're expressing something that means they're going the extra mile, doing something more, making a special effort, actually all they're communicating is their paucity of imagination or understanding.
Here's another: 110%.
I gave it 110%. No you didn't. You can't. If you've somehow managed to do more than you did last time, all that means is you gave less than 100% last time. Or alternatively, that your capacity to give was smaller back then, and you gave 100% at that time, and THIS time you have an increased output and you're giving 100% of that. In the same way that eternity, or forever, means the whole of time, 100% means the sum total of whatever it is you're talking about.
Imagine eating 110% of a cake. It's impossible, right? Once you've eaten 100% of the cake there is no more cake. Unless you've hidden a second cake somewhere and you've stuffed 10% of that down your gullet as well. But that's a different cake. It's not an extra 10% of the first cake. That would be like having your cake and eating it too. Which if I was feeling like writing another diatribe on physics might lead me on to a debate about the impossibility of creating (or destroying) matter (or energy). But I won't stray down that path.
In fact since I've been sitting here staring at the screen for the last two minutes with not even an extra 1% of an idea of where to take this argument next, it appears I'm not going to be straying down any path. Even the one I thought I was on. Maybe I should just call it a day. Since I've been arguing against ever saying "forever and a day" we could agree that the "day" we're going to call it is the day we've just subtracted from "forever and a day."
Makes no difference to me. Or you for that matter. Because in the same way you can't add a day to forever, you can't take one away either. Infinite numbers, eh? I could write about them forever...
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
100TWC - Day 25: Breaking Away
Silence reigned. Silence, and frost. A frost so ancient that nothing alive remembered its falling. So deep that it could swallow a mountain. Yet all it chose to swallow was more frost, the new joining the old. Compacting under ever newer layers, crushed by the years, the centuries, the millennia, until no single flake or shard was distinguishable from the rest. Only a solid mass of frigid blue. It stood, apparently motionless, over the land. Guarding the bedrock like a shield, the frost was absolute. Impenetrable.
But only apparently motionless. To the casual observer. On another scale of time the frost flowed. Like a crystal river it coursed across the land so ponderously that it had its own word: glacial. A close as anything can come to stationary and still be moving.
The frost was absolute in its solidity; resolute in its movement. The silence was neither absolute nor resolute. Its reign was temporary. More of a regency, really. Disturbed at a visceral level by the gargantuan creaking of the lethargic ice, the silence gave way to the voice of the glacier. A gut-wrenching moan of deliberate agony. A slothful yawn. An occasional crack, like the bones of a leviathan, stretching through a valley hidden deep beneath its glassy flesh.
Yet though the frost appeared infinite, the land beneath it was finite. And though the frost crept infinitely slowly towards land's end, still eventually was that end attained. At which point the frost stood at the brink, peering out over the chill sea as if searching for lost brethren on the horizon, or deciding how to continue its journey on such comparatively uncertain footing.
That decision, ultimately, was not one for the frost to make. It was one for physics. For gravity. Overhanging the edge of the land like a gelid curtain, the glacier knew stresses and strains previously undreamt of. The torment called fresh moans from the frost, until with cold inevitability the land-locked mother ice bid a noisy farewell to its new-born daughter as a quarter-million-ton chunk broke free and crashed majestically into the calm waters below.
But only apparently motionless. To the casual observer. On another scale of time the frost flowed. Like a crystal river it coursed across the land so ponderously that it had its own word: glacial. A close as anything can come to stationary and still be moving.
The frost was absolute in its solidity; resolute in its movement. The silence was neither absolute nor resolute. Its reign was temporary. More of a regency, really. Disturbed at a visceral level by the gargantuan creaking of the lethargic ice, the silence gave way to the voice of the glacier. A gut-wrenching moan of deliberate agony. A slothful yawn. An occasional crack, like the bones of a leviathan, stretching through a valley hidden deep beneath its glassy flesh.
Yet though the frost appeared infinite, the land beneath it was finite. And though the frost crept infinitely slowly towards land's end, still eventually was that end attained. At which point the frost stood at the brink, peering out over the chill sea as if searching for lost brethren on the horizon, or deciding how to continue its journey on such comparatively uncertain footing.
That decision, ultimately, was not one for the frost to make. It was one for physics. For gravity. Overhanging the edge of the land like a gelid curtain, the glacier knew stresses and strains previously undreamt of. The torment called fresh moans from the frost, until with cold inevitability the land-locked mother ice bid a noisy farewell to its new-born daughter as a quarter-million-ton chunk broke free and crashed majestically into the calm waters below.
Monday, August 20, 2012
100TWC - Day 24: Rebirth
The smell of formaldehyde was overpowering, evoking long-buried memories of my ham-fisted attempts at dissection as an 'A' Level Biology student. Bunsen burners didn't appear to have evolved much in the last 30 years either. One rasped its curling yellow tongue of flame at the ceiling from a bench on one wall of Professor Manneheim's laboratory.
The Professor himself, his face hidden by a shock of wild grey hair in true stereotypical mad scientist style, gave his rapt attention to a series of dials on a control device at the far side of the lab. He remained outwardly undistracted by my entrance, but called out as I started across the polished tile floor.
"Have you disinfected?"
The anti-bacterial regimen was posted on every wall of the approach corridors. They were impossible to miss. The laboratory doors would not unlock unless the automated hand gel dispensers had been activated during the previous minute. The professor's question was redundant. I humoured him.
"Disinfected, masked and gloved," I informed him from behind my surgical mask.
He beckoned me over to his console.
"The final stage is almost complete," he said, snapping a toggle switch on his console. It was the first time I had ever seen him show even the faintest excitement, or apprehension. "Do you have a recording device?"
I showed him my digital camcorder.
"Does it have enough capacity?"
"Unless the experiment is going to take longer than a day," I laughed.
The professor offered me a withering stare. He was a famous man, but not for his sense of humour.
"Turn it on," he snapped. I turned it on, and set it on the bench beside the console, adjusting the viewfinder so I could check the professor was in shot. A few feet in front of the bench, a large glass panel provided a view into the sterilised room beyond. Several arc lights flared into life as Manneheim flicked another switch, revealing a hospital gurney surrounded by several large canisters, each of which was topped with a motorised valve. From the valves, surgical tubing snaked across to the gurney on which lay the pale naked body of a man.
"Rebirth Experiment #665," intoned the professor for the benefit of the recording. "Twentieth August Twenty Twelve, six twenty-one a.m. Professor Otto Manneheim conducting, James Reilly observing. Preliminary stages one through eighteen complete, subject has been dormant for twenty-four hours according to protocol, cell function nominal."
The professor proceeded through his experimental protocol, reading off measurements from his dials even though the computerised telemetry recorded everything. It was impossible to tell whether he did it from a sense of occasion, importance, or because he thought it was what later observers would expect -- to provide a sense of theatre.
Finally, he fell silent. For one moment I thought he was hesitating on the brink of history. The full weight of the implications of his experiment bent his shoulders. He seemed to shrink, crumpled by the responsibility. The possibility of failure. The moment passed. He shrugged off his fleeting doubts, flipped the cover of a red switch at the right of the console, and threw it.
Bright blue liquid oozed along the tube leading from the canister marked "A", shortly followed by a thin yellow liquid from "B".
The Professor himself, his face hidden by a shock of wild grey hair in true stereotypical mad scientist style, gave his rapt attention to a series of dials on a control device at the far side of the lab. He remained outwardly undistracted by my entrance, but called out as I started across the polished tile floor.
"Have you disinfected?"
The anti-bacterial regimen was posted on every wall of the approach corridors. They were impossible to miss. The laboratory doors would not unlock unless the automated hand gel dispensers had been activated during the previous minute. The professor's question was redundant. I humoured him.
"Disinfected, masked and gloved," I informed him from behind my surgical mask.
He beckoned me over to his console.
"The final stage is almost complete," he said, snapping a toggle switch on his console. It was the first time I had ever seen him show even the faintest excitement, or apprehension. "Do you have a recording device?"
I showed him my digital camcorder.
"Does it have enough capacity?"
"Unless the experiment is going to take longer than a day," I laughed.
The professor offered me a withering stare. He was a famous man, but not for his sense of humour.
"Turn it on," he snapped. I turned it on, and set it on the bench beside the console, adjusting the viewfinder so I could check the professor was in shot. A few feet in front of the bench, a large glass panel provided a view into the sterilised room beyond. Several arc lights flared into life as Manneheim flicked another switch, revealing a hospital gurney surrounded by several large canisters, each of which was topped with a motorised valve. From the valves, surgical tubing snaked across to the gurney on which lay the pale naked body of a man.
"Rebirth Experiment #665," intoned the professor for the benefit of the recording. "Twentieth August Twenty Twelve, six twenty-one a.m. Professor Otto Manneheim conducting, James Reilly observing. Preliminary stages one through eighteen complete, subject has been dormant for twenty-four hours according to protocol, cell function nominal."
The professor proceeded through his experimental protocol, reading off measurements from his dials even though the computerised telemetry recorded everything. It was impossible to tell whether he did it from a sense of occasion, importance, or because he thought it was what later observers would expect -- to provide a sense of theatre.
Finally, he fell silent. For one moment I thought he was hesitating on the brink of history. The full weight of the implications of his experiment bent his shoulders. He seemed to shrink, crumpled by the responsibility. The possibility of failure. The moment passed. He shrugged off his fleeting doubts, flipped the cover of a red switch at the right of the console, and threw it.
Bright blue liquid oozed along the tube leading from the canister marked "A", shortly followed by a thin yellow liquid from "B".
Sunday, August 19, 2012
100TWC - Day 23: Failure
I'm a few days ahead of myself with this challenge (always good to have a few posts in hand with something like this, in case of unforeseen eventualities) so by the time you read this a week will have passed since the closing ceremony of the Olympics and I expect by now, in the way of these things, it's all just a rapidly fading memory. Normal service has been resumed on all channels and maybe even the interminable post-mortems will have become terminable, or terminated.
But for me, it was just last night. A madcap three hours of social networking as friends from as far afield as the other side of the world and literally as close as next door came together in our living room while I sat with iPad in hand both reading and writing a staccato running commentary.
So as the glow of what has been heralded as the best Olympics ever fades, I wanted to say a word about failure. And it's a good job I did, because that's the theme for today!
In among the many superb golds, world and Olympic records, and personal bests that have been clocked up over the last 17 days, I've been struck by the number of athletes who didn't win, and having had a microphone shoved under their noses before they've even had chance to catch their breath, felt compelled to say how sorry they were that they'd failed and "let everybody down."
Dear Athlete, Gymnast, Swimmer, Competitor: In what sense can you be said to have failed? Have you stopped trying? OK, maybe this was your last chance at an Olympic medal. Coming round so rarely, in many sports competitors only have two or three attempts to "medal" (one of the many dire "new verbs" we've been introduced to recently). You may have set yourself the goal of gold, but not achieving your goal is not the same thing as failure. Your attempt at the gold medal depended on so much more than your own efforts. How can you allow for others' training, skill, talent and preparation? Wind conditions (a particular bugbear in the pole vault, and some throwing events)? The last minute sore throat or dodgy stomach? None of these things are under your control. All of them can prevent you winning a medal.
Did you do your best, perhaps even achieving a personal best? You haven't failed.
Did you even make the attempt in the first place, when most of us can only lift ourselves off the sofa long enough to fetch another beer? You haven't failed.
Did you inspire even one young person to visit their local sports club this week, who wouldn't have otherwise gone? You haven't failed.
Did you make one person shout out in support, make one heart skip a beat, make one tear fall for joy or hope or pride? You haven't failed.
Did you turn one person, even for only a moment, from the weary path of the cynic to the sunny broad track of the committed competitor? You haven't failed. And on that basis alone I can tell you that none of you failed, because I was that cynic. And I was turned. If not into a believer then certainly, and perhaps only briefly, into an enthusiastic supporter.
Failure is a big word. And it is also, similar to opportunities and threats on which I wrote a few days ago, one of those things that can disguise itself very well. What might appear at first to be a failure could turn out to be nothing more than a stepping stone. A doorway to another future. A fork in the road. Or a bump.
Many people think fear of failure is a barrier to success, and it can be. What isn't often realised (except among coaches ;o)) is that an even bigger barrier is fear of success. At least that's one problem our Olympians don't have to worry about.
But for me, it was just last night. A madcap three hours of social networking as friends from as far afield as the other side of the world and literally as close as next door came together in our living room while I sat with iPad in hand both reading and writing a staccato running commentary.
So as the glow of what has been heralded as the best Olympics ever fades, I wanted to say a word about failure. And it's a good job I did, because that's the theme for today!
In among the many superb golds, world and Olympic records, and personal bests that have been clocked up over the last 17 days, I've been struck by the number of athletes who didn't win, and having had a microphone shoved under their noses before they've even had chance to catch their breath, felt compelled to say how sorry they were that they'd failed and "let everybody down."
Dear Athlete, Gymnast, Swimmer, Competitor: In what sense can you be said to have failed? Have you stopped trying? OK, maybe this was your last chance at an Olympic medal. Coming round so rarely, in many sports competitors only have two or three attempts to "medal" (one of the many dire "new verbs" we've been introduced to recently). You may have set yourself the goal of gold, but not achieving your goal is not the same thing as failure. Your attempt at the gold medal depended on so much more than your own efforts. How can you allow for others' training, skill, talent and preparation? Wind conditions (a particular bugbear in the pole vault, and some throwing events)? The last minute sore throat or dodgy stomach? None of these things are under your control. All of them can prevent you winning a medal.
Did you do your best, perhaps even achieving a personal best? You haven't failed.
Did you even make the attempt in the first place, when most of us can only lift ourselves off the sofa long enough to fetch another beer? You haven't failed.
Did you inspire even one young person to visit their local sports club this week, who wouldn't have otherwise gone? You haven't failed.
Did you make one person shout out in support, make one heart skip a beat, make one tear fall for joy or hope or pride? You haven't failed.
Did you turn one person, even for only a moment, from the weary path of the cynic to the sunny broad track of the committed competitor? You haven't failed. And on that basis alone I can tell you that none of you failed, because I was that cynic. And I was turned. If not into a believer then certainly, and perhaps only briefly, into an enthusiastic supporter.
Failure is a big word. And it is also, similar to opportunities and threats on which I wrote a few days ago, one of those things that can disguise itself very well. What might appear at first to be a failure could turn out to be nothing more than a stepping stone. A doorway to another future. A fork in the road. Or a bump.
Many people think fear of failure is a barrier to success, and it can be. What isn't often realised (except among coaches ;o)) is that an even bigger barrier is fear of success. At least that's one problem our Olympians don't have to worry about.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
100TWC - Day 22: Online
A pair of honey bees hummed lazily from blossom to blossom among the weeds and wild flowers decorating the disused sidings. The day was still and hot, the afternoon sun a coruscating furnace in a cornflower sky.
Niall rested momentarily against the hot wood of the old cattle pens, watching the bees and soaking up the ambience of the old station. The trains, still regular users of the branch line, no longer stopped here. The local farmers sent their livestock by road now. The commuters had to make their way the four miles to the next nearest station.
From a nearby suburban garden, the sound of a child playing happily in the summer afternoon disturbed his reverie. He plucked a stem of grass from the path and set off toward the old stone footbridge further down the track. As a boy he had stood on that bridge and watched the trains, passengers and traders as they bustled and jostled around the busy station, making careful notes in his spotters' book. He wanted to relive that memory even if the only elements left to it were himself and the occasional speeding train.
The path started its slow incline to the shoulder of the bridge. He could hear the child's voice more plainly now, even though he was walking closer to the rural side of the station, leaving the housing estate behind. He could even start to make out the odd word. It sounded... surely not... it sounded like someone crying for help.
He broke into a run, heading for the low wall at the side of the bridge, and looked along the track, shading his eyes from the glare. Two hundred metres or so from the other side of the bridge, a young woman was lying across the track, waving frantically.
Guessing she must have been walking on the track side and twisted her ankle, Niall vaulted the wall and slid awkwardly down the bank onto the gravel. He checked his watch as he began to run toward the woman, ruefully remembering that he had no idea of the train timetable.
As he approached the woman he saw that she was not simply lying on the track. She was tied to it.
"Oh God," she yelled as he ran, "thank God! Please help me!"
Niall slid to a halt on the loose gravel and knelt down.
"What the hell?" he began. "Who did this? Why...?"
"Please," she gasped. "The train is due any minute. I'll explain later. Please get me out of here!"
Niall examined the knots. Although no expert, he was pretty sure he'd never seen anything like them before. Thick nylon climbing rope had been wrapped around the woman's waist and leg. Looped around both the steel rails of the track and the heavy sleepers, it had been tied in a complex weave that Niall struggled to comprehend.
Half-remembered scenes from silent movies and Wile E. Coyote cartoons flashed through his racing mind.
"I'll never get this undone in time," he panted, still breathless from his short run. "I'll have to cut it."
He pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and began sawing at the rope.
"It's no use," the woman yelled. "You'll never cut through all this - there isn't time."
A thousand metres away, around the bend in the track, a train whistle sounded urgently.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 39 in "Out of Time" ]
Niall rested momentarily against the hot wood of the old cattle pens, watching the bees and soaking up the ambience of the old station. The trains, still regular users of the branch line, no longer stopped here. The local farmers sent their livestock by road now. The commuters had to make their way the four miles to the next nearest station.
From a nearby suburban garden, the sound of a child playing happily in the summer afternoon disturbed his reverie. He plucked a stem of grass from the path and set off toward the old stone footbridge further down the track. As a boy he had stood on that bridge and watched the trains, passengers and traders as they bustled and jostled around the busy station, making careful notes in his spotters' book. He wanted to relive that memory even if the only elements left to it were himself and the occasional speeding train.
The path started its slow incline to the shoulder of the bridge. He could hear the child's voice more plainly now, even though he was walking closer to the rural side of the station, leaving the housing estate behind. He could even start to make out the odd word. It sounded... surely not... it sounded like someone crying for help.
He broke into a run, heading for the low wall at the side of the bridge, and looked along the track, shading his eyes from the glare. Two hundred metres or so from the other side of the bridge, a young woman was lying across the track, waving frantically.
Guessing she must have been walking on the track side and twisted her ankle, Niall vaulted the wall and slid awkwardly down the bank onto the gravel. He checked his watch as he began to run toward the woman, ruefully remembering that he had no idea of the train timetable.
As he approached the woman he saw that she was not simply lying on the track. She was tied to it.
"Oh God," she yelled as he ran, "thank God! Please help me!"
Niall slid to a halt on the loose gravel and knelt down.
"What the hell?" he began. "Who did this? Why...?"
"Please," she gasped. "The train is due any minute. I'll explain later. Please get me out of here!"
Niall examined the knots. Although no expert, he was pretty sure he'd never seen anything like them before. Thick nylon climbing rope had been wrapped around the woman's waist and leg. Looped around both the steel rails of the track and the heavy sleepers, it had been tied in a complex weave that Niall struggled to comprehend.
Half-remembered scenes from silent movies and Wile E. Coyote cartoons flashed through his racing mind.
"I'll never get this undone in time," he panted, still breathless from his short run. "I'll have to cut it."
He pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and began sawing at the rope.
"It's no use," the woman yelled. "You'll never cut through all this - there isn't time."
A thousand metres away, around the bend in the track, a train whistle sounded urgently.
[ this story is continued later in the writing challenge - on Day 39 in "Out of Time" ]
Friday, August 17, 2012
100TWC - Day 21: Never Again
You might think you've left it behind you
That chapter is over and done
You'll wake up one day
And hear yourself say
That really the book's just begun
The story you're actually reading
Is the one that you wrote on your own
Though you stayed up all night
It's still not quite right
But my! How the hours have flown
Not only the hours are flying
The days and the weeks have gone too
And all of those years
Still slippery with tears
So what are you going to do?
With the time that remains on your candle
The wick burning bright at both ends
Shining back through the haze
Of those warm splendid days
And nights that you spent with your friends
There should be many more of those coming
Exactly how many's unclear
It's time to get real
Explain how you feel
To the one you hold dearest of dear
Take hold of her hand one fine morning
Explain all the what, why and when
Look into her eyes
Take off your disguise
And never say never again
That chapter is over and done
You'll wake up one day
And hear yourself say
That really the book's just begun
The story you're actually reading
Is the one that you wrote on your own
Though you stayed up all night
It's still not quite right
But my! How the hours have flown
Not only the hours are flying
The days and the weeks have gone too
And all of those years
Still slippery with tears
So what are you going to do?
With the time that remains on your candle
The wick burning bright at both ends
Shining back through the haze
Of those warm splendid days
And nights that you spent with your friends
There should be many more of those coming
Exactly how many's unclear
It's time to get real
Explain how you feel
To the one you hold dearest of dear
Take hold of her hand one fine morning
Explain all the what, why and when
Look into her eyes
Take off your disguise
And never say never again
Thursday, August 16, 2012
100TWC - Day 20: My Inspiration
For a long time I thought I got my inspiration from others.
When you work in the kind of high-tech, leading edge company that I did back in the 80s and early 90s (it's still the same company now, but I no longer think of it as leading edge. Even though it is still in the business of high tech), you become so familiar with being surrounded by people of enormous intellect that it's easy to feel almost less than normal. Or at least, below average.
Over the years I've heard anecdotes from ex-colleagues who left. They all shared a theme: no-one within the company really knows how good they are until, voluntarily or otherwise, they step outside it. Only when given the chance to compare oneself with regular people outside can one begin to appreciate the amazing talent that exists inside.
Without wishing to blow my own trumpet overmuch, it's true that in all the 34 years I've been there I have never been asked to do something that I couldn't, eventually, succeed at. And before the cynics among you start, I have been asked to do some pretty off-the-wall, technically challenging stuff. But even allowing for the fact that the staff in general were above average for "the marketplace" there were still some particular outstanding individuals that I looked up to, wanted to emulate, and who I thought of as a source of inspiration.
Outside the workplace, in common with a lot of people (at least those who don't allow their work life to grow so that it consumes their entire life) I got busy with private endeavours. More artistic endeavours. Here too I was lucky to meet people who I looked to for inspiration.
But in thinking of how I would approach this theme, it came to me that these people, almost to aman person, did not inspire me. I was confusing inspiration with aspiration. I aspired to emulate them in some way, either to be as clever, as resourceful, as knowledgeable, as inventive, as dedicated, whatever. But my inspiration - my source of ideas, or commitment - was not them.
It was me.
When I seek an idea for a story, or a poem, or a song, I don't go to people I respect or admire. I sit quietly, possibly listening to music (yes, also possibly, just possibly, playing Spider Solitaire) and I run ideas through my head. Or, more often, I wait for them to come to me. I open myself up to what ancient scholars would have called my Muse. And I've learned, more so in the last few years than at any time in my life, to trust it. If I let my mind free wheel, ideas come. It might only be a line of dialogue or it might be an entire conversation. My memory is so poor, and the ideas often so fleeting, that I have to write them down as quickly as I can. The trick there is not to start writing too soon. To let the idea ripen and develop until it feels "done." You could liken it to letting dough "prove" before baking. Only then can I write it down without losing it, and so that I don't lose it. Getting the timing of that right is quite a delicate balance, and I still miss regularly (mostly on the side of waiting too long and forgetting the important bits, unfortunately).
Of course when it's a song I'm writing I have the source of inspiration right there on my computer. The music. I can just let it play over and over on repeat until the words begin to suggest themselves. I've often referred to this as "letting the music tell me its story," and that's exactly how it feels.
The example I most commonly use to explain how this inspiration works when at its best, is the time I wrote Tumbleweed (one of the poems in my first collection - Well of Love - which is linked in the sidebar). It was a quiet weekend afternoon and I simply sat at my keyboard, opened up my mind and started writing. To my astonishment the words poured onto the screen, my thoughts flying so fast I could hardly type quickly enough to keep up with them. So fast, indeed, that I was hardly conscious of what they were saying. It was an exhilarating experience. At the end of that brief period of frantic typing I had well over 90% of a completed poem. The only missing parts were where I had felt my mind groping for a word or a phrase that was missing from the stream of consciousness I was recording. When that happened - only three or four places in what is quite a long poem - I simply skipped over the word or line, leaving a dash to mark the place.
Going back over the piece and replacing the dashes with real content was a matter of only half an hour or so. The words were there, it just felt as though they had somehow "got stuck" in the frenzied flow.
I can't explain it and it's probably silly to try. It has only happened once since, although on that occasion it was a deliberate experiment to see if I could repeat the experience - this time with a song rather than a poem. Contrarily perhaps, the fact that it worked a second time has made me reluctant to try again until and unless I reach a point in my writing where I absolutely need it. It's like a pure wellspring that I don't want to drink from too often for fear of tainting it. That probably sounds crazy, but
When you work in the kind of high-tech, leading edge company that I did back in the 80s and early 90s (it's still the same company now, but I no longer think of it as leading edge. Even though it is still in the business of high tech), you become so familiar with being surrounded by people of enormous intellect that it's easy to feel almost less than normal. Or at least, below average.
Over the years I've heard anecdotes from ex-colleagues who left. They all shared a theme: no-one within the company really knows how good they are until, voluntarily or otherwise, they step outside it. Only when given the chance to compare oneself with regular people outside can one begin to appreciate the amazing talent that exists inside.
Without wishing to blow my own trumpet overmuch, it's true that in all the 34 years I've been there I have never been asked to do something that I couldn't, eventually, succeed at. And before the cynics among you start, I have been asked to do some pretty off-the-wall, technically challenging stuff. But even allowing for the fact that the staff in general were above average for "the marketplace" there were still some particular outstanding individuals that I looked up to, wanted to emulate, and who I thought of as a source of inspiration.
Outside the workplace, in common with a lot of people (at least those who don't allow their work life to grow so that it consumes their entire life) I got busy with private endeavours. More artistic endeavours. Here too I was lucky to meet people who I looked to for inspiration.
But in thinking of how I would approach this theme, it came to me that these people, almost to a
It was me.
When I seek an idea for a story, or a poem, or a song, I don't go to people I respect or admire. I sit quietly, possibly listening to music (yes, also possibly, just possibly, playing Spider Solitaire) and I run ideas through my head. Or, more often, I wait for them to come to me. I open myself up to what ancient scholars would have called my Muse. And I've learned, more so in the last few years than at any time in my life, to trust it. If I let my mind free wheel, ideas come. It might only be a line of dialogue or it might be an entire conversation. My memory is so poor, and the ideas often so fleeting, that I have to write them down as quickly as I can. The trick there is not to start writing too soon. To let the idea ripen and develop until it feels "done." You could liken it to letting dough "prove" before baking. Only then can I write it down without losing it, and so that I don't lose it. Getting the timing of that right is quite a delicate balance, and I still miss regularly (mostly on the side of waiting too long and forgetting the important bits, unfortunately).
Of course when it's a song I'm writing I have the source of inspiration right there on my computer. The music. I can just let it play over and over on repeat until the words begin to suggest themselves. I've often referred to this as "letting the music tell me its story," and that's exactly how it feels.
The example I most commonly use to explain how this inspiration works when at its best, is the time I wrote Tumbleweed (one of the poems in my first collection - Well of Love - which is linked in the sidebar). It was a quiet weekend afternoon and I simply sat at my keyboard, opened up my mind and started writing. To my astonishment the words poured onto the screen, my thoughts flying so fast I could hardly type quickly enough to keep up with them. So fast, indeed, that I was hardly conscious of what they were saying. It was an exhilarating experience. At the end of that brief period of frantic typing I had well over 90% of a completed poem. The only missing parts were where I had felt my mind groping for a word or a phrase that was missing from the stream of consciousness I was recording. When that happened - only three or four places in what is quite a long poem - I simply skipped over the word or line, leaving a dash to mark the place.
Going back over the piece and replacing the dashes with real content was a matter of only half an hour or so. The words were there, it just felt as though they had somehow "got stuck" in the frenzied flow.
I can't explain it and it's probably silly to try. It has only happened once since, although on that occasion it was a deliberate experiment to see if I could repeat the experience - this time with a song rather than a poem. Contrarily perhaps, the fact that it worked a second time has made me reluctant to try again until and unless I reach a point in my writing where I absolutely need it. It's like a pure wellspring that I don't want to drink from too often for fear of tainting it. That probably sounds crazy, but
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
100TWC - Day 19: Tears
I was glad to step out of the heat into the unremarkable, almost invisible, pawnbroker's that afternoon. The dust of the market had already formed a pale crust on my skin. I felt as though another moment in the crowded streets would be enough to petrify me like a wrongdoer in an ancient tale from the Arabian Nights.
The small brass bell sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet crepuscular interior of the shop. Traffic noise rudely disturbed the calm, which I restored by fastening the door closed behind me. An old man sat beside a makeshift counter at the back of the shop, examining a tooled silver dress knife with a jeweller's eyeglass.
The knife's owner stood a few respectful steps away from the shopkeeper, impatiently moving from foot to foot. At the sound of the door he had turned quickly to see who might be entering. Since I was no-one he recognised and I looked harmless enough, his attention had been recaptured by the ongoing valuation of his heirloom. At length the shopkeeper let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since long before I arrived.
"It is not the best workmanship. And there is some damage to the hilt. I offer two hundred dinar."
"It is an insult!" the man cried, snatching the knife from the hand of the merchant. "This has been in my family for three generations! It is worth at least ten times that amount!"
"Then I wish you good fortune in finding someone willing to pay it," said the trader with a shrug. He turned back to his counter, ignoring me completely.
"A thousand then!" said the owner loudly. "May my ancestors forgive me."
"I told you. It is worth no more than two hundred."
"You are trying to rob me!"
"I am merely being honest. Take it somewhere else. The tale will be the same."
"Can you at least give me five hundred?" the man asked, a note of desperation beginning to colour both his voice and his posture. "I have bills. Debts."
"Don't we all?"
"Look, four hundred. It must be worth at least that much for the metal."
"My friend I don't think you can be aware how much the price of silver has fallen. But I can see you are in dire straits. Two hundred and fifty dinars. It is my final offer."
The man hesitated. For one moment I thought he was going to bite. Barely better than ten percent of what he had thought the object was worth. But the weight of his ancestors' expectations overwhelmed him. He turned on his heel and walked out into the heat of the afternoon.
The merchant regarded me with a belligerent stare.
"Can I help you?"
"My master has cried rivers of tears in his quest for a special gift."
The merchant's demeanour changed instantly from confrontational barterer to supplicant. He edged past me to lock the shop door and pull down the shutters.
"Come with me, effendi."
He led the way past the counter, through a curtained entrance to the dingy living quarters at the back of the shop. Taking a huge bunch of keys from the folds of his robe he unlocked a small door, flicked a switch and started down a rickety old flight of stairs without another word or even a glance in my direction. I followed.
The basement was illuminated by a single bare bulb. The merchant had knocked it on his way past and now it swung rapidly to and fro, casting eerily moving shadows on the filing cabinets, old cast-off furniture and anonymously sheeted objects that filled the mould stained cellar. Incongruously, one wall held a bright, clean, polished steel safe. The merchant stopped, turning to look at me.
"Please."
I looked away. The buzz and click of the combination wheel's spinning filled the small chamber. The merchant swung the handle and, reaching inside, retrieved a small dark blue velvet bag. He closed the safe again and span the wheels.
In one corner of the room sat a large partner's desk covered in a clean white sheet. The merchant switched on a large desk lamp, flooding the desk with an achingly bright arc light. He loosened the ties on the bag and slid out the contents.
Flashing blue and silver in the harsh white light the largest single diamond I had ever seen slipped into his hand.
"Your master will be pleased, effendi, no? This is the stone known as the Tears of Munra."
The small brass bell sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet crepuscular interior of the shop. Traffic noise rudely disturbed the calm, which I restored by fastening the door closed behind me. An old man sat beside a makeshift counter at the back of the shop, examining a tooled silver dress knife with a jeweller's eyeglass.
The knife's owner stood a few respectful steps away from the shopkeeper, impatiently moving from foot to foot. At the sound of the door he had turned quickly to see who might be entering. Since I was no-one he recognised and I looked harmless enough, his attention had been recaptured by the ongoing valuation of his heirloom. At length the shopkeeper let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since long before I arrived.
"It is not the best workmanship. And there is some damage to the hilt. I offer two hundred dinar."
"It is an insult!" the man cried, snatching the knife from the hand of the merchant. "This has been in my family for three generations! It is worth at least ten times that amount!"
"Then I wish you good fortune in finding someone willing to pay it," said the trader with a shrug. He turned back to his counter, ignoring me completely.
"A thousand then!" said the owner loudly. "May my ancestors forgive me."
"I told you. It is worth no more than two hundred."
"You are trying to rob me!"
"I am merely being honest. Take it somewhere else. The tale will be the same."
"Can you at least give me five hundred?" the man asked, a note of desperation beginning to colour both his voice and his posture. "I have bills. Debts."
"Don't we all?"
"Look, four hundred. It must be worth at least that much for the metal."
"My friend I don't think you can be aware how much the price of silver has fallen. But I can see you are in dire straits. Two hundred and fifty dinars. It is my final offer."
The man hesitated. For one moment I thought he was going to bite. Barely better than ten percent of what he had thought the object was worth. But the weight of his ancestors' expectations overwhelmed him. He turned on his heel and walked out into the heat of the afternoon.
The merchant regarded me with a belligerent stare.
"Can I help you?"
"My master has cried rivers of tears in his quest for a special gift."
The merchant's demeanour changed instantly from confrontational barterer to supplicant. He edged past me to lock the shop door and pull down the shutters.
"Come with me, effendi."
He led the way past the counter, through a curtained entrance to the dingy living quarters at the back of the shop. Taking a huge bunch of keys from the folds of his robe he unlocked a small door, flicked a switch and started down a rickety old flight of stairs without another word or even a glance in my direction. I followed.
The basement was illuminated by a single bare bulb. The merchant had knocked it on his way past and now it swung rapidly to and fro, casting eerily moving shadows on the filing cabinets, old cast-off furniture and anonymously sheeted objects that filled the mould stained cellar. Incongruously, one wall held a bright, clean, polished steel safe. The merchant stopped, turning to look at me.
"Please."
I looked away. The buzz and click of the combination wheel's spinning filled the small chamber. The merchant swung the handle and, reaching inside, retrieved a small dark blue velvet bag. He closed the safe again and span the wheels.
In one corner of the room sat a large partner's desk covered in a clean white sheet. The merchant switched on a large desk lamp, flooding the desk with an achingly bright arc light. He loosened the ties on the bag and slid out the contents.
Flashing blue and silver in the harsh white light the largest single diamond I had ever seen slipped into his hand.
"Your master will be pleased, effendi, no? This is the stone known as the Tears of Munra."
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
100TWC - Day 18: Love
wow love i mean such an overused word i love you like in the song those three words they're said too much and not enough i love it where it could be anything you vaguely like or you're trying to impress the person who has it whatever it is and you don't really like it all that much but you're all oh yeah i love it baby i love it you love your friends that's a different kind of love to the love you have for your mum or your dog or your favourite pencil and then there's those weird kinds of love that some people have but other people that's most of us think are icky or embarrassing or just plain wrong those kinds of love have to be hidden away in special words with philia in them like necrophilia or coprophilia look it up or paedophilia not the kind of love i really want to talk about but then there's the usual kind and that comes in all different flavours too like love of your life and unrequited love usually love for the girl next door i used to think i loved the girl next door but it was just an adolescent thing really i only wanted to see her tits and she just thought it was kinda handy to have someone her own age living next door who she could play silly games with she never really loved me and in the end she moved away anyway and i never even heard from her again but i think about her from time to time but even that wasn't my first experience of love oh no i was only six years old when i fell in love the first time and my parents were all oh don't be so silly boys of your age don't fall in love but it sure felt like it to me when i was feeling all sick in my stomach and thinking about her all the time and making sure my fingernails were clean when i went to school and deliberately putting my tie on crooked so she could straighten it for me because she was a proper little girl who wanted to grow up to be a wife and mother and she'd seen her mother straighten her dad's tie so obviously that's the kind of thing you did when you loved somebody so she used to do it for me too made my head tingle anyway we only ever kissed a few times and then it all kinda blew over i never did really find out why she went off me for that other guy he even had dirty fingernails and she always told me she couldn't stand that i guess that's the thing about love you can have all these rules about the kind of person who's ideal and all that but when the right one comes along all those rules go out the window i used to ask my mum how will i know when i'm really in love and she used to say you'll just know that didn't really help me very much cos every time it happened to me i thought i knew but then it turned out i didn't know after all especially with that helen i used to let her do all sorts of stupid stuff to me just to try and spend time around her but then it turned out she was just making fun of me and talking about me behind my back saying how dumb i was to let her do all that stuff i used to get that sick feeling in my stomach when i was with her too but later on it turned into a different kind of sick anyway that was all a long time ago when i was only a little kid things got even worse when i was an older kid and i started getting all these urges i never realised it was so easy to mix up love and lust i spent a long time trying to sort that one out and it got me in one whole heap of a heck of a lot of trouble i can tell you i don't know what it was but when a girl kissed me i went kinda mad i think i remember reading once that love is a kind of madness or at least that hormonal buzz that comes with it you can get addicted to that a lot of people stay that way their whole life like rock stars and film stars and other folk with a lot of money they always say they're looking for love in their songs and films but really they're just addicted to hormones or the thrill of the chase or something i don't think that's real love at all but then when you get to thinking about real love and comparing it to that flirty kind of young love and chasing about all over the place it can seem kinda boring from the outside you know when two people have been together a long time like them old folk you see walking along holding hands and people will say oh look at that old couple isn't that wonderful and all the young people start to feel a bit sick not the kind of sick that i mentioned earlier but you know kind of embarrassed and ewww and like that because all they can think about the young people that is all they can think about is the old people doing it and i think it's universally recognised that the thought of old people doing it is kinda yucky until you're an old person that is and then i guess it's perfect natural even though you don't do it as often as you used to but that's because by the time you're that old you've discovered that love really isn't about doing it at all that's only one very small part of it and all the rest the stuff that sounds boring to the youngsters well that's the stuff that love is really about caring and sharing and understanding and being gentle and kind and doing stuff for each other because you want to make their lives easier and taking pleasure from simple things like a warm sunny morning or a kitten playing or your grandchildren bringing you a daisy chain so all in all i reckon love means different things to different people at different times of their lives but it always means something to somebody at every time of their life and that's why they say it makes the world go round.
Monday, August 13, 2012
100TWC - Day 17: Vengeance
"You sure this is the right road?"
"Yes! A34, south of Alderley Edge the message said. It was quite clear."
"Well where is he then?"
"I don't know! Keep looking!"
Their blues illuminated the hedgerows on either side of the narrow, winding 'A' road to the south of Manchester as Foxtrot Uniform 32 sped through the failing evening light. Jed Evans, driver, watched the far side while keeping one eye on the unruly road. His fellow paramedic Trixie Mbantu stared fixedly at the nearside hedge, waiting for any sign of the crashed vehicle they were looking for. Jed had killed the siren once they'd left the main street of Alderley, and the traffic, behind.
"It's getting harder to tell which of these are gates and which might be crash damage," Trixie yelled over the noise of the engine as Jed changed down into a tight left-hander. "Wait! There!"
The ambulance had entered a short straight section of road. Trixie pointed ahead at a collapsed section of hedge. Their headlights revealed fish-tailing skid marks leading to the hole in the foliage.
"Looks like he lost it on that last bend," Jed said, braking the vehicle to a stop. "No sign of the car though," he added, peering through the gloom.
They left the ambulance with its blues still flashing a warning to oncoming vehicles, and started across the verge. Trixie picked up a mangled lump of metal from the side of the road.
"What's this?"
"Give it here?"
Jed turned the debris over and examined the surface.
"Looks like part of a motorcycle fender."
"I thought you said this was a car crash."
"It is. Supposed to be. But there's bike tracks here look, in the mud."
Single tyre tracks were clearly visible in the soft verge, deeply bitten into the mud. Trixie had already reached the hole in the fence. She shone her powerful halogen torch into the field beyond. A few yards away a silver Mercedes had been stopped catastrophically quickly by a large oak tree. Steam hissed from its wrecked bonnet and dissipated quickly into the cooling air of the evening.
"Over here! I've found it!" she called, starting through the fence without waiting for Jed, her paramedic's bag catching on the spines of the blackthorn.
The driver had attempted to free himself from the crumpled cabin. He had fallen through the opened door leaving his legs at an unnatural angle under the displaced steering column. He gave a soft moan as Trixie approached.
"Hello? Can you hear me? I'm a paramedic. Can you tell me your name?"
"Did... did I get him?"
"Yes! A34, south of Alderley Edge the message said. It was quite clear."
"Well where is he then?"
"I don't know! Keep looking!"
Their blues illuminated the hedgerows on either side of the narrow, winding 'A' road to the south of Manchester as Foxtrot Uniform 32 sped through the failing evening light. Jed Evans, driver, watched the far side while keeping one eye on the unruly road. His fellow paramedic Trixie Mbantu stared fixedly at the nearside hedge, waiting for any sign of the crashed vehicle they were looking for. Jed had killed the siren once they'd left the main street of Alderley, and the traffic, behind.
"It's getting harder to tell which of these are gates and which might be crash damage," Trixie yelled over the noise of the engine as Jed changed down into a tight left-hander. "Wait! There!"
The ambulance had entered a short straight section of road. Trixie pointed ahead at a collapsed section of hedge. Their headlights revealed fish-tailing skid marks leading to the hole in the foliage.
"Looks like he lost it on that last bend," Jed said, braking the vehicle to a stop. "No sign of the car though," he added, peering through the gloom.
They left the ambulance with its blues still flashing a warning to oncoming vehicles, and started across the verge. Trixie picked up a mangled lump of metal from the side of the road.
"What's this?"
"Give it here?"
Jed turned the debris over and examined the surface.
"Looks like part of a motorcycle fender."
"I thought you said this was a car crash."
"It is. Supposed to be. But there's bike tracks here look, in the mud."
Single tyre tracks were clearly visible in the soft verge, deeply bitten into the mud. Trixie had already reached the hole in the fence. She shone her powerful halogen torch into the field beyond. A few yards away a silver Mercedes had been stopped catastrophically quickly by a large oak tree. Steam hissed from its wrecked bonnet and dissipated quickly into the cooling air of the evening.
"Over here! I've found it!" she called, starting through the fence without waiting for Jed, her paramedic's bag catching on the spines of the blackthorn.
The driver had attempted to free himself from the crumpled cabin. He had fallen through the opened door leaving his legs at an unnatural angle under the displaced steering column. He gave a soft moan as Trixie approached.
"Hello? Can you hear me? I'm a paramedic. Can you tell me your name?"
"Did... did I get him?"
Sunday, August 12, 2012
100TWC - Day 16: Excuses
"So I hope you've all remembered that your homework assignments were due this morning?"
Miss Angela Demeanour regarded the class with a look that somehow managed to mix expectation with incipient and utter lack of hope. Silence remained unbroken across the jumble of desks. The thought crossed her mind that her career-defining experiment in reducing the regimentation of neat ranks of desks in order to free her students' creativity was proving less successful than she had hoped.
"Because I haven't had any in so far?"
Her gaze flicked from pupil to pupil until eventually she caught the eye of one.
"Tommy?"
"The dog ate it miss."
A fit of snorts and giggles twitched around the room. Miss Demeanour gave Tommy a hard stare.
"No, really Miss. He's only a puppy and--"
"Alison?"
Alison Grainger flushed beet red to the roots of her dyed blonde hair. Angela felt a pang of regret for picking on the girl so soon, but of all her students she had expected Alison to finish the assignment. She waited, determined not to cut short the painful pause.
"P-please Miss, I had to look after Rory last night and I didn't have time to finish it."
"Couldn't you have started it the day before?"
"I had to look after Rory then too."
"Or submitted an unfinished piece? You would have earned some marks...?"
Alison's colour turned from beet to that of a sun-ripened tomato.
"I didn't really have time to start it, either."
"Uma?"
"Tommy's dog ate mine too Miss. I was working round at his house."
"Neil?"
"I left it in the pocket of my jeans miss, and my mum put it in the laundry."
"Adrienne?"
"I finished it, miss, but I left it on the bus."
"Casper?"
"Tommy's dog--"
"Oh please!" Angela interrupted. "You can't all have been working round at Tommy's."
"I wasn't miss!" Casper added quickly. "I called round for him this morning to walk to school and I had it in my hand. Steptoe ran out into the garden and snatched it. He'd chewed it all up before I could get it off him."
Miss Demeanour turned back to Tommy.
"You really ought to start feeding Steptoe something other than homework, Tommy." The class laughed. "It's not good for a growing puppy."
"Before we go on," she said, raising her voice and turning to face the whole class, "has anyone else's homework come to grief in the mouth of Tommy's dog?"
No-one answered. A few of the class shook their heads.
"Good. So. Catherine?"
"I left mine in the library miss."
"Well, go and get it now."
"Not the school library, miss. Central Library. I was looking something up."
"Germaine?"
"I lost the question miss, so I couldn't remember what to do."
"Andrew?"
"I finished it miss, but I left it in the kitchen and my baby sister threw up all over it."
"Morris?"
"Please miss, Tommy's dog--"
"Oh no! No, no, no! We've only just agreed that no-one -- no-one ELSE's homework -- was eaten by Tommy's puppy."
"But Miss he didn't eat it. He... um... poohed on it."
The class erupted with laughter.
"Quiet! Alright. Tommy, please make sure that from now on your puppy is shut away from any contact - ANY contact - with your, or your friends', homework, or from any contact whatever with paper-based material. And the rest of you, any of you that think you can get away with blaming Steptoe in ANY way for the demise of this week's homework, you'd better start thinking of a different excuse. Because we're not going to start anything new until I've had an explanation from all of you. Starting with you, Stephen."
"Well miss, I'd heard about how dangerous Tommy's dog was when it came to homework, so when I'd finished mine I put it on the window sill where it would be safe. We've got a dog too Miss and I thought--"
"Yes, yes, we get the picture Stephen. So why haven't you brought it in?"
"It rained in through the window Miss, and the ink all ran together."
Miss Angela Demeanour regarded the class with a look that somehow managed to mix expectation with incipient and utter lack of hope. Silence remained unbroken across the jumble of desks. The thought crossed her mind that her career-defining experiment in reducing the regimentation of neat ranks of desks in order to free her students' creativity was proving less successful than she had hoped.
"Because I haven't had any in so far?"
Her gaze flicked from pupil to pupil until eventually she caught the eye of one.
"Tommy?"
"The dog ate it miss."
A fit of snorts and giggles twitched around the room. Miss Demeanour gave Tommy a hard stare.
"No, really Miss. He's only a puppy and--"
"Alison?"
Alison Grainger flushed beet red to the roots of her dyed blonde hair. Angela felt a pang of regret for picking on the girl so soon, but of all her students she had expected Alison to finish the assignment. She waited, determined not to cut short the painful pause.
"P-please Miss, I had to look after Rory last night and I didn't have time to finish it."
"Couldn't you have started it the day before?"
"I had to look after Rory then too."
"Or submitted an unfinished piece? You would have earned some marks...?"
Alison's colour turned from beet to that of a sun-ripened tomato.
"I didn't really have time to start it, either."
"Uma?"
"Tommy's dog ate mine too Miss. I was working round at his house."
"Neil?"
"I left it in the pocket of my jeans miss, and my mum put it in the laundry."
"Adrienne?"
"I finished it, miss, but I left it on the bus."
"Casper?"
"Tommy's dog--"
"Oh please!" Angela interrupted. "You can't all have been working round at Tommy's."
"I wasn't miss!" Casper added quickly. "I called round for him this morning to walk to school and I had it in my hand. Steptoe ran out into the garden and snatched it. He'd chewed it all up before I could get it off him."
Miss Demeanour turned back to Tommy.
"You really ought to start feeding Steptoe something other than homework, Tommy." The class laughed. "It's not good for a growing puppy."
"Before we go on," she said, raising her voice and turning to face the whole class, "has anyone else's homework come to grief in the mouth of Tommy's dog?"
No-one answered. A few of the class shook their heads.
"Good. So. Catherine?"
"I left mine in the library miss."
"Well, go and get it now."
"Not the school library, miss. Central Library. I was looking something up."
"Germaine?"
"I lost the question miss, so I couldn't remember what to do."
"Andrew?"
"I finished it miss, but I left it in the kitchen and my baby sister threw up all over it."
"Morris?"
"Please miss, Tommy's dog--"
"Oh no! No, no, no! We've only just agreed that no-one -- no-one ELSE's homework -- was eaten by Tommy's puppy."
"But Miss he didn't eat it. He... um... poohed on it."
The class erupted with laughter.
"Quiet! Alright. Tommy, please make sure that from now on your puppy is shut away from any contact - ANY contact - with your, or your friends', homework, or from any contact whatever with paper-based material. And the rest of you, any of you that think you can get away with blaming Steptoe in ANY way for the demise of this week's homework, you'd better start thinking of a different excuse. Because we're not going to start anything new until I've had an explanation from all of you. Starting with you, Stephen."
"Well miss, I'd heard about how dangerous Tommy's dog was when it came to homework, so when I'd finished mine I put it on the window sill where it would be safe. We've got a dog too Miss and I thought--"
"Yes, yes, we get the picture Stephen. So why haven't you brought it in?"
"It rained in through the window Miss, and the ink all ran together."
Saturday, August 11, 2012
100TWC - Day 15: Seeking Solace
Sid shivered. Not from the cold. No. Even though it was late November and the night air was chilly right enough, his shiver came from the chill he felt inside. It was the kind of discomfort a man of conscience might experience when embarking on something... questionable.
Even so, the need drove him. The loneliness. He stood alone at the edge of the anonymous suburban car park staring up at the anonymous green door at the top of a rusting fire escape and shivered again, this time with resolve. He waited for a car to pass, briefly speared by its headlights like the archetypal rabbit, turned his raincoat collar up against the damp November mist, and crossed the road.
As he started up the steel stairs the driver of that car pushed past him, climbing quickly and confidently. Over his shoulder the man remarked snidely, "ey-up Granpa! You sure you're in the right place?" He reached the green door before Sid had attained the first landing, knocked, and was admitted.
Slightly short of breath after the climb, Sid stood in front of the door a few moments later. He hesitated, looking nervously around. Below him the almost-empty car park sat silent, cones of illuminated mist shining down from the sodium lamps. A dog barked in a nearby house. Sid knocked. A previously unremarked panel in the door opened to reveal a pair of heavily made-up deep blue eyes.
"Yes?"
"Is Winston in?"
The door opened, warmth washed over Sid's face, carrying the heavy scent of cheap perfume.
"Come in then dear, don't let all the heat out!"
He stepped slowly over the threshold, the blue-eyed woman closing the door behind him. Sid clutched his raincoat around his chest.
"Not been before, have you dear?" Blue Eyes asked. She smiled, revealing yellow teeth, but her eyes glistened like wet flint. "Can I take your coat?"
She held out her hand. Waited.
"Er... yes. Thank you," Sid mumbled, reluctantly undoing his raincoat and handing it over.
He looked furtively around the room. It was decorated simply, with a pale yellow blown-vinyl wallpaper which matched the deep gold of the shades on table- and standard-lamps set around the room, far enough apart to create pools of soft light. In the shadier spaces between the lights, overstuffed sofas and chairs had been laid out in niches and booths. In one corner three men sat together in arm chairs, sharing glasses of whisky and conversing in hushed tones, laughing occasionally. Two sofas facing each other held five other women whose make-up matched Blue Eyes'. In contrast to the men, the women were not talking. They looked bored. One of them flicked slowly through a copy of Heat magazine. One filed her nails. The others appeared each to be fascinated by separate areas of pattern in the vinyl wallpaper.
Along the short wall opposite the door a small bar had been installed. It was tended by a thin, balding man wearing thick glasses. He was reading a book. There was no sign of the car driver.
"See anything you like, dear?" asked Blue Eyes.
"I th-think I'd like a drink first," Sid whispered. He cleared his throat. "A relaxer."
Blue Eyes smiled again, the flintiness never leaving her eyes. "Of course dear. You can see where the bar is. Just let me know when you've made your mind up, or if there's anything... special... you need." She flashed him a knowing look and walked round behind the heavy mahogany desk that sat next to the door.
Even so, the need drove him. The loneliness. He stood alone at the edge of the anonymous suburban car park staring up at the anonymous green door at the top of a rusting fire escape and shivered again, this time with resolve. He waited for a car to pass, briefly speared by its headlights like the archetypal rabbit, turned his raincoat collar up against the damp November mist, and crossed the road.
As he started up the steel stairs the driver of that car pushed past him, climbing quickly and confidently. Over his shoulder the man remarked snidely, "ey-up Granpa! You sure you're in the right place?" He reached the green door before Sid had attained the first landing, knocked, and was admitted.
Slightly short of breath after the climb, Sid stood in front of the door a few moments later. He hesitated, looking nervously around. Below him the almost-empty car park sat silent, cones of illuminated mist shining down from the sodium lamps. A dog barked in a nearby house. Sid knocked. A previously unremarked panel in the door opened to reveal a pair of heavily made-up deep blue eyes.
"Yes?"
"Is Winston in?"
The door opened, warmth washed over Sid's face, carrying the heavy scent of cheap perfume.
"Come in then dear, don't let all the heat out!"
He stepped slowly over the threshold, the blue-eyed woman closing the door behind him. Sid clutched his raincoat around his chest.
"Not been before, have you dear?" Blue Eyes asked. She smiled, revealing yellow teeth, but her eyes glistened like wet flint. "Can I take your coat?"
She held out her hand. Waited.
"Er... yes. Thank you," Sid mumbled, reluctantly undoing his raincoat and handing it over.
He looked furtively around the room. It was decorated simply, with a pale yellow blown-vinyl wallpaper which matched the deep gold of the shades on table- and standard-lamps set around the room, far enough apart to create pools of soft light. In the shadier spaces between the lights, overstuffed sofas and chairs had been laid out in niches and booths. In one corner three men sat together in arm chairs, sharing glasses of whisky and conversing in hushed tones, laughing occasionally. Two sofas facing each other held five other women whose make-up matched Blue Eyes'. In contrast to the men, the women were not talking. They looked bored. One of them flicked slowly through a copy of Heat magazine. One filed her nails. The others appeared each to be fascinated by separate areas of pattern in the vinyl wallpaper.
Along the short wall opposite the door a small bar had been installed. It was tended by a thin, balding man wearing thick glasses. He was reading a book. There was no sign of the car driver.
"See anything you like, dear?" asked Blue Eyes.
"I th-think I'd like a drink first," Sid whispered. He cleared his throat. "A relaxer."
Blue Eyes smiled again, the flintiness never leaving her eyes. "Of course dear. You can see where the bar is. Just let me know when you've made your mind up, or if there's anything... special... you need." She flashed him a knowing look and walked round behind the heavy mahogany desk that sat next to the door.
Friday, August 10, 2012
100TWC - Day 14: Judgement
It was a perfect afternoon for walking. Sunny, but not too bright. Warm, but not too hot. A light breeze to freshen up a brow damp with exertion. The sky such a solid crystal blue that Reg thought if he reached up and struck it with his stick it would ring like an expensive wine glass.
Birdsong echoed from a nearby copse, filling the air with the sound Reg always associated with summer. With his boyhood spent walking in the woods and fields. A happy sound. He knew, vaguely, that it wasn't really happy. The birds sang aggressively, declaring their territories and defending them against all-comers. Reg understood that, deep down. Understood it, and was intimately familiar it. He'd spent most of his adult life defending territory of one sort or another. Had served time for it, in fact.
He never expected to get out of prison so soon, yet here he was out in the country air once more, his polished old oak staff in his hand, a stalk of long grass between his teeth, and a clear path before him. He smiled and stopped for a moment to take in the view. To his right, a meadow stretched gently down a slight incline to a large copse which nestled at the bottom of the valley. Beyond that the rest of the valley's secrets were hidden behind a curtain of summer haze. To his left a high stone wall curved away both in front and behind until it too disappeared from sight. The path on which he walked, dried by the sun, consisted of nothing more than dirt and small stones. It was edged with neatly cropped grasses and occasional wild flowers. Reg noticed with almost imperceptible surprise that none of the dust from the path had settled on his boots or trouser bottoms.
He exchanged his chewed grass stalk for a fresh one, adjusted his grip on the smooth wood of his walking staff, and resumed his trek beside the curve of the wall. He had just begun to wonder what, in this beautiful out-of-the-way place, would need such impenetrable protection as a twelve-foot wall, when a gate came into view around the bend. Fully half again as tall as the wall in which it was set, the gate was more ornate than anything Reg had ever seen. Filigree threads wrought of the finest gold and copper patterned the uprights and cross-pieces of the gate, which appeared themselves to be of gold. Each of its two halves vaulted up to an enormous golden crown set atop them both and which, although it must have been in two pieces to allow the gate to open, appeared to Reg to be whole.
The gate was closed. Beside it, an old man sat on a wooden arbour seat, his eyes closed and face turned to the sky, enjoying the warm afternoon sun. As Reg approached the man turned toward him and regarded him with piercing blue eyes.
Birdsong echoed from a nearby copse, filling the air with the sound Reg always associated with summer. With his boyhood spent walking in the woods and fields. A happy sound. He knew, vaguely, that it wasn't really happy. The birds sang aggressively, declaring their territories and defending them against all-comers. Reg understood that, deep down. Understood it, and was intimately familiar it. He'd spent most of his adult life defending territory of one sort or another. Had served time for it, in fact.
He never expected to get out of prison so soon, yet here he was out in the country air once more, his polished old oak staff in his hand, a stalk of long grass between his teeth, and a clear path before him. He smiled and stopped for a moment to take in the view. To his right, a meadow stretched gently down a slight incline to a large copse which nestled at the bottom of the valley. Beyond that the rest of the valley's secrets were hidden behind a curtain of summer haze. To his left a high stone wall curved away both in front and behind until it too disappeared from sight. The path on which he walked, dried by the sun, consisted of nothing more than dirt and small stones. It was edged with neatly cropped grasses and occasional wild flowers. Reg noticed with almost imperceptible surprise that none of the dust from the path had settled on his boots or trouser bottoms.
He exchanged his chewed grass stalk for a fresh one, adjusted his grip on the smooth wood of his walking staff, and resumed his trek beside the curve of the wall. He had just begun to wonder what, in this beautiful out-of-the-way place, would need such impenetrable protection as a twelve-foot wall, when a gate came into view around the bend. Fully half again as tall as the wall in which it was set, the gate was more ornate than anything Reg had ever seen. Filigree threads wrought of the finest gold and copper patterned the uprights and cross-pieces of the gate, which appeared themselves to be of gold. Each of its two halves vaulted up to an enormous golden crown set atop them both and which, although it must have been in two pieces to allow the gate to open, appeared to Reg to be whole.
The gate was closed. Beside it, an old man sat on a wooden arbour seat, his eyes closed and face turned to the sky, enjoying the warm afternoon sun. As Reg approached the man turned toward him and regarded him with piercing blue eyes.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
100TWC - Day 13: Running Away
Moonlight poked a sharp silver lance between Doug's curtains as he lay, fully clothed, beneath his duvet. He checked the clock for the fourth time in the last five minutes. 1:23am. One of those special times that he often saw. Often wondered whether they had any hidden meaning. 1-2-3 was definitely the start of something. It was a sign.
Yet still he hesitated. The house wasn't entirely silent. The central heating, which had gone off more than an hour earlier, was still cooling down. Pipes clicking and clanking as they shrank back infinitesimally to their cold size, rubbing against flooring joists and skirting boards. Through his open door he could hear his father snoring from his parents' bedroom across the landing. Definitely asleep - but what about his mother? No light shone in, so she wasn't reading in bed, but was she asleep too? Or was his Dad's snoring keeping her awake like it often did?
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, cringing at the old bedsprings as they complained at the movement. He reached under his bed to retrieve the backpack he'd been filling over the past few months. Socks added one by one so it looked as though the washing machine had eaten them. An old pair of jeans that his Mum had told him to throw out. T-shirts from the bottom of his drawer that he hadn't worn for ages and which wouldn't be missed. At least, not quickly enough for his plan to be discovered.
An owl hooted from the copse. Doug jumped at the sound, his bedsprings moaning again, loud in the quiet of the sleeping house. "Come on!" he told himself. "DO it!" He stood up slowly and crept to his door. With one last backward glance around the darkened room to check he hadn't forgotten anything important, he stepped onto the landing, remembering to avoid the loose floorboard right outside his bedroom door.
Hardly daring to breathe, Doug inched his way to the stairs. From the other room his father gave a loud snort, coughed, and turned over. Doug froze. Waited. In a few moments the snoring resumed, gentler this time. Doug started down into the hallway, the bright cold light of the full moon flooded through the staircase window, lighting his path. He shivered nervously. Despite months of planning and longing for the moment he could get away, now the time was really here he felt unexpectedly uncertain. Was he doing the right thing? What if he'd forgotten something really obvious? Could he have persuaded his parents if he'd tried harder? Argued more coherently?
No. He gripped the backpack harder, tightening his mental grip on his resolve at the same time. There was no other way. He'd debated it endlessly with himself and this was his only option. They would never really understand him. They never supported any of his choices - friends; hobbies; books. Especially books.
His mother:
"Got your head in a book again? You should be out in the sunshine."
His father:
"What are you reading NOW? You only just finished one yesterday. Why don't you go and kick a ball about with Jeff and Iswar like a normal kid?"
It was hopeless. Doug reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys. They jangled loudly. Why was everything so damn noisy? He turned the mortice lock slowly, letting the tumblers fall one at a time. He smiled at the memory of oiling the lock last weekend. His Dad, for once, had offered a word of praise.
"Oh, thanks for that Doug. I've been meaning to oil that lock for ages."
He slid the bunch of keys back into his jeans' pocket and slowly released the catch. A sudden gust of wind blew up a flurry of autumn leaves from the front garden, causing Doug to squint against the dust. A leaf fluttered unnoticed through the door and landed on the hall carpet. Doug stepped out into the chill night.
Yet still he hesitated. The house wasn't entirely silent. The central heating, which had gone off more than an hour earlier, was still cooling down. Pipes clicking and clanking as they shrank back infinitesimally to their cold size, rubbing against flooring joists and skirting boards. Through his open door he could hear his father snoring from his parents' bedroom across the landing. Definitely asleep - but what about his mother? No light shone in, so she wasn't reading in bed, but was she asleep too? Or was his Dad's snoring keeping her awake like it often did?
He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, cringing at the old bedsprings as they complained at the movement. He reached under his bed to retrieve the backpack he'd been filling over the past few months. Socks added one by one so it looked as though the washing machine had eaten them. An old pair of jeans that his Mum had told him to throw out. T-shirts from the bottom of his drawer that he hadn't worn for ages and which wouldn't be missed. At least, not quickly enough for his plan to be discovered.
An owl hooted from the copse. Doug jumped at the sound, his bedsprings moaning again, loud in the quiet of the sleeping house. "Come on!" he told himself. "DO it!" He stood up slowly and crept to his door. With one last backward glance around the darkened room to check he hadn't forgotten anything important, he stepped onto the landing, remembering to avoid the loose floorboard right outside his bedroom door.
Hardly daring to breathe, Doug inched his way to the stairs. From the other room his father gave a loud snort, coughed, and turned over. Doug froze. Waited. In a few moments the snoring resumed, gentler this time. Doug started down into the hallway, the bright cold light of the full moon flooded through the staircase window, lighting his path. He shivered nervously. Despite months of planning and longing for the moment he could get away, now the time was really here he felt unexpectedly uncertain. Was he doing the right thing? What if he'd forgotten something really obvious? Could he have persuaded his parents if he'd tried harder? Argued more coherently?
No. He gripped the backpack harder, tightening his mental grip on his resolve at the same time. There was no other way. He'd debated it endlessly with himself and this was his only option. They would never really understand him. They never supported any of his choices - friends; hobbies; books. Especially books.
His mother:
"Got your head in a book again? You should be out in the sunshine."
His father:
"What are you reading NOW? You only just finished one yesterday. Why don't you go and kick a ball about with Jeff and Iswar like a normal kid?"
It was hopeless. Doug reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys. They jangled loudly. Why was everything so damn noisy? He turned the mortice lock slowly, letting the tumblers fall one at a time. He smiled at the memory of oiling the lock last weekend. His Dad, for once, had offered a word of praise.
"Oh, thanks for that Doug. I've been meaning to oil that lock for ages."
He slid the bunch of keys back into his jeans' pocket and slowly released the catch. A sudden gust of wind blew up a flurry of autumn leaves from the front garden, causing Doug to squint against the dust. A leaf fluttered unnoticed through the door and landed on the hall carpet. Doug stepped out into the chill night.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
100TWC - Day 12: Dead Wrong
I've heard people talk about things "going round and round" in their head. I wish that was me. At least if something was going round and round there'd be some movement. I'd have chance to see it from other angles. Or at least watch its precession. As it is I'm stuck with just one thought. It's there all the time. Right there. In front of my mind. Wherever I look, it hangs there in the air in front of me. Whatever sounds I'm hearing, it's like they're just background noise. In my head is only my voice, saying that one thought over and over: It should have been me.
Warren wasn't supposed to be going into the office that morning. It was his turn to look after Dylan and Brigit. I was going in - different office; same building. In fact I had a bitch of a deadline and I'd already been up half the night preparing the presentation. We had clients lined up, the board, everything. I don't know what made me check my email before I set off. Normally I wouldn't have bothered. I didn't get to bed until almost 3am, and nothing much ever comes in after that, even in our business. But something told me I should give it one last check and sure enough, there's this new message, marked urgent, sent at 5:35am from Roger - our MD.
Presentation postponed - urgent family illness for one of our client's team - will advise new date soonest.
And that was it. I felt a bit let down to tell you the truth. I'd got myself all worked up for it. All psyched up and nowhere to go, that was how I put it to Warren when I walked back into the bedroom where he was engaging in a game of Voyage to the Bottom of The Bed with Dylan.
"Huh?" he mumbled from under the covers.
He poked his head out from the bottom left hand corner of the duvet, face all red from exerting himself under 15 togs.
"Nowhere to go?"
"Presentation's off."
He looked thoughtful.
"So you've nothing on today?"
"Well, no. No I guess not. Roger isn't gonna want me to get distracted with anything else, and there's nothing more to do on this account until we can get it in front of the customer."
"Would you mind if I went in then?"
"It's supposed to be your home day."
"I know, but there's a couple of things I could get on top of if I went in. I wouldn't have bothered if..."
"No, it's OK. You go. It'd be great to have an unexpected day with the kids. What do you say kids?"
Brigit had just appeared at the door, dragging her threadbare Snoopy.
"French Toast?"
Her sleepy crumpled face lit up.
"Yayy"
"Yayy," echoed Dylan from under our duvet.
Warren was already in the shower.
Later we all kissed him goodbye just like it was any other working day. I guess 3,000 or so other partners and children did the same. Those who were up so early.
I was putting the French toast pan in the sink when the phone rang. It was Michelle.
"Put the TV on. The news. Oh God."
I could hear her TV on in the background. It seemed much louder than usual. I flipped our kitchen TV to the news channel. At first I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. It was just a cloud of dust. I thought one of those terrorist mobs had gone through with their threat of exploding an Anthrax bomb or something. Then they reran the footage of the planes. The towers. Warren. I dropped the phone. And then I must have gone onto autopilot because suddenly I was scrabbling to pick it up again. To hang up from Michelle and call Warren's office. And I couldn't get through and couldn't get through and then I thought 'what if he's trying to call me?' and I hung up and waited.
And at that very moment, the second I hung up, the second tower came down and I knew. I knew he was in there. In his office on the 72nd floor, when it should have been me. I should have been there. But I was here and he was there. And he would never have been able to get out. Not from that. He was dead and it should have been me.
That's when it started. I don't know when it's going to end. If it ever ends. Even after so long. It's faded a little, but it's still there. It still feels wrong. Dead wrong.
Warren wasn't supposed to be going into the office that morning. It was his turn to look after Dylan and Brigit. I was going in - different office; same building. In fact I had a bitch of a deadline and I'd already been up half the night preparing the presentation. We had clients lined up, the board, everything. I don't know what made me check my email before I set off. Normally I wouldn't have bothered. I didn't get to bed until almost 3am, and nothing much ever comes in after that, even in our business. But something told me I should give it one last check and sure enough, there's this new message, marked urgent, sent at 5:35am from Roger - our MD.
Presentation postponed - urgent family illness for one of our client's team - will advise new date soonest.
And that was it. I felt a bit let down to tell you the truth. I'd got myself all worked up for it. All psyched up and nowhere to go, that was how I put it to Warren when I walked back into the bedroom where he was engaging in a game of Voyage to the Bottom of The Bed with Dylan.
"Huh?" he mumbled from under the covers.
He poked his head out from the bottom left hand corner of the duvet, face all red from exerting himself under 15 togs.
"Nowhere to go?"
"Presentation's off."
He looked thoughtful.
"So you've nothing on today?"
"Well, no. No I guess not. Roger isn't gonna want me to get distracted with anything else, and there's nothing more to do on this account until we can get it in front of the customer."
"Would you mind if I went in then?"
"It's supposed to be your home day."
"I know, but there's a couple of things I could get on top of if I went in. I wouldn't have bothered if..."
"No, it's OK. You go. It'd be great to have an unexpected day with the kids. What do you say kids?"
Brigit had just appeared at the door, dragging her threadbare Snoopy.
"French Toast?"
Her sleepy crumpled face lit up.
"Yayy"
"Yayy," echoed Dylan from under our duvet.
Warren was already in the shower.
Later we all kissed him goodbye just like it was any other working day. I guess 3,000 or so other partners and children did the same. Those who were up so early.
I was putting the French toast pan in the sink when the phone rang. It was Michelle.
"Put the TV on. The news. Oh God."
I could hear her TV on in the background. It seemed much louder than usual. I flipped our kitchen TV to the news channel. At first I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. It was just a cloud of dust. I thought one of those terrorist mobs had gone through with their threat of exploding an Anthrax bomb or something. Then they reran the footage of the planes. The towers. Warren. I dropped the phone. And then I must have gone onto autopilot because suddenly I was scrabbling to pick it up again. To hang up from Michelle and call Warren's office. And I couldn't get through and couldn't get through and then I thought 'what if he's trying to call me?' and I hung up and waited.
And at that very moment, the second I hung up, the second tower came down and I knew. I knew he was in there. In his office on the 72nd floor, when it should have been me. I should have been there. But I was here and he was there. And he would never have been able to get out. Not from that. He was dead and it should have been me.
That's when it started. I don't know when it's going to end. If it ever ends. Even after so long. It's faded a little, but it's still there. It still feels wrong. Dead wrong.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
100TWC - Day 11: 33%
I was a zero. For the longest time I expected to stay that way forever. Oh, no, don't get me wrong. I wasn't comfortable like that. It's just... well... that's how it was. I wasn't part of anything. Or anyone. I had a routine, same as anyone I suppose. Sometimes I used to feel as if I was sitting outside of my life watching it going on around me but not really being a part of it, you know? When Ben came along I thought for the briefest instant that I had suddenly shot up to being a 50%. Then it dawned on me: I was really only 33%. There was another. A third. And it wouldn't be just the two of us any time soon. And, you know, I'm OK with that, really. I mean, 33% is better than 0%. Isn't it. Much better. Looking back, I didn't really like being a zero. I never let on, hardly even to myself, but it was lonely. The flat was cold when I got home (even in summer) and there never seemed much point cooking a proper meal just for me. Now I can really push the boat out. Three courses, wine, candles, the posh crockery. Everything. I mean, OK, there have been times when I've done all that and it's still been only me. Ben's had a last minute crisis or something, and hasn't been able to make it. But that's OK. I've learned to make things that will keep. Or that I can take for lunch the next day.
I was part of something, once. More than part. Half. I was half of something. I was 50% of a wonderful partnership that I thought would last forever. Wine and roses. Ha. Makes me heave now, just thinking about it. I found out, you see. Found out that my percentage isn't as big as I'd thought. Like a partner in some seedy deal where the pot is salami-sliced thinner than you'd been expecting. Wouldn't you feel cheated? Huh! Cheated. Now there's a word. A fitting word. I'm sure you can guess why, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I'm going to tell everybody. Why should he get away with it? Taking my lovely, expensive, safe, eternal 50% and replacing it with a tawdry, second-rate, tarnished 33%. I might as well have been left with nothing, because that's what I feel like. Nothing. And you know what makes me sick? Somewhere, out there, in some dirty little skank's cheap, stinking apartment, there's another 33%. And I don't want to know. I don't want to know what it looks like or where it lives or even that it EXISTS, but I can't UN-know it. That bastard did this to me. We can't go back. We can't ever go back to that warm place where there were two of us and we were equal. Now all I can think of is one of those ghastly pie-charts that he's always drawing for work, like some kind of God-awful Ban-the-Bomb sign or something, only it's my happiness that's been banished. Now I'll only ever be a third. The rest of it's been cut off and given to HER.
Dude! How's it hangin'? Me? Fine! On top of the world. Why wouldn't I be, with Jill at home and Chantelle on the side? Got my hands full there alright. I guess some folk would say I was part of a three-way - just one third of the piece - but you know what? I don't think like that. I like to look at the bigger picture, if you know what I mean. When I'm with Jill, I give it 100%. When I'm with Chantelle, she gets 100% of me too. So you see I'm a lucky guy. I don't have 33% - I have TWO HUNDRED PERCENT when you take it all into consideration. Yessir. Lookin' good. I mean sure, there's times when I have to let Chantelle down, and I feel bad about that, you know? She's done me meals three or four times now that I've had to duck out of. But she's cool with it. That's one thing I like about her - no histrionics. She never kicks off. Dude that chick is so laid back she can hardly stand up, if you know what I mean. No, sometimes I just have to be around for Jill. Now there's a woman who knows how to throw a tantrum. But listen, I've been keeping her sweet for years. This time's no different. She'll calm down eventually. She's knows when she's onto a good thing: me! Anyway listen, I gotta go. Got my eye on that new piece over at Tawnee Miller's Bar & Grill. Whooo boy! She's one hot momma, and she's been givin' me the eye for the last coupla weeks. Some girls can just spot a good thing from a mile away, know what I mean?
I was part of something, once. More than part. Half. I was half of something. I was 50% of a wonderful partnership that I thought would last forever. Wine and roses. Ha. Makes me heave now, just thinking about it. I found out, you see. Found out that my percentage isn't as big as I'd thought. Like a partner in some seedy deal where the pot is salami-sliced thinner than you'd been expecting. Wouldn't you feel cheated? Huh! Cheated. Now there's a word. A fitting word. I'm sure you can guess why, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I'm going to tell everybody. Why should he get away with it? Taking my lovely, expensive, safe, eternal 50% and replacing it with a tawdry, second-rate, tarnished 33%. I might as well have been left with nothing, because that's what I feel like. Nothing. And you know what makes me sick? Somewhere, out there, in some dirty little skank's cheap, stinking apartment, there's another 33%. And I don't want to know. I don't want to know what it looks like or where it lives or even that it EXISTS, but I can't UN-know it. That bastard did this to me. We can't go back. We can't ever go back to that warm place where there were two of us and we were equal. Now all I can think of is one of those ghastly pie-charts that he's always drawing for work, like some kind of God-awful Ban-the-Bomb sign or something, only it's my happiness that's been banished. Now I'll only ever be a third. The rest of it's been cut off and given to HER.
Dude! How's it hangin'? Me? Fine! On top of the world. Why wouldn't I be, with Jill at home and Chantelle on the side? Got my hands full there alright. I guess some folk would say I was part of a three-way - just one third of the piece - but you know what? I don't think like that. I like to look at the bigger picture, if you know what I mean. When I'm with Jill, I give it 100%. When I'm with Chantelle, she gets 100% of me too. So you see I'm a lucky guy. I don't have 33% - I have TWO HUNDRED PERCENT when you take it all into consideration. Yessir. Lookin' good. I mean sure, there's times when I have to let Chantelle down, and I feel bad about that, you know? She's done me meals three or four times now that I've had to duck out of. But she's cool with it. That's one thing I like about her - no histrionics. She never kicks off. Dude that chick is so laid back she can hardly stand up, if you know what I mean. No, sometimes I just have to be around for Jill. Now there's a woman who knows how to throw a tantrum. But listen, I've been keeping her sweet for years. This time's no different. She'll calm down eventually. She's knows when she's onto a good thing: me! Anyway listen, I gotta go. Got my eye on that new piece over at Tawnee Miller's Bar & Grill. Whooo boy! She's one hot momma, and she's been givin' me the eye for the last coupla weeks. Some girls can just spot a good thing from a mile away, know what I mean?
Monday, August 06, 2012
100TWC - Day 10: Opportunities
Opportunity is a master of disguise. Sometimes it is so good that you don't see it at all. At other times you might see it, but believe it to be a threat, to be avoided at all costs. Often its disguise is polarised so that from the present it doesn't look anything like an opportunity but once you've sailed past it and are looking at it from the future (so that the opportunity is in the past) you can see that it really was an opportunity after all.
Many years ago my father was offered a dream job in another city. I was around 9 at the time and I remember my parents going for a long walk to discuss whether or not he should take it. Because I had no alternative child care they took me along with them. I didn't understand much of the conversation and in any case a lot of it was spoken in hushed voices, but I heard enough to know that if the decision went in favour of this new job it would involve moving. At that age, it was an uncomfortable prospect for me. I've never really been one to embrace change wholeheartedly. My instinct is more usually to avoid it in case it turns out badly rather than welcome it on the chance that it will be great. I'm like that now, with all my adult armour and skills. At age 9 I was just a bundle of no.
As the conversation came to a conclusion I remember them asking my opinion. It's only really come home to me now, at this point of writing about it and with both of them now dead, what a wonderful gesture that was. To give a 9-year-old a vote on such a momentous family decision. I do hope my opinion wasn't the only thing that swayed them because I voted no, and the decision in the end was no, so my father continued in his unsatisfying job working for a boss who rarely showed his appreciation for the diamond he had working for him.
For years my recollection of this incident was that the city in question was Birmingham. However in conversation with my Mum many years ago it turned out I had misremembered. The opportunity was to move to Manchester. Thinking about that now still gives me a small tingle. How I - effectively - turned down the chance to move to Manchester at age 9, but that fate had very definitely inked Manchester into my future and was determined to get me here one way or another. I didn't get the grades I needed for my first choice of University course, but the college who had the best offer of an alternative place was in... Manchester. So I moved here anyway when I was 18, and moved back again permanently when I was 44. What would have been different had I come when I first had the chance? Who knows. That's the thing with opportunity: it's often a one-time, one-way offer.
In 1984 or 85, when I was enjoying one of the most successful points of my career - responsible for 19 people all engaged in the world-wide 3rd line support of what was widely regarded as one of the best (if not the best) operating systems in the world - I was offered a job working as a full-time contracted employee for a major government department, doing a similar role but with a much larger team, and on "the other side of the fence" - working for a customer. The job would have entailed moving to Lytham St Annes (or commuting from Staffordshire - not THAT much of a stretch). Once again my aversion to change kicked in. I'd just bought a house that I was very pleased with, felt on top of my game in my job - I knew everyone; how to get the job done quickly and efficiently; I was good at it and yet it still challenged me daily - so as far as I could see the only incentive to move was the offer of more money.
That wasn't enough to persuade me. I turned them down.
A colleague of mine, who ran the support team for a different part of the OS, took up the offer in my stead. Months later it was reported that she had been spotted as a rising star and had quickly been promoted into a much more senior role with an even more advanced salary. Moreover she was working 14 hour days, 6 days a week, and even at that senior level the job still paid overtime. We huddled round our calculators and worked out that she must have been pulling in around a quarter of a million pounds a year - back in 1985!!
I think it would be true to say she made the most of her opportunity. I think it may also be true to say she made the most of MY opportunity. Would I have been able to follow it up to the same degree? Who knows. We had similar skills, but if I'm honest where we differed was in outlook. I've never been driven by money (even though I've been fortunate to only rarely be "short" of it), but I don't think I'd have been prepared to put in those kind of hours no matter what the remuneration.
So in conclusion - opportunities come and go. Sometimes - as in the example of moving to Manchester - they will revisit you at a later date, wearing a different disguise. But in the same way that opportunities can appear to be threats, their dark siblings threats are also able to dress themselves up as opportunities. Knowing how to tell them apart is a clever trick that no-one can pull off 100% of the time. But while you're trying desperately to avoid jumping from the frying pan into the fire, it's worth bearing in mind that what looks like a fire may in fact be the magic alchemist's forge that can transform you from base metal into gold.
Many years ago my father was offered a dream job in another city. I was around 9 at the time and I remember my parents going for a long walk to discuss whether or not he should take it. Because I had no alternative child care they took me along with them. I didn't understand much of the conversation and in any case a lot of it was spoken in hushed voices, but I heard enough to know that if the decision went in favour of this new job it would involve moving. At that age, it was an uncomfortable prospect for me. I've never really been one to embrace change wholeheartedly. My instinct is more usually to avoid it in case it turns out badly rather than welcome it on the chance that it will be great. I'm like that now, with all my adult armour and skills. At age 9 I was just a bundle of no.
As the conversation came to a conclusion I remember them asking my opinion. It's only really come home to me now, at this point of writing about it and with both of them now dead, what a wonderful gesture that was. To give a 9-year-old a vote on such a momentous family decision. I do hope my opinion wasn't the only thing that swayed them because I voted no, and the decision in the end was no, so my father continued in his unsatisfying job working for a boss who rarely showed his appreciation for the diamond he had working for him.
For years my recollection of this incident was that the city in question was Birmingham. However in conversation with my Mum many years ago it turned out I had misremembered. The opportunity was to move to Manchester. Thinking about that now still gives me a small tingle. How I - effectively - turned down the chance to move to Manchester at age 9, but that fate had very definitely inked Manchester into my future and was determined to get me here one way or another. I didn't get the grades I needed for my first choice of University course, but the college who had the best offer of an alternative place was in... Manchester. So I moved here anyway when I was 18, and moved back again permanently when I was 44. What would have been different had I come when I first had the chance? Who knows. That's the thing with opportunity: it's often a one-time, one-way offer.
In 1984 or 85, when I was enjoying one of the most successful points of my career - responsible for 19 people all engaged in the world-wide 3rd line support of what was widely regarded as one of the best (if not the best) operating systems in the world - I was offered a job working as a full-time contracted employee for a major government department, doing a similar role but with a much larger team, and on "the other side of the fence" - working for a customer. The job would have entailed moving to Lytham St Annes (or commuting from Staffordshire - not THAT much of a stretch). Once again my aversion to change kicked in. I'd just bought a house that I was very pleased with, felt on top of my game in my job - I knew everyone; how to get the job done quickly and efficiently; I was good at it and yet it still challenged me daily - so as far as I could see the only incentive to move was the offer of more money.
That wasn't enough to persuade me. I turned them down.
A colleague of mine, who ran the support team for a different part of the OS, took up the offer in my stead. Months later it was reported that she had been spotted as a rising star and had quickly been promoted into a much more senior role with an even more advanced salary. Moreover she was working 14 hour days, 6 days a week, and even at that senior level the job still paid overtime. We huddled round our calculators and worked out that she must have been pulling in around a quarter of a million pounds a year - back in 1985!!
I think it would be true to say she made the most of her opportunity. I think it may also be true to say she made the most of MY opportunity. Would I have been able to follow it up to the same degree? Who knows. We had similar skills, but if I'm honest where we differed was in outlook. I've never been driven by money (even though I've been fortunate to only rarely be "short" of it), but I don't think I'd have been prepared to put in those kind of hours no matter what the remuneration.
So in conclusion - opportunities come and go. Sometimes - as in the example of moving to Manchester - they will revisit you at a later date, wearing a different disguise. But in the same way that opportunities can appear to be threats, their dark siblings threats are also able to dress themselves up as opportunities. Knowing how to tell them apart is a clever trick that no-one can pull off 100% of the time. But while you're trying desperately to avoid jumping from the frying pan into the fire, it's worth bearing in mind that what looks like a fire may in fact be the magic alchemist's forge that can transform you from base metal into gold.
Sunday, August 05, 2012
100TWC - Day 9: Death
Of all the things Not Spoken Of In Polite Company - I'm sure you can think of your own list - death will probably come at or close to the top of most people's. It's often been remarked that, despite it being one of the only certainties in life, one of the few things that everyone will experience, it's also one of the least discussed. And, in most cases, one of the least prepared for.
At least 50% of people die without making a will. They leave it up to the laws of whichever country they die in, to decide how to distribute their worldly goods when they're gone. True, there are those who may think they don't have a lot to leave, but at a time when home ownership - and the value of those homes - remains high, it's not unusual even for ordinary people to leave at least one item worth around a quarter of a million pounds. I don't know about you, but I don't want incompetent jobsworths in whatever government department deals with inheritance to decide on my behalf where that kind of money goes. It's even more complicated for those who don't have children, or for those who have more than one and one or more of them don't get on. Why would anyone want to saddle their offspring or near relatives with potentially years of bitter feuding, arguing and recrimination, for the sake of not taking an hour out to write down a simple will?
I guess it's looked upon as one of those things you'll get around to at some stage. But death doesn't always wait on your convenience. It doesn't sit there waiting for you to sign on the bottom line before swinging its scythe of doom. Without wanting to sound morbid (and there I go, veering off in the direction of the apology for even daring to consider it), death can come at any time. It'll surprise you. We don't all get to enjoy the "luxury" of a ripe old age, dying in our own beds surrounded by family and friends.
The various manners and means of alternative death (by which I mean the alternatives to that "ideal" death referred to above) are each in their own right awkward to even think about let alone talk about. Death through short- or long-term illness (cancer, heart disease, lung disease) is familiar to everyone, and a fairly high proportion of people will also know someone (or know someone who knows someone) who has died through sudden means of one sort or another. A fall, a car accident, or drowning for instance. And yet the single most often uttered comment, when faced with another's grief is: "I just didn't know what to say."
If death itself is rarely spoken of, its companion topic - Life After Death - is an even more unwelcome subject for polite after-dinner conversation. We generally steer clear of this. Perhaps because we think it's a foregone conclusion that it either does, or does not, exist, or through imagined embarrassment at admitting to either of those views. True, some people hold their view so closely to their hearts that no debate is possible, and any attempt is met with frosty disdain or heated argument, either of which is more than enough excuse to avoid the subject altogether. There are some opinions, it seems, that it is uncomfortable to air in the aforementioned polite company.
Which probably explains why those with strongly held beliefs tend to seek out like-minded individuals and even invent societies, closed clubs, cliques and organisations, along with their attendant rules, regulations and rituals. Some of these are so successful that they "enjoy" over a billion members and find themselves among the richest organisations the world has ever seen. But even then death is rarely discussed until it happens.
Another unwanted side effect of discussing the afterlife is ridicule. Even a slight misjudgement of audience on those rare occasions where one might feel moved to - for example - explain that one has proof of life after death will be met with ridicule more often than with interest, in a proportion of roughly 20 to 1. Little wonder the subject is avoided most of the time. Ridicule is, of course, often a smoke screen for embarrassment on the part of those doing the ridiculing. Are they embarrassed by their own beliefs - or lack of them? Or simply embarrassed to be associated with, or even listen to, someone who holds such beliefs. Does believing in life after death make you "other?" Or does the line become stepped over only when you decide to voice your beliefs. Or, indeed, write about them? Are such things so personal, so intimate, that they fall into the category of things that it is forbidden to speak of, along with what kind of sex you had last night and how often, or whether you secretly enjoy listening to Jimmy Carr.
At least 50% of people die without making a will. They leave it up to the laws of whichever country they die in, to decide how to distribute their worldly goods when they're gone. True, there are those who may think they don't have a lot to leave, but at a time when home ownership - and the value of those homes - remains high, it's not unusual even for ordinary people to leave at least one item worth around a quarter of a million pounds. I don't know about you, but I don't want incompetent jobsworths in whatever government department deals with inheritance to decide on my behalf where that kind of money goes. It's even more complicated for those who don't have children, or for those who have more than one and one or more of them don't get on. Why would anyone want to saddle their offspring or near relatives with potentially years of bitter feuding, arguing and recrimination, for the sake of not taking an hour out to write down a simple will?
I guess it's looked upon as one of those things you'll get around to at some stage. But death doesn't always wait on your convenience. It doesn't sit there waiting for you to sign on the bottom line before swinging its scythe of doom. Without wanting to sound morbid (and there I go, veering off in the direction of the apology for even daring to consider it), death can come at any time. It'll surprise you. We don't all get to enjoy the "luxury" of a ripe old age, dying in our own beds surrounded by family and friends.
The various manners and means of alternative death (by which I mean the alternatives to that "ideal" death referred to above) are each in their own right awkward to even think about let alone talk about. Death through short- or long-term illness (cancer, heart disease, lung disease) is familiar to everyone, and a fairly high proportion of people will also know someone (or know someone who knows someone) who has died through sudden means of one sort or another. A fall, a car accident, or drowning for instance. And yet the single most often uttered comment, when faced with another's grief is: "I just didn't know what to say."
If death itself is rarely spoken of, its companion topic - Life After Death - is an even more unwelcome subject for polite after-dinner conversation. We generally steer clear of this. Perhaps because we think it's a foregone conclusion that it either does, or does not, exist, or through imagined embarrassment at admitting to either of those views. True, some people hold their view so closely to their hearts that no debate is possible, and any attempt is met with frosty disdain or heated argument, either of which is more than enough excuse to avoid the subject altogether. There are some opinions, it seems, that it is uncomfortable to air in the aforementioned polite company.
Which probably explains why those with strongly held beliefs tend to seek out like-minded individuals and even invent societies, closed clubs, cliques and organisations, along with their attendant rules, regulations and rituals. Some of these are so successful that they "enjoy" over a billion members and find themselves among the richest organisations the world has ever seen. But even then death is rarely discussed until it happens.
Another unwanted side effect of discussing the afterlife is ridicule. Even a slight misjudgement of audience on those rare occasions where one might feel moved to - for example - explain that one has proof of life after death will be met with ridicule more often than with interest, in a proportion of roughly 20 to 1. Little wonder the subject is avoided most of the time. Ridicule is, of course, often a smoke screen for embarrassment on the part of those doing the ridiculing. Are they embarrassed by their own beliefs - or lack of them? Or simply embarrassed to be associated with, or even listen to, someone who holds such beliefs. Does believing in life after death make you "other?" Or does the line become stepped over only when you decide to voice your beliefs. Or, indeed, write about them? Are such things so personal, so intimate, that they fall into the category of things that it is forbidden to speak of, along with what kind of sex you had last night and how often, or whether you secretly enjoy listening to Jimmy Carr.
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