writing 101

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Home but not a house

I never thought much about it when I was growing up, it was just where we lived, but when I told my husband that we lived over a motorbike showroom that was squashed between an off licence and a salvation army hall, with a bus stop right in front of our front door, he swore there must be a story in there somewhere.

Now I come to think of it, there probably is, but I’m not going to explore that now.  I’ll just tell you the facts. It was an old building in Tooting, South London, probably a warehouse at one time. Certainly, our first floor living room was of warehouse proportions, and a devil to keep warm, especially with the three tall drafty sash windows that lined the front wall.  We used to stuff newspapers in the gaps between the panes to stop them rattling in the wind. We had no central heating, and relied heavily on a two bar electric fire at the end where the sofa and tiny TV stood, and a terrifyingly temperamental paraffin heater at the other end beside the slightly out of tune piano that my sister used to endlessly practice ‘The Elizabethan Serenade’ on.

Next to the living room was the kitchen/diner, always steamy, with a kettle on the boil, and the oven alight to warm the room.  The old radio would be humming ‘sing something simple’ or ‘The Goon show’ while we sat at the table for our tea.

The bedrooms were on the second floor.  My sister and I shared a long narrow room with another newspaper-stuffed sash window at the far end.  The room was decorated with willow pattern wallpaper, and we used to entertain each other making up stories about the little Japanese people that were crossing the ornate blue bridges.  When she got married and left home I was allowed to choose the décor and went for a vivid plain orange paper, which I loved, but it had no stories to tell.

When I was very young we didn’t have a bathroom, and on Friday nights mum took as into town to the public baths where my sister and I shared a soak. Eventually though, my dad did a bit of home bodging and put in a bathroom and indoor toilet – luxury!  Like most of his projects, I don’t think it was ever quite finished off, but he did paint the walls using a feather duster dipped in different coloured paints to give a rainbow effect. This was long before fancy paint techniques were discussed on the TV.  In fact, it was long before any DIY shows were on the TV!

Our home was dusty and drafty. There were lots of stairs and a spider filled basement, which had been used as an air-raid shelter during the war, and which I didn’t dare go in, not only because of the spiders, but also because of the scary stories my sister used to tell me about witches and bogey men that lived down there.  I was so frightened of it that I always sidled quickly past its wooden door to get out into the small walled garden.  I seem to have a vague memory of a corrugated iron Anderson shelter out there at one time, but I guess that must have been taken down when I was very young.

Sometimes, but not always, our garden had flowers, once I had a much beloved guinea pig who lived out there, but over-ridingly, there was the huge white pigeon loft which took up pretty much half of the space. When Dad got into pigeon racing, everything else went.  The apple tree in the middle of the grass.  The flower beds.  The guinea pig.  My swing-in-the-door.  Instead, the pigeons became his, and by default, our focus. Trying not to knock the jelly off the window sill where it had been left to set, while we leant precariously out of the kitchen window to see if they were on their way back after a race, or standing outside rattling tins of food to entice them to come down to have their racing rings removed and be ‘clocked back’ became our standard occupations on Saturday afternoons.

Dad’s craze’s and eccentricities were a central part of my growing up, and many of them formed the memories I have of my childhood home. Often when I think back to those times I think of the many Christmas’s when he insisted on decorating the front room with an elaborate spider’s web of crepe paper strips. I have no idea where he got his ideas from, but I have never seen the like since.  I remember being mortified at the time and really just wanting tinsel and paper chains like all the other kids had.  Now, the memory of the ‘ta da!’ moment when we all stood round with our fingers crossed while he cut the strings that temporarily held the strips of paper up, to reveal that they were in fact self-supporting, is a warm memory of home I will never forget.

Written as part of the writing 101 challenge – write about your childhood home with sentence length in mind.

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Pass the Pins

My dad used to go to the pub a lot. I think it would be fair to say he liked a drink. As a child, I didn’t necessarily know where he was going, if I asked he’d only say he was going to ‘meet a man about a dog’.  I have no idea where that saying came from, all I know is that I spent many hours excitedly anticipating the arrival of a new puppy that never came.

On Sundays, he used to go to the pub while my mum and nan cooked a huge roast dinner.  We’d always have to wait for him to come back before we ate, but nevertheless we were always pleased that he went because the fish stall used to park outside the pub on Sunday’s, and dad would always come back weighed down with bags of shellfish for us to have for tea.

After the obligatory Sunday afternoon watching a weepy on TV from the floor while Dad snored on the sofa, I’d go and help mum and nan prepare the salad.  No fancy salad bowls brimming with multi-coloured mixed leaves and chopped vegetables for us. Oh no…our salad’s constituted:

a pile of lettuce leaves in a bowl

a pile of tomatoes in a bowl

Some very thin slices of cucumber in a bowl

Some cress in a bowl

Some full length sticks of celery standing up in a glass (how posh)

And a bottle of salad cream

These bowls would be distributed about our gingham-cloth covered table leaving space in the middle for the stars of the show, the shellfish.

Oh how I loved the messiness of the shellfish tea.  Getting pink prawn husks and eggs stuck to our fingers, shelling the scampi (fresh ones the like of which I’ve not seen since), using dressmaking pins to lift the grey ‘lids’ off the winkles and wheedle the curled fleshy bit out, and the peculiar yellow cockles, that looked like the result of a violent sneeze, yet with a shake of salt and splash of vinegar tasted like the finest gourmet food.

I loved to see my fastidious old nan digging in and getting just as mucky as the rest of us, even licking the fishy juice from her fingers like I did.  .

Afterwards, the bin would be full of the smelly shells, and mum would have to take the table-cloth out to the back garden and give it a vigorous shake to get rid of the stuck on bits of prawn antenna and legs, and winkle lids.

There was always salad left over, and more often than not the next day, all I’d find in my lunchbox was a cucumber, lettuce and tomato sandwich, with a stick of celery nestling alongside it.

Those days are long gone, and it seems that, these days, we have become over-sensitised to eating anything that looks a bit strange, or having to do anything as weird as wheedling out a winkle to get our food.  But I remember those family teas as a bonding time. It was the one time of the week, when we sat down and ate together, little was said, and we all got on.

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Missing you

Eric

I had a daughter once, she had a red coat. Red, just like that yarn that woman’s knitting with. I remember when we bought it. The wife had been doubtful

‘she’s only two. Red is a bit harsh for a two year old don’t you think? They’ve got it in pink. Let’s get the pink’

But I stood my ground. My girl was going to be feisty. Look out world she’s coming to get you! And (and I think the wife would agree in hindsight) it did make her easier to spot when she ran off, which she did, often.

Yes, it makes me cry when I think about her.  You got something to say about it? I miss her.  And the wife.  I’ve got no-one now. I’ve just been left in that place to rot.  Of course, they do wheel me out from time to time ‘to get some fresh air’. I guess they’re obliged to.

Well, not ‘wheel’ me exactly.  I’ve still got use of me pins. Quite sprightly really. Not like some of those old buggers in there.  Sitting in their chairs  all day, dribbling.

It is quite nice to get out in the park, instead of sitting in the sweltering conservatory which they insist is ‘lovely’, and this young woman seems friendly enough, though she does insist on holding my hand to stop me wandering off.  Perhaps they ought to put me in a red sweater.

Julie

What’s he blubbering about now? He used to be so sharp.  ‘ Cut hisself on his own tongue one ‘o these days’ me mam used to say.  Now though, he’s a sentimental old fool.  Cries at anything. Good job I bought the tissues.  He forgets about his nose.  Leaves snot dribbling down his chin all the blooming time, It’s disgusting. Can’t even be trusted to wipe his own bum these days. I’m just glad we found him a place in the home.  They can do the dirty work.

Mam insisted I take him for a stroll

‘hang on to him though, he’ll run off and fall in the duck pond if you’re not careful.’

Run off my foot. He can only just put one foot in front of the other. I don’t think he enjoys ‘strolling’ anyway. It seems a bit of an effort, and he just cries all the time. No point in asking him why, he’ll probably only say ‘sausages’, that’s about all he says these days.  Can’t get his words out since the stroke. What with that and the dementia, he’s pretty well gone.  Doesn’t recognise us.  I don’t know why we bother visiting really, but mam insists.

‘We can’t just leave him there. He’s still your dad somewhere inside.’

It’s alright for her.  She just sits there knitting.  That jumpers going to be way too small for Keiran. Like he’d wear it anyway.  I keep telling her 10 year old boys don’t want knitted jumpers, especially not red ones.

Grace

Nice to see them together holding hands, just like they did when she was little.  She used to skip alongside her dad, and he used to swing her with one hand, lifting her little feet right up off the floor.  You should have heard her laugh!  Him too.  He used to laugh a lot. Now he cries a lot.  Looks like he’s blubbing again now.

I wonder what goes on in his head.  He doesn’t recognise us at all these days, and I don’t recognise him.  He’s certainly not the man I married… goodness, nearly 60 years ago now. He used to be dashing then.  What my mam called ‘suave’.  I think it’s a word she picked up from a novel. Swept me off my feet he did.  Now look at him.  Poor old soul. It’s been better since he’s been in the home. I couldn’t look after him, he kept wandering off down the street muttering to himself and frightening the kids.

I miss him though. Really miss him.  Even as he was at the end.  The day before he was due to go in the home, I looked up from my knitting and he was sitting there holding my ball of red wool in his hands and smiling, a warm smile, not a cheesy grin, but as if he was remembering all the old times with a glint in his eye.  It nearly broke my heart.  I nearly caved in and kept him at home. But it was only for a few minutes, and then he went all vacant again.  Just like that.  There’s nothing behind the eyes now.  Just blank I think. I’ve just got the knitting to keep me occupied now.

Julie keeps telling me not to bother knitting any more jumpers.

‘People don’t wear ‘em these days mam. You can get nicer ones from Primark.’ She’d said.

She’s wrong though.  Primark one’s don’t have memories attached.

Written as part of the writing 101 challenge – three points of view

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A mark in the park

Strolling through the big old iron gates, I notice that they haven’t cut the grass lately. It’s usually clipped to within an inch, but today it’s ankle high and swaying slightly in the cool breeze.  As usual, there’s not too many people in the park, though a few are walking through it, using its path as a short-cut between town and houses.

It’s a school day, so the climbing frames, swings and roundabouts are all empty. The council had to rebuild the playground recently because vandals had set fire to it and burnt the lot down. Now it’s protected by security cameras on tall grey posts, looking for all the world like alien eyes.

Looking westwards across the open space I can see an old man throwing a stick for a rangy looking ginger mongrel, who fetches it back and drops it at his masters feet time and time again, tail wagging and tongue lolling waiting for the next time. He runs after it so fast his feet barely touch the ground.

Beyond them is the river. As I approach it I hear the rushing of water over the weir that’s situated just above the bridge.  As children, we used to play ‘pooh sticks’ here, throwing out sticks between the bridge’s ornate balustrade and watching to see whose came through to the other side first.   Now and then fetes are held here, and they have rubber duck races down the river these days.  Today I can see one of the little yellow competitors caught twirling in the current under the weir. I wonder how long he’ll stay there before getting rescued by a child with a fishing net who’s come to catch tadpoles.

The river bank is lined with weeping willows that dip their branches in the water catching weeds, while the park’s lazy water fowl community huddle under them waiting for another stranger to bring them their next meal of stale bread. Fast food for ducks we called it.

On the opposite side of the bridge lies the formal flower gardens.  There are not too many flowers at this time of year though, apart from the odd late rose. It’s always kept neat and tidy, apart from the ornamental pond with its not-working fountain, which always has a collection of rubbish floating in its shallow algae covered water.

I sit on one of the benches alongside the path. Immediately I realise that I have sat directly opposite a couple who are too busy smooching to have noticed me.  I try not to look, but my eyes keep wandering back, just like his hands keep wandering to her thighs.  It takes me back to teenage years. Long summer evenings spent knocking around the park, chatting each other up, and finding out about life and love, and all the grey areas in between.

I quickly decide that I should move. There are plenty of other places to sit, and I don’t want them thinking I’m some sort of pervert, so I decide to make my way over to the bandstand area, which is closer than I’d like to the skate tube, but should be quiet at this time of day.

However, I could hear the screech of the wheels on metal before I rounded the corner and saw that there were several lads there with their gaudy skateboards, clearly bunking off school, and disturbing the peace. Nevertheless, I sat on a nearby seat to watch.

They were pretty good. Their skateboards looked like they were attached to their feet as the swooped down the curves and jumped in the air before landing.  One or two fell and cursed, though they didn’t seem hurt. There was a lot of cursing.  It still embarrasses me to hear those words.  My mother would have a fit.

I sit awhile, before deciding it’s time to leave. On the way back to the gates, I pass the huge old oak, where my initials are still carved in a heart alongside the initials of a boy I can’t remember.  That was long before the skate park, or the playground, and before the lads or those lovers were born. It will be here long after I’m gone too I expect.  I think it’s probably ‘un pc’ as my granddaughter would say, to carve anything into tree trunks, yet still, It’s pleasing to think that one day someone will look at those marks and wonder who ‘S.A.’ was and if she still loves ‘L.C’.

This is a short story written as part of the writing 101 challenge.

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Better the Devil you Know

‘He’s impossible!  How am I supposed to do that?’ Connie said, throwing the phone down and nearly knocking her swivel chair over as she plonked herself in it, head in hands.  We all looked up, waiting for the inevitable teary tirade. We’d all had them since our new boss had started.

We had been so excited when we’d heard who was taking over as CE, chattering like baby birds waiting for a worm.

‘Have you seen him, he’s, like, really lush’ said Cerys, she had been the one to collect him from the main entrance for his interview. ‘Fancy suit an’ all.  Looked like a real gentleman.’

‘I heard he was worth a few bob already’

‘Young ‘an all, not all wrinkly an’ creepy like ol’ Dodders’

Our new boss, Aiden Donaghey was tall and tanned with a disarming smile and a soft Irish lilt, and we’d do anything for him at first, despite being told we must always call him ‘Mr Donaghey or Sir’ (unlike old Dodd who would creep up to you on your first day, put his arm round your shoulder and whisper ‘call me Malcom love, don’t want to be all formal here, do we?’) But it soon became clear that he was cold, overbearing and demanding, expecting us to work overtime at a moments notice, and taking on new projects willy nilly without a thought about who was going to do the leg work. He had absolutely no interest in our lives or worries, but just seemed to think of us as his skivvys . He’d reduced each one of us to tears, for one reason or another, within the first month.

‘Hmmph… why does he give me such impossible targets. If only he’d bloody well listen a bit like old Dodd did.’ Connie said gloomily ‘I never thought I’d say it, but I’m missing the old git now.’

‘Ah well, it’s about time you youngsters learned when you’re well off’ said Kathy who never missed an opportunity to remind us that she was the eldest in the office, by several years. It was she who’d eventually sacrificed herself to Dodd’s lustful advances and kept him sweet for the rest of us.

‘Well, I’ve started looking ‘round for somethin’ else. Don’t care what, I’ll do anythin’ to get outta this dump.’ Lauren didn’t doubt her ability to flirt her way through life, though Aiden Donaghey had given this theory a severe knock, having told her that her usual very short skirt and low slung tops were ‘not suitable attire for the office environment’ and no batting of false eyelashes was going to change his mind.

‘Well, I may as well start looking too, looks like I’ll get fired sooner or later anyway. No way I’m going to get this lot done.’ Said Connie waving her ‘to do’ pad with its long list of notes.

‘We’d all be better off out of it. Perhaps Doddy  would give us something at his new place? Or I could go back home…’ At first Cerys had often talked about ‘going back home’ to North Wales.  It had taken a while to settle down to life in the city, but recently she’d started dating and was enjoying being away from the suffocating closeness of the valleys. We all knew that going home would be the last thing she wanted to do.

Karen sat herself on the edge of Cerys desk.

‘Let’s think about this’ she said, always the practical one amongst us. ‘When he first started Dodd was a pain too. It took us a while to find a way to keep him, well, malleable.’ she gave us a one-sided smile and flicked her painted fingernail, making us all chuckle ‘we can sort our Aiden out, I’m sure.’

It was clear she had a plan.

Intrigued, we watched as she went back to her desk and fumbled in the drawer. After a minute or two of rummaging, she held up a small bottle of pills.

‘My happy pills’ she said. ‘We’ll start by keeping him quiet for a bit.’ She went over to where the kettle and cups stood on a spare desk at the end of the office, and dropped a handful of the pills into his ‘I’m the Boss’ mug. ‘I think he might need a cuppa right now, don’t you?’

Written as part of the Writing 101 challenge – contrast and compare using dialogue

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A stroke of the hand

I guess I was busy trying to look elegant lying on the sunbed at an awkward angle so as to keep my limbs in the shade, as I don’t remember seeing him approach.  Or maybe my husband had hissed to me

‘keep your head down, hawker approaching…’ and I’d shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep behind my sunglasses.

Either way, initially, I felt his shadow rather than saw him, so jumped when he touched my hand.

We were chilling on the private beach of a swanky hotel, feeling posher and much, much, more glamourous than we actually are.  We knew he must be a regular, because the security guard had let him on to the hotel’s patch of white sand where the fancy thatched sun shades stood in a uniform row.

‘Hello!’ he grinned, revealing his sparse, though pearly white, teeth. ‘Where you come from?’

Propping myself up I could see he was one of the locals.  A blue check dhoti was coiled around his hips, exposing his skinny knock-kneed legs.  On his top half he wore what had once been a smart short-sleeved white shirt with a grey business like stripe.

He took my pale small hand in his rough dark one and shook it vigorously, but then, strangely didn’t let go, just held it loosely in his, stroking it from time to time with his other hand, while he addressed my husband, asking him about England, and how long we were staying in India, our names, and that sort of thing.

During our holiday, Ali became a regular visitor to our sunbeds. He was a fisherman, who went out in his tiny boat early in the morning, and joined what seemed like a thousand others for night fishing.  We could see the lights of their boats bobbing on the waves, looking like stars that had fallen from the sky. It wasn’t lost on us that they were out making a hard earned living, and catching their next meals, while we ate enormous and elaborate dishes in the fancy restaurant.

P1020027During the day, Ali wandered the shore talking to tourists, and occasionally throwing a line out from the rocks to catch the odd fish. He showed us how to dig in the sand to find crabs, no bigger than the nail on my little finger, to use as bait. Amazed us with the dexterity of his big fingers tying the poor things on to the fishing line, and amazed us more by catching a fish within a couple of minutes of slinging the line out. He was chuffed at our reaction and was more than happy to pose proudly for a photograph.

He had surprisingly good English, but his sentences tended to be shaped in a back to front yoda-like way.

‘go on a trip, you want to?

Yes, he was of course, trying to make a few rupees out of us, which we didn’t mind at all, it was understandable.  To the locals (and probably other guests) we must have pots of money to be able to stay in such a place. They didn’t know that we’d saved for a couple of years for our special treat, and were still on a very tight budget. Nonetheless, we were certainly better off than Ali, so we booked the trip through him knowing he’d get a cut of the, what in hindsight, must’ve been meagre profits.  He assured us we wouldn’t be disappointed, and we truly weren’t.  We were treated like royalty and had a wonderful time.

Each time we bumped in to Ali he held my hand and stroked it. I found it a little disconcerting at the time, yet I can still feel his gentleness, and the warmth of character that his touch conveyed.  Though he asked us to bring some old clothes for him and his family ‘next time’ I doubt we’ll return again soon, but thinking back to our couple of weeks in the sun, I’ll always think of that cheery chap, who brightened our days with his smile.

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Deadline

heatI’ve been in this room since 6:00 a.m.  It was an abnormally hot night and I couldn’t sleep.  Knowing I had a deadline to work to didn’t help, so instead of enjoying the comforting embrace of my bed, I came down here to the study, the coolest room in the house.

Surprisingly, it’s not where I usually care to write.  It always feels a bit insular and claustrophobic. The ceiling height bookshelves with their jumble of dog-eared books seem to bear down on me, and it gets increasingly difficult to ignore the pile of bills and letters that bury the surface of the desk.  Instead, I usually prefer to spread myself out on the sofa, with my laptop atop my lap.  From there I can gaze out through the French windows across our higgledy-piggledy overgrown garden. I like to watch the wildlife foraging in its borders, although our neighbour’s tend to complain about it a bit.  They have what Greg calls a ‘council house garden’, flowers planted like soldiers in colour coded uniforms

I went up to wake Greg at 8:00.  He was still sleepy.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked unfurling his long limbs. If you didn’t notice his life-etched face and his cropped-to-disguise-the-bald-patch hair, you might think that my husband was one of those gangly teenagers yet to take full charge of their body

‘Couldn’t sleep.  Ridiculously hot. Don’t know how you manage it.’

‘Mmm… it is a bit on the warm side.’

I threw the heavy curtains back letting in a burst of light.

‘God, what time is it?  I need to get going.  Have to meet ‘The Bugger’ in town this morning.’ ‘The Bugger’ was his affectionate name for his boss.  Greg and The Bugger had been working together selling insurance since before I’d met him 22 years ago.  I always joked that they were more like a married couple than we were.  He certainly seems to spend more time with The Bugger than he does with me these days.

He left in a rush, half an hour later, barely remembering to give me my cursory morning kiss on the cheek as he went.  At 47, I still think he looks dapper in his grey suit. Especially with that purple tie that Izzy bought him for his birthday last year.

She has to buy post-able things now she’s at uni.

‘Do you know how much it costs to post a parcel mum?’ she had complained, making what I imagined was an excuse for forgetting my birthday.  As if I didn’t know! After all, I had been sending packages of food, silly socks and make-up almost weekly since she’d left!

As usual, I was thinking about Izzy when I opened my laptop, checked my emails, and then facebook, to see whether there were any messages from her, or better still, photo’s that her friends had posted.  I love seeing those. They are nearly all the same – a group of four or five friends, heads together, all with raised beer glasses and all grinning drunkenly.  Happy pictures.  There haven’t been any of me like that for a long time.

There was nothing new on-line today though, so, begrudgingly, I open the file I’d created yesterday.  I’ve been commissioned by a small local paper to write something around the changing environment and its effect on our town.  It won’t earn me much, but keeps me occupied.  I’ve long since given up the dreams of earning big bucks. The ‘school of hard knocks’ Greg calls it.  All those brown envelopes with their grey rejections enclosed.  I’d rather not bother any more, just do odd bits and bobs, like this article.

God it’s hot.  Its only 10:00 a.m. and it’s unbearable. My head is thumping.  So, without guilt, despite knowing how appalled my prissy mother would be (‘Geraldine! The neighbours!’), I strip off down to my underwear and pad semi-naked through the house to the bathroom.  Running the shower as cold as it can go I step under and let the water run over my body.  It makes me shiver, but not unpleasantly, so I stay there for a full five minutes before stepping out into the heat again.

I can’t bear the thought of drying my hair.  I rarely tie it back, it’s not quite long enough, so I have to scrape it flat to my head giving myself a Croydon facelift as Greg calls it.  Trying it out, I can see in the unforgiving mirror, that it does indeed pull my eyes up slightly at the corners, but it also makes me look hard and sour faced.  I decide to keep it pinned up anyway though, just to stop it sticking to my neck sweatily.

I dig out an old shift that I bought when we went to a garden party a few summers ago.  It’s a bit big now, but at least its pattern of yellow flowers is cheery, and better still, the soft cotton feels cool against my skin.  It’s too hot for underwear so I decide to go ‘commando’ and, stopping only to get some aspirin on the way, head back to the study.  The icon on my laptop is flashing to tell me I have a new mail message.  It’s from Izzy:

‘Hi Mum

It’s really hot here today, is it the same there?  We’ve decided to skip lectures and go and swim in the river instead – how exciting is that!! Might even skinny dip hehe.. – don’t worry just saying that to shock you.  Go on admit it, you nearly fainted hehehe.   Anyway, hope you’re ok. Speak soon, Iz x x’

Her emails always make me smile, especially the ‘hehe’s’.  I can imagine her tittering to herself as she is typing.  I respond:

‘Fully understand you wanting to skinny dip.  Think I might go down the canal myself, perhaps take nana with me!  Can you imagine us wrinklies?  Bet you want to poke out your mind’s eye now!! Lots of love mummy x x x p.s. be good, and keep safe!’

Pleased with my attempt at humour, I turn my mind to the article I am supposed to be submitting no later than 2:00 today.  To be truthful, I don’t much care if it’s late, but decide I ought to try and make an effort.  I can hear thunder rolling in the distance as I google ‘environmental issues’ but the resulting sites are so broad I don’t know where to start, so try again using ‘environment+local’ and find an English Heritage site.  There’s nothing new on there though and I realise getting an original perspective will be difficult. We’ve been warned about the dangers for years, God knows why the paper wants something from me now.

The light is reflecting on my screen and it’s making my headache worse. I draw the curtains and the dust that drifts from them makes me sneeze. In the semi-darkness I fumble about in the over-filled desk drawer until with relief, I manage to find the spare pack of tablets. I can still hear the distant drum-roll of thunder as I swallow a dose.  I need them to work, the heat is stifling.

My mobile rings.  Izzy set it up so it plays ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ when anyone calls, and I loathe its cheeriness today.  She also set it up so that I can see on the screen who is calling.  Now it says ‘Your hubby’ with a smiley face next to it.

‘Gerry, it’s me.  The Bugger says we have to take the bloody client out to lunch now.  It’s bloody miles away.  So much for leaving early today. Glad I’ve got air conditioning in the motor I can tell you.’

‘You said you’d take me to the docs’

‘Sorry love, can you take yourself? There’s no real need for me to be there is there? Just make sure you tell him everything.’

‘No, it’s alright, I won’t go.  I’ll ring them and cancel.’

‘No, don’t do that.  You need to see someone. Just make sure…’

But before he finishes his sentence the signal fizzes and dies.

Greg has been nagging me to see the doctor for a while.  He says I’m ‘not myself’.  I’m not sure if I am or not, to be honest. Not sure who ‘myself’ is these days.  Anyway, I certainly don’t feel up to going to the docs on my own today, and besides, I’d have to go on public transport which means interacting with the ‘great unwashed’ as Greg calls them.

Looks like the signal has gone completely, and when I get back to my laptop, the internet is down as well.  Bloody heat.

The cotton dress sticks to my skin as I go to the kitchen and thrust my head into the fridge to feel its cold breath on my face.  I half fill a glass with ice from the integral ‘ice-maker’ that we had been so impressed with all those years ago.  The fridge is looking a bit faded now, its once shiny, brushed aluminium, exterior just looks a bit grubby, and there is a blob of black mould inside at the back.  I dread to think what food item is embalmed in it.  I fill my glass with juice, add a splosh of ‘something to liven it up’ and lean back against the metal door.  Perhaps I should write about global warming. Today must be proof enough for even the most sceptical individuals.

I go to the front of the house and peer through the window.  There is a miasma of heat rising from the street.  I can’t see a single soul.  Next door’s ranks of flowers are drooping and even Mr Next-Door isn’t out there with his watering can.  The sky isn’t the clear blue you would expect on such a sultry day it’s just pale grey again.  The days have been grey for so long now I can’t remember what a clear blue sky looks like. I hear the sky is grey all over the world.

Still there is no rain.

I must get on with the article.  Closing the study door behind me, I switch the light on and sit down at the laptop.  Irritatingly I have a connection again, so there’s no excuse not to get to work.  On the web there is talk of imminent disaster – solar flares, holes in the atmosphere, and minute catastrophic movements of the moon in its orbit, but I don’t know which to believe.  So much terrifying information out there, and these days it’s hard to tell which is based on scientific evidence, and which is just written by scare-mongering idiots.

Now the house phone is ringing.

‘Mum.  Mum, it’s me.  I couldn’t get through on the mobile. You ok?’

‘Signal went down. Think it’s back now though.’

‘We couldn’t swim in the river.  There was a whole load of dead fish floating on the top.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Yeah, it was horrible.  Some were still alive and really, like, gasping.  They’re saying it’s pollution from the factory upstream.’  I could hear a wobble in Izzy’s voice. She was always soft on animals, didn’t like to see anyone or anything suffer.

‘That must’ve been ghastly to see sweetie.  Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, yeah I think so.  We thought we’d come to the pub, but it’s absolutely packed.  You can’t get near the bar.  I think they’ve run out of ice and cold beers anyway.  Oh god, can you hear that?’

‘What?  What is it Iz?’

‘Not sure. It’s really…’ The phone went dead.  I had heard a noise.  Thunder, I think. Maybe the phone mast has been struck.  Maybe there is lightning.  Maybe there is rain.

Rather than worry about my daughter, I feel relieved that she is quite possibly experiencing a downpour.  Hope it comes this way soon. I’m sure it’s getting hotter.  I open my laptop and look for a weather site.  It tries to connect for about five minutes before I give up and look for a news site instead.  That won’t open either.  I console myself with the knowledge that everyone must be doing the same.  It’s always so much slower at busy times.

I need another drink.

Settling back in the study I mutter ‘Patience is a virtue’ as I pull out my battered old notebook.  I don’t use it so often these days, preferring to tap out my thoughts on the keyboard rather than scribble them in my embarrassing childlike scrawl.  Despite the stabbing headache I try to start jotting a few notes.   They quickly become smudged by the drops of sweat from my forehead hitting them.

A big rumble of thunder makes me jump. It’s definitely closer.

Then another ominous rumble. The laptop whines a shutdown and the light goes out as the electricity pings off. I open the curtains but to my surprise no light comes in.  Instead, outside it is dark.  Black as a moonless night.  There is another rumble. Closer.

There’s no traffic, no people.  The street is empty, dark and still.

Candles. I know there are candles in the living room, the smelly ones that Izzy bought me for Christmas.  I’m not religious, but I am slightly scared, so I pray,

‘Dear God, help me find the bloody candles.’ Tripping over my own feet I manage to crack my shin on the coffee table.  Is ‘shit’ allowed in a prayer?

There is a colossal boom, not quite overhead.  Izzy must have been scared if it was this bad. I wish I was with her.

I find the candles, mostly by sniffing out their ‘Christmas Cheer’ scent, but there is nothing to light them with. It seems even darker. How can it be this dark at midday? And so meltingly hot.

Stumbling through to the kitchen, I feel sure my leg is bleeding, it feels wet, but I can’t even see enough to inspect it.  It’s eerily quiet without the whirr of the fridge and tick of the oven timer.  I grapple around on the worksurface and eventually grasp what I recognise to be the gas-lighter.  As I click it on, another boom of thunder makes the house shudder in its foundations.

With trembling hands I manage to light the candle.  It’s a pathetically small flame, but I can just see the almost empty gin bottle and I swig back the dregs in one gulp before heading back to the living room.  Then I freeze, my skin prickles and erupts into goosebumps, as a rumble that starts low pitched and rises to an almighty heart-stopping crack, shakes the house so hard that I hear it imploding.

Screaming my daughter’s name I run to the door and fumble with the lock until it swings open. The sky is no longer black, but a shimmering saffron heralding a savage, searing wind that bowls me backwards.

Now there is nothingness. No rain, no street, no houses. No Mr & Mrs Next-Door or their soldier flowers. The Bugger, Greg and Izzy, are all gone.  I glimpse the vastness of the universe before my flame gutters and dies.

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The letter – writing 101 challenge

Today’s writing 101 challenge was for a bit of brief fiction based around finding a letter.  Here is my attempt.  Hope it makes some sort of sense:-

It lay there, half submersed in a puddle. Dropped in shock from a shaky hand perhaps?

‘further investigation…  An appointment has been booked….. please bring….’

The time and date is in the coming week. An urgent thing then.

Whoever this was addressed to will need it, but the water has seeped across the page blurring words and making the letters weep inky tears.

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Lost #1

Standing on this sun-soaked beach without you,
sea splashes mix with salty tears
that the gentle wind brushes from my cheek
My toes curl into the soft white sand
as they did whenever you caressed me.

Is it a mistake to return so soon,
whence the last strands of happiness lie?
I blight this place which you once graced,
laying lithe and golden on its shore,
out dazzling the sun with your luster.

Laughter from unknowing revellers offends me
and I fix my gaze to past horizons,
where my passion knew no end,
before this shroud of misery enveloped me,
In an echo of your pall.

Crisp white sheets filled with fragrant breezes
glide the distant yachts to quiet harbours
Safe from storms they’ll rest peacefully, like you.
Whilst I remain, marooned in turmoil.
At sea.
At loss.
Alone.

This poem was written in response to today’s challenge.cropped-class-seal_seal-class-of-september-20141

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Three favourite songs – freewrite for writing 101

Apologies for lack of punctuation, paragraphs, any sense.  The challenge was a freewrite, so I tried to stick to that!  It feels a bit against nature to post this nonsense, but anyhoo.. here it is:

‘

Ah, music, one of my favourite subjects. Oh yes, I can rattle on about this for 15 minutes no worries.. I think, but this is a freewrite so we’ll go where my mind takes me I guess (hold tight, could be anywhere).   First song I thought about was My Girl, actually I always change it to My Girls, cos I’ve got twin girls and they do bring me sunshine every single time I think of them and I think of them a lot. They’re grown up now, doctors indeed ..I am very proud mum and throw that into the conversation as often as possible though when you are proudly boasting that your daughter is at medical school you don’t necessarily remember the risks this poses. One of them told me last week that she has to be fitted for special suit in case an ebola case comes into the hospital, it will be on her ward.  The other one had to deal with someone who had suspected leprosy.  Death and bodily functions are day to day for them. I’ve never seen a dead body, not in my entire umpteen very long years. Weird to think they have more life and death experience than me. Shouldn’t be that way round really.  Time of your life by Greenday is another song relating to my girls. I remember playing it for them when they went off to medical school at different ends of the country all their goods and chattels packed into plastic bags. I cried. Course I cried. I still get weepy that they are all grown up and independent. Well sort of independent.  They still need me occasionally.. We all need our mums occasionally, sadly though as they get older sometimes it’s us who have to take over the mumsy duties for them.  Making sure our loved ones are safe and well is darn tricky when it’s done from a distance like I have to do. it can get a bit depressing some times which happily brings me to my other favourite song ‘start wearing purple’ by Gogol Bordello. If you’ve never come across them, they are a Gypsy Punk group.  Their music is loud and bawdy, and makes me dance and smile every time I hear it.  It’s my go-to cheer me up song and we all need one of those occasionally.  Oh dear, I forgot to time myself.  Have I done fifteen minutes?  Don’t know, possibly not, but I have covered my favourite songs and I’ve been typing in a frenzy to do it my fingers automatically finding the keys as a direct extension of my thoughts.  Like playing the piano, though I can’t do that. Pretty hopeless at all musical instruments really, though I did play the Cello at school. I remember carting it home for practicing it was almost bigger than me, and then my mum and dad moaned because it was more of a screech than a tune.  No, I’ll happily listen to all sorts of other music (Jazz being the exception…I can’t stand all those notes being played in the wrong order..) but think I’ll leave it to other people to play. Gonna stop now fifteen minutes or no!’