The Curse of African Man

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‘Are they usually so quiet,’ I ask after depositing yet another silent teenager on the kerbside and driving away.

‘They usually talk all the time, I don’t understand,’ the Teenager exclaims. ‘It’s when they sit in the car with you…’ his voice trails away but I know the accusing eyes will be lingering.
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I wonder what it is about me that freezes these friends of his, that I’ve never met before, into silent frozen zombie-like beings as soon as they sit in my car. I gamely attempt to chat with them but it seems they can barely be asked to respond to any attempt at conversation.

I am cautious with one of them I’m aware that he writes a blog, and sure enough after our brief encounter he’s written about my attempt to chat.

I had driven the pair to their destination, unloaded their bikes, and then driven back to pick them up at the end of their cycle jaunt on one of the drier days of the summer.

‘I can’t believe she said, “Epic fail”’ he writes.

I don’t know whether to be pleased that at least the taxi driver was at least noticed;or embarrassed that I’d used two words that resulted in such an outcry.

Indeed, we did have a true “epic fail” with another friend of The Teenager. It was another bike ride that needed teenagers and bikes to be ferried to the start point.

There was one slight problem: this friend couldn’t ride.

J sat mutely in the car, his only contribution to the ambiance of sound was when he sneezed so loudly I was nearly propelled out of the window.

Naively I assumed that after just five minutes of our encouragement and expert tuition anybody could ride a bike. It was not the case. J just could not get his balance, he leaned over heavily as we took it in turns to run by his side holding the bike vertical.

It was exhausting. I’d no idea how heavy a seventeen year old boy could be. J’s weight was astonishing as he leaned onto us.

Still we persevered and after about an hour he was beginning to make some progress on the smooth tarmac of the car park.

African Man had watched us.

‘Hey come here, let me show you how it’s done.’ this stranger said striding over to us with a manly swagger. ‘I’ll show you how we teach kids to ride a bike in Africa.’

I was panting with exhaustion at that point so was hopeful that this strong looking man could help. He seemed confident that he could. Perhaps there was a new technique that I could learn.

He took hold of the handlebars and manoeuvred the bike away from the smooth tarmac and onto the gritty short incline of the overspill car park.

J’s eyes were wide with fear.

‘You’re not going to let go of him are you?’ I asked nervously.

‘No,’ African Man said sonorously.

J took that moment to lean heavily onto this stranger who gasped under the sudden weight. African Man looked up at me in surprise and with sudden comprehension as to how hard it had been for me to support J in his cycling attempts. African Man was visibly sagging too.

‘This is how we teach children how to ride in Africa,’ African Man declared.

I had visions of neophyte cyclists under a hot African sun being taken to the nearest hill and then being launched down rough sandy tracks; and how they would triumphantly ride on towards a glowing horizon to the sounds of whoops and cheers of their barefoot running companions.

I was hopeful.

It didn’t go well. African Man stumbled under J’s weight as J instantly leaned perilously over once more.

‘That’s how we do it,’ African Man declared backing away from his failure to keep J upright for more than a second.

African Man scurried away defeated.

When African Man had left we tried it again from a lower part of the rise.

J managed a short distance unsupported and we cheered.

We returned to the same place and set J up once again.

For four seconds all was well, then J swerved. The front wheel twisted, the bike buckled and he fell heavily under it onto the rough gravel sending up an orange cloud of dust from the ground.

J looked at me accusingly as I helped him to his feet.

‘You were doing it, ‘You were doing it,’ I said, but all words of encouragement were lost on him.
His jeans were ripped and torn, his arms peppered with blood and gravel and his hands were dirtied and ripped by the sharp stones. J’s bleeding wounds had dirt deeply embedded in the cuts.

We cleaned him up as best as we could.

I had to leave them at that point for a meeting, and I hoped that with me gone that they’d try again.

J looked at me as if it was all my fault and I was now running away from them too.

‘I’ll see you at the crossroads then,’ I cheerfully said as I drove away. J looked at me darkly.

Later that afternoon at the meeting point three miles away, I picked them up. I’d hoped to see the two of them riding their bikes triumphantly.

When I first saw them in the distance it didn’t look good. They were both pushing their bikes.
I discovered that they had walked all the way pushing their bikes. J had not got back on after his fall.

J said not a word as I drove him back to his home.

Why did you let African Man get involved?’ The Teenager asked with annoyance once his bloodied friend had been left on the kerbside outside his home. ‘We were doing all right up to then.’

I too regretted the involvement of African Man.

‘Epic Fail?’ I asked as I felt the painful aching of muscles in my arms and legs from supporting J’s weight.

‘Epic Fail,’ The Teenager concurred.

We drove home in silence.
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How to be the World’s Worst Mum Step Ten: The VCR.

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Teenagers, born in the nineties, are a superior evolved species. A dramatic genetic mutation occurred somewhere amongst their tightly sprung DNA and resulted in the creation of this superior being.

This change meant as soon as they could move and flex their fingers around a remote control they were already able to switch on any machine, set complex timers and get probes to land with pin-point accuracy on Mars.

It has been embarrassing to ask little ones barely out of nappies to record television programmes, to set alarm clocks, and to connect us to the Internet, but as we’ve never had the faintest idea how any of this works it’s been the only way. Luckily, our shameful ignorance was only evident behind closed doors, and as our infants had yet to learn how to talk we got away with it.

Later, we were able to breathe a deep sense of relief when The Teenager sorted out the deeper meaning of life by unravelling the complexities of wireless networks, or by setting the timer on the cooker or by getting the DVD machine to work. We adults were able to sit back and watch with pride and awe as our youngsters’ busy fingers got to work and brought us the meaning of life in the form of Wikipedia.

All we had to do was to sit and watch like fat contented Buddhas.

Weaning is a dreadful process that we all have to go through eventually. The Teenager had decided that it was time to wean me. He was obviously concerned that it was now time for me to try my own wings.

It was my own fault, I’d caught him at a bad time. He wanted a programme recorded and he wanted me to do it unsupervised.

‘I can’t do it,’ I wailed.

The Teenager gritted his teeth, ‘Yes you can,’ he declared. ‘It’s easy.’

‘No, you do it. I might get it wrong,’ I argued.

The Teenager didn’t flinch. ‘This is what you do. Just five easy steps…’

He listed them.

I listened.

‘Come with me.’ I begged.

‘No,’ he said flatly, as if he’d just read the manual on tough love.

His face was set.

I went into the next room alone aware that I was about to try my wings for the first time and hopefully fly.

I followed the steps one by one as far as step 2.

Step 1 change the channel to number 8. I did so.

Step 2 change the VCR number to 4

Nothing happened, so I had to abandon Steps 3-5.

In dismay I returned to face The Teenager. ‘It didn’t work,’ I moaned.

‘What did you do?’ he asked coldly.

I went through the list while he listened.

‘It didn’t work.' I repeated.

The Teenager’s eyes narrowed. Laser light seemed to be zapping me from them as he asked imperiously, ‘And did you switch the VCR on?’

‘That wasn’t one of the instructions,’ I protested lamely.

‘That should have been obvious,’ the exalted one proclaimed.

I tiptoed away tripping over my unfurled wings.

Alone, I switched the machine on, followed the instructions and found I could fly!

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The Culpepper Ghost?

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I was sat on an old wooden seat carved from the trunk of a tree and looking across a lake towards Grimsthorpe Castle that we had just visited. It was a beautiful scene and yet I sense a feeling of disconnection from it. I felt I did not belong there at that time and that the place would be happier seeing the back of me.

We had nearly not got in at all. As we travelled up the long drive, after travelling nearly fifty miles, the teenager asked me if I had any money. This was the first time he’d ever asked this question. To my horror I realised that I had forgotten to bring any!

The ticket office was already before me and a following car prevented any escape. We were allowed to park out of the way while we search the car for elusive coins. We had to find £18 to admit the two of us to the house and grounds. Luckily, that was the exact amount we managed to find. We were in, but perhaps left with a sense of disquiet and unease that remained with us. I have never forgotten to bring money before on a day trip.

The teenager had gone to ‘stretch his legs’ while I looked towards the house. There were short nettles on the patch of ground in front of the seat that prevented me from walking down to the lake. There was no chance of feeding the ducks the few remnants of crusts that we had left over from our picnic. The ducks had the chilled aloofness of wildness I guessed they had been rather fed.

There was a sound behind me. I kept still. I could hear someone stealthily creeping up behind me as if to spring a surprise. I guessed it was the teenager who was about to put his hands over me eyes. The rustling became louder, ‘I can hear you’ I said out loud and I laughed and turned around.

To my dismay there was nobody there.

There was also no place for anyone to hide. There was an open field behind me. I was so convinced that it was The Teenager playing a joke that I checked every corner of the seat expecting him to spring up at me.

He wasn’t there.

Unsettled I sat back again to wait for his return but this time I was keenly alert to every sound. The breeze would occasionally brush nettles against the back of the seat but that hadn’t been the sound I’d heard.

I had heard the sound of someone approaching.

The Teenager appeared eventually and we continued with our walk around the lake.

What was it I heard?

Was it the sound of Catherine Howard sneaking up on Thomas Culpepper. Had they found a chance to find a few elicit moments away from the watchful eyes of the Henry VIII’s court on the journey up to York? Had she once crept up on him in such a way and covered his eyes with her hands, or had he once crept up on her? Had this particular ancient tree trunk from which the seat was carved held a memory of sound in its heartwood?

Was it the sound of ghostly rustling silks and taffeta that I heard or just the sound of nettles scratching disinterestedly on the back of the tree trunk seat?

The Teenager wasn’t impressed, ‘Come on let’s go,’ he said.

I had the sense of being out of time, and felt uncomfortable and dissociated from the landscape until we passed by the arches of an ancient broken bridge.

Ghost perhaps?

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The Sound of Trickling Water

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There was a trickling sound coming from behind the dashboard of my car. I was instantly alarmed. I peered under the bonnet but could see nothing amiss, and there were no puddles pooling underneath the engine. I tried a few engine starts and heard the sound again, something like water trickling against cool rocks.

The Internet also offered calming suggestions giving me links to peaceful Japanese gardens and inner peace despite typing in the word Peugeot.

I felt like a hypochondriac fearing to take the car on any further journeys after all it was only a little sound. I wondered if water had somehow got lodged behind the dashboard and was trying to find a way down towards the ground, but was instead like water trapped in a bottle sloshing from side to side. More Internet research and I knew what the problem was namely the head gasket.

I booked an appointment at the garage and duly arrived motoring down there as gently as I could. I parked my car amongst the glamorous looking second hand models that were for sale where it looked sheepish and out of place.

The receptionist listened carefully to my description.

‘So it doesn’t sound like water sloshing against rocks on a seashore?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said ‘more like water just trickling down.’ I was beginning to grasp at false hope: if I wasn’t hearing the sound of the sea crashing against rocks and was instead simply hearing the sounds of a peaceful Japanese garden perhaps my diagnosis was wrong.

I remembered the words ‘head gasket’ from my late teenage years. The words were spoken in awed terror and dread by fellow students as they peered at dirty hot oil-covered Cortina car engines. It is the hushed cancer equivalent phrase that often spelt the death knell of a car.

‘Sounds like the head gasket,’ he said without any reassuring bedside manner. Then he began the numbers game. ‘It will cost…’ he paused. ‘£46 to diagnose, but with that description it can’t be anything else.’

I despaired at his expensive logic.

He’s peering at his computer again. ‘To repair it will cost…’ there is a long pause. I’m counting £50 with each passing second. I’ve reached £2000 before he finally says ‘over £600.’

I am both relieved and shocked.

‘Then of course if there’s been damage we may have to send other parts away to be re-engineered.’

I sign the consent form and wait for my lift home amongst the shiny brand new cars that are prostituting their wares around me with tempting open doors and the alluring perfume of clean plastic.

My car is gone from amongst the gleaming second hand models as I leave.

‘It’s already being stripped down,’ I’m told.

I feel embarrassed and ashamed.

I’m driven back home in a large floozy of a car. It has a control panel as big as the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise.

‘£109 a month,’ the man pimps, ‘that’s all it costs.’

A tuneless song is blaring from the radio.

I long for my dear old car which smells of chocolate, and runs to a different tune.
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Just Keep Walking!

The ‘No Smoking’ sign has been stolen from my local florist’s shop window.

‘They cost £11,’ she moans.

She points to the adhesive still left on the window, grubby sticky marks on a crystal clean pane of glass.

I hadn’t realised that all businesses had had to display such a sign, even small one room businesses like hers, which consists of just one small room crowded with buckets holding flowers.
Someone has made a killing selling all those signs, and now thieves are busily at work stealing them. Somewhere, in one of the darker corners of England, shady characters are probably hiding their illicit hoard of stolen signs and grubby notes are exchanging hands as they are surreptitiously sold on.

These signs are everywhere; and as a non-smoker I’m grateful for the clean air they allow me to breathe inside buildings. The smoking problem has been moved from the inside of buildings to the streets. No sooner do you step outside a railway station for example then you are forced to walk the gauntlet of smokers who are just starting to light up. It is even worse in capital cities such as Dublin and London. Outside every tourist attraction people are desperately lighting up and puffing away. The Tower of London visit for us was marred by having to walk past so many smokers. Their smoke goes in our lungs, in our hair and weaves around our clothes making us feel grubby. I wish smokers would walk a long way away from others before they light up. In fact I wish they would just keep walking!

Then people like my local florist would not have to fork out another £11 for a sign.

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Silvery Moon

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There is a round moon shaped circle in the middle of the carpet.



I discovered the circle when I lifted up the glass bowl: the circle glints like a fallen moon on the carpet, or like a magical silvered fairy ring. It looks like it should have been created by an ethereal creature, but that is not the case, it has been made by…

a slug!

This silvered shrine is from the slime from a slug: an evil creature whose imperilled life I could not take and which found itself flying through the air into the garden of the empty house next door moments later.

Slugs occasionally attach themselves to the bin bags that I have to carry through the house. This one must have fallen off and slithered under the settee. For weeks I’d followed its trail moving furniture away from walls and lifting carpets to peer into crevices all to no avail. How a slug could live without food or water was astonishing, but live it did, leaving its silver trails as an unsettling sickening taunt.


The teenager spotted the slug late one night just after I’d fallen into a blissful sleep. He woke me up to say that he’s spotted, it and demanded that I should go downstairs at once and deal with it.
I was too tired to do so.

‘You do it,’ I said closing my eyes as I tried to drift off again.

The teenager protested loudly for about fifteen minutes.

‘Just get a wine glass and cover it,’ I suggested.

‘No you do it,’ the teenager moaned.

‘Just get a glass I repeated.

Eventually he left, and I was able to drift back into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, I discovered that instead of a wine glass my large glass mixing bowl had been used to cover the slug; and that the creature had obviously wandered round and round, and also across the central space under its domed prison in an attempt to escape.

I couldn’t kill it, much as I loathe slugs and detest the way that they eat some of my favourite plants leaving me with a garden devoid of sunflowers.

Instead, I released it into the wilderness next door, hoping that it would not return.

It won't come back will it?
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