The Loss of Infinity and Oblivion

 

The other day, at the break of dawn, I glimpsed a heron standing sedately on my neighbour's fence, before it took off into the sky.

In this urban environment such sights are a thrill.

My pond has been doing quite well. Water lilies leaves have spread; and the new oxygenating plants appear to be thriving in the weird contraption I created for them: two plant pots super-glued together, and then weighted down with a stone.

The fish all six of them are beautiful, thriving on the flaky food that's £9 a small bag.

Two years ago it was a different story.

I was thrilled that summer when I realised that tiny fish had hatched. Then life elsewhere took me away from the garden.

By the time I re-checked the pond it was already winter, and larger fish were dying. I thought they might have been caught by ice, for the water quality looked good, and oxygenating plants covered the surface.

It took me a while to realise that something was badly wrong; and that beneath these oxygenating plants was only a thin layer of good water. Beneath this, decomposing leaves from the nearby willow tree had created a poisonous layer through the depths and down to the mud.

Horrified by this discovery, during one bitterly cold week in January, I attempted to save the lives of the fish. But by then it was already too late. Tiny ones floated on the surface with blank lifeless eyes.

I then emptied the entire pond, filtering and double checking ever pint of water desperately searching for any which were still alive. In the end I found about twenty, the larger fish having all succumbed.

In bitterly cold weather, I then scrubbed clean the pond. Then I took care to refill it properly, before gently replacing the tiny fish.

Over succeeding weeks they continued to die. One by one. Until there only eight precious left.

At least these would be the strongest, I consoled myself. And indeed they were. And they thrived.

I watched, as over time, they changed colour from blacks to gold. Three changing that first year, and three changing only this summer.

Then early this year, one of the gold ones disappeared, and another I found floating with curled body and blank eyes. I put this down to cats or perhaps over amorous frogs.

So now I was now down to six. Five golden ones, and one which stubbornly remained dark. All summer I fed them, and spent time trying to ensure that good water quality was maintained. Topping up their water during the so-called drought.

Recently, with temperatures falling, they were becoming less hungry.

The other evening I went outside later than usual, and couldn't see them. I guessed they were hiding under lily pads, or were perhaps deeper in the pond, imagining sleep.

Then yesterday, I sat and waited for them.

They had by now become quite tame, and would rise to the surface waiting to be fed. I knew them by name. I knew their variation of shape and colour. Flyte, for example, had a white band on one side. Oblivion was the largest. Infinity the smallest. Celtic had the most beautiful tail fin. Copper had the deepest gold, and then there was the one which still lurked in the shadows, dark in colour.

The water was still. The only ripples, mosquito emerging from its pupae case. I dropped flakes on food on the water surface, yet no fish rose to feed.

My pond was empty.

The fish had gone.

And that was when I recalled the heron, a few days previous, and its steady flight away from my garden.

Espers Caroline

 

 

Caroline

We stay away
All in time
When the Caroline
Bids you
To say will end her kind, will mean anything

We love, your Caroline
Didn't you hear this tale, sure then,
And longer than my bed
But never to cover your sins

Come down and smash a crown
To hell before your head,
Anyway enter where you can
Remember hunger again.

Free them and say their names
As loud as they will last, you think
The songs you hear are just cancelling out today

Don't you cry, go lie down in your day

Freedom has come to burn
You've come to say my name,
My heart is open
I'm frightened and I'm right
Your candles are burning again.

 (possible lyrics)

A God with a Goat’s Head awaits you.

 

Sometimes when a writer is researching background detail they can be be taken to a place where they really, really don't want to be.

This has just happened to me.

For 'The Curse of Medusa' (which was initially supposed to be a short story, but where today I found I was writing 'Chapter 3') I have discovered some strange and unusual facts and stories about goats. So far so good…

…but then unluckily I stumbled upon the sacrifice of goats.

That humans still carry out this archaic bloody practice to align themselves with a mythical god is to me totally abhorrent.

It’s a senseless disgusting practice.

From Wikipedia I read that, 'Over 100 million animals are slaughtered annually during Eid ul-Adha across the Islamic world within a 48 hour period.'

One hundred million!

Can that be right?

One hundred million!

It’s a crime!

It is horrendous and pitiful.

One hundred million?

It's an outrage! It should be stopped.

Stop it!

Stop killing the goats!

I have also just read from Wikipedia how, 'Buddha criticized these bloody rituals as being "wasteful, ineffective and cruel."'

How right he was. Having just witnessed a goat sacrifice on YouTube I agree with him entirely.

Such practices are shameful in this modern era. Utterly reprehensible and shameful.

I can only hope that these killers, when they get finally get to whichever heaven they have designated for themselves, find that the god that awaits them surprises them by being the one with horns and a goat's head, and not the one with the white flowing beard.

Poor goats!

How they have suffered in the past. How they still suffer.

Any religion that sacrifices animals is a disgrace. Any person who believes they have to sacrifice an animal to such a god is a fool. An utter, utter fool and a cruel misguided idiot.

I am appalled and disgusted, and if there was any such thing as a right thinking god then I’m sure he would be too!

Stop sacrificing these animals. There is no need. It does no good. No sins are washed away. Heaven’s gate does not creak open.

Stop it!

All I can see is a small animal’s terror.

Put down your knives.

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Caged Hens

 

There were only a few boxes of eggs left on the shelf. There must have been a run on them. Perhaps everyone was cooking omelettes and soufflés. I knew immediately that the eggs left would be the wrong kind.

There was someone unpacking and then folding up cardboard cartons further up the same aisle.

"Do you have any other eggs?" I ask.

"Sorry, that's all the eggs we have. Dunno why."

He turns, one of his eyes sports an-egg shaped, purple bruise.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing. I was at a party and things got out of hand. Some woman hit me in the eye with her stiletto heel."

"Someone's hen night?"

He nods. Untroubled by what has happened to him, he continues to unpack and fold boxes, as I reach reluctantly for the eggs laid by the caged hens, hoping that they will forgive me.

 

 

 

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The beauty of a back-firing kangaroo

 

When I was little I was sent off for piano lessons. My teacher was a very patient young woman. I was set a page to practise and various exercises to do. I wasn't too keen on doing the practising, but still I gave it a go. So I was pleased when my teacher later rewarded my efforts with a gold star. I didn't get many more after that first one. The colours gradually went down in value from silver to red.

On one occasion, just after I had just been awarded a brighter star, an older woman who ran the piano school entered the small room.

"Play what you've just learnt," she demanded.

I did so.

My trembling fingers missed all the keys. Rendering whatever simple piece I was supposed to play with all the beauty of a back-firing, kangaroo-hopping, braying mule.

"Stop!" she demanded, utterly appalled by what she had just heard. "What colour star did you just give her?"

Ashen-faced the young teacher showed her.

"You've given her that!"

She began to claw at my bright star, until it was torn from the page. "Give her this one instead."

Blushing red, my young music teacher complied, replacing my bright star with the mark of ignominy: a green one.

Then following fierce words of reprobation directed both towards myself and the young piano teacher the owner of the piano school stormed out.

Ashamed by my green star which marked shame and failure each time I turned the pages of my book, I found I now hated practising, and had to be dragged to piano lessons. My parents lecturing me all the while on how much this was costing them, upsetting me even further, until finally, much to my relief, I no longer had to go.

I left piano lessons knowing only that, 'FACE' names the notes in the spaces for the right hand, and that 'Eat, Good. Bread. Dear, Father' is a saying which helps to identify any notes which happen to sit on the line. That was the sum total of my learning. So although I did once have piano lessons, they lasted only a few weeks.

Some months later, the old piano teacher was murdered by one of her pupils.

Remembering how frightened I had been of her, I could well understand why. Obviously, somebody else must have been given a green star, but had felt much more strongly about it than I had.

I wondered who it could have been. There was a waiting room in which we bided our time before been ushered into our tiny rooms. We could hear pianos being played elsewhere while we waited in magnolia silence. I wondered afterwards, if I had ever sat, side by side, next to the boy who later became a piano teacher murderer instead of a piano virtuoso.

The detached house where I went for my piano lessons was opposite Middle Lane on Wickersley Road in Rotherham. I'm not certain if the house is still there, perhaps it is. It used to give me the shivers whenever I passed it.

I believed at the time that it was the elder woman who had been murdered, but thinking about it today, I wonder if it may have been the kindlier younger teacher instead.

After a quick trawl, I can find no mention of this event which occurred almost fifty years ago. Though I did come across someone else who wrote on their blog:

"Piano lessons with woman called Ada Sharp (A#) was a short-lived affair because "I got sick to death of having my hands smacked with a ruler." Apparently Mrs Sharp died an unfortunate death, being killed by a number five bus." (Roy Phillips.)

I seem to remember that this was my older woman's name, but I can not be certain. Perhaps my piano teacher wasn't murdered after all. Or perhaps all piano teachers of that era were fearsome creatures who thought their pupils could best be taught by rapping their knuckles with rulers. And perhaps all piano teachers with the name of 'Sharp' came to a rather pointed end. From my vague recollection a knife had been involved. Or perhaps that too was just part of my fanciful imagination.

I have since wondered what happened to the boy once he was released; and I wonder if I have ever sat on a bus, tube or train, side by side, next to a piano teacher murderer.

All of this is by way of saying that I can not play the piano, and what little I can play is entirely self-taught. And that I have just for the first time got to the very end of a piece that I have been working on. My rendition of course, is rather like that of a back-firing, kangaroo-hopping, braying mule, but still I got there! Now all I have to do is to figure out the middle eight!

Here is the original which probably merits the gold star. Enjoy.

 

 

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The Shattering of Illusions

 

Yesterday, I went to a literary event, held in the nearby park, to see storytellers and performance poets.

Sadly, the event wasn't well-supported.

Kaye Vincent found that she only had two people in her audience; and Fay Roberts fared even less well, discovering she had half that.

Later, I suggested to the festival organiser that perhaps calling it the, 'Gay and Lesbian Literary Festival' might have had something to do with putting people off slightly. I certainly had had second thoughts myself, but had gone along in the end as I love listening to stories told by professional story-tellers.

So this is my story of going down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place.

Since I was getting over a cold, I thought I would just pop along for a single hour, but having arrived far too early, punctually being one of my vices, and finding that the marquee had only just been erected; and after helping out with the chairs and bunting, I decided to stay for first session, which was just about to begin.

In the end, I stayed for all.

This was because I felt so sorry for the authors; who each arrived, going down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place, expecting to have an audience to entertain; and who, each in turn, discovered to their chagrin that they only actually had only one person sitting before them: me.

There is nothing sadder in the world... well there is actually, so this is just a tiny touch of hyperbole... but there is nothing sadder in the world than seeing an author trudging down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place, and then across the park grass towards a marquee, dragging behind them on wheels a small suitcase stuffed full of their books: books which they had hoped to sell. Who then discover upon entering the marquee, and bowing beneath its rainbow-coloured bunting, that there is in fact only one person sitting there in the shadows, waiting for them... and worst of all, that that person is me.

Then their world implodes when they next discover that this person has never even heard of them. That she has never read any of their books, nor their poems. Nor is she gay, nor bisexual, nor even heterosexual, so she is most certainly not coming to their work from that perspective; and lastly, but perhaps the most damning of all, that this person doesn't even write poetry. (This was the experience of the poetry workshop lady).

Now, I guess, that this wouldn't have been too bad a problem, if the sole member of the audience was at least an articulate being, someone with whom they could have had an interesting conversation, or two. That would have been something, but unluckily for them, we are talking about me. Me, shyly bedecked in hat and thick jacket, muffled by a scarf.

They had taken such pains to look beautiful. They were colourful and elegant. They had ruffles, dyed-red hair and knee-high leather boots. Whereas I had the sniffles, a bright-red nose and flat sensible shoes. They sat upon a chair as if it was their throne, their long-sleeved cardigans draping regally around their feet, whereas I sat upon a blue-plastic chair wearing my shrunken, second-hand Primark vest.

They were passionate and emerging; whereas I was all past-it-all and fossilised. They had Facebook and Twitter; whereas I was a twit with a face.

And yet despite finding this unpromising specimen before them, each and every one of them, did a first-rate job of delivering their subject matter. All gave really wonderful talks.

But of course, I always end up in the spaces in between. Those gaps in meaning. The places poetry tries to fill with sacred words. So I remember little, and can recount even less.

Except, that I learnt, for example, from the first, Kaye Vincent, that if ever you go down to the American Embassy in London, you must first go down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place to a chemist shop.

There is apparently a reason for this. This is not a gay and lesbian thing. Even Adam and Eve after the fall are not exempt from this requirement.

Neither is it one of those old laws that have yet to be rescinded, a "You can shoot a Scotsman in York" kind of thing. Where apparently, even to this very day, or rather this very night, you can still go down the hill, over the bridge, and across the market place, and legally shoot a Scotsman in York with your bow and arrow on the very stroke of midnight, and not be found guilty of his murder should your arrow fly straight to his heart.

Or if you happen to find yourself all a quiver in Herefordshire, then you can legally do the exact same thing, at the exact same hour, should you happen to chance upon any passing Welshmen.

If ever I decide to go hunting for a man, I shall most certainly give this method a try, using blank arrows of course.

No, but anyway, getting back to Kaye Vincent and the American Embassy, it appears that eBook authors need to go to there, together with their filled-in forms, to avoid paying 30% American tax duties on eBook sales through any American outlets.

But apparently first, you have to go to a nearby chemist, and there leave all your gadgets, including electronic car keys, in one of the chemist's safe deposit boxes, and unless you do so the American Embassy will not allow you in. Which I thought, all in all, was a very useful piece of information.

From Alex Ultradish, the storyteller. I learnt that the name 'Jack' in our more traditional tales is the English term for 'fool'. In her story Jack went off down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place carrying a cow on his head. Thus winning the love of a princess. Things were so much simpler in those days.

Alex Ultradish had more of an audience. Nine people in all. But it later turned out that one of them was her friend, and most of the others were family members, including a baby, whom she aptly referred to as 'Misery'. You can imagine why.

The minutes then ticked by, and the storyteller's audience took flight leaving me exposed as a stool pigeon.

It seemed that the poet, Fay Roberts, was lost. Instead of going down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place; she had gone to the ducks.

When her session finally began it was just me, and the event organiser; and then a pale, spotty, gawky-looking young man, with an Andy Murray neck, who came in about half-way through; and so we battled with words and sentences, in a poet's and non-poet's duel, writing the contra, until we had six poems and five haiku between us.

For the latter we had been given a one word starter... a word which had probably been inside her head ever since she had stepped inside the marquee and had discovered what awaited her there, 'Lemon!'

The tragedy of this modern age is that writers have become travelling salesmen; and so very much like the travelling salesmen of the past nobody really wants to buy their wares, despite the handing out of business cards.

The final person, had attracted the biggest audience. Oblivious of the emptiness, in terms of the audience numbers, which had gone before, she confidently strode to the front; and for the first time, here was a person who was officially introduced: Sophia Blackwell.

Sophia Blackwell is a striking young woman. A fearsome lesbian. And a performance poet, though you must understand that the words 'fearsome' and 'performance' are interchangeable here. She took no prisoners!

Her poems were fired off, without the touch paper being lit, so that for me her words were sounds without meaning, air pockets of noise in my rattling pipes.

If her poems were brilliant, then the audience was mesmerised. If they resonated with meaning, then her audience sat there in shock; but only whenever her words took me down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place was I also enthralled.

And so of course, it was just as Sophia was in the middle of one such; giving a rendition of something dark and angst-ridden, that just to give her a taste, just a little indication of all that had gone on before, a little old woman with grey hair appeared at the marquee's entrance.

"The toilets are leaking. There's a flood in the block over there."

She held us spellbound, as she looked at Sophia, as if knee-high black leather boots, a short, tight-fitting black skirt, and an even tighter-fitting expensive floral jacket top marked her out as being nothing less a plumber, or mop lady.

This women was certainly no poet. Having created a vacuum from which all meaning fled, and then having sucked the air from the marquee, away went this women down the hill, over the bridge and across the market place, carrying with her all the sacred cows on her head like jewelled crowns, just as Jack had once done before her.

Leaving behind her in her wake all illusions shattered.

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End Times

 

I have a new alarm clock: leg cramps.

This is one of the most excruciating pains humans can experience, and the only course of action is to get up quickly, and to then stand up.

The pain gradually ebbs away, as my toes slowly un-splay, leaving a ghost-like ache deep within the calf muscle.

It's because I have got fatter after a summer of cooking for the youngun. All those soups, dinners and desserts. Oh, and also those delicious croissants with jam and cream for breakfast.

It's because I've got a cold and haven't had any exercise recently.

It's because I tend to sit crossed-legged on my computer chair.

Still all is not lost. I can take action. I’ve already had an aspirin, and I can go for a walk this morning, and I can start to lose my summer weight bit by bit.

What worries me though, is thirty years down the line when I am stuffed in a nursing home prior to being processed into soylent green.

Will my need for a one-legged morning dance be understood? Will I still be able to get up? Or will the pain from the cramps go on and on, as I lie in a bed unable to rise?

 

The Spider Dance

 

I noticed the spider's web just outside the door in the morning. Its owner, fat and snug, sat in the middle of its real estate; a grand creation of engineering; which swayed gently in the breeze. I'd have to move it out of the way, before I could go outside. I wouldn't want to forget and find such a beast in my hair.

It was the afternoon by the time I remembered that I hadn't fed the fish.

There are six of them left in the pond. The water is beautifully clear. Five are golden, but one has remained stubbornly black.

One of the eight that survived the winter disappeared during the spring, and the other, one of the smaller ones, died at the beginning of summer. I wondered if the heron had caught the former, and that perhaps a short-sighted, sex-crazed frog may have drowned the other.

In the spring the fish ate all the tadpoles. Perhaps that was why one of the fish was attacked in a revenge killing. If so, then the fish have some mysterious ally. This summer headless frogs have been left on the patio for me to step on. It's quite a mystery.

'Fish food costs as much as gold dust,' I mused as I slipped my feet into my garden shoes and then stepped outside.

Immediately, something sticky swept across my face. The web. 'At least the spider wasn't in it otherwise it would be in my hair,' I mused.

And that's when I saw it dangling from my left eyebrow.

The spider dance is a work of art.

You shake your head and scream. You bow to the ground, and made jitter-bug pawing motions with your hands. You step to the left and then to the right. Until your speechless neighbours applaud.

The spider ignoring all this calmly abseiled down to the ground and then scurried away, leaving me to wipe away remnants of its web.

At the pond the fish were at the surface, their mouths opening and closing, and I had the distinct feeling they were laughing.

 

The Ancestors of the Velociraptor

 

So I didn’t go to the dance. The cold bug stayed at home, and last night I slept well.

The previous night I had been unable to sleep. It had been a clear night and the stars were magnificent. Orion rising at a drunken angle over the roofs of the nearby houses. The Pleiades (perhaps) close by in close conspiratorial conversation: seven sisters taking it in turn to brighten and fade.

Inevitably, the computer was turned back on, and I watched, 'Who do you think you are?' featuring Hugh Denis, a comedian I greatly admire, not least for his raptor impression in 'Outnumbered.'

It was a very moving programme, though I was sorry that his ancestral exploration went no further back than to two men who fought in the war. There was so little mention of the women who had played a part in his genesis, and who likely played some part in the creation of his comic genius.

The glimpse of coal mining in Yorkshire; close to the area to where so many of my ancestors once worked, and also an area around which as a teenager I used to cycle; brought home to me the harshness of conditions in the pit, and the hard work done there in the past by such young people.

I can well understand, as hollyhocks bob by my window, how after enduring the horrors of mining and war, how gardening became the way for one of his relatives to find at least a little peace and contentment.

 

Should I go to the Dance?

 

I tracked it coming. I watched an animation of an aeroplane flying over Europe as it inched closer and closer to Heathrow, and I knew from the airport arrivals board information exactly when it landed.

That was now over two weeks ago, the day the youngun arrived back home, bringing with him the cold which he had picked up from Hong Kong. A cold which of course I later caught.

So my head is now full of feathers, and my voice, should I speak to the neighbour's cat from three doors down, is dry and husky; and really I should not go to the dance at all.

The decision should already have been taken, and yet, I still think I might be going. Even though my eyes are runny. I really don't want to let them down, though of course, I also don't want to pass my cold onto them.

Last night, I couldn't sleep as I pondered my options:

Should I go? Should I not go?

I began to make a list of why, apart from passing on the cold, I should not:

• One of the dancers (male) has the most awful BO. Truly awful. Worse he enjoys spinning me around really fast, which wraps his cloying odour around me like chains.
• One of the dancers (a wiry short female) grips my hand so painfully dragging me into the correct position.
• Two of the dancers (a couple) rarely smile. They have a most superior attitude (they know all the moves and I most certainly don't). They only ever smile wryly, whenever I go wrong (which is often).
• One of the dancers (male) told me I don't around spin around properly (he's right of course) but after he said that I became self-conscious of my twirls, and so any chance of ever getting into step has now vanished.
• One of the dancers (male) told me that I destroyed the look of the whole dance when he had called it from the stage. It seemed I had turned left (or was it right) when everybody else was doing the exact opposite.
• One of the dancers (female) is a match-maker, and tried to pair me off.

"But he's married," I protested.

"Oh, that doesn't matter," she said. “I’d like him settled with a good woman. You should see the way his face lights up whenever you come in.”

• One of the dancers (male) is religious and brings me tracts to read. I dutifully do so, before quickly handing them back, wondering how he would react if I were to give him something written by Richard Dawkins. I wouldn't of course. I know he wouldn't touch such paper, but oh it's so tempting!

"What star sign are you?" I once asked him, by way of making conversation upon hearing that it was his birthday.

"Oh, I don't believe in that!" he recoiled, as if I had just waved a blow-torch in front of his face and singed his eyebrows.

• And then there are the deaths.

Every week during the interval, no sooner have we sat down, with cups of tea in our hands, then our fleeting conversations is interrupted by the announcements:

"So and so has died. The funeral is at... Flowers are to be sent to... No flowers are to be sent, but donations can be sent to... The service will be at…"

I don't know these people, or perhaps I do.

I know so few names. Conversation is difficult when couples are 'improper' and you have to find your way through the 'hay'.

After the weekly death announcements have chilled the room, scything any chance of further conversation, the caller calls the next dance, and all quickly grab their numb partners as if grabbing onto the very sinews of life itself.

"Honour your partners all," the caller orders at the end of the dance, and obediently we do.

So what to do now? As I shiver and sneeze, and reach for another hanky. Should I go to the dance?

You can well understand my dilemma when such an enchanting evening lies before me.

 

Lost Faith

 

I got lost.

The trouble is I shouldn't put such faith in lorries. I tend to choose one which is travelling at about the same speed as me and then I stay behind it at a safe distance for mile after mile.

Whenever this lorry indicates it is about to overtake then I indicate also, safe in the knowledge that my lorry driver knows exactly where he is going. Before too long my faith is absolute, wherever he goes I will go, his roads are my roads, his people, are my people.

The A14 is a peculiar road. For reasons far beyond my comprehension you have to turn off it at one roundabout on the way to Cambridge and then rejoin it again. Of course my lorry was doing just that. At the roundabout he indicated right, and consequently so did I. My belief in him absolute. Except, he wasn't going onto the A14, was he? No! He had turned onto the A1 and taking me with him in his slip-stream.

The wonderful thing about getting lost is that it gives you an opportunity to discover completely new things. Getting lost can be a kick-start for the imagination.

I didn't give my lorry another glance as I turned off the A1. Faith is like that: so terribly fickle whenever given a serious jolt of reality.

So then we passed through a small village. There was a place called 'The Hurdles' and for the next few miles we entertained ourselves by imagining new street names based on the Olympic Game.

"Cycle Lane," suggested the youngun, as we rejoined the A14.

Cheered by these thoughts that we would not have had had our faith not been shattered we continued our journey.

The exhaust pipe did not fall off; and despite the heavy load in the car and a slight tendency for the car's bonnet to point skywards we made it there safely.

"I'll give you a £1000 if you see a sheep," I had said at the commencement of the journey.

I did not have to pay up. For during the entire 130 mile journey we saw not one.

We passed villages once famous for the possession of looms for weaving wool; but like such looms, fields of sheep have long disappeared; leaving a landscape haunted by lost faith.

The return journey, alone in the dark, was the next hurdle.

When I suddenly realise that ‘The Hurdles’ in that village that we passed through earlier, was probably not named after Olympian villagers keen to vault any obstacles in their path, but instead named after the hurdles which had once corralled sheep, keeping them faithfully in their place before they were sold for slaughter in the market.

Chilled by this realisation, I quickly find a new lorry to follow. It is barely distinguishable from the shadows, except for beautiful, bright-red lights at each of its corners.

Hooked, in its slip-stream I travelled merrily along, forgetting all too easily how faith can quickly take you nowhere.

 

 

If I get Lost it’s Andy Murray’s Fault!

 

Can't believe how blue the sky is after yesterday's gloomy clouds. Hopefully it will be a good day for travelling.

A carapace of items is waiting to be packed into the car. All that is needed to sustain life. Things like rice cookers, bicycle locks and a jar of Marmite.

Now I am really grateful the the exhaust fell off when it did, on a long trip like today's that would have been disastrous. I am hoping that the garage has done a good job. When the exhaust last fell off in Ireland many years ago and I went to the Kwik Fit garage in Dundalk to get it fixed, it fell off twice afterwards. Perhaps it was because I was English. Or perhaps I was just very unlucky. Irish sheep in remote rural areas still bleat about that day when a car like a grounded rocket disturbed their munching of wet grass.

Hopefully it won't fall off this time and disturb any English sheep.

The only trouble is that the youngun was up until two-thirty listening to the American tennis open. Andy Murray may well be the reason that we will set off late. Looks like my navigator will soon be fast asleep, once the car is packed and we finally hit the road.

 

Uninvited Guests

 

I don't see them, but the youngun does. He becomes more uneasy. Scratchy in his skin, until he can bear them no longer.

"Take them out. Take them out!"

He is white and shaking.

"Take them out."

He means of course the uninvited guests: the spiders.

He has by this time become away of their every move. Tracking each one to its lair with an unerring radar.

But by this time air traffic control has gone.

The spiders oblivious, are humming their soft spidery tunes as I notice them for the first time. They are thin creatures on thinner articulated legs. There is one in every corner of the kitchen. One in every high corner of the window. I catch them in a wine glass as they jerk awake from mesmeric sleep, and set them loose in the garden.

In the small garden room I find the fattest. It has gorged on many tiny flies that have been attracted to the table lamp. In the darkest corner beside the desk I discover a myriad of webs, a spider larder in which it has stored suspended tiny meat.

The spiders outside have broader bodies and are firmer in shape. I fear this one will now starve. It steps onto a leaf which does not bend beneath its weight and disappears.

Seven spiders have been thrown out.

A quick whisk around inside with the feather duster and all the cobwebs have gone.

"All gone. You can come back now," I call, hoping that the spiders will not think I mean them.

How do they get in?

 

Craigie Hill by Cara Dillon

 

 

Cara Dillon

 

It has been ages since I've been to a folk concert. This summer we went to 'Folk by the Oak'. I wanted so much to see  and hear Cara Dillon.

Things have changed greatly since I last sat on a blanket in front of a stage. For a start people don't do that any more... they take camper chairs. So it wasn't too long before our perfect view of the stage from our lowly blanket became a view of the backs of people's chairs and their obstructing backs.

I hadn't noticed chairs being carried as we walked to the site, so I was amazed when they were suddenly unfolded all around our island blanket, making us feel like lowly citizens.

We suffered.

I had also forgotten, after this year's persistent rain, to bring sun-cream and hats. Our chocolate iced cakes melted in the back pack and our sandwiches cooked. Even when we caught a glimpse of the stage, though we were near the front of the chair area the figures on the stage were minute. You couldn't see faces. A grainy screen gave us a better glimpse of what was going on, but it felt very much like second best.

The performing acts all kept to time, and I felt mounting excitement as Cara Dillon's time slot approached.

By this time, I had managed by judicious craning of my neck to achieve a good view of the grainy screen. Which was probably why a couple suddenly appeared out of nowhere and placed their camper chairs, ones with holders in the arms for drinks, at that exact spot. Still at least I could still watch the airplanes passing overhead.

All the previous acts had started on time, but the minutes were now ticking. Cara Dillon was late. There also seemed to be people on stage from some of the previous acts.

You should never go to a concert to see someone you really want to see. I had compounded this by really wanting to hear her sing a song which had become a favourite. It had been a long time since I had felt so excited and looked forward to something so much.

There was an announcement. The music began more instrumental than vocal. Cara Dillon was ill. Gamely she sang a few of her songs despite being so poorly. These were interspersed by instrumental medleys from previous performers who had gone on stage to help out. All very impressive... but for me oh so very disappointing.

I started to think about how much money I had paid to get there, and the long journey there and back, all for a grainy glimpse of a singer mostly obscured by people's heads.

She did not sing any of the songs I so wanted to hear. But I do so applaud her for still turning up despite feeling so ill and for singing so beautifully.

Rescue

 

I'm sitting in my car when the rescue vehicle finally appears.

I make no more than a small movement of my hand and he has spotted me. He draws to a halt further down the road, and then walks back. He is a cheery fellow. He's the sort of person who knows exactly what he is doing.

"Exhaust fallen off?" he says, as if that's my name.

I nod. I've been called worse.

I waited so long for him to appear that I have almost lost all power of speech.

"I bet that made a racket," he says. "Bet it made a terrible noise," he adds, as if trying to tempt me to make a noise of my own.

I nod silently as if the experience has rendered me mute.

"I'll just tie it up with bungee ropes," he says, taking control of the situation.

At this I feel so cross with myself. Why didn't I think of using bungees ropes? We have them for the bicycle. I had thought of using gaffer tape, but all the time bungees were the answer. I could have got the exhaust all tied up and have had it in the garage hours ago. So I fume silently.

Within seconds he has secured the exhaust. He then takes my car keys, readies the ramp and then drives my quiet compliant car onto the back of his lorry. By now I am really annoyed. This little excursion the car is about to enjoy has cost me forty quid.

Within minutes, he has negotiated a three-point-turn in a situation not for the faint hearted. This man is clearly a thrill seeker, but still I am fretting about my feebleness about not even thinking about bungees.

"Could I have tied up the exhaust like you've just done and then driven it to the garage?" I ask. "Did I really need a rescue lorry?"

We are dodging cars in the narrow street like tenpins and it was probably not the ideal time to ask such a question.

"No," he says, reassuring me. "You did the right thing. People don't realise how hot exhaust pipes get. It would've melted through gaffer tape and bungees. Then the exhaust would have fallen off, especially on these speed bumps, twisting the metal back and doing even more damage to your car."

He has such a vivid way of describing things that I can visualise this scenario clearly.

"Nope, you did the right thing calling me out," he says, making a right turn at the top of the road where even the brave only dare to turn left. He then swings into a non-existent space in the stream of traffic and accelerates. I'm in for a white-knuckle ride.

He grins. He has an oily complexion; his face looks part machine.

"Love it," he says. "Love the challenge. Every situation is different. I sometime rescue upturned cars in fields. I like trying to work out how to do that. I've got a wrench. Haul them in," he pauses, as he drives over the middle of a mini roundabout. "One though. One stays with me. It was upside down and full of blood. Never seen so much blood."

"Did they survive?" I ask horrified.

But it's clear he loves rescuing cars more than rescuing people.

"Here we are," he says.

And before I've had time to speak to receptionist my car has already been off-loaded, and he has driven away.

 

The Delights of sitting on a Front Doorstep

 

There is something wonderfully freeing about waiting for a rescue lorry to come and pick up your car.

My car sits looking serene on the road, and only the most observant lying on their backs would notice the exhaust pipe which dangles down from the front of the vehicle.

I'm feeling a bit of a wimp. I couldn't reach under the car far enough to reach it. So my plan a) to bind it with gaffer tape and then to drive it slowly to a garage has not been possible; and Plan b) call the £40 rescue lorry is in place instead.

They had said that they would be there in half an hour, but that was over an hour ago.

I've been sat on the front door step all that time waiting.

It is wonderful sitting on a front door step. Everyone should try it at least once in their lives.

You get to see all sorts of unusual things. The invalid car for example which drives up the road negotiating the speed bumps as if riding the big dipper. The secondary school children walking home after their first day back after the long summer break; looking, despite the bad reputation of this particular school, subdued and studious. Perhaps this effect mostly achieved by the newness of their uniforms and their freshly ironed shirts, but even so the ones who walked by looked as if they were certainly going to give education a chance. No way were they ever going to end up sitting on their doorsteps!

People passing by don't know what to do with a person sitting on a doorstep. It is an aberration. A departure from the norm. They don't know whether to make eye contact or whether to look the other way. Most look the other way. This is great for the person sitting on a doorstep. You can observe characters, what people are wearing, and also the comings and goings of all sorts of unusual people. Spies should adopt it as a tactic! James Bond could have given up all those great death defying feats and learnt all he needed to know just by sitting on his doorstep.

When you are waiting for a rescue vehicle to arrive you realise just how many other vehicles travel down your road. One pulls into a nearby parking space. Its occupants, two people, stare at me.

I listen for the sound of a lorry, looking by turns both up and down the road.

The shadow of the house is creeping towards the kerb. It is getting cold. Once it reaches the gutter I will go to my own car and sit inside it. It's amazing how quickly the shadow moves. I'm now thinking of being an insignificant dot on a huge turning planet whirling through the solar system.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

The woman startles me. She was one of the ones who had just been watching me from the parked car. She leans over the door of her car as I am jolted back from outer space.

"Yes," I answer.

"You're not Valda, are you?"

This is one of the delightful thing that can happen if you decide to sit on your doorstep, you can be asked all sorts of unusual questions. People will eventually talk to you. The world opens up. I wonder who Valda is. Could this be some kind of covert operation? Is 'Valda' the code word which will open some sort of secret world?

"No," I'm not Valda, I confess. The woman is disappointed, I am too. Though I can also see that she is relieved; Valda, I am certain, would have gone down in her estimation if she had actually been discovered sitting on some front doorstep.

The shadows creep.

Lower down the road the real Valda arrives for her rendezvous, but the meeting is too far away for me to witness their cause, which leaves me curious. By now the last school child has long since passed by. The invalid car returns down the road, its driver this time waving a cheery acknowledgement. I have sat there so long I have become part of the scenery.

It is cold. As the minutes tick into the second hour I go and sit in my car. Missing already the delights of sitting on my front doorstep.

 

All is Perfect!

 

All is perfect.

The wonderful computer people ring me to say they have fixed the computer and that there will be no charge.

I drive all the way out to the airport to pick it up and then bring it back.

The youngun is in the bathroom by the time I get back, so I sneak up into his room and get his computer all set up and ready for him as a surprise.

The computer people tell me that the fan had been stuck, and so they had wriggled it a bit and then cut off some of the baffles. This probably accounted for the sound it made once all the connecting pieces had been attached and the power switched on. It was rather like a jumbo jet coming in to land.

"Bit loud," I warned, as the youngun, delighted with the return of his computer, went off to investigate.

"It will be fine," he says with his usual cheery optimism.

“It’s a bit loud,” he confesses.

Having expected to pay hundreds for the repair, I then calculate that this month I could at least now buy some bedding plants to brighten up the rather dull and dilapidated tubs outside.

So off I go.

But there is too much choice, and of course still euphoric about the computer, I indulge my indecision by buying blue as well as pink, yellow as well as lilac.

So all is absolutely perfect in my world as I reach the corner of the road and am just about to turn into my street.

An afternoon of happy gardening awaits me.

Oddly, there a strange confluence of events taking place at the corner of the road. The bin men's lorry is slowly making its way down with rubbish rattling in its innards, as nearby a car signals to allow me out, but suddenly as I do so a huge four by four begins to make a three-point-turn completely blocking my path. It is as if all lives have suddenly been focussed on this tiny point of Google Earth.

I slow as I turn the corner and, then bang!

For a second I wonder if a bin man lies underneath my car, or if I have been clipped by the four by four, or some other vehicle. There is now a roar like a jumbo jet. I knew the youngun’s computer now sounded loud, but surely not that loud!

I pull over onto the side of the road and park. Finding a lucky space just across from my home.

By now, the bin men have gone, the four by four has vanished, and the friendly driver who let me out of the side street has also driven away. The road is deserted as I get out to peer beneath my car.

Resting on the road is the front part of my exhaust  and with it also dangles my perfect day.

I console myself: at least it broke as I arrived back home and not on a busy road somewhere; and at least I can now get a cup of tea as I think what to do next.

Upstairs the is the sound of a jumbo jet permanently taxiing on some internet super runway.

The cat from three doors down comes and purrs loudly.

Thinking? Hah!