Gosh, what and exciting week. My lovely wife and I recently attended out 12 week scan and we've just been given the statistical all clear for Nuchal fold etc.
It was amazing to see and hear the baby.
It was amazing to see and hear the baby.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Britain’s got talent.
Britain’s got talent, but it’s going to waste.
Search for a star that we can all debase.
Famous for fame’s sake, look a likes and namesakes.
Reality, celebrity - no room for let it be.
Botox, detox, silicone you can’t touch.
Too many channels too few stations,
Medicated media makes us all TV patients.
IED, QED, fighting in the desert sea,
don’t be so blind, choose to see.
Sponsor your very own insurgency?
Or start your own academy?
Democracy cradled in past tenses,
buy some influence with your expenses.
Don’t pay now, don’t pay later
ride a new fuel-price escalator.
Sexualised children and media farce
create the new working girl class.
Lolly-popped and ultra-thin,
the no longer viable heroin.
Atkins, carbs and prized size zero,
there’s too much fat on a working class hero.
So supersize it, max it all,
it still won’t cushion you against this fall.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Too smart teenage girl: clubbing a school night
First I had no power
and then it came along.
Whilst I waited with my poverty
and borrowed others songs.
Now I choose the music,
the tempo, key and beat.
With just a brush against you
I can turn on or off the heat.
It's a tactical operation,
there'll be bodies along the way.
At night I'm so much brighter than
I'm told I am by day.
I'm the whispered luscious secret
the promised and forbidden fruit.
You think you're older, wiser,
for an evening you'll suit.
You kid yourself into thinking
that it's you who picked me out.
Amongst the rows of tits and teeth,
the hems, the flesh that pouts.
But really sweety, darling, stud
although I've but half your years
My bedposts are whittled so very thin
they're a raft on the sea of a tear.
But I rarely cry these days,
I find I've not the need.
Long before the public waking,
I take my private leave.
Sometimes it carries over,
last nights power, score and win.
But the day erodes my halo
and I've misspent the wage of sin.
I wear too little, live too much,
still I'm firm I'm fresh I'm young.
But with that timeless, coldest knife
I'll slit anything more than fun.
I'll cut of all your contact,
my phone will ring and ring.
Your drinks and money bought you a dance,
but you shall never hear me sing.
I do my singing on the inside,
it's where I'm pure and clean.
and If I ever let someone inside,
they'll see exactly what I mean.
and then it came along.
Whilst I waited with my poverty
and borrowed others songs.
Now I choose the music,
the tempo, key and beat.
With just a brush against you
I can turn on or off the heat.
It's a tactical operation,
there'll be bodies along the way.
At night I'm so much brighter than
I'm told I am by day.
I'm the whispered luscious secret
the promised and forbidden fruit.
You think you're older, wiser,
for an evening you'll suit.
You kid yourself into thinking
that it's you who picked me out.
Amongst the rows of tits and teeth,
the hems, the flesh that pouts.
But really sweety, darling, stud
although I've but half your years
My bedposts are whittled so very thin
they're a raft on the sea of a tear.
But I rarely cry these days,
I find I've not the need.
Long before the public waking,
I take my private leave.
Sometimes it carries over,
last nights power, score and win.
But the day erodes my halo
and I've misspent the wage of sin.
I wear too little, live too much,
still I'm firm I'm fresh I'm young.
But with that timeless, coldest knife
I'll slit anything more than fun.
I'll cut of all your contact,
my phone will ring and ring.
Your drinks and money bought you a dance,
but you shall never hear me sing.
I do my singing on the inside,
it's where I'm pure and clean.
and If I ever let someone inside,
they'll see exactly what I mean.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Being the best man
Being the best man can be tough. This is my second attempt at doing at and I ended up about 70% happy with the words I prepared.
Blah Blah.
He's a good boy - he always wants to make a good impression. Just five minutes ago he offered me a twenty if I'd slip in the fact that he's better hung than a parliament.
So as you know he's not always been the most organised of fellows. I'm reminded of a couple of examples. . I can think back to doing A-Level Theatre Studies with Jared. Despite having around two years to watch and make notes on a play of our choice time seemed to sneak past, in fact the night before our final exam came and we still hadn't managed it. Whilst he may be disorganised no one could accuse Jared of not being industrious. We scoured the local papers and discovered the one play on that night within an eighty mile radius. It was in Taunton. Like so many times before he pilled up (Aplogies, that's a U - pulled up) in his two-tone purple Fiesta and we set off up the motorway. Dark clouds gathered immediately and the heavens opened. Within a few miles the windscreen wipers stopped working, well to be more accurate I think they actually fell off. I can remember looking at him with a solemn expression from the passenger seat, he nodded gravely and then said
"It's okay, I brought this"
he then proceeded to hand me a tea-towel. I spent the next forty miles leaning out of the passenger window, dragging that towel furiously across the windscreen and whilst I can't say with certainty that he swerved more than was necessary, he certainly seemed to take some pleasure from the situation.
My next memory stems from our last holiday. Like many people Jared often needs space to work through an idea. Sometimes that space can be internal and sometimes it must come from the external. I could tell he had something on his mind. though I had no idea what it might be. We had one of those slightly odd conversations
"We need to go to Cornwall"
"Okay"
"You're driving. We should leave tomorrow, in the morning"
we set off up the coast to north devon. I forget exactly where we stopped, but we found a camp site, pitched the tents and walked down to the bars on the waterfront. A few beers and chasers later and we were enthusing the locals with some truly terrible sing along versions of the jukebox pickings. Jared was clearly starting to loosen up, despite seemingly checking his mobile phones - he had two then, every couple of minutes.
"I need to be more drunk"
"Okay"
A couple of rounds and songs later and the place was closing. We walked the full length of the beach, and with each sandy step I could feel Jared preparing himself to tell me what was on his mind. Our pace slowed as we reached the end of the beach, I must admit I was starting to feel a little tense. Was something terribly wrong? Was he ill or in some kind of trouble? The tension became palpable as we approached the last few metres of sand. This was it, finally relaxed and ready to lay something important on me. He checked his phone, sighed, grappling with the right way to begin. He checked his second phone and then looked at me. He hesitated and then said
"We should walk back"
"Okay"
As we retraced our own sandy impressions bits finally started to tumble out. I heard about a women from work. About how she spoke and the things she liked. About how they exchanged coded messages by pinning up song lyrics in a shared office. About how she had become his friend. I had never seen him talk like this before. He was excited, but very very serious.
We talked about little else that night, mostly I listened as Jared described Jenna and how he felt about her. We got back that night and I discovered in the somewhat hasty buildup to this impromptu holiday I'd packed lots of beer but no bedding. I remember thinking that contrary to my previous recollection Jared was indeed proving to be the organised one. Amazingly Jared had packed two lovely fluffy pillows and two plump warm duvets. Even more Amazingly it turns out that Jared needs two pillows and two duvets to get to sleep. I reflected upon this curiosity as I shivered underneath my towel.
I spent the best part of a decade working with Jared. He impressed me during that time, in all those years I never once saw him ever refuse to take an opportunity to pull a sicky and do something more exciting instead. I have vague memories of our boss implementing a system for recording our lateness or indeed non arrival. He used to mark the work rota with tiny stars. I remember Jared asking him one day how many we had to collect to get a prize. A week ago Jared help his stag night, hearing his staff talk about him was amazing. Everyone of them that I spoke to talked in warm terms about a man who they never once saw refuse to do something he expected them to. I remember the first time I visited Jared's unit, it wasn't just the staff that eagerly gathered to talk to him, it was his clients as well. Jared makes a positive difference to the lives of those around him and they repay him with their trust and affection. I was left with a strong sense of how hard he works to ensure that his clients feel like they are part of a family, feel like they are wanted, feel like they have a home and don't ever feel each other too much.
Being a teacher means quite a lot to me. It means Easter holidays, it means half terms, it means summer holidays. And just like today it means standing in front of a group of people who are eager for you to shut up so that they can get drunk. As a teacher you spend so much time thinking about what other people are learning it becomes very easy to forget that you are also learning. Over the years of our friendship Jared has taught me such a lot. As one of my oldest friends he has taught me about loyalty and about tolerance and to his credit he has done it with a rare patience. Both his humour and care have helped me enormously. He also taught me that it is possible to take down and destroy eighty seven Conservative advertising boards in less than seven days. Admittedly it means working at night and on occasion having to revisit the same private property three nights running because they have got really good flood lights, a really barky dog and have used really long nails.
He was the first of our generation to become a father and seeing him rise to that responsibility has been awe inspiring. As a fairly recent convert to this calling I'm truly glad to have seen the love, support and imagination that are the hallmarks of Jared's relationship with his children. It's those same characteristics that I would use to describe his relationship with Jenna. When I see them together it's obvious that they are in love, it's clear that they revel in each others company. In fact it's clear that they are best friends. Modesty and custom dictate that for obvious reasons one is never to congratulate the bride, for it is the groom who is deemed to be the lucky one. The one who has found the lady of his dreams and somehow managed to persuade her to marry him. On this occasion I think I will break with tradition and congratulate both Jared and Jenna on being lucky enough to have found one another, brave enough to have pursued one another and clever enough to have married one another.
Ladies and gents to Jared and Jenna.
Blah Blah.
He's a good boy - he always wants to make a good impression. Just five minutes ago he offered me a twenty if I'd slip in the fact that he's better hung than a parliament.
So as you know he's not always been the most organised of fellows. I'm reminded of a couple of examples. . I can think back to doing A-Level Theatre Studies with Jared. Despite having around two years to watch and make notes on a play of our choice time seemed to sneak past, in fact the night before our final exam came and we still hadn't managed it. Whilst he may be disorganised no one could accuse Jared of not being industrious. We scoured the local papers and discovered the one play on that night within an eighty mile radius. It was in Taunton. Like so many times before he pilled up (Aplogies, that's a U - pulled up) in his two-tone purple Fiesta and we set off up the motorway. Dark clouds gathered immediately and the heavens opened. Within a few miles the windscreen wipers stopped working, well to be more accurate I think they actually fell off. I can remember looking at him with a solemn expression from the passenger seat, he nodded gravely and then said
"It's okay, I brought this"
he then proceeded to hand me a tea-towel. I spent the next forty miles leaning out of the passenger window, dragging that towel furiously across the windscreen and whilst I can't say with certainty that he swerved more than was necessary, he certainly seemed to take some pleasure from the situation.
My next memory stems from our last holiday. Like many people Jared often needs space to work through an idea. Sometimes that space can be internal and sometimes it must come from the external. I could tell he had something on his mind. though I had no idea what it might be. We had one of those slightly odd conversations
"We need to go to Cornwall"
"Okay"
"You're driving. We should leave tomorrow, in the morning"
we set off up the coast to north devon. I forget exactly where we stopped, but we found a camp site, pitched the tents and walked down to the bars on the waterfront. A few beers and chasers later and we were enthusing the locals with some truly terrible sing along versions of the jukebox pickings. Jared was clearly starting to loosen up, despite seemingly checking his mobile phones - he had two then, every couple of minutes.
"I need to be more drunk"
"Okay"
A couple of rounds and songs later and the place was closing. We walked the full length of the beach, and with each sandy step I could feel Jared preparing himself to tell me what was on his mind. Our pace slowed as we reached the end of the beach, I must admit I was starting to feel a little tense. Was something terribly wrong? Was he ill or in some kind of trouble? The tension became palpable as we approached the last few metres of sand. This was it, finally relaxed and ready to lay something important on me. He checked his phone, sighed, grappling with the right way to begin. He checked his second phone and then looked at me. He hesitated and then said
"We should walk back"
"Okay"
As we retraced our own sandy impressions bits finally started to tumble out. I heard about a women from work. About how she spoke and the things she liked. About how they exchanged coded messages by pinning up song lyrics in a shared office. About how she had become his friend. I had never seen him talk like this before. He was excited, but very very serious.
We talked about little else that night, mostly I listened as Jared described Jenna and how he felt about her. We got back that night and I discovered in the somewhat hasty buildup to this impromptu holiday I'd packed lots of beer but no bedding. I remember thinking that contrary to my previous recollection Jared was indeed proving to be the organised one. Amazingly Jared had packed two lovely fluffy pillows and two plump warm duvets. Even more Amazingly it turns out that Jared needs two pillows and two duvets to get to sleep. I reflected upon this curiosity as I shivered underneath my towel.
I spent the best part of a decade working with Jared. He impressed me during that time, in all those years I never once saw him ever refuse to take an opportunity to pull a sicky and do something more exciting instead. I have vague memories of our boss implementing a system for recording our lateness or indeed non arrival. He used to mark the work rota with tiny stars. I remember Jared asking him one day how many we had to collect to get a prize. A week ago Jared help his stag night, hearing his staff talk about him was amazing. Everyone of them that I spoke to talked in warm terms about a man who they never once saw refuse to do something he expected them to. I remember the first time I visited Jared's unit, it wasn't just the staff that eagerly gathered to talk to him, it was his clients as well. Jared makes a positive difference to the lives of those around him and they repay him with their trust and affection. I was left with a strong sense of how hard he works to ensure that his clients feel like they are part of a family, feel like they are wanted, feel like they have a home and don't ever feel each other too much.
Being a teacher means quite a lot to me. It means Easter holidays, it means half terms, it means summer holidays. And just like today it means standing in front of a group of people who are eager for you to shut up so that they can get drunk. As a teacher you spend so much time thinking about what other people are learning it becomes very easy to forget that you are also learning. Over the years of our friendship Jared has taught me such a lot. As one of my oldest friends he has taught me about loyalty and about tolerance and to his credit he has done it with a rare patience. Both his humour and care have helped me enormously. He also taught me that it is possible to take down and destroy eighty seven Conservative advertising boards in less than seven days. Admittedly it means working at night and on occasion having to revisit the same private property three nights running because they have got really good flood lights, a really barky dog and have used really long nails.
He was the first of our generation to become a father and seeing him rise to that responsibility has been awe inspiring. As a fairly recent convert to this calling I'm truly glad to have seen the love, support and imagination that are the hallmarks of Jared's relationship with his children. It's those same characteristics that I would use to describe his relationship with Jenna. When I see them together it's obvious that they are in love, it's clear that they revel in each others company. In fact it's clear that they are best friends. Modesty and custom dictate that for obvious reasons one is never to congratulate the bride, for it is the groom who is deemed to be the lucky one. The one who has found the lady of his dreams and somehow managed to persuade her to marry him. On this occasion I think I will break with tradition and congratulate both Jared and Jenna on being lucky enough to have found one another, brave enough to have pursued one another and clever enough to have married one another.
Ladies and gents to Jared and Jenna.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Locked out of the house
I had a most discombobulating morning last Thursday, I'm going to tell you all about it . . . .
As you know, due to the academic commitments of the lovely Miss Harper, we are all obliged to rise at 5am on Thursdays and Fridays. Well, the morning proceeded with all the trappings of normality that conducting any kind of business at the god forsaken time can. Girl is clad in Pyjamas, dressing gown and a thick wrapped blanket. She is attempting to sleep whilst eating a croissant and drooling. We make the short journey to the station in good time; the roads are empty with that slightly haunted feeling that early travel affords.
Miss Harper has an amazing memory, she's genuinely gifted in that respect and only needs to see or hear a thing once before being able to recall it. . . However on this occasion she has forgotten her ticket, purse, phone and keys. . . She only does two days a week and so they are packed and important. I had my wallet so we resigned ourselves to the purchase of a new ticket. As we were leaving Miss Harper remembered I had a two hour meeting after school and so I gave her my keys in order that she be able to get in. . . .
Me and Lyra arrived home at about 6:10 only to discover that we had no way of getting in. . . Yes I am a dolt. . . Sadly Miss Harper is very good at locking all the windows, so no possibilities there. . Me and girl start exploring the dark, over grown alley at the back of the house. I can tell she is a little frightened as she is taking long, hunter like steps and her eyes are quite wide. I manage to locate two dustbins which I can stack and use them to climb over a neighbours back gate, ours is unassailably high . . I would then like to tell you that I vaulted over a couple of brick walls in order to get into our back garden. . sadly we all know this to be unlikely. The reality was that I scraped and slithered my way over the walls and finally got into our back yard. It's worth adding to the already compelling image you are no doubt forming that I'm clad in my own pyjamas still . . . Girl isin the alley at this point and becoming increasingly agitated. I slide back the bolt on our back gate and we are both relieved.
I stride purposefully towards the house and break a hundred fat spider webs with my furrowed brow. My hand draws over my face and sadly this results in somewhat sticky eye brows. My right foot lands perfectly in the middle of an old washing up bowl that girl plays with in the garden. It is cold and dirty and manages to bestow these blessings upon my afore mentioned foot and starts to seep up my pyjama leg, just as the dread realisation that I'm going to have to do something drastic is making it's way from my screaming monkey brain down my spine. The two meet and occasion a might sigh.
Girl is getting a bit worried and prophesising that we will “never be able to get in” and moaning about how “We can never go home”. It is her Harvest Festival and she is quite anxious to go armed with a ropey jar of homemade chutney me and Miss Harper are feeling smug about offloading.
As you know, due to the academic commitments of the lovely Miss Harper, we are all obliged to rise at 5am on Thursdays and Fridays. Well, the morning proceeded with all the trappings of normality that conducting any kind of business at the god forsaken time can. Girl is clad in Pyjamas, dressing gown and a thick wrapped blanket. She is attempting to sleep whilst eating a croissant and drooling. We make the short journey to the station in good time; the roads are empty with that slightly haunted feeling that early travel affords.
Miss Harper has an amazing memory, she's genuinely gifted in that respect and only needs to see or hear a thing once before being able to recall it. . . However on this occasion she has forgotten her ticket, purse, phone and keys. . . She only does two days a week and so they are packed and important. I had my wallet so we resigned ourselves to the purchase of a new ticket. As we were leaving Miss Harper remembered I had a two hour meeting after school and so I gave her my keys in order that she be able to get in. . . .
Me and Lyra arrived home at about 6:10 only to discover that we had no way of getting in. . . Yes I am a dolt. . . Sadly Miss Harper is very good at locking all the windows, so no possibilities there. . Me and girl start exploring the dark, over grown alley at the back of the house. I can tell she is a little frightened as she is taking long, hunter like steps and her eyes are quite wide. I manage to locate two dustbins which I can stack and use them to climb over a neighbours back gate, ours is unassailably high . . I would then like to tell you that I vaulted over a couple of brick walls in order to get into our back garden. . sadly we all know this to be unlikely. The reality was that I scraped and slithered my way over the walls and finally got into our back yard. It's worth adding to the already compelling image you are no doubt forming that I'm clad in my own pyjamas still . . . Girl isin the alley at this point and becoming increasingly agitated. I slide back the bolt on our back gate and we are both relieved.
I stride purposefully towards the house and break a hundred fat spider webs with my furrowed brow. My hand draws over my face and sadly this results in somewhat sticky eye brows. My right foot lands perfectly in the middle of an old washing up bowl that girl plays with in the garden. It is cold and dirty and manages to bestow these blessings upon my afore mentioned foot and starts to seep up my pyjama leg, just as the dread realisation that I'm going to have to do something drastic is making it's way from my screaming monkey brain down my spine. The two meet and occasion a might sigh.
Girl is getting a bit worried and prophesising that we will “never be able to get in” and moaning about how “We can never go home”. It is her Harvest Festival and she is quite anxious to go armed with a ropey jar of homemade chutney me and Miss Harper are feeling smug about offloading.
I realise that there is no alternative but for me to kick down the back door. Our back door has a variety of locks and I am determined to preserve the Chubb lock so that I can leave the house secure that day. I need to kick the dead bolt off and hope the Chubb will just ‘pop’. The first difficulty I am faced with is the fact that the dead bolt is fitted to the top of the door. Despite embodying the perfect hybrid of Adonis and a ninja my reach is somewhat . . limited. . I improvise by hanging off of the adjacent wall and thrashing at the top of the door. I’m conscious of the fact that I look a little bit like an Umpa-Lumpa being electrocuted . . It’s not like it is in the movies. In fact it took about ten minutes of thrashing and kicking for me to kick the dead-bolt off. . . At one point in proceedings Lyra decided to lend a hand. She took a run up, growled to summon the ‘strength of the bear’ and hurled herself at the door. Sadly our trajectories merely resulted in me being mildly hamstrung.
Most neighbours exist somewhere on the curious to obsessively nosey spectrum and ours are no different. It is with more than a mild sense of resentment that I noted not one of them decided to even curtain twitch, despite the kicking, bear noises, splintering of wood and other criminal type sounds. . .
Finally we gain entry to our house, the dead bolt springs off of the door with a satisfying cry and lands somewhere behind the freezer. . We are in, and both greatly relieved. I am quite hot and I can feel the kind of sweat which arrives suddenly and leaves with entirely less alacrity. For the second time that day I shower. We are preparing to leave the house when the doorbell rings. Miss Harper has arrived in a cab, having noted our predicament as soon as we left her. . .
It is about 7:00am, we have purchased an unneeded ticket, I have kicked the back door in, Miss Harper has missed a day at university, we are quite tired. Never mind, I have a full day at work complete with two hour afterschool meeting to brighten my mood.
By the time I had repaired the door that evening (thank god ‘twas wood and not PVC) and had a glass of wine I was more than ready for my bed. . .
Apologies for the rather second rate recounting of this tale, but it’s been a piecemeal affair, assembled in those precious moments when children are capable of whole minutes of autonomy.
A small holiday in Hele.
The car exhaust (although apparently not, based on an exhaust check-up this weekend at KwikFit) was making a bit of a noise so I had to make a decision on the Friday morning as to whether or not we should go or not. I had a ton of marking and what with the dreadful black of the end of hols beginning to sink its rotten teeth into my happiness. . Anyway we decided it would be silly not to go and whilst the car is noisy it doesn't feel wrong or bad.
We drove down on the old A30 via Oakhampton which was quite nice, we made good time and got to the caravan park in about two and a half hours. We arrived at about 4:00, the check-in process was staggered and we were located towards the end, so spent a slightly grating 20 minutes in the company of northern families, universally big, red, sporting multiple babies and pints. . . They (of course) carry out the last minute sales pitch upon arrival - for only £££ you can upgrade to premier, prestige or god like accommodation etc. When I enquired about the next level up from our bottom of the range economy caravan I was informed that as well as a Microwave Oven it had heating in each room. This rather alarmed me by planting the sense that the bedrooms in our caravan would be freezing, however conscious of poverty I elected not to upgrade anything. We finally got to our caravan at about 4:45 and were pleasantly suprised. It was clean spacious and modern. In fact it was quite charming. I have tons of photos, but they are at home and I am at work so they will have to be forwarded at a later date. Everyone on the campsite smokes, and I must admit we did allow ourselves a weekends relapse.
Life in the Caravan for those two short nights was simply amazing, I think the small scale nature of everything, having to keep the one large kitchen/lounge clean. Washing up after each cup of tea, shopping for each meal etc all contributed to a reassuring sense of a small and somehow more manageable world and existence. All of the heaving complexity and chaos of life were forgotten and replaced with a world so small it was knowable in its entirety without any of the anxiety inducing scale of normal life. In this sense I think this is the first adult holiday I have ever had. Before they have always been an excuse to get messy or an expedient caving-in to the wishes of another.
So having been fleeced at the over-priced and monopolistic Spar we sat down and made our first Caravan cuppa. We decided to wonder down the road to the cliff-side pub for our tea and abandoned early any attempts to maintain our (faltering) diets. Our spirits were high and we wondered together along the road for 5 minutes, holding hands with Lyra in the middle. On these occasions she likes to be trated to what she refers to as '1,2 3's' which consist of her counting these numbers and then being lifted whilst jumping on the final count. Enjoyabale and yet quite damaging to one's sense of shoulder well being. Everything including the salad garnish (more garnish than salad) seemed to be soaked in vegetable oil. Our vision of a charming independent public house soon evaporated as it became clear that like everything else made of plastic or charging money in a 2 mile radius it was in fact owned by Haven. We settled at a table outside adjacent to the children's play area and sat close against the wind (girl feels no cold) sipping our Newcastle brown ales and forking fat chips. We stayed for a couple of hours, soaking in the sea and allowing some of the wrinkles of a confined journey and hectic life to depart. We walked back to our temporary home fat and content, although perhaps feeling a little greasy. . .
That evening was sweet and largely followed the templates of our evenings at home, girl managed to get to bed after the reading of some stories (she elected to bring several Dr Who annuals in addition to her newly acquired sonic screwdriver) and was very good about being in this alien environment. Me and my clever beautiful wife talked and drank and talked some more. We had a small television, which seemed quite cheery and somehow in keeping with the holiday, it was left on most of the evening and bleated out it's pleasantly numbing narratives involving Police chases and people who felt ugly or fat and people who felt angry and scared at the way they raised their children. . I'm sure you know better than me the nature of TV entertainment. We talked as we often do about our happinesses and worries and how lucky we feel.
The next morning was dominated by one thing: cold. I can't believe how cold our little home became in the morning. In an effort to raise enough warmth to prevent my own breath from steaming no only was the lounge calor-gas heater engaged, but also all four of the gas rings on the stove. After some 30 minutes an only midly painful chill remained. As often happens girl awoke next and joined me, we watched some children's TV (a rare treat almost on the same scale of excitement as yoghurt) and lay together on the sofa. Girl had terribly cold hands when she woke up. My lovely wife arose and joined us on the curved L shaped sofa that run the length of the lounge area. We drank much tea and I cooked us a remarkably tasty but low fat grilled Vege breakfast of Toms, waffles, beans, toast, scrambled egg and mushrooms. A last minute Tomato Ketchup run to the Spar enhanced the occasion. With 11 o'clock begining to itch we decided we would head to St Ives for a day at the beach. We packed up some lunch bits, stopped at the supermarket to restock Wine and bits and purchased a little disposable BBQ.
We set off along the Hayle road and as the signs for Carbis Bay came into site we decided to change our plans. So strong was the Carbis lure and so palpable my desire to share that thread of my won childhood with my family we ended up there. It was divine. Metsake we drove passed Lilliputs and got within metres of Grandma's house. Thoughts of scampering there with you on the obligatory Bournville mission filled me. All of the smells and feelings of boyhood rushed to assemble at the front of my mind, I though of you and smiled a lot. We drove the car all the way down to a little beach car-park, offered up the princely sum of £2 and walked the 20 metres to the beach. It was a beautiful warm day and one of those which seems to underline the yellow of sand and the blues of sea and sky. The world looks like the cover of a National Geographic magazine on such days. Despite the clement conditions the beach was virtually deserted, I think no more than a dozen other people were on it. We had a lovely afternoon. The rotten starfish that's been my travelling companion in the car since girl liberated it from Dawlish was finally offered up its freedom. Girl scampered and skipped and both she and my lovely wife allowed the white waves to nip and break on their feet and heels. I was able to quite put aside all thoughts of work and money and enjoyed myself greatly. After perhaps three hours we sauntered back to the car and drove home. That evening we feated on BBQ'd vege burgers, toms, peppers and mushrooms. We watched Dr Who together on the sofa, with girl making admirable contributions to the Dr's own adventures through the application of her own Sonic Screwdriver. After girl fell asleep we drifted into the ritual of our evening and talked long and honestly about things that have passed. Never have I known it possible to feel so known by another, we talked and as so often it is our conversation was affirming and beautiful. I am the luckiest boy in the world.
Having become adept at the best methods for injecting humane temperatures into the caravan I was able to raise the ambient temp quite quickly, my breath only fogging the place for about 15 minutes. We got up, ate a more modest breakfast of toast and tea. Whilst Candy dressed, me and girl scampered off to the on site playground for ten minutes. We walked down the pub road, but this time continued all the way down to the beach at Hayle. It was another glorious affair. Lots of natural rock pools and a free flowing (and repeatedly dammable) stream. Girl played super games with half a dozen other children as they balanced the whims of construction and destruction that the beach fosters in children. I sat close to my wife and shared a sense of the passing of time and a return to the worries of normal life. We ate and decided to spend our last few hours looking around St. Ives. We walked back to the car and headed along the road. We parked the car and begain the steep descent down into St. Ives. It was quite lovely, lots of independent and interesting shops. Lots of clothes for babies and children that verged on being to die for. For the first time in my life lately I have been conscious of wanting more money, never for its own sake, but merely as a means of giving Candy and girl pretty things from time to time. . . Me and girl had sun sticky ice-creams as we walked the winding streets of St. Ives. I managed to nip into a sweet shop and purchase three of the truffles that Candy is fond of. We then spent around an hour trying to locate the car-park we had used. Sound familiar Metska? We decided to take a different way back and to journey via Plymouth. This proved somewhat ill advised as there would seem to have been a serious accident and there were quite lengthy jams and tailbacks. As we moved through the sirens and lights scene I though I'd seen a body lying covered on a stretcher. Candy was inclined to suggest she'd seen a neck-brace. It felt odd passing through the time and place of another's death, although given our different perceptions - perhaps it was merely the time and place of a terrible accident. The journey home took about three and a half hours and I must admit hankering to be wrapped in the blue patterned duvets of youth and sprawled in the foot-well of the back of the car. As we drew closer to home I felt a Tuppence like sense of excitement. I'm always filled with an excite mixture of relief and happines when I can visually confirm that our little house is still intact. We spent that evening with Candy hand writing out the essays she needed to mark, whilst I completed some awful redundancy papers and about why I should not be one of the five to be sacked. . . We slept well, stayed up a bit too late in an attempt to keep Monday at bay and resolved to go back soon.
We drove down on the old A30 via Oakhampton which was quite nice, we made good time and got to the caravan park in about two and a half hours. We arrived at about 4:00, the check-in process was staggered and we were located towards the end, so spent a slightly grating 20 minutes in the company of northern families, universally big, red, sporting multiple babies and pints. . . They (of course) carry out the last minute sales pitch upon arrival - for only £££ you can upgrade to premier, prestige or god like accommodation etc. When I enquired about the next level up from our bottom of the range economy caravan I was informed that as well as a Microwave Oven it had heating in each room. This rather alarmed me by planting the sense that the bedrooms in our caravan would be freezing, however conscious of poverty I elected not to upgrade anything. We finally got to our caravan at about 4:45 and were pleasantly suprised. It was clean spacious and modern. In fact it was quite charming. I have tons of photos, but they are at home and I am at work so they will have to be forwarded at a later date. Everyone on the campsite smokes, and I must admit we did allow ourselves a weekends relapse.
Life in the Caravan for those two short nights was simply amazing, I think the small scale nature of everything, having to keep the one large kitchen/lounge clean. Washing up after each cup of tea, shopping for each meal etc all contributed to a reassuring sense of a small and somehow more manageable world and existence. All of the heaving complexity and chaos of life were forgotten and replaced with a world so small it was knowable in its entirety without any of the anxiety inducing scale of normal life. In this sense I think this is the first adult holiday I have ever had. Before they have always been an excuse to get messy or an expedient caving-in to the wishes of another.
So having been fleeced at the over-priced and monopolistic Spar we sat down and made our first Caravan cuppa. We decided to wonder down the road to the cliff-side pub for our tea and abandoned early any attempts to maintain our (faltering) diets. Our spirits were high and we wondered together along the road for 5 minutes, holding hands with Lyra in the middle. On these occasions she likes to be trated to what she refers to as '1,2 3's' which consist of her counting these numbers and then being lifted whilst jumping on the final count. Enjoyabale and yet quite damaging to one's sense of shoulder well being. Everything including the salad garnish (more garnish than salad) seemed to be soaked in vegetable oil. Our vision of a charming independent public house soon evaporated as it became clear that like everything else made of plastic or charging money in a 2 mile radius it was in fact owned by Haven. We settled at a table outside adjacent to the children's play area and sat close against the wind (girl feels no cold) sipping our Newcastle brown ales and forking fat chips. We stayed for a couple of hours, soaking in the sea and allowing some of the wrinkles of a confined journey and hectic life to depart. We walked back to our temporary home fat and content, although perhaps feeling a little greasy. . .
That evening was sweet and largely followed the templates of our evenings at home, girl managed to get to bed after the reading of some stories (she elected to bring several Dr Who annuals in addition to her newly acquired sonic screwdriver) and was very good about being in this alien environment. Me and my clever beautiful wife talked and drank and talked some more. We had a small television, which seemed quite cheery and somehow in keeping with the holiday, it was left on most of the evening and bleated out it's pleasantly numbing narratives involving Police chases and people who felt ugly or fat and people who felt angry and scared at the way they raised their children. . I'm sure you know better than me the nature of TV entertainment. We talked as we often do about our happinesses and worries and how lucky we feel.
The next morning was dominated by one thing: cold. I can't believe how cold our little home became in the morning. In an effort to raise enough warmth to prevent my own breath from steaming no only was the lounge calor-gas heater engaged, but also all four of the gas rings on the stove. After some 30 minutes an only midly painful chill remained. As often happens girl awoke next and joined me, we watched some children's TV (a rare treat almost on the same scale of excitement as yoghurt) and lay together on the sofa. Girl had terribly cold hands when she woke up. My lovely wife arose and joined us on the curved L shaped sofa that run the length of the lounge area. We drank much tea and I cooked us a remarkably tasty but low fat grilled Vege breakfast of Toms, waffles, beans, toast, scrambled egg and mushrooms. A last minute Tomato Ketchup run to the Spar enhanced the occasion. With 11 o'clock begining to itch we decided we would head to St Ives for a day at the beach. We packed up some lunch bits, stopped at the supermarket to restock Wine and bits and purchased a little disposable BBQ.
We set off along the Hayle road and as the signs for Carbis Bay came into site we decided to change our plans. So strong was the Carbis lure and so palpable my desire to share that thread of my won childhood with my family we ended up there. It was divine. Metsake we drove passed Lilliputs and got within metres of Grandma's house. Thoughts of scampering there with you on the obligatory Bournville mission filled me. All of the smells and feelings of boyhood rushed to assemble at the front of my mind, I though of you and smiled a lot. We drove the car all the way down to a little beach car-park, offered up the princely sum of £2 and walked the 20 metres to the beach. It was a beautiful warm day and one of those which seems to underline the yellow of sand and the blues of sea and sky. The world looks like the cover of a National Geographic magazine on such days. Despite the clement conditions the beach was virtually deserted, I think no more than a dozen other people were on it. We had a lovely afternoon. The rotten starfish that's been my travelling companion in the car since girl liberated it from Dawlish was finally offered up its freedom. Girl scampered and skipped and both she and my lovely wife allowed the white waves to nip and break on their feet and heels. I was able to quite put aside all thoughts of work and money and enjoyed myself greatly. After perhaps three hours we sauntered back to the car and drove home. That evening we feated on BBQ'd vege burgers, toms, peppers and mushrooms. We watched Dr Who together on the sofa, with girl making admirable contributions to the Dr's own adventures through the application of her own Sonic Screwdriver. After girl fell asleep we drifted into the ritual of our evening and talked long and honestly about things that have passed. Never have I known it possible to feel so known by another, we talked and as so often it is our conversation was affirming and beautiful. I am the luckiest boy in the world.
Having become adept at the best methods for injecting humane temperatures into the caravan I was able to raise the ambient temp quite quickly, my breath only fogging the place for about 15 minutes. We got up, ate a more modest breakfast of toast and tea. Whilst Candy dressed, me and girl scampered off to the on site playground for ten minutes. We walked down the pub road, but this time continued all the way down to the beach at Hayle. It was another glorious affair. Lots of natural rock pools and a free flowing (and repeatedly dammable) stream. Girl played super games with half a dozen other children as they balanced the whims of construction and destruction that the beach fosters in children. I sat close to my wife and shared a sense of the passing of time and a return to the worries of normal life. We ate and decided to spend our last few hours looking around St. Ives. We walked back to the car and headed along the road. We parked the car and begain the steep descent down into St. Ives. It was quite lovely, lots of independent and interesting shops. Lots of clothes for babies and children that verged on being to die for. For the first time in my life lately I have been conscious of wanting more money, never for its own sake, but merely as a means of giving Candy and girl pretty things from time to time. . . Me and girl had sun sticky ice-creams as we walked the winding streets of St. Ives. I managed to nip into a sweet shop and purchase three of the truffles that Candy is fond of. We then spent around an hour trying to locate the car-park we had used. Sound familiar Metska? We decided to take a different way back and to journey via Plymouth. This proved somewhat ill advised as there would seem to have been a serious accident and there were quite lengthy jams and tailbacks. As we moved through the sirens and lights scene I though I'd seen a body lying covered on a stretcher. Candy was inclined to suggest she'd seen a neck-brace. It felt odd passing through the time and place of another's death, although given our different perceptions - perhaps it was merely the time and place of a terrible accident. The journey home took about three and a half hours and I must admit hankering to be wrapped in the blue patterned duvets of youth and sprawled in the foot-well of the back of the car. As we drew closer to home I felt a Tuppence like sense of excitement. I'm always filled with an excite mixture of relief and happines when I can visually confirm that our little house is still intact. We spent that evening with Candy hand writing out the essays she needed to mark, whilst I completed some awful redundancy papers and about why I should not be one of the five to be sacked. . . We slept well, stayed up a bit too late in an attempt to keep Monday at bay and resolved to go back soon.
Friday, 1 January 2010
The killer K (Older couples who don’t hold hands)
I'm quite happy to note that once again Forward Press have been kind enough to include one of my sketchy pieces in a forthcoming anthology - A Tapestry Of Thoughts.
The killer K (Older couples who don’t hold hands)
Her lover is the night,The killer K (Older couples who don’t hold hands)
but not the shining kind; too prone to rust.
The breath on her neck is but the draft,
appealing with its joyous flux.
Sat on opposing sides of the table.
On opposing sides of a life almost shared.
They look past one another.
When did the K attach itself to new.
What ever became of new.
Remember the days before we thought we knew.
She longs for a touch unburdened by the ritualised memory of years.
Pasteurised experience and straight line patterns strangle slowly the new.
She has screamed and whispered it all before;
see me,
as I am,
not as I perhaps have been.
A prison that was once a shelter - his understanding of her.
Each one of his presumptions adds a bar.
He still sometimes longs for touch, but learnt fears dull the impulse.
He knows it all, he thinks. How it has been, how it is.
Gazing at the auguries of their static embraces he even knows how it will be.
She has sought the new, outside and in.
In her face and in her dresses.
Sometimes she longs simply for a new name to answer to.
A new word which won’t reek of their past.
Instead she cries the same thick mascara tears.
They hide from one another in their blandishments.
They are always OK.
It is formulised this enquiry and response.
They talk,
at one another,
from time to time.
By reflex alone they remain;
half greedy for a lukewarm taste of contact.
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