the domesticated bohemian

Clearing Up - A Story.

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sat, 28 Apr 2018 16:57:00 +0000

His hair is yet another shade closer to white, and there’s a frailty that wasn’t there in the Autumn. It’s the 28^th April, the time for planting, and for new growth on the allotment. But I soon guess that he’s here to clear up, and that he is giving up his plot. He has arrived with his two adult sons, both in their forties by the look of it. They look incongruous. A bright fleece, a sporty zip up ski-jacket, and they are both wearing gloves I wouldn’t dream of wearing at the allotment.

At first the three of them stand around, not quite knowing where to start. Eventually one son decides to take the lead. He checks with his Dad the extent of the plot to be cleared, and then says that they need a strategy. They decide to start at one corner and work from there. They are trying to identify what might be re-used by other plot holders, what they can use in their own gardens, and what needs to be disposed of elsewhere.

Their Dad looks like he’s in no hurry and keeps pausing. They too have to pause to ask him for direction on what to do with whatever they have just found. To the uninitiated I suppose it all looks like rubbish. Bits of metal, bits of plastic, worn and muddy tools, all half submerged in weeds and grass. But it’s not all rubbish. However many times the sons might say “This has seen better days, Dad.” I’ve seen him use those things to grow runner beans, cabbages, sprouts, and rainbow chard. He grew rainbow chard every year. The plants are like spinach, but the leaves are longer and more upright as they grow. The spines and ribs of the deep green leaves are bright colours. Red, yellow, orange. I’ve enjoyed seeing it every year, but it looks like that won’t be happening anymore.

I catch their Dad’s eye from my plot and give him a nod and a wave. He returns the favour, glad I think for a bit of normality. Neither he nor I come to our plots for chat, we don't even know each others names. We come here to feel close to the soil, to feel the sun on our backs, and to produce good food through hard work. The nod or wave is the only acknowledgement we need.

They continue and I listen while I work. The sons don’t recognise half the items they find, and their Dad explains. The explanation is consistently modest, underestimating what can result from the use of such commonplace items as wire, wood, plastic, and steel. A lot of the smaller bits and pieces go into black bin bags. The still useful stuff gets loaded into wheelbarrows and is shipped to the top of the allotment site for others to use. Their Dad tries to help his sons with the heavier bits but he struggles and decides to leave those to his sons. Instead he watches with hands on hips, hesitant to take the next step on the clear up.

By now I’m done with my work, and am sitting on my bench. He spots me and calls over. “Might these be any use?” I go over to see what he’s referring to. There are plant supports, and several seedling covers made from bent bits of wire mesh. “That’s really kind of you,” I say “I’m sure I can find a use for those." He looks pleased. “I’m sorry to see you’re leaving your plot.” He then uses that gesture that I think I only see men use. He nods by moving his head up and then slowly down. As the nod subsides his mouth opens slightly before the lips quickly purse together again. “Too much work now,” he says “and I’m past it. Twelve years though.” “That’s a long time. You’ll miss it.” He does the nod again, looks at the ground at for a moment before looking back up at me. “You do get……… attached.” Our eyes meet for a moment before he looks back to the ground. “I’ve moved out of the area now as well.” “Have you got a garden where you are now?” He laughs. “No. We’re in a flat now. There’s a big shared garden though, so I get to sit in that, which is something.”

As his sons come a little closer he goes back to clearing up, and I head back to my plot with my inheritance. I clear up my stuff to head home. I wonder what I might say as I leave.

“Thanks for these. See you later.” I say “Enjoy your well earned rest.” Once again the silent slow nod, the smile, and the familiar wave. “Thank you.” He says, and I head home.

The 80th Birthday Party - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sat, 28 Oct 2017 21:32:00 +0000

Someone clicked play, and the DVD started. The large house they had booked for the weekend had an enormous TV, and the family had gathered on the three huge sofas in the larger of the two lounges. The sixty year old film was, of course, black and white. It was also exceptionally dark and grainy. As much an historical artefact as a family heirloom.

Maurice had transferred it to DVD a few years ago. The film had deteriorated, and he had caught it just in time. One by one, every man, woman, and child fell silent.

There were scenes of people milling round outside the church before a wedding. Such great outfits, the men's suits well-tailored compared to todays high street shops. It was Pam’s first wedding. To Robert. Pam was Joan’s sister, and it was Joan’s 80^th birthday party.

“There’s your Dad” said Pam to her daughter. Robert had passed away a long time ago. He was dearly missed by many. His grandchildren were still playing the game where you read the newspaper and substitute the word Sausage for every word beginning with an S. Roger, Pam’s second husband took Pam’s hand in his and squeezed it.

“There you are, Joan!” said Maurice, clearly delighted to see the young Joan on the screen. Joan was a pretty young woman in her early twenties, quite stylish for the time. But the film betrayed some youthful nervousness as her smile sometimes dissolved into a look of some uncertainty. Maurice looked over to Joan, now silver haired and almost regal looking. And he smiled, glad to be back in her company once more.

Joan also smiled and shook her head at the sight of her younger self, and then the smile disappeared and there was a brief glimpse of that same nervousness.

“This was all I wanted for my Birthday. Family. And my friends of course. But I’ve known you two so long,” she nodded in the direction of Maurice and Pete “that you are family.”

Pete, like Maurice, had his eyes fixed to the screen, his focus entirely on the younger Jean. He had driven hundreds of miles to get here. He’d picked Maurice up in Streatham . Pete was 87 now, but didn’t seem it. As he bent forward there was still a leanness about him.

They took turns identifying various aunts and uncles, cousins, parents and grandparents. There were sharp intakes of breath as the two sisters spotted their mother and father, now long gone. Yet, on the film, they laughed and smiled, and looked all the world as if they might walk into the room at any moment.

The film then switched to inside the church. The quality was very poor at this point. Eventually the sound of the service remained, but the picture switched to still photos of the family. You could still hear the vicar working his way through the ceremony, but the pictures showed older relations sat in Victorian era posed photographs. Older people seated, the younger women standing respectfully.

The older relatives in the room identified the people in the photos for the younger people. And then the film moved on to the reception. The quality was a little better and there was something timeless about the scenes. Good friends eating and drinking. The faces of Joan, Pam, Maurice, and Pete, all fixed on the screen. They were bathed in that glow you normally only get at the cinema. By now some of the other family in the room were focused more on the reactions of the four old friends than they were the screen itself.

Joan’s smile turned a little more melancholy as a handsome young man in uniform filled the screen.

“Your Father” she said, turning to her two daughters. The young man on screen drained his glass and lit a cigarette. No one in the room commented further.

The speeches at the reception were given in what sounded like rather refined accents for a South London wedding. Pam’s daughter watched her Father’s every move during his groom’s speech. There was a fragility in his gestures, and despite his youth, a slight tremor to his voice. The men all seemed solemnly dressed, yet a few of the women were exuberantly dressed and seemed timeless.

“The incredible thing about this” said Pete “is that, apart from us four, every other single person is now dead.”

Joan nodded. “Just us now.”

The room became silent again as the film came to an end, and the DVD was returned to its case.

The younger people waited patiently, and helped the older ones into their coats. And then it was time for Pam, Joan, Maurice, and Pete to say their farewells. Pete took Joan by both hands before clasping her to him, a little clumsily, taking her by surprise. All four faces seemed still to hold the glow from the screen, and each farewell involved a long embrace. The smiles seemed to grow less certain as the four parted and headed stiffly out of the door.

In A Cell - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Mon, 09 Oct 2017 20:18:00 +0000

I'm not in the habit of lying. Not since I was a child and my Father beat that out of me. Yet, they don't believe me. I don't know how to make someone believe me. Maybe they think I'm just the type. Always the quiet ones, that sort of thing.

They say the camera never lies, don't they. How about mirrors? I suppose I look unremarkable. I've noticed recently that, although I'm still thin, my skin droops a bit. I look sort of haunted. Maybe that makes me look suspicious?

I tend to keep myself to myself. People seem to find that a bit odd. I'd always thought that I'd finish work and have a quiet retirement. I guess I won't get to retire now.

Mind you, I don't have any casual clothes. Trousers, shirts, ties. A couple of suits. I don't own a pair of trainers. Yet, those are are all some people wear. I've always found that a bit common. I heard it called "Ath-leisure" the other day. I think it's just sloppy.

How do you make yourself look "not guilty."? Maybe if I look a bit more humble. But I think the jury have made their minds up already. They think I look shifty, I can tell by how they look at me. Maybe I am shifty.

It's been a while now. We've had arguements in court about evidence, we've had witnesses in tears, and we've had barristers get all adamant that they are on the right side of things. That they are advocating for truth. I'm not even sure what the truth is any more.

I've tried not to panic, not to be afraid, but it's impossible. I've spent enough time incarcerated during the trial to know what a nightmare it would be if I was actually found guilty.

Remanded is a funny word. It sounds like remainded, or remainder. It's as if prisoners consist of leftovers. I suppose that's right. A prisoner is what's left when a human is deprived of their freedom.

Being in court is almost as boring as being in a cell. I just have to be there, and listen. People discuss what I did or didn't do, what time and where. They argue about my state of mind. They don't care if I am terrified, that I don't necessarily feel able to survive in prison.

I'm tired of it. It's gone on so long. Perhaps I should have pleaded guilty. Let them do want they want with me. Look's like they will anyway.

The Cell door clanked and opened. The chap who is looking after me isn't a bad sort.

"It's time Michael."

I thank him, and he leads me back to the stairs back to the courtroom. I'm back in the dock. A ship that might not get out of the port ever again.

Yet again, we are waiting for the Judge.

"All rise."

Danny In Hospital - A Carrington Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Wed, 04 Oct 2017 20:16:00 +0000

"Well thank fuck for that. I thought you were going to sleep forever. I brought you some grapes. Not many, but grapes anyway."

Danny slowly focused on Tony's face. It was either hell or he was still alive. Tony's ugly face would surely not be allowed in heaven.

"Where am I?"

"Lewisham. The hospital like."

"Well I guessed it was the hospital."

"Well you asked." said Tony "Manners are not improved by heart attacks I see."

"The weirdest thing is my head hurts the most, like a hangover."

"You also whacked it when you fell. A couple of stitches there."

Danny felt his head and ran his fingers across the stitches.

"I got your money for you. From the job like." Tony dug in his pocket and brought out an envelope. "They brought it round to Carrington. And send best wishes."

"That's that then I suppose." said Danny.

"What do you mean?"

"Work. No one'll want this ould fella now." Danny tucked the envelope into a nearby drawer. "They've been wanting the young fellas for a while now Tony, and I'm not one of those. And neither are you."

"I've got years in me. And so have you. You can't beat experience."

"You don't need experience to break stuff, or dig stuff. And I can't see an office job coming my way anytime soon." Danny ran out of breath and laid back his head.

"Shall I call someone Dan?"

Danny shook his head.

"We'll be ok Dan, me and you. You had me worried mind." then quieter "I thought I'd lost you." He laid his hand on Danny's. As he did so he realised how old they both looked. Wrinkled and too tanned, liver spots and swollen knuckles. He allowed his hand to rest a moment and then took it back.

"You have a comfortable bed and nurses though, Dan. I see nice arses wherever I look."

Danny laughed at this.

"You don't change do you Tony? You dirty minded bastard."

"I will take that as a compliment, Sir." Tony smiled his ugly gapped tooth smile. "And I see they have you in a dress now. Did you forget your best pyjamas then?"

"I don't tend to carry them with me when working on the roads. I'm gasping for a fag, but they won't let me. And they say they're bad for me. But working like a fucking donkey isn't bad for me. They don't mind that."

Tony lent forward.

"You're tired man. I'll head off and I'll come see you again tomorrow."

"You're probably right, you're probably right. Thanks Tony."

They shook hands.

"No problem at all Mr Brannigan. Just watch what you're doing with that big nurse over there, in case you have another turn."

Tony headed off, laughing to himself, and pulling a can of lager from his pocket.

On The Roads - A Carrington Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 01 Oct 2017 12:34:00 +0000

The sun was high in the sky, blazing down on the Holloway Road. Danny had been picked up for some work, and had been hard at it all morning.

"Sometimes the red buses seem like the only colour." he said to the other man working on the same patch of road.

"You what?" was all he got back.

"Never mind, son."

Danny laid the pneumatic drill to one side and peeled off his shirt, which he tied around his waist. He rolled a cigarette and lit it. The flare of the match barely showed up in the bright sunlight, and he had to shield the flame with his other hand as he raised the match to his cigarette.

"Get on with it mate." said the foreman. "We've got to get done and out of here to another job."

Danny sighed and stretched out his back, hands on his hips. He brought up his hands and felt the line of his ribs, and was glad for the fact that his trousers hid his bony old legs.

He picked up the drill. When you started these things up, the world became a fuzz of noise. The machine gun rattle, together with the other noises. The car horns, the noise of dozens of engines speeding and slowing. The underfoot rumble of the Victoria Line. All of these became just minor notes in the hammering.

'It's like controlling some mad horse.' he thought to himself 'A noisy fuckin' horse.'

After a while the impact seemed to move up from the ground, through your arms, to your neck and then your head. You saw the ground split, crack, and break, but felt it in your skull. The sharp bit may as well have been on your forehead as the ground. It was your hands and arms that felt the effects afterwards of course. Danny knew he'd be broken tonight, unable to lift his arms. Some nights after using the drill he'd need both hands to lift a pint. He'd manage that though. But lighting a fag would need him to bring his head down to meet his hands halfway.

His cigarette was currently jammed between his lips while the drill continued its work trying to shake him to bits. The road was full of dust from the work, and blue exhaust fumes from the old buses and lorries. 'Yet I still like a smoke while I work. Mad.'

The afternoon went on in much the same way. He'd break it up and the other guy would shift it off. He still didn't have much to say for himself, that one. It made a long day last longer.

"I'm melting here." Danny said, trying a smile. "If I sweat much more there'll be nothing left of me."

"There's not much left now." said the miserable faced one. And that was that for another hour. Not the most sparkling conversationalist.

Danny felt the sweat running down his back and wiped his wet forehead, pushing back into his hair. His heart was banging in his chest now. He had the wild beast of a drill jumping in his hands, hammering in his skull, and his heart was pounding out as well. His arms ached and ached.

Then it all came together like thunder, and then lightning. And then the pain. My god, the pain. He tried to shout as he dropped the drill but no sound came. He fell to his knees, and then the ground, his chest screaming. He saw faces, their mouths moving, but no sound. Then they became indistinct, the faces, and then the light was turned off.

Greek Diary #2

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Tue, 26 Sep 2017 20:21:00 +0000

Hat on the jetty

The sun was low. There was a flat sparkle on the water, but still some spray blowing onto the seafront. Fortunately for her the wind was blowing straight along the length of the jetty.

It lifted her hat from her head when she was two thirds of the way along. Her hand slapped onto her head a fraction too late. But she turned quickly. The hat was like a wheel come loose from a car, it span on its edge, spinning away from her, running in a straight line back to land.

She was quick enough to catch up and caught it by the brim. Back on her head it went, this time held in place by her right hand. She caught up with her man. By now he had learnt a lesson and clamped his hat down in a similar fashion.

Feet

Being in Greece is like being in summer. I'm laying here on a sunbed beneath a baking sun set in a beautiful blue sky. The whiteness of the few clouds just emphasises the blueness.

My feet are normally the bluey white of a marble statue. I like to compare them to Michelangelo's David, but I think I might be kidding myself. But right now they are a kind of dirty yellowy brown. Not a tan so much as an ochre wash. Like a watercolour artist has spilt a bit as I walked by.

And my feet are happy being naked. No strange aches or pains, which is increasingly their lot nowadays. They've forgotten what cold is. Yet, in the none too distant future, the British Autumn will fade into Winter. Out will come the thicker socks, artfully handknitted by my generous wife. Then, in due course, the Wellies will get an outing. Thick rubber insulated with neoprene. My poor toes will be hemmed into a winter cave, yet still touched by the chill.

Until spring finally arrives, and my feet might be free again, by now drained of colour and back to their normal porcelain selves.

Larger Scandinavian Ladies in their pants.

During the first week of our holiday in Parga, our neighbours on the next balcony were a couple from Norway. I engaged in polite conversation with one of them, whose English was good, and even got so far as touching on the finer points of Norwegian literature. I was reading Knausgaard, and his wife had read all of Karl Ove's novels. He recommended I read Knut Hamsun, and I probably will.

In the second week, they have departed and have been followed by two large older Scandinavian ladies who appear to spend most of their days wandering around in their pants. Sometimes, much to Sharon's additional horror, the bra and knickers don't even match. A white bra with black pants caused a particular look of concern. Being out and about in your pants shows that your standards are low. Doing so in mismatched pants shows that you have none.

One of our new neighbours is an avid chainsmoker. And when she's not smoking, she's coughing. That nasty, wheezy, rasp of a smoker's cough. It's particularly spectacular in the morning. A fireworks display of a cough. Her companion doesn't smoke, or cough, but looms large on the balcony in threadbare bras.

The thing that has really got to me is that, although the kitchens are well stocked, they choose to bring their breakfast materials out to the balcony in an old margarine tub. Catering size. Why not use a plate? Or even multiple plates? Set things out nicely. Maybe this is linked to the unsightly near-nakedness. They have perhaps given up on the "Setting things out nicely" aspects of life.

Or perhaps I should admire them for their lack of vanity? Maybe they are children of the Sixties and are happy to "Let it all hang out".

It's not for me though. However I age, and however odd looking I become, I shall not be sitting out in front of strangers in just my pants. I shall seek to set things out nicely. Now, excuse me for a moment, I just need to comb my hair.

Greek Diary #1

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Thu, 21 Sep 2017 20:19:00 +0000

Shouting

The boat captains are strutting cockerels. One of them stands on the prow of his boat and barks at the tourists. He isn't even vaguely trying to be friendly and welcoming, the very opposite of marketing. Anti-marketing.

Then it's time for him and another captain to indulge in a local speciality - Traditional Greek Unnecessary Shouting. It starts with a problem or a disagreement, and then makes absolutely no effort to resolve it. Each man, for it is always men, puts on a show as to who can bellow in the most macho way.

They take turns. Arms are waved around, fingers splayed in bewilderment at the unreasonable position adopted by their opponent. No apparent solution is reached, and gradually the shouting subsides to a muttered curse or two.

Then the attention returns to shouting at tourists. The bout is over, and as usual, it's a draw.

The man who owns the restaurant next to Sakis.

I think most Greeks are Christians, Orthodox Christians. Which is a shame. Particularly for the man who owns the restaurant next to Sakis. If he was a Buddhist he could hope for something better in his next life. As he is most likely a Christian, this is his one shot. And he got to be the man who owns the restaurant next to Sakis.

I'm sure his restaurant is not a bad restaurant. It has customers. A few of them. Now and again. They are greeted with energy, and some surprise, by a large man in red shorts. The head waiter, I suppose. The difficulty is the sheer scale of the difference between the two restaurants. Sakis stretches from the building out into the street, and then fills it with long double rows of tables on both sides. All full. Empty for no longer than 20 seconds. The staff top up the diners from an ever present queue of some 10-20 people, all kept happy with free ouzo while they wait.

When diners sit down at a table in Sakis they look pleased and slightly smug. When diners sit down at a table in the other restaurant they look... well... disappointed. But it's not just them. The staff look disappointed, the whole restaurant looks disappointed. But the most disappointed person is the man who owns the restaurant next to Sakis.

His face is like extra dwarves. Baleful, Doleful, Sad. But there's also an admirable stoicism in there too. He sits in his seat every night, watching the same show play out in front of him. Perhaps he's not unhappy with how things have turned out. Not for him the pressures of running a successful business. He doesn't have to manage a small army of high performing waiters. No pressing obligation to provide Greek dancing. I'm sure his restaurant serves perfectly adequate food, but there is no pressure for that "Wow!" moment. Like when a Sakis waiter brings you grilled octopus, perfectly charred. Smoky crisp on the outside and tender on the inside.

There are no micro traffic jams outside his place, it's pretty free from skulking cats. And his customers, although clearly disappointed, are special. They are the ones that walked past, or couldn't get into, the popular place. They sat down here, and as they did so, they got a friendly nod from the man who owns the restaurant next to Sakis.

The Cutting - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Tue, 14 Feb 2017 20:47:00 +0000

Andrew came across the newspaper cutting while packing. It was as soft as felt. Blurred and brushed at the edges, paper turned to cloth. There was a whole box of stuff that he just moved from house to house. He only looked into the box once every few years, and he'd not seen this particular thing for a decade or more.

When the boy had first arrived at school, the first thing everyone noticed was his Scottishness. His arrival had been announced in advance "A new boy next week, Donald Cameron". What sort of name was Donald? The only Donald Andrew knew was a duck. But the reality of Donald Cameron was something quite different. Andrew had never met a real Scottish person before. Cameron was indecipherable. His hair was black. Not just dark brown, but black. And he wasn't at all scared of being at a new school. He may only have been nine, but he had the swagger of a much older boy.

Cameron was his preferred name, and he was tough. Not pretend tough, not kid tough, but genuinely scary. If he wanted something you had, then you gave him it. Sweets, money, whatever. One day he got into a fight with an older boy. Both had blood on their faces, but the older boy was getting the better of it. Then Cameron pulled up his jumper, reached into the waist of his trousers, and pulled out a knife. This was something new. The older boy backed off, as did the other boys, including Andrew. It seemed as unlikely as someone pulling out a sword. Cameron jutted his chin and just stood there, holding the knife in front of him. The older boy ran.

"You snotty fuckers," Cameron said "Just remember."

He grabbed the neck of one of the boys with his free hand and pushed him away, he spat at another, and shoved past Andrew with his forearm catching him across the face.

Cameron had the run of the place from then on. Did what he wanted. He was lippy with the teachers, he took what he wanted from the other kids. As with all bullies, he attracted his own entourage, but even they still got a beating from him now and then.

His weak point was that he was a show off. One of the things he showed off about was a newspaper cutting. It was the match report from when Hartlepool United had been narrowly beaten in the FA Cup by Manchester United in the 1950s. By the Busby Babes. They came back from 3:0 down and brought it level at 3:3 before finally losing 4:3. He used to bring it out of his desk and show it round. Even then it was yellowed and a bit tattered.

Cameron was busy one day picking on a boy in the corner of the schoolyard. Andrew slipped into the school, up the stairs, and into the classroom. He went to Cameron's desk and lifted the lid. He trembled as he rifled through the desk. He found the newspaper cutting, folded it quickly and put it down his trousers, right down into his pants. He shut the desk. "He'll kill me" he thought. Andrew ran back down the stairs taking two at a time. Back down in the playground he felt completely conspicuous, but no one seemed to have noticed.

Back in the classroom, Cameron didn't notice. Nothing for the rest of the day. Nothing happened the day afterwards either. On the third day Cameron was on the rampage, and headbutted a kid in the playground. It wasn't related, the kid had refused to hand over money which Cameron had taken anyway.

Then Cameron was gone. Apparently it was the knife. He'd been asked to leave or he'd been expelled. He was gone. Andrew had gotten away with it. He'd never told anyone about it, but had kept the cutting safe. When he was younger he'd always justified it by thinking that stealing from thieves couldn't be wrong. He wasn't so sure that would be the lesson he'd teach his own son, but he couldn't help smiling at the bravery of his younger self.

He slipped the cutting back into the envelope and put it in the packing case. He might not take it out and look at it for another ten years, but he wasn't going to throw it away.

Rose - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Thu, 18 Feb 2016 22:15:00 +0000

The door clicked shut behind Rose, and she set off down the street. She hadn't used her best handbag for quite a few years. She had equipped it with extra tissues but hoped they wouldn't be necessary. The one tucked into the sleeve or her cardigan would surely be enough.

Rose had been shocked when she had read the announcement in the paper. But there was no mistake and, although she had tossed and turned about it, she had resolved to attend the funeral.

A hat would have seemed over the top, attention seeking, but a smart coat over a black skirt and top seemed about right. Rose put the bag on her shoulder and clasped her hands neatly together by the row of buttons on her coat.

As she came to the end of the street she saw the church in the distance, and the mourners gathering. She hung back slightly, finally stopping, after all, it was their day and not hers. She took a small mint from her bag and popped it into her mouth. When most of the mourners seemed to have made their way into the church, she set off again.

By the time she got to the church she was the only one at the foot of the steps. Her legs felt heavy as she took the steps one at a time. Funny how marriages leave their trail of confetti, yet births and deaths leave no trace at all.

Most people had settled by the time Rose entered the church. She took her place at the back of the church, shaded slightly from the more brightly lit centre. And then all was quiet. Rose held her hands loosely in her lap and found herself focusing on the dust floating around the back of the pew in front of her.

Then the doors opened and the pall bearers brought in the coffin. Brought in George. Rose allowed herself a moment to flick her eyes from the dust to the coffin, then brought them back quickly, taking a sharp breath. The idea had been to appear as a kind minded regular member of the congregation. Rose was no longer sure what that might look like.

Once the coffin had reached the front of the church Rose lifted her head. "I am the resurrection and the life" said the minister "those that believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die." But, nevertheless, George was there, and most certainly, yet unbelievably, dead.

The church was beautifully lit, and there were sparks of light puncturing the warm gloom. But there were sobs, of course, and quiet words of comfort. Rose watched as if at a much greater distance from it all, mirroring the distance from the George she knew.

Her hands wouldn't be still any longer and she watched like an observer as the fingers of one hand massaged the skin of the other. Old hands now. Not the soft hands that George had once been so kind to, had held so warmly.

The minister had moved on to the part of the service which talked about comforting one another in our grief. He then delivered the tribute to George. It focused, as such things do, on family. It also mentioned the early years at his main employment, where he had met the woman who was to be his wife. Rose was there too of course, but was not mentioned. It was clear from the tribute that George had been a successful family man. Two strapping sons, grandchildren, and even a couple of great-grandchildren.

Of course the point where we all break down is where the Minister says a certain line, in this case "We entrust George to your mercy." It's like a full stop to a life, and Rose pushed her lips tightly together to stop the tears, but this had the opposite effect and they ran freely down her cheeks. Rose dabbed away the tears with the tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan, and once more composed herself. The roof of the church seemed immense, boundless. Rose spent some time looking up at the roof, and shifted slightly in her seat, not quite knowing where to look next. The tears filled her eyes once more but did not drop.

As the Minister came to the part that says "Confident of his victory", Rose knew the end was near (and that the crematorium was private), raised herself, and stepped silently from the pew, and out of the church. She was heading down the steps as she heard the final Amen.

Outside the church the world was oddly normal. Cars, shops, an ordinary day. Rose popped into the corner shop on the way home. "Hello, how are you?" asked the smiling young Indian man. "Just biscuits? How is your day?" "Yes. Good. Just fine, Thank you." Rose paid and left the shop.

Walking down the road Rose's eyes filled with tears once more, and she lifted her eyes to the sky. Allowing herself a sigh, she opened her front door and walked into the house.

"I've brought some biscuits" she called to her husband.

Memory Glimpse - The Candlewick Alps

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Thu, 24 Sep 2015 20:36:00 +0000

I flew over the alps the other day, on the way to Greece. It's always an impressive sight, jagged black peaks, some still snow topped, jutting up at you, and in between them smooth wide valleys.

Given that you're flying at hundreds of miles an hour, it always surprises me how long it takes to pass over the alps. The sparkling rivers and flat shining lakes, old dried out riverbeds, and rough twisting roads.

When I was a very young boy I wouldn't have seen real mountains. The closest I got was one of those line drawings in a encyclopedia, the ones lovingly coloured and detailed by hand with water colours. Particular shades of charcoal, clay brown, and moss green.

I used to lay in bed early in the morning, imagining my bedding as a landscape, Particularly the candlewick bedspread, narrow rows of raised, soft tufted, material, alternating with flat woven rows. A texture like a perfectly ploughed field or a terrace of crops planted in rows.

These lines wound up and down contours, creating hills and valleys. The dark woolen blanket beneath could be exposed and raised with a knee or foot to form the rugged face of a mountain, towering over the softer candlewick lowlands. I'd shift my body by fractions to ease the landscape into the best shape. I'd move an ankle slightly to stretch a field down from a hill, shift a thumb or finger to push up a ridge at a field edge. Then I'd be absolutely still, wanting to hold and fix the world I'd created. Then my eyes and mind would wander the fields, inspect the crops, drive the tractor through the fields. I'd admire the view from the top of a rough wool mountain, my knee shaking slightly from the effort of keeping still for so long.

I'd survey the scale of what I'd created and figure out how tall a person would be in such a landscape. Then I put them there, and pictured them walking the paths, rounding the hill before descending into the valley. The morning sun through my window would send just the right light to cast tiny soft shadows in the valley.

As I picture all of this the plane dips slightly, the alps recede, and thin cloud brings me back into the real world. My memory of bedspread hills rolls back, the gap filled by the bright buzz of the plane's engines.

Photo credit to JanetClare - feel free to click that link to visit her post about candlewick bedspreads.

Memory Glimpse - My Oldest Practical Possession

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Tue, 24 Feb 2015 21:11:00 +0000

I must have bought it around 1988. I'd recently moved to Leicester, and wasn't looking for anything fancy. Watches had never been that important to me. I think I wore my Granda's before this one. But it just ground to a halt. It still sits in my bedside cabinet, the strap held together by his hand stitched repairs.

I didn't have any great plans the day I bought it. It's a fake Swiss Army Watch. Not a very good fake either. I think it cost me thirty quid. But here we are, twenty seven years later. The bits that looked silver have gradually worn to dull brass. Even the brass is showing a bit of corrosion now. I think I'm on to my seventh or eighth strap. The little bit of leather the other side of the buckle that catches the spare strap is always the thing that goes first. If the rest of the strap is ok, I'll buy myself a bit of time by using something else, like an elasticated hairband.

It's seen me through relationships with Kath, Mary, Katie, Deborah, Jennie; and it's given sterling service in my marriage to Sharon. It's seen me through seven jobs, and ten homes.

It gets taken off before washing, and before bed. My morning ritual is missing something if my watch doesn't get wrapped around my wrist. It stays on when I'm cooking, it stays on when I'm digging. The old thing is covered by nicks and dents, and the back is a mesh of tiny scratches. There are some bigger ones where the jeweller has slipped when trying to get a grip to remove the back.

The brass bits at the back of the watch are corroded to a dirty brown now. If you look at the face, you'll notice that it's not straight, the 12 is twisted to the left, and the date is no longer visible in the window. This watch has kept me punctual for interviews, weddings, and funerals. It kept time during my own wedding.

When it is sunny I always make sure I wear it. It's the only way to prove I have a suntan. I'm so naturally pale, no one would believe me if I couldn't show the contrast between my forearm and the porcelain white skin that's forever beneath my watch.

By the time I hit fifty next January it will have seen me through almost exactly ten thousand days. Through Thatcher, Major, Blair, Brown and Cameron. Through Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, and Obama. Bearded me and clean shaven me, a Paul Smith suited me and mismatched long johns me.

My watch has fought against Apartheid, it was at the Poll Tax riot, it tried to stop the Iraq War.

Nowadays a lot of people tell time on their phone. It's just not the same. People change phones all the time. My watch doesn't just tell the time, it is the time. It bears witness, it records. It ticks its way through my life. It has kept pace with my heart for twenty seven years.

Memory Glimpse - The French Assistant

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 22 Feb 2015 21:09:00 +0000

You were very different to the teachers. Much younger obviously. You also had a lot more style. Better dressed than the teachers. You weren't like our dads or our brothers. You wore jeans with a shirt, and an expensive looking jumper. I know now that it would be called a pullover, but all we had were itchy jumpers. You also had hair like no one I knew.

You were a proper foreigner, and you were a bit exotic. Not only did you help us learn French, you were French. You hadn't been British first like Mrs Carney. Even your English was full of French.

I can't quite remember how it happened. You must have caught me after class, or after school. You must have asked where I lived, and then figured out it was near where you were living.

Then one day you took me there. You were living in a big house in Stockton Road, one that loomed over the street. You led me up so many stairs, so many twists and turns of staircases that I lost track of how many floors up we'd gone. You opened the door to this tiny room that had a bed, a wardrobe, a chair, and not much else. There was a coin-meter for the electric. You showed me how it worked.

The walls were a wine red colour and the furniture was dark. I don't remember a window. You sat me down on the floor, and you sat down too. You asked about my family, and what I liked. You made me feel like I was interesting.

Then you told me about France. About your family, and you told me about your girlfriend. You showed me photos. An album with lots of shots of people in boats, people in front of blue skies, and by blue seas.

I didn't understand this different world. I couldn't imagine what you'd do in it. You were a man from this world in the pictures, you were the man who helped us learn French at school, and you were this other man that lived in a tiny room at the top of this big house.

And you wanted my company. But I didn't know why. I liked that you liked me. You were like no one else I'd ever met. I thought you were lonely.

You got out some glasses and asked me if I wanted some wine. I told you I'd never had wine before, and you said I should try a little. I think it was red. It tasted strong but good. You had a full glass and I had a glass that was half full.

You kept talking. It was like we were in a world that just existed in that room. And the room seemed smaller. I told you I'd have to go soon, or my Mam would wonder where I was. The wine made me feel hot. You offered me some more. I said I really had to go.

You didn't say anything back, and I really wanted you to say it was ok to go, and that you understood.

You drank your drink and offered me another one. And it didn't feel right. I didn't feel I should be there. The room was too small. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what you wanted, or why you wanted me there.

I remember announcing "I have to go."

"Of course, of course." you said. You drained your glass and stood up. You looked big, stood up under the low slanted ceiling.

I headed for the door and went quickly down the stairs and out the front door, out onto the street. The world was back to being a big place, and you were behind me. Back in your small room.

You never really spoke to me again. I'm not sure whether that was your decision or mine. Then the year ended and I guess you went back to France. Back to your girlfriend. Back to your blue skies.

Memory Glimpse - The Lost Boy

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Thu, 19 Feb 2015 21:13:00 +0000

He was one of those that got lost along the way. I'd known A. ever since I had started at the school. I suppose that makes it a few years. Doesn't sound much, but when you're a kid that's a lifetime. He'd always been scrawny. Scrawny, but a live-wire. I kind of liked him, but he was a bit mad. Always likely to get into trouble, always playing the fool. Cruel practical jokes became a hobby of his. One day he'd be administering an electric shock, the next day he'd be shoving itching powder down some poor sod's back.

He did it for a laugh. But he'd grown up to be big and strong. He wasn't organised enough to be a proper bully. He had no power base. Kids like Waller and Cartwright had that genuine air of menace. Waller was a psychopath in the making. He's probably a respected family man now, but back then he was just a thug. He'd rob you, he'd hurt you. Cartwright was similar. They both had hangers on. Boys that hung around basking in second hand glory. They all seemed overdue for a visit to the dentist, teeth jutting at weird angles from messy mouths.

A. didn't have any kind of entourage. He was alone. Alone, crazed, and scary to be near, his dirty copper hair always falling over his eyes. He'd want to hurt you sometimes, but only to raise a laugh. And his laugh was utterly unhinged, arms and legs all over the place, his eyes wide with the excitement. He had no fear, which meant he won most of the fights he got into. But he'd also take on the serious bullies and lose. Badly. He'd then be completely silent. Beaten.

He was too inconsistent to be a friend. One minute he'd be your mate, and the next minute he'd knock you off your chair. School was this mad jigsaw of chaotic behaviour. Each piece uniquely odd. Then one piece was lost. One day A. didn't come to school. The next day word spread quickly. There were always rumours that his dad hit him. There was talk that he'd been seriously hurt. The truth came out within a matter of days. I can't remember how we found out.

He'd gone up into the attic of his house and shot himself. He had held a shotgun to his own head and pulled the trigger. What sort of urban household has a shotgun?

I imagine A. in one of his defeated, deflated moods, then getting this awful frantic sense of purpose. He was only thirteen or fourteen, a child. None of us got to know any more. He just wasn't there any more.

I'm forty nine now, and I still think of him. I wonder what it was that pushed him. What was the awfulness that made that a better option. I make sure I remember him. That fire, that madness and energy. It can't just fade to nothing.

Ophelia And The Unicorn - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Mon, 02 Feb 2015 22:39:00 +0000

It all happened quite suddenly. One minute she wasn’t, and the next minute she was. Born, that is.

Being born is always tricky of course, but for Ophelia it was especially tricky as she hadn’t landed in her mother’s arms, she’d landed somewhere else altogether. Somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere that wasn’t nice at all.

And right now, it was far too hot. It was so hot that it was hotter than your cooker, hotter than your central heating, hotter than most hot things. It was so hot that the ground glowed red, and the air was full of smoke. Ophelia’s Mummy and Daddy were nowhere to be seen, and she knew she had to find them.

Because this is a story full of magic, Ophelia, even though she’d just been born, was able to crawl a little bit, and she was able to talk a little bit. Which is handy, because she had an awful long way to go.

She was on a hot hill that spat fire. That had rivers of fire. Her little fingers, and her little knees, and her little feet, were hot and would soon get burnt.

Just as it was all getting too much, a horse appeared over the hill. In fact, it wasn’t a horse at all, it was a unicorn. It was so white it was dazzling, and so big that it towered over Ophelia. It looked down at her with piercing blue eyes.

“Well, what on earth are you doing here, and what on earth is your name?” said the unicorn.

“I’m Phelia” said Ophelia.

“Feelya? What a strange name. And what are you doing on this volcano Feelya?”

“I didn’t know it was a Wolcano, and I don’t know what one of them is. I’m looking for my Mummy and Daddy. I’ve just been born and I’ve got a bit lost. And…. this floor is a bit hot.”

“Oh, how rude of me.” said the unicorn, and it dipped its head towards her “Grab onto this and I’ll lift you up and put you on my back.”

Ophelia grabbed on to the great spiralling horn that projected from the unicorn’s head, and it flipped her up into the air. She span around twice and landed right on its back.

“So, what’s your name then?” asked Ophelia.

“I’m afraid my name is a secret.” replied the unicorn.

“Oh. Ok then. I suppose. This is all very strange. I’m sure this isn’t how most humans start off.”

“Well,” said the unicorn “let’s see if we can get things back to normal then, shall we?”

Ophelia grabbed onto the unicorn’s mane with both of her little hands, and gripped onto the unicorn’s back with both of her little knees, and both of her little feet. They went as fast as light, as fast as sound, faster than the wind, faster than most fast things.

Eventually, after quite a while, they started to slow down.

“You’re not going to like the next bit Feelya,” said the unicorn. They were facing a large frozen lake. “We’ll be too heavy together, I’ll have to put you down for a bit.”

“But won’t the ice break under me?” asked Ophelia.

“I don’t think so.” said the unicorn a bit nervously. Then he knelt down on the ice to let Ophelia down, and she slipped to the surface of the frozen lake. It was much more frozen than your fridge, it was much more frozen than your freezer. Poor Ophelia’s hands and feet stuck to the ice, and it was so cold it hurt. And she’d hardly gone any distance at all.

“I don’t think I can do it,” she said “I’m just too cold.”

“Hmm,” said the unicorn “I’ll have to think of something.” He reared up on his hind legs and let out an enormous whinnying noise that echoed over the lake, and far into the mountains and the forest. Then, a moment later, hundreds and hundreds of birds appeared. No, it was thousands. Thousands and thousands of Robins, and Blackbirds, and Starlings, and Thrushes. And they each brought a leaf with them. Thousands and thousands of dry brown leaves that had fallen from trees earlier that year.

And, one by one, they laid them into a path just wide enough for Ophelia to crawl on. The leaves meant she didn’t have to crawl on the ice, and her hands and feet weren’t so cold. The unicorn went on ahead of the birds and scratched a line in the ice with its horn, so the birds knew where to drop the leaves. This went on for some time, and autumn met winter as the birds whirled above and leaves fell for the second time that year.

Finally, the shore was in sight, and Ophelia crawled up onto land.

“Thank you birds!” she called. Then the birds brought twigs, and wood, and matches, and a Blackbird struck a match against the unicorn’s horn and lit a fire. Ophelia was so tired that she snuggled up to the unicorn and they both fell asleep.

_____________________

When they woke in the morning Ophelia was surprised to see the unicorn leaning over her, with some clothes hung over its horn. They were made from leaves, and bark, and feathers, and were stitched together with spiders’ webs. She took them from the unicorn and scrambled into them.

“Thank you, that’s a lot warmer.” she said “But where did they come from?”

“They came from the forest. But there’s no time to chat. If we are to find your Mummy and Daddy we best get going.”

“Is it a long way?” said Ophelia.

“It is quite a way, but I know they are waiting.” He offered his horn and flipped Ophelia up onto his back, and off they went into the forest.

Before long the forest became quite dark, and the path got narrower until, eventually, it seemed there wasn’t a path at all, just an overgrown mess of brambles, thorns, and vines.

The unicorn struggled on and Ophelia held on tight. She felt thorns prickle and scratch at her clothes, and she felt them scratch her skin. Ophelia could see how much the unicorn was struggling. Tufts of his white coat were left behind on thorns, and his hooves kept getting caught in trailing vines which seemed to twist towards his legs.

“We need some help,” said Ophelia, pushing a big thorny bramble away from her face. “otherwise we’ll never get out.”

“Well,” said the unicorn “have you got any ideas?”

“You seem to be friends with lots of creatures. How about we see if the beavers can help? They are very excellent chewers, and quite like these sort of plants.”

“What a clever girl you are.” said the unicorn. He reared up and called out to the forest, and hundreds of beavers responded by marching through the forest.

“What seems to be the problem?” said a particularly bossy looking beaver.

“It’s the sharp bits,” said Ophelia “and the tangly bits.”

“Dinner, you mean!” said the beaver, quite offended at the way she’d described his favourite snacks. “Alright, you lot,” he said to the other beavers “face north…. and after three…. One…. Two…. Three…. MUNCH!” The beavers set about clearing a path and did it in double quick time, as trees and plants came crashing down and in no time there was a path for Ophelia and the unicorn.

Bit by bit, the forest began to thin. The beavers stopped and stood on their hind legs, and saluted. Ophelia saluted back, and the unicorn lowered his horn by way of salute.

“Are we nearly there yet?” said Ophelia.

“One more challenge Feelya, one more challenge.” said the unicorn.

____________________

After a few steps they saw a valley just ahead of them, a valley full of glass, a forest of glass. Sharp, and huge, and shiny. All set into the ground like trees, planted just as close as trees.

“Through here?” asked Ophelia.

“Yes, Feelya, through here.”

“And Mummy and Daddy are on the other side?”

“Their house is the other side of the forest of glass.”

“Well, I hope they’re in.” said Ophelia. “So, how do we get through?”

“We have to push the glass over to make a path. But I am not strong enough, and you are not strong enough.”

“So, what will we do?” asked Ophelia.

“We are strong enough together, Feelya. You have to push at the bottom, and I have to push at the top.”

“We better get going then.” Ophelia slipped over the unicorn’s head and down to the floor in front of the first huge shard. And she pushed on the bottom bit, and the unicorn leant on the top bit, and it toppled to the floor with a crash. As it did so it knocked down another two. They did the same again and another four came crashing down. But there were still hundreds to go.

While this was happening, Ophelia’s Mummy and Daddy were sat in the house further down the valley.

“Do you think our baby will ever get home?” her Mummy said.

“I’m sure she will,” said her Daddy “it’s just got a bit complicated. She wasn’t born in quite the right place, not quite at the right time. But I’m sure she’ll find her way back to us.” Ophelia’s Mummy and Daddy had been sad and worried for a long time.

“Did you hear that noise?” asked Ophelia’s Mummy “I thought I heard a crash in the valley, in the forest of glass.” They fell silent and listened carefully, and sure enough there was a crash, and then another. They seemed to be getting closer. Ophelia’s Mummy and Daddy started getting just a little bit hopeful.

____________________

Back in the forest of glass Ophelia and the unicorn kept pushing over the shards of glass. But they were both very tired.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Ophelia “I think we need to find one which, if we push it over, will knock over most of the others. That way it won’t be so much work.”

“Good idea Feelya, which one do you think we need to push over?”

“Well…..” said Ophelia “I reckon ….. I reckon that one there.” So they went up to a huge glass shard, that was much bigger than the rest, and they pushed… and they pushed. Slowly it started to sway and creak, and then it slowly fell. It hit two more, and those two hit four more, and they began to crash down like dominoes.

____________________

Back in the house, Ophelia’s Mummy and Daddy rushed out of the house to see the forest of glass falling down. And slowly, through the glass, they began to see the shape of a small girl and a unicorn.

The next bit was quite emotional. The unicorn brought Ophelia out of the forest of glass on its back, set her down on the floor, and her Mummy and Daddy swept her up in their arms.

“Where have you been, Ophelia?” they cried at the same time.

“It’s a long story,” said Ophelia “I’ll tell you all about it after you’ve cooked me dinner.”

“Does your friend want to come for dinner too?” Ophelia’s Daddy looked up at the unicorn.

The unicorn shook his head. “That would be lovely, but another baby needs help, so I better get going.”

Ophelia raced up to the unicorn and hugged his leg “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The unicorn turned to leave. But before it left it turned and said to Ophelia’s Mummy and Daddy, “You can take her home now”

Ophelia is real. She was born very prematurely to my friends Michelle and Trevor. She had a big struggle on her hands, but made it through, with a lot of help from some amazing people. It was her first birthday just recently. She shares my birthday and is exactly 48 years younger than me. And always will be.

After the bend in the river.

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 01 Feb 2015 19:58:00 +0000

New boots in old mud.
A thousand footprints
and palms kissing the gate.
A tree's yellow blue lichen
against grey sky and brown hill.

Steady rhythm, field, gate, field.
Lines of lavender and pylon.
Angles, channels, setting man
made geometry on nature's
sweet curve of hill and path.

Too late, too cold for rabbits.
Four years since black rabbit.
Now I'm back I hope to see
his descendant racing by.
An ink dot across the field.

The afternoon is old and cold
and it's time to head home.
To fires burning in the hearth,
to logs crackling in the grate.
Connecting outside to in.

Home.

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 25 Jan 2015 20:19:00 +0000

It's been about four years since we left.

The vines in the vineyard are quite a bit longer. The path by the bridge over the river is quite a bit more worn and muddy.

Some people look a little bit older, some of the kids look considerably taller. Kids that couldn't walk now can, And ones that could just about walk seem to just run instead.

The bridge over the train tracks at the station is a new fangled metal thing.

Some new people live in some of the houses. There's a little bunch of totally new houses over our back fence.

But mostly things are the same.

The path by the vineyard still has the same tree roots poking up. Some are more exposed than before, but my feet still recognise them.

The walk through the village is still punctuated by hellos and good mornings. Trips to the village shop are still cheered by a warm welcome and a friendly chat.

Familiar faces in the pub, the same sound and chatter. The steps up, the steps down. Voices carrying. The doors making familiar sounds as they creak open and click shut.

Then there's the house. The need for the extra shove on the front door, to overcome the spot where it sticks. Lighting the fire in the front room, knowing just how much it needs to get going, and feeling the way it gradually fills the room with warmth. The easy reach of light switches. The sneeze, just audible, from a neighbour. Martin the cat sat on the windowsill, watching the world go by.

The familiarity, the nearness, closeness, the warmth of place. Of home.

If I had a pound for every time someone had said welcome home, I'd be a wealthy man.

I am, I suppose. I'm the richest man in the world. Because I have my home back. My place. My Shoreham.

A Shoreham Day.

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Thu, 14 Aug 2014 20:59:00 +0000

Mick Wheeler lives in a small house, in a small street, in a small village, in a small valley.

That is all that is small about Mick. He has a big heart, and the physical presence of an Oak. His hands are large and friendly, his face open and generous. His smile is one of the seven wonders of the world. I feel blessed every time I see him.

Mick's wife Crystal died recently, and I attended the funeral earlier today. I never got to know Crystal as well as Mick. By the time Sharon and I were living in Shoreham her mobility problems made it tricky for her to get out and about. We'd sometimes have a quick chat in the street. She was as bright and friendly as Mick.

As often seems the way, I learnt more about her today at her funeral, which left me feeling slightly shamed that I hadn't made more effort. One of the readings was of her own writing, a memoir of her early life. As a child she and some of her family fled Nazi Germany to Czechoslovakia. They spent six months on the road, as refugees, making their way back to Germany after the war. She returned to rubble, to a family that didn't know if she was dead or alive.

Her complicated path eventually led her to Britain, and a life with Mick. Some people are inextricably linked, and Mick and Crystal are one such pair.

When Sharon and I moved to Shoreham Mick was an ox of a man, with a handshake that felt like it could bend bones, but would never break them. I'll never forget the day that three men, all twenty years younger, were struggling to put up a large Christmas tree, and his arm came over my shoulder and single handedly pushed the tree into place.

That strength is not what it was then, and it upset me greatly to hear about his loss. It is grotesquely, particularly unfair that so generous and gentle a man, the man who gives flowers from his allotment as gifts (because he "has too many"), should suffer such sadness. I spoke to Keith about it today. Some couples love each other so much it means the pain will, inevitably, be great. The alternative is to warn people not to love each other too much. But what sort of world would that be?

The service in Shoreham Church today was truly moving. A vivid portrait of a woman as she was seen by the people that knew her. Part of her own memoir detailed how she was let back into Germany by border guards meant to stop her. She believed that they were angels. Every song and reading today featured angels.

Seeing Mick so broken up was hard to see, but at the same time it was beautiful, and a privilege to witness. Such big love. Sharon told Megan about it on the phone and Megan, as she sometimes does, captured it well by saying "It must have been like seeing Father Christmas cry". Yes. It was. But then, later on, in the pub Mick, on what must have been an indescribably difficult day, still had the warmth of spirit to welcome me with open arms and tell me how much I was missed. With those big eyes sparkling, and that smile that can raise the very lowest of moods. I felt humbled, flattered, sad, and happy, all at once. What a lucky woman. What a lucky man.

Bathtime - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Tue, 15 Jul 2014 21:14:00 +0000

The bathwater was cold. Probably a good ten or more degrees colder than the temperature above the waterline. It had been a hot day. A very hot day. More than eighty percent humidity. More than thirty degrees centigrade, whatever that is in old money.

The towel was red. It was nailed across the window. Nailed to a wooden baton on the wall. He had used clout nails. Normally used for external gardening tasks like felting a roof. The bathroom was battleship grey. It was strange that he had chosen a red towel. Made it look a bit nineteen eighties, a bit wine bar. All it was missing was a bit of chrome. Thinking about it, the heated towel rail, although not heated right then, provided the chrome. The towel was an old one. Not quite red.

But then again it hasn’t been that long since we had other words for red.

Did you know that we used to call orange things red because we didn’t have a word for orange? Next time you see a robin in your garden have a look. The breast of a robin is not red. It’s orange. But we didn’t have a word for orange (until we decided to call that shade of red something else), so we called it a robin red breast. Anyway, the towel was a faded red. It cast a dull pink over the room as the late sun shone through it. And it flapped a bit limply, nailed as it was to the wall.

There was a stool. Just a rough stool with three legs, by the side of the bath. On top of it were a glass of red wine and a pipe. Not a proper old fashioned pipe, one of those electronic ones. They call it vaping, a sorry excuse for the real thing of course, but better than nothing. The glass was a half pint glass with just an inch left in the bottom. He’d been relaxing.

But the hammer suggested otherwise. It stood propped against the wall. The head was only loosely attached to the shaft, as if shifted by impact. It takes quite a whack to get the head of a hammer to part company. It was so worn and battered it was hard to be sure what it had last been used for.

Music was still playing out of a digital speaker. “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.” By Bob Dylan.

His chest was stained red. The droplets gathered in the twisted wet hair across his chest. Just two or three drops, and a trail of red fading down through the water that still lay across his skin.

He pushed himself out of the water and stood up. He watched the water, some of it stained faintly red, run from his body. He smoothed back his hair, feeling the cold water run down his back. He stepped out of the bath, and pulled down the towel from the window. The nails sprang out and fell to the floor. He picked up the nails, picked up the glass, and drained it. Then he picked up the hammer.

The Dog In The Alley - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Thu, 01 May 2014 20:35:00 +0000

I'd always hated that dog. Scruffy looking thing. Dirty black mongrel. A bit of Labrador, a bit of Collie. It seemed quite old, but it was as snappy as hell. I think it belonged to the sex offender's family, but I'm not sure I'm remembering that bit right. Right opposite our house was the entrance to the back street for the houses on the other side of the road. A piss stained cobbled alleyway, that separated the houses from the oily car repair place. I used to kick a ball against the wall in the car repair place. Except when the dog was out. Then I wouldn't bother. It used to take up residence at the mouth of the back street and growl and bark at anyone passing nearby. That's what the grown ups got, a bit of barking. But kids got snapped at. On the hands mainly. I think it was because I was right opposite. This dog wouldn't even let me walk by on my own side of the street. Dad thought it was funny. Said I should toughen up. He was always telling me to "toughen up". But I didn't want to be like him. Slobby, stinking of beer, stinking of sweat. I didn't like him. He didn't like me. He used to look at me like I was dirt. I was a disappointment to him. The feeling was mutual.

This thing with the dog had gone on for months. No one in the house that owned it did anything. Mr & Mrs were seldom seen. Their adult son, also known as "The Burn Valley Bummer" by the local kids was mostly off down the railway station, hanging out with kids. Playing wanking games that later got him arrested. So the dog was left to its own devices. I'd already been bit by our own dog. I didn't plan to get bitten again. Dad had had to hit our dog with a broom handle, over its back, to get it off. It was dead a week later. Sent off "to live in the country, on a farm" they said. It was called Whisky. It was a fucking Corgi. Of all the shit dogs to have, we had a demented Corgi. Like I say, I wasn't going to get caught out again.

I had a toy gun that fired caps. Little bits of gunpowder stuff on reels of paper. I had another one like a revolver that took red plastic rings of stuff. Both made a fair old noise, but I'd decided the dog deserved to have the proper shit scared out of it. I started making plans. Dad still took the piss. Sat on his chair, with no shirt, looking like a pale, beached, whale. Laughing at me. He'd see. See what I could do. I started buying the red plastic rings of caps with my pocket money. A few a week. But I didn't use them. I started saving them. Then I took a small glass up to my room, and started scratching out the powder into the glass. It looked like dust. After a few weeks I was spending ages doing this. No one bothered to check what I was doing, as long as I was out of the way I don't think they really cared. So I kept at it. I decided the first gun would be the best one to use. The trigger fired one flat metal plate against another. It was designed for the roll of caps that came on paper, to ensure a good slamming kind of contact. Just what I'd need. Every time I'd scrape out some more of the powder into the glass I'd finish by kneeling in front of my window, staring down and over at the dog. It got really annoyed. Even more when I started saving stones to chuck at it. I normally missed with the stones, but every now and then I'd hit it and it would go mental. It knew it was me alright. And I wanted it to. One tea time Dad came stomping up the stairs.
"What are you doing to wind that dog up?"
"Nothing."
"Well. Whatever it is, stop. We can hardly hear the telly down there."
I just sat quietly till he turned and went away, shaking his head. Always shaking his head. Like I was some sort of unfathomable puzzle.

Finally, I was satisfied. I had enough of the grey powder. I made a little paper wrap for it and poured it in from the glass. It made a sausage shaped package. I licked my fingers and twisted the ends so everything was nice and tight. Then I waited. I waited for days. Till it felt right.

It was early evening. I'd thrown some stones at the dog so it would know it was me. Then I got the plastic gun, opened up the metal bit, and jammed in the package. I laid it down gently. I opened the window and fixed my eyes on the dog. It looked back at me. Then I picked up and brought the gun round. I poked it out of the window and felt the window close against my wrist. I didn't need to aim it. It was noise I was looking for. I pulled the hammer back with my thumb so the spring was stretched to the max. Then I turned my face back into the room, and let my thumb slip from the hammer.
The noise. My ears rang immediately. It buzzed and hurt. I turned to see my handiwork. The gun was shattered, my hand blackened, and the dog, the dog was nowhere to be seen. I carefully brought my hand back into the room and let the gun drop to the floor. My ears were really ringing. Dad burst into the room. He looked blank, almost frightened.
"What are you doing? What have you done?"
"You said to stand up for myself. The dog will leave me alone now."
He didn't shake his head this time. He backed out of the room, cursing under his breath, looking at me like I was an alien.

The dog didn't bother me again. Every time it saw me it turned tail and ran into the back street. That was the way I liked it. Mam and Dad looked at me different as well.

Time passed quickly after that and I grew up a bit. But me and Dad didn't mend. One day, a bit later, Dad came up to the attic and said,
"Go get some milk." He stuck out a hand with some coins.
"I'm busy." I said "Do it yourself."
"Don't you dare talk to me like that. Go. Get. Some. Milk."
"No."
He raised his hand and pulled it back slightly. I made sure I was face to face with him.
"Do it. Do it. And I'll hit you back."
His hand dropped. He looked angry fit to burst. But he didn't burst, he didn't say a word. He just left the room. The attic was thick with electricity, and my ears rang.
I was the king of my world.

Comet Street - A Carrington Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Tue, 21 Jan 2014 15:24:00 +0000

Danny had won on the horses. Not much, but enough for a treat. He bought himself ten Number 6 and a half bottle of White Horse. He slipped the bottle into an inside pocket. If he didn’t keep it hidden he’d not see much of it.

He headed over the road towards the Odeon. A lot of men gathered round the doorway of the cinema, which had been closed for some years. Some were there to get work, others just for the craic.

“Logan.” Danny nodded in acknowledgement.

“Brannigan.”

Danny spotted young Rafferty and headed over to him.

“I see your man is back.”

“I’m afraid so Dan.”

“My heart wouldn’t be so broken should he shuffle off this mortal coil.”

“He’s a bastard alright.”

“A big bastard, with hands like shovels. Otherwise I’d put him in the ground meself. Anyway Rafferty, how are things with you?”

“ Fair Dan, fair. I seem to be picking up a bit of work.” Danny offered Rafferty a cigarette.

“Good man. I wish my bones could still do it. Mind, don’t let it out, but I had a bit of luck on the horses. So, I may not have work, but I have money.”

Rafferty Laughed “Well, that’s better than working for it.”

The crowd of men was now up to about twenty. A transit van pulled up and a sour faced character jumped out and headed over to the men.

“Youse two. And you.” He indicated Rafferty, and then one more.

“I’ll nip this one for later Dan. Be seeing you.” Rafferty pinched the cigarette and the burning tip fell to the floor. He pocketed the remainder, and jumped into the back of the van. Danny left Logan to frown unnecessarily at anyone who came along, and headed off down the road out of Deptford, towards Greenwich.

It was a fine day, and Danny spent most of the morning by the river. The path passed through the leftovers of industry, breakers yards, patches of derelict land and buildings. But the main thing that mattered was that he had the place to himself. Only once or twice did he see anyone else on the path. After being hemmed in at Carrington this was a blessing. Stopping at the wall by the river Danny lit a cigarette. He watched the dirty brown water lap at the edge of the muddy ground. Grey, black and brown were the colours here, but topped by a promising blue sky. After a few hours soaking up the sun, Danny felt a grumble of hunger and, being close enough to lunchtime, headed in from the river. Goddard’s Pie Shop was his destination. Far enough from Carrington that he’d just be another man in his mid fifties. Wouldn’t be spotted, and frowned at as one of “those “men. Most of the other customers weren’t usually what you’d call snappy dressers. His slightly worn suit wouldn’t stand out.

He pushed open the door and entered the shop. The door slotted comfortably back in place as he pushed it shut. A damp dishcloth was stretched round the edge of the door tied on each side to the door handle, to stop the door banging or rattling in the wind.

At the counter he ordered pie, mash, and liquor, and then settled himself on one of the trestle seats, and pulled out a cigarette. He’d arrived just before the lunchtime trade. As he sat waiting for his food he watched people file in. An odd mixture of builders and shopworkers, and the odd tourist. The tourists always looking slightly bemused. Two of them sat opposite him.

“Good morning.” said Dan.

“Good morning to you, Sir.” the man said, his wife smiling and nodding. American by the sound of it.

“You’ll be on your holidays?”

“That’s right. Over from the states, just for a week, to see your lovely places. So much history. But then, you don’t sound like you’re from these parts?”

“No. From Ireland. Here for work. Not that I get much nowadays.”

“My wife’s family came over from Ireland. What part are you from?”

“From Monaghan, I’m just a culchie - a country boy. There’s a lot of us over here. Digging the roads, working on the railway.”

Their food arrived and they began to eat.

“And do you plan to go back home?”

“Oh, we all plan to go back home.” Danny smiled. “Once I make my fortune. Which will take quite a while if I keep spending all my money on pies.”

They carried on with their food, and Danny finished first. He stood up, and smoothed his hair back with his hand.

“Well, enjoy the rest of your day.”

“And you, Sir,” the man said, his wife giving a nod of agreement.

Danny pulled the door shut after him. He didn’t really think he’d ever get back. He’d stopped sending money years ago, and the welcome wouldn’t be warm. Turning up out of the blue was out of the question. He walked down past the Cutty Sark, to have a look at the river. It had been a long time since his regular visits home. At first it was Christmas and Easter every year. He’d taken gifts, and been proud. But then there was little work, and more drink, nothing to be proud of. He watched a barge go past, taking rubbish downriver. Seagulls screaming and tracking it. This dirty city wasn’t what he’d wanted. He turned his back to the river and decided to head back to Deptford.

By the time he got back the market was in full swing. He stopped by a fruit stall.

“It’s all looking lovely today Mrs.”

“Morning, Dan.”

“And the fruit isn’t looking bad either.” Danny winked at her.

“Keep your eyes on the fruit. And your hands off.” She smiled.

“I’ll take a one of these apples. For later.” Danny handed over the coins, and put the apple in his pocket.

The smiles and winks were all very well, but it had been a very long time since Danny had been touched by a woman.

“Out of the way Paddy.” Once of the young men working on the market nearly went over Dan’s foot as he wheeled a tower of boxes down the street.

“Watch me bloody feet.” Danny said. The young man stopped and approached him. Right up close.

“I’ll do what I bloody like, in my own bloody country. And you, if you don’t like it, can go back to your own. That way you won’t be dirtying our streets with your drinking, and your fighting.” He pushed Danny in the chest. Not hard, but enough to rock Danny back on his heels. Then he turned and went back to his work. Danny set his jaw, and turned away. He looked around him.

Fucking Shithole. I’ve done more work than the lot of you. When he was at his peak Dan would have knocked the man down. That was no longer an option. He felt like he was between a rock and a hard place. The company of mad drunken Irishmen, or the “company” of people who hated mad drunken Irishmen. Sometimes the back streets were safer.

Comet Street was an old cobbled back street. The walls mirrored the floor, small blocks of hardened grey. The narrow dark passage bent and twisted, turning the central drainage channel into a dark snake.

Due to the nearness of the backs of the buildings and the light denying twists and turns, Comet Street formed a brick tunnel. Danny was used to sheltering here when the day got too hot, or when he wanted to get away from the other men. You had to be careful to find a spot where a dog hadn’t pissed, but there were plenty of broad flat backsteps that provided a seat for a few hours.

Danny sat down on one of these and, putting his cigarettes and matches on one side, leaned back against the bricked up doorway. He took out the bottle of White Horse, cracked the metal top open, and span it round. That familiar scratching of metal on glass. He took a first mouthful and felt the heat of the whisky. He took a second and felt the warmth in his chest. It had been a long time since he’d been able to afford whisky. Not since the work had dried up. He took a third, and a fourth mouthful. Lighting a cigarette he set the bottle down on the step. It was a relief to be on his own. To be away from Tony and some of the others. They were all too keen to argue or fight over nothing in particular. Men in Carrington tended to spend most of their time with men from the same floor, the same sleeping areas. You’d get to know your cubicle neighbours pretty quick. Danny was familiar with the tone of the snores, he knew whose name would be called during one man’s recurring dream. He could even recognise the distinctive sound of Tony’s fart amongst the others. He’d known Tony for more than ten years. They’d worked together on the road, drank together in the pubs, and fought alongside each other on the streets. They could rely on each other in a scrape, and that was important. But Tony could also annoy the hell out of Danny, often causing the very trouble that Danny would then have to dig him out of.

The scratch of metal on glass once again, two pulls on the bottle. The burn. Feeling sleep descend, Danny recapped the bottle and slid it into his pocket. He lent back into the corner of the bricked up doorway and closed his eyes.

He woke dry mouthed, with only whisky to rinse it. It was late afternoon and what light there was had faded. Danny had dreamt about the early days, when he’d first come over. These were good days. Money in his pocket, spare to send home. The work had been hard, and the bosses had been bad. But he’d had money

And now I’m sat in a backstreet with just the money in my pocket. And there’s not much of that left.

He systematically drank the rest of the whisky, and span the cap back onto the bottle. Then he threw it, with all his strength, at the wall opposite. The bottle smashed, fragments of glass falling at his feet. The metal cap, still gripping the neck of the bottle, dropped heavily to his left.

As he stood up, the whisky pulled at his temples, and his heart banged in his chest. He returned the remaining cigarettes to his pocket and pulled out his comb. He pulled it back through his hair, and smoothed with his other hand as he did so. Putting away the comb he patted the other pocket, and found the apple he’d bought earlier.

Not so bad.
As he walked back onto the high street, he took a bite from the apple. Crisp and fresh. Once down to the core he spotted a bin, ten feet ahead of him. Gripping the stalk with thumb and forefinger he flicked it underarm, sending it spinning rapidly through the air. It plopped tidily into the bin.

“Good shot you ugly bastard.”

“If I’m ugly, I dread to think what you are.” Danny smiled at Tony.

“Where the hell have you been?” Tony said.

“Just catching up with some lady friends of mine.”

Tony laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t put it past you. Shall we head back?”

“Indeed we should. I’ll ask the butler to make us some tea.”

The two men walked together, both of them with hands in pockets, perfectly in step, back to Carrington.

If you want to read the other things I've written about Carrington, and Danny (fiction and non-fiction), click on this link - Carrington

Going Back - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 01 Dec 2013 14:27:00 +0000

The house seemed smaller. Colder as well. The other two had disappeared upstairs with the suitcases. Richard walked around the familiar kitchen. He picked up a recipe book with stained pages, open at a favourite, much cooked meal. He closed the book and stood it in its place. There was a tea cup with some dregs. He picked it up, and took it to the sink. Turning on the tap he washed it, while staring out of the kitchen window. No leaves on the cherry tree, a few on the horse chestnut. He saw a fox cross the back of the garden. For a moment, it paused, looked straight at him and then carried on its way. He set the cup down, and stepped back to the hall.

“Shall I put the kettle on?” he called up the stairs.

“Please,” said Martyn “tea, milk, one sugar. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Coffee for me,” said Alice “black, just as it comes.”

He filled and switched on the kettle, got out some cups and put a tea bag in two of them and a spoon of instant in the other. He sat down, in his usual seat. Well, it was his usual seat twenty years ago. Still felt right to be facing the normal way. He knew that Martyn would sit to the left when he came back down. Just like those late nights, sat talking till the sun came up.

“Alright mate, shall I get some heat on? If I can figure out these central heating controls, that is.” Martyn fiddled for a minute or so before the boiler sprang into life. “Mum mostly used it for the hot water. It’ll probably take most of the day to warm through.” He sat down in the expected place. “Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it.”

“That’s ok. I couldn’t not come. I’ll make the drinks.”

There were a couple of minutes of silence while Richard made the drinks. He brought the cups to the table just as Alice came down.

“Thanks, Richard.” She stood behind Martyn for a moment, one hand on his shoulder, before taking a seat next to him. “It feels wrong being here without her.”

Martyn nodded, and as he picked up his mug to take his first sip, Richard and Alice did the same. Setting down his cup Martyn bit his lip as tears came. They misted his eyes and took the breath from him. He tried pushing the tears away with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Alice put her arm through his and pulled him to her.

“Got to get through the funeral first.” Martyn said “Sort things out. Time for tears later.”

“Must be a long time since you two sat in this kitchen together. Donna always said you were like an extra son Richard. Taking up space and eating her out of house and home.”

“She fed me more often than my own mum. Sometimes clothed me as well.”

“Christ yes, the number of times I’d find that you had a pair of my pants on, or a pair of my bloody shoes,” Martyn cheered at the memory “people did used to think we were brothers. Of course, you were never as good looking.”

“Well, I’m all grown up now, and I buy my own clothes too.” Richard smiled at the memory.

“I leave that kind of stuff to my wife.” said Martyn.

“Good job he does,” said Alice “otherwise he’d still look like the tramp I met ten years ago.”

“Well, as you know, I don’t have the luxury of a wife, so all my retail failures are entirely my own responsibility.” Richard spotted that look of Alice’s that occurred at such moments, a mix of pity and bemusement.

“Well,” said Martyn “time’s getting on. Best get some food going. And some wine.” He pulled a couple of bottles of red from an M&S bag and opened both. “No point deluding ourselves, we’ll be needing both of these. And maybe something a bit stronger too.”

Between them they quietly divided kitchen tasks and moved round the kitchen, mostly in silence, peeling potatoes, scrubbing carrots. Much as she used to. They were each aware that this was her kitchen, and felt compelled to do these simple things well.

“I bet that’s the first time Bisto has seen the light of day in this kitchen.” Said Alice.

“You’d be surprised. Mum always said Bisto Gravy was the best thing for sausage and mash.” Martyn mashed the potatoes in a studied, precise way, making sure they were up to scratch.

“This red’s good.” Richard sat down with his glass as food was nearly ready. He felt like he was running out of things to say already. The two of them had kept in touch, but he was conscious that they lived quite different lives.

“Who’s looking after the girls then?” Richard said.

“My mum,” said Alice as she took the sausages from under the grill “they’re too young for all this. And they love a holiday at their Gran’s anyway. They haven’t really understood. How can they? I’m not sure I do. Anyway. Food’s ready.”

They ate companionably enough, but the empty seat at the end of the table was a distraction. By the end of dinner they were each exhausted. Alice headed off first, leaving the two men on their own. Martyn spun the lid from the whisky and poured them each a large measure. Martyn lifted his glass towards the centre of the table.

“To Mum.”

Richard clinked his glass against Martyn’s and they both drank. The bite and burn of the whisky was welcome. Richard finally sensed some of the tension lifting from them both. This was familiar territory.

They slipped into memories and stories, and took another glass.

“I suppose, if we are to be any use tomorrow we better head off to bed” Richard was the one to say it first. “Which room am I in?”

“The room just before the bathroom.”

It was only when Richard was heading upstairs that he realised which room that was. As if this wasn’t mad enough already. Walking down the corridor he remembered this was where Martyn’s mum had put a lot of old family photos. He paused in front of them. And there she was. About 14 in this one. Nearly a woman but not quite. That radiant skin and luminous red-blond hair. Those pale eyes. She was in almost every one of these photos.

He stepped into the room. Beth had lived here till she was about twenty and it had remained Beth’s room when she visited Donna. It was almost too much for him, an overload of Beth.

He found a hair on the chest of drawers. The familiar shine and twist. The room even had that vanilla-ish perfume, and the cocoa butter smell of her skin. Those days sat in the garden on the bench. Her bare leg against his. Holding his breath.

He must have been nineteen and Beth seventeen. There was a period when it was not so much him and Martyn, but him and Beth. He didn’t want to leave her side. They’d sometimes find themselves with legs entwined, asleep on a blanket in the garden.

He had kissed her twice. Both times, rushed and embarrassed. She hadn’t seemed to mind. But then something else interrupted. Someone else at a party, and the other time Martyn walking into the room.

He sat on the bed, and felt goose-bumps rise on his arms. He remembered the buzz on his lips after those kisses. How soft her face was. Those pale blue eyes.

Pulling off his clothes he slipped into bed. He remembered always wanting to be that close. And then she was gone. She just slipped out of his life. And however strong that picture of her was, she was gone. Of course their paths had crossed since, but sometimes that wasn’t so easy either.

There were times when they’d still be the ones sat together on the sofa, touching shoulders, arms, hips, and ankles. She would still slip off a shoe and rub her foot against his leg. Sometimes she’d even end the evening asleep on his shoulder.

For a while he thought something was possible. But then she had turned up with the Australian. The dull, dull, Australian. He couldn’t possibly love her more than Richard. They barely touched.

Richard lay on his side and inhaled deeply, the smell of her on the pillow, he was sure it was there. He faded in and out of sleep, felt her hair slide onto his chest as she lay her head on his shoulder, felt her fingers rest lightly on his arm.

When he woke up the next morning he was, for a moment, surprised to find she was not there next to him. This dream was a familiar one, and Richard got up and pulled on some clothes.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in. I’ve just got up.”

“I thought you might like a cup of tea me old mucker” still in her coat, Beth caught her sleeve on the doorhandle, and a little tea spilt on the floor. “Bugger. So much for the big entrance.”

Flowers For Lou Reed

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 27 Oct 2013 21:37:00 +0000

I must have been just 17 or 18 when my friend Ian gave me a compilation cassette that included two songs by The Velvet Underground. Up until then I'd mostly listened to AC/DC and a few other similar bands. The Songs were Waiting For The Man, and Venus In Furs. The first was about scoring heroin, the second was about sado-masochistic sex.

My mind was opened. And it hasn't stopped opening since. It made me realise that dark thoughts were ok. Mad, angry thoughts were ok. Anything goes. A whole world of expression opened up in front of me. Songs that talked about bad stuff. Songs that talked about stuff that was dangerous, alive, exciting.

I embraced it all. It opened up a world of music. Direct connections like Iggy Pop and similar contemporaries. But also new stuff like The Birthday Party, Joy Division, punk, and crazy stuff further out from that.

It also opened up ideas. Dangerous, radical ideas. Ideas about politics, about sex, about art, about culture. About fashion, about personal relationships, and self expression. It was ok to say "This is me. I don't care whether you like it or not. It's me."

Nothing was too much. Nothing was too risky. It was ok to think whatever I was thinking.

Hartlepool suddenly seemed tiny. But the world seemed enormous and exciting. And I launched myself into it. And my mind has stayed open. My mind still loves the strange, the dirty, and the dark. Nothing surprises me. Why would it? Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground released their first album a year after I was born. It was still relevant nearly twenty years later as I reached adulthood, and almost thirty years after that, it still inspires.

Those first three albums by The Velvet Underground are almost perfect (all bought from The Other Record Shop in Hartlepool - the hallowed site of my musical education). Dangerous, radical, even now. Music that can make you want to take drugs, embrace sex, drink and friendships as pure adventure, and ignore everything that society expects from you.

But they were not quite perfect, which is why they do so well at inspiring musicians, songwriters etc. We can take this ragged beauty, this elegant chaos, and we can run with it.

Beeswing

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 08 Sep 2013 20:49:00 +0000

The daily journey to work inevitably brings a superficial familiarity with the other passengers. However, the rules are clear - you don't speak unless there's a crisis. If the train breaks down, you can indulge in some mutual tutting, or some collective moaning about the train company. But otherwise it's silence. Silence and guesses. Guesses about each others home life, each others work life.

People get on at the same station, sit in the same place, get off at the same station. Everyday.

Of course not everyone attracts the same level of interest. The people I know as The Swanley Addams Family are just bloody annoying. They talk to each other very loudly, and laugh at their family in-jokes. I reckon each of them has a sign on their desk at work that says "You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps!" If I'm not listening to music on my headphones when they first get on, I'm doing so pretty soon afterwards.

There are more pleasant people of course. There's a woman with impeccably jagged hair. I saw her once with a woman who I think must have been her partner, and they seemed to have two halves of the same haircut. I liked how nice they were to each other, and how unfussed they seemed about what anyone else should think of their public expressions of affection. Quite right too. So, consequently, Jagged Hair Woman is in my good books.

But my work journey is currently dominated by two people who are visibly engaged in personal struggle.

At the home end of the journey I often see a particular woman. Middle aged with red hair. I'm worried about her. I first noticed her shortly after moving here. She is very slight, her physique could almost be described as discreet. She walks as if she is passing through a gap narrower than the path she is walking down. But her physique is no longer simply discreet, it is fragile.

Fragile is such a beautiful word. It comes with a curious double meaning. It suggests a vulnerability and a sense of something being precious. Like a bee's wing. Fragile.

Her bobbed red hair is increasingly stressed looking. Dry, and looking like it was brushed into place with little care, at the last minute. Her skin colour is poor too. Pale is such an over used word. She is drained of colour. She also seems sapped of energy, and of will. Her hands and her feet seem to flutter at the end of her limbs, little strength in ankle or wrist.

But she is precious. Her eyes are a clear blue. There is also a delicate beauty in the contours of her cheekbones, and the lines around her eyes. But I've caught those eyes crying. On both occasions in the churchyard. The first time was very difficult. She was sat on a bench by the wall, hidden by the roses. She hadn't heard me approach and I found her sobbing. I stopped and asked "Are you ok?" and she quickly gathered her belongings and dashed off. When someone quickly puts that much space between you and them, the message is clear. So I hung back. The door was shut.

Recently, I've noticed that she climbs the stairs more slowly at the station. I see her strain and I give her time, I don't try and get round her like some people do.

I saw her in the churchyard again last week. She was crying again. This time I made sure to walk loud enough to ensure she was able to take her opportunity for a less hasty departure.

At the other end of my journey, just before I get to the office, I see someone else in struggle. At first I thought it might be an injury, a brave recovery. But that turned out not to be the case. I found that he always walked with those two sticks. In fact there was a preparedness about him that had something of the Victorian explorer about it. Always the cap on top of his head, worn at exactly the same angle each time I saw him. The rainproof jacket, the small rucksack on his back, and the specially made shoes.

He was dressed for slow progress, like a man walking on ice, against the wind. Each step an effort. One short step of effort, another short step of effort. Repeat. Repeat again. His face a picture of focus and determination. His legs are clearly weak, the feet at the end of the end of them a dead weight to be pulled forward as best as possible. The two sticks are for support, not just balance, and they seem to bear his weight much more than his feet. He seems as unlikely to be capable of walking as a Bumblebee seems of achieving flight. I've met regular wheelchair users with legs stronger than his. But he is not a man to be beaten. His journey up this street must take him an age. I don't know where he goes, or how far. We say good morning sometimes, but his reply is often mumbled due to the effort of walking.

I admire him hugely. I admire both of these people. Fragile and resilient in equal measure.

The Walking Fire - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 01 Sep 2013 10:51:00 +0000

A long time ago, in a land far away lived a beautiful Princess. Her name was Ruby. Princess Ruby was still quite little, but was growing. A little bit at a time. She had her own Chef, who supplied her with all the nutrition she needed. Mainly Quavers.

She lived at the palace with her mother, Queen Christina. Queen Christina changed her hairstyle all the time, but her hair was always very bright. Queen Christina didn't have a big chariot like other queens. She didn't like ugly, big, show off chariots. She and Princess Ruby usually travelled in a tiny plain looking chariot. This chariot was called Errol, but no one could remember why.

One day Queen Christina and Princess Ruby went for a long trip in Errol. But just in case they got bothered too much, they went in disguise. Princess Ruby wore an ordinary, everyday kind of a tutu, and Queen Christina wore a brown wig to cover up her naturally technicolour hair.

They stopped in a cafe and had bacon and eggs. Then they stopped at another cafe and had apple pie and custard. By then they were quite exhausted and stopped off at another cafe and had tea and cakes. Then they burped a lot, which upset the white horses that pulled Errol along, and the startled horses ran faster and faster. Eventually Queen Christina's wig blew right off her head. People started to recognise her and started asking her for things, like knighthoods and OBEs and that sort of thing. Luckily Princess Ruby was able to jump off Errol, grab the wig, and jump back on.

By the time they got back to the palace they were both very tired. They got the servants at the palace to see to Errol and the horses, and they headed off to bed, still burping now and again.

All was quiet and peaceful until, in the middle of the night, Queen Christina heard Princess Ruby shouting "The Walking Fire is here! The Walking Fire is here!" Queen Christina rushed through to Princess Ruby's room to find her sitting up in bed in her night-time tutu, looking very upset indeed.
"My darling, what is it?" said Queen Christina. "Mummy, the fire, it had arms, and it had legs and it walked, and it came after me!" Princess Ruby cried a little tear, and munched on a Quaver to make herself feel better. "It's alright now dear, everything is ok, your mother is here, and the walking fire has gone. Tell you what though, I really fancy one of those Quavers."

So they had a hug and sat up in bed eating Quavers, and although Princess Ruby was still a bit scared, everything felt a lot better.

What they didn't know was that one of the palace servants had been listening at the door, and heard all about The Walking Fire. He heard how it had arms, how it had legs, how it walked, and how it came after you. And they told someone else the story, and they told someone else, who told two people, who told four people, who told twenty people, who told two hundred people, who told ten thousand people, and soon everyone knew about The Walking Fire.

Everyone talked about it, and everyone was getting more and more frightened of The Walking Fire. All the children started to have nightmares about it. All the children (and some of the grown ups too) started waking up and shouting "The Walking Fire is here! The Walking Fire is here!"

The whole city was atremble. Guards were posted on the city walls. They even installed CCTV cameras. Everyone kept checking to see if The Walking Fire was coming over the hills. They looked up at the wooded hills and imagined The Walking Fire burning its way through the forest, its fire fingers, at the end of its fire arms, burning branches and whole trees. They imagined its fire legs stamping through bushes, and its fire feet scorching the grass. People talked about how, when it came, The Walking Fire would open its red mouth and suck in all the air, then blow it back out as flames, which would burn the city to the ground. And they waited. They waited for the flames, they waited for the stamp of fiery feet, for the sound of burning trees falling to the ground.

The only distraction they had to look forward to was the big party that they always had for Princess Ruby's birthday. It was the big annual event. When the day finally arrived everyone had a party in their street. But the parties weren't quite as happy as they should have been, because everyone was looking over their shoulder for The Walking Fire. No one had bought fireworks, and it all felt a bit too quiet. At the end of the day, as was the tradition, Princess Ruby appeared on the balcony of the palace.

The people had crowded in front of the palace, and couldn't help but notice that, as she came onto the balcony, Princess Ruby looked a little bit cross.
"This thing about The Walking Fire has got quite out of hand. Everyone needs to calm down a bit. It was just a dream. It wasn't real at all. There's nothing to be frightened of. People are just making themselves frightened."
The crowd whispered to each other. They asked each other what they thought. They had thought The Walking Fire was real, but they trusted Princess Ruby, and, after all, no one had seen The Walking Fire.
"So, do you believe me then? That it's just a dream?" said Princess Ruby.
The crowd shouted "Yes!" and cheered and whooped like people on american television shows. They threw their hats in the air. I don't know why. They just did.
Princess Ruby was thrilled to bits, and turned to tell her mother the good news. But her mother wasn't there. Princess Ruby turned to look for her but the lamps weren't on in the palace yet, and it had grown quite dark. At first, she couldn't see down to the end of the corridor. But then, right at the end of the corridor she saw a light flickering. No, it wasn't light, it was flame. And it was coming towards her, the flame was getting bigger and coming towards her. Her heart started to beat faster and faster, maybe The Walking Flame was real after all? Her eyes widened in fear. Then she heard a noise, a song, and her mother started to sing Happy Birthday as the source of the flames became clearer. It was a Birthday cake!

Queen Christina brought the cake out onto the balcony. Princess Ruby made a wish, and blew out the candles, then the whole crowd joined in to sing Happy Birthday. And everyone had such a lovely time that they entirely forgot about whatever it was that they had been frightened of, and they all went off home quite happily, and had Quavers for tea.

Favourite Boy - A Story

noreply@blogger.com (Philip Dodd) — Sun, 18 Aug 2013 20:06:00 +0000

"Grandma, when you were a young girl, who was your favourite boyfriend?"

An innocent enough question I suppose. But one that Ann hadn't thought about for some time.

"Well, that was a very long time ago." She smiled at Lauren and spotted Mark enjoying her slight embarrassment at their grand-daughter's question.

"I don't think I can remember."

But, of course, she could remember. In fact she had that boy in her mind right now, very clearly. That flop of hair over his forehead, that would end up over his eyes if he didn't get it cut soon. Those clear, beautiful, brown eyes.

He was such a good looking boy. But the thing that came back strongest was the sweet smell of his skin. And then there was the softness of his arms. She loved it when he draped his arm around her, and she felt surrounded by that burnt sugar smell.

She watched Mark and Lauren chatting away, and was aware of how loose her skin was now, how her flesh almost swung loose from her bones nowadays.

Well, it comes to us all. And getting older is preferable to the alternative.

She fell back to thinking about that very particular smell. One of the cruelties of age is the decline in your sense of smell. Another is that your own sweet fragrance of youth also fades away. There used to be whole days filled by smell. They'd nose and nuzzle each other, and she'd play with the downy hair on his arms.

Her husband had taken his watch off and passed it to Lauren. She loved the old fashioned winder, and the feel of twisting it, feeling the tiny clicks. He'd had to teach her how to do it of course. Clockwork was stone age technology to a teenager.

While Lauren was occupied with the watch, Ann reached over to Mark's wrist, and stroked the rough hair on his arm, and drifted down to the papery skin on the back of his hand.

"You alright Ann?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."