S

Laundromats, dodging stormfronts, public bus stops, air-frying dinner, chilled red wine, wifi dropouts, raging miscommunication we allocated to cultural differences. Then I swallowed and it was spring. 

Marmalade sunsets start to cure the sky, slow-cooking dusk with bronze crackling. Fall and I celebrate the superstitious poignancy of shared star signs and shouldering birthdays — because it’s fun to lean into cosmic timing and spacedust. The breeze is fresh with baked seaweed and salt, and what else can we trust? But coming from the opposite hemisphere, Fall wasn’t a springtime baby. Not used to shifting trade winds full of pollen, flying ants, and the pregnant till of a nascent long summer.

The heat comes with coastal spice, and the enervating surety of summer. The scorched sky paints a reptilian tail of white scales. Stuff has gathered: long-life milk; a charcoal toothbrush; Central Perk coffee mug; PH neutral body soap; black Anko G-strings; her four silver rings left on the nightstand, which makes her feel naked when not wearing them, and apprehensive when she messages to say they’re missing. Then I realise too late the zodiac has failed us.

I wonder if being born into the fallen leaves and petrichor of autumn lifted and locked Fall into the past; to the consortium and comfort of nostalgia, warm clothes, friendly exes, hot tea, soup, central heating, eighties movies, and coddling protection that comes with knowing what has already happened, so you can predictably prevent it happening again. I didn’t see the understudy with the impenetrable smile was protecting the wall Fall built from her camouflaged past.

After messages of emotional unavailability, oxygen and space, and holding on to the good things (which is never a good thing to hear), Fall’s stand-in is irrefutable as the wending seasons — and my words scissor a postmortem for the retroactive and unrequited. Summer here doesn’t go away without a fight. It lingers and limps like gallant quarry. The sun’s orbit wanes to the south and shadows stretch. Prevailing polar winds from the Southern Ocean strip leaves from trees and silences the insects and birdsongs. Then autumn falls.

In the fugitive vacuum of quietude where dry twigs snap like bones, I look to make space in my open-air wardrobe. My vintage, sherpa-lined suede winter jacket is taking up half the room like it should do. Goading me to get back on that slope like I’m a Montana rancher. It’s oversized and bought from a charity thrift store years ago when I lived in Manchester. Northern England and it’s perennial wetness. Anyone who says they don’t have a favourite winter coat is a liar. Autumn here is so short (and summer is so long) but because of the clothes, fall is my favourite season.

The post Fall appeared first on David McNamara.

I

A perpetual calendar watch has always been a dream possession, seamlessly condensing and integrating every unit of time with haute horologerie and wonderous elan. But a mechanism which boast accuracy for centuries to come without manual adjustment seems a bit unnecessary and vulgar now — and I would need to have made very different life choices to afford and be comfortable wearing a wristwatch more valuable than my old car. I unplugged the clock radio when I first arrived. Before the blackout. I didn’t think to get an electronic gadget showing the days and dates — I don’t like the way time crudely vanishes on a digital time display. I prefer witnessing the passage of time moving on an analogue clockface. I put my family’s Victorian mahogany tavern clock on the right side of the entrance. It hangs stubbornly upright, round faced, shoulders back. The spring-wound pendulum is far too inaccurate to bother maintaining. I keep it wound though. I like the sound it gives to the silence of time.

This rain has a conquering monotony which dissolved into the silence long ago — a languid drone as if the story has already been written so there’s no rush to get to the ending. It’s funny how rain can have so many shapes and voices. It can roar like a ferocious wind, weep, patter with consolation. It can pummel panes and rooftops like jilted nails, sway suspended in midair as a gentle, introspective mist. It can fall in a deluge of cathartic relief, rise to a crescendo that pulls your attention out of a coffee shop street window to be hypnotised by the obliterations of droplets pounding the pavement puddles. (And the sight will hug you with gladness of a hearth you’re inside and not out there.)

It even has a scent and we named it petrichor, which never really sounded like the word should to me. Petrichor should be the pre-intermission for a story about to be told. Growing up on the coast, I can still conjure the ocean spice which sailed ahead of an approaching onshore storm. And after a cleansing winter tempest swept through town, residual raindrops resonated with syncopated curative closure — obese droplets chiming on tin gutters and street lampshades from soaked leaves and boughs above. Sometimes I get tricked into thinking it’s stopped. And I have to concentrate hard to discern its ruthless rhythm from the surrounding quiet. It didn’t used to have that sound. In the beginning it was a thunderous din against the roof and windows. Either its softened or I’ve become used to it — I can’t tell.

I checked into the fourteenth floor at the Piccadilly Jarvis the first week the rain started. In a city of perennial rainclouds, few people questioned the unseasonable weather. Most were simply dark at the prospect of summer cancelling its tour before it arrived. Its funny how the longer the rain persisted, the more confident and certain people became that it would stop. I packed everything I thought mattered, knowing it didn’t really matter. And I’ve left so much behind. I should be bitter at Him. But I’m beyond bitterness now because I am already dead. Just not yet.

Governments became concerned after the second week when water started rolling down the streets of London like an ocean washing over tidal flats. Martial law was invoked. The rest is not that different to science fiction tales. Coastlines sank and agricultural lowlands became submerged. Polar caps made it worse, melting like ice in strong booze. Experts tried tenaciously and bravely early on, but water is an intractable and mutable force. Scientists and ecclesiastics argued and fought until it didn’t matter anymore. Eventually, there was just too much water for the earth to absorb. Uncontrollable as a wildfire but without opposition except human ingenuity to extinguish or stop it. Proactive policy turned reactive, and panic set in like a chill — all for one became everyone for themselves.

Some people stayed behind, stoically poised atop broadcast towers to transmit national and global developments. But in the end, there was no news left to broadcast except the inevitable. I guess staff felt they were keeping people connected, believing in something — bowstrings on the deck of the sinking ship. In the end I imagine the urge to be surrounded by loved ones drove them away too, seeking out family who might be left. The BBC activated a continuous loop of their archive’s greatest hits of all time on final departure. I guess the water level must have reached the human heights of Oxford Road. The transmission went dead four days ago.

I saw a boat about week ago. A young couple passed the Arndale Tower along where Market Street used to be. The posthumous peaks of the city’s skyline are pelagic bones of a gargantuan beast protruding the spuming water. The Sunly stands like a pylon flanking my left. On the far right, further in the distance, the CSI tower is firmly above water — and further over still, the smaller 111 Piccadilly is keeping its head above water. Its exposed framework protrudes from the churning swell like an offshore mining platform, offering a strange sense of familiarity to the otherworldly ocean view from my hotel room.

In a small rowboat the man and woman drifted over Piccadilly Gardens and beneath my window, desperately struggling against the stealthy, under-city current. I couldn’t make out the faces in the downpour but the man had been visibly hurt in a fight. His face was soft and blue and he had a deep contusion over his right eye and left forearm. Blood on the bow stayed fresh in the constant rain, and dyed the ballast that their belongings floated freely about in. I guessed they’d recently stolen or had to defend their new home. It looked as though they were heading north to the Pennines that were now a lighter grey thumb smudge between the Arndale and CSI towers. Even if they survived the city rapids and Preston maelstroms, I was doubtful they survive those reportedly inhabiting the high ground.

I set an 11:00am alarm on my purple travel clock with glow-in-the-dark arms and numbers. There’s no need to wake up too early but it’s important to stay active. Sometimes I stay up late in the evening, sitting in candlelight and let its flame wander over my fingers and feet and try to recreate the sun’s warmth on my skin. It’s getting harder to imagine the enveloping warmth of a sunlit morning — the way the sun scintillates, invigorates, perspires, restores. The heavens pierce the immoveable slabs of granite clouds with veins of diffuse light every so often, but it adds no vibrancy, just sharpens the shadows and buffeting waves of the seething sea below.

It was on an evening just under three months ago, right before it started raining He came to me. How ironic that He disturbed me. I was in the bath, knees exposed, bent out of the tub so I could submerge my chest and head. I cherished the underwater solace of a bath — a muffled escape to the world for as long as I could hold my breath. I blew bubbles to stay under and opened my eyes to peer through the chalky, hot water. I felt the whole bathroom shudder. A deafening hiss and woosh. The room burst into flames with a fluorescent cold blaze. My lungs were empty of air but the demand to rise out of the tub didn’t come. The water hugged me like a soapy summer cloud full of love and tenderness not even the most committed lover could impart. I can’t remember the sound of the voice or whether he actually spoke to me, or I just heard the thoughts in my head. He foretold everything that has come to pass and instructed me where I would find sanctuary. The voice and fire then abandoned me, and I rose out of the water with arms on cold porcelain and a desperate, unfillable loneliness.

My mind plays tricks on me from time to time. I imagine movement and artificial light emanating from the square summit of the CSI building, and distant moans and creaks suggesting human inhabitants. I’m quite sure I’m alone. I spend evenings in the dark all the same signalling out the window with a flashlight — it passes the time.

I look around my room. I customised it somewhat — discarded the television and wooden chest of draws it sat on after the electricity went, moved the setae by the window and relocated my supplies and rations into the corridor once the hotel was evacuated to give me more floor space. I still keep the room door closed. I don’t know why. Adjacent to the entrance is the ensuite bathroom and opposite is the built-in wardrobe, mini bar and bench equipped with coffee making facilities where I have my small gas cooker.

The Jarvis Piccadilly’s legal duty of care stretched a certain measure. They reached a point of brute physicality to remove me when evacuation procedures began then snapped back like elastic as chaos caught on like a common cold and fear spread. I was happily forsaken. Not before I was made to pay the contents of the minibar and all other rooms on my floor were electronically sealed. A goodbye present to a crackpot I suppose who checks into hotels with a house of luggage. I’m dark about it. I can still roam about the corridors and stairwell. I do a bit for exercise though mostly I stay in my room.

Like me, I feel the room changing colours like autumn leaves. The rich vermilion wallpaper that defies the daytime bleakness, and appeared lustrous and gilded by candlelight in the beginning of my stay now glows a famished chartreuse at night. I spend time cooking. I loathed cooking after Sylvia passed. Now I love slow recipes, preparing ingredients, letting them simmer, boil, cool, and settle for the following day’s meal. I like the time it takes — the way time wraps itself around stews and sauces to imbue them with flavours of decay — the viaticum for the last man alive.

Framed photos of my two boys and wife adorn the right bedside table — my side of the bed. I think photos are like cats in a way. The most vain and disloyal of possessions. They surround me but not in a way which brings me warmth — comfort at best. I try not to think about them much. I like having them here but it’s strange seeing all the photos together, how many of them were of fishing trips — up in the highlands, down south, over on the continent. I remember my wife hated the trips.

On the wall across from the bed hangs a contemporary watercolour landscape —an inoffensive ambiguity of colour, contrast, and composition putting it firmly in the school of all hotel art. I’ve grown to enjoy its company. Hard to believe. Colours are difficult to find. It’s good to be reminded of them. Lying in bed, I play a game with the painting, pushing my eyes out of focus and watching the image shift like coloured sands mixing and melting into the background.

Where have all the birds gone?

I just realised I haven’t seen any for days. This drowning Atlantis used to be a seagull’s paradise. I brought my pillow and sheets from home. I don’t know why — perhaps it’s the smell that is familiar. The only trophy I ever won accompanies the bedside photo frames. The patina of age and neglect makes it impossible to read the inscription now. Not that it really matters. Pub darts championship when I was nineteen.

I keep bric-a-brac like a memory game in a Hoyo de Monterrey No. 2 cigar box which belonged to my uncle’s opulent tastes. It’s funny how cigar boxes never lose their smell. The peppered cedar incense of hand-rolled tobacco. I have to concentrate to connect sentiment to the throwaways. A smooth, grey stone caressed by the ocean. I picked it up off the sand in Oregon the first time I stood on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. A flight stub from a trip I took to Florida to see my eldest son’s wedding. My lucky blue dice. A waiter’s friend corkscrew with a white printed inscription “Vintage Wine and Spirits” on the plastic handle. Sylvia and I snuck out of my parents’ house when we visited them in the summer to introduce my soon-to-be wife to them. We stole an expensive bottle of Burgundy from my father’s stock but forgot to bring an opener and had to buy one from the local off-licence. Some old Swedish krona coins. A silver Parker 45. My younger son gave it to me for my fiftieth with my initials and the date engraved on it. An expired credit card.

It’s strange. I look around and squint and can make it feel like home. My overcoat and umbrella are by the front door. The Wedgwood salt and pepper shakers are on top of the fridge. The laptop I never returned to work is set up on the left bedside table. It breathes a pithy sigh whenever I glace at it, pleading to be closed and buried away forever. It’s a decoration now and makes me feel like I’m home. There are too many gaps though. It’s funny how belongings on display in our homes define us — showing us how we got to where we are. I understand my room. This is my sarcophagus.

The water level has reached the floor below. It splashes greedily about in the stairwell. You would think the threat of drowning should paralyse me. It doesn’t. Fear comes from not knowing. I’m more scared of feeling nothing — not knowing if I’m dead or alive. I guess I’m angry at the shameless travesty of Him washing the world away. Wasn’t the human condition passionate enough to be worthy of going out fast in a hellish galactic fireball? It’s difficult now to get too worked up though. I might go take a Japanese shower with the kitchen pots. I don’t take baths anymore. It’s been so long I figure there’s nothing more to be said or heard. I can’t hear the rain. Maybe it has stopped.

The post The Deluge appeared first on David McNamara.

I

Johnathon had harboured regret for too long, it burrowed too deeply to be excised now. It was a shadow, part of him — his personal pet demon. There was never a quiver of blame aired after the accident, but guilt seeks punishment. And when it is not forthcoming, people are more than capable of punishing themselves from within.

It was peculiar being back in the neighbourhood of his family — the same street, same sidewalk where Jonathon often revisited in his mind over the last fourteen years, and nothing looked familiar.

The local thoroughfare carried the same essentials. A newsagent and post office, mini-mart, and drycleaner. The gentrified rebrand expanded and imbued colour and flair. There was now a florist and indoor plant shop, patisserie, an impressionist art gallery called Cicada, a Turkish delicatessen, and three coffee houses, which changed facades like the seasons. Claudia, Daniel, and his newly engaged fiancé arranged to meet Jonathon at Ruffino’s at 11.30 am. Jonathon was twenty minutes early so he ordered an espresso and sat on the terrace watching strangers’ faces walk by.

Jonathon’s marriage eventually fell apart for many reasons. He left everything to Claudia in the divorce, including the family home five minutes’ walk from where he was. His ex-wife remarried a banking investor— nice enough bloke according to a mutual friend. Apparently, he even traded the convertible for a four-door sedan after the wedding. And his son Daniel, who never showed a glimmer of angst or resentment, grew up mostly without him around. He was glad he wasn’t invited to the house. But the idea of a neutral space was eclipsed by the location and memories. Jonathon concluded it was yet another preordained reminder of the past.

Just past the half hour they arrived. Caught in his reverie, Jonathon was slow to stand and he knew it, which he now saw made Daniel suspicious.

‘You okay dad?’
‘Yep. Great. Just the old rugby knees playing up.’

Jonathon was nervous about meeting his son’s fiancé. In spite of his scepticism, the stories were true. Her winsome gaze set against long black hair, petal skin and an urbane poise, gracefully swollen and erect. She removed her voluptuous Jackie-O sunglass and looked at Jonathon with soft jade eyes that appeared to tacitly excuse any rumours of her, which ran loose ahead of first introductions.

Claudia hovered behind her son like a guardian angel. She had put on weight and the years ate more freely at her compulsions. Daniel looked more like Claudia’s father — tall and strong with a healthy short brown crop of hair and a woolly beard. He apologised for their tardiness, but Jonathon happily enforced parental jurisdiction and dismissed the suggestion saying it was him that was early.

‘Wonders never cease.’
‘Mum-’
‘I know honey, I know.’
Sally smiled and Jonathon was further taken aback by her understated sense of humour and carefree sensibilities.
‘Hi Claudia, how are you?’
‘Fine John.’
Jonathon managed to draw Claudia out and peck her on the cheek.
‘I’m glad you could make it dad. I want you to meet Sally my fiancé.’
Jonathon put out his hand to shake Sally’s. Instead she held him by the shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.
‘It’s great to finally meet you. Dan’s told me so much about you.’
‘Pleasure to meet you Sally. Please call me John.’
‘Actually dad, Sally’s parents asked me to call them mum and dad and mum and I
thought-’
‘The privilege is mine Sally.’
‘Thanks so much dad,’ Sally said.
‘Who wants what then?’ Claudia snapped. ‘I’m having wine. Daniel, do you want a glass?’
‘Coffee’s fine mum.’
‘Flat white then?’
‘Great.’
‘Sally? You probably want to stick to something soft.’
‘A glass of white would be great mum.’
Claudia started to walk inside to the counter.
‘Wait. Do you want anything dad?’
‘No thanks son. I’m fine with this.’
‘You sure?’
‘Actually maybe just a glass of water.’
‘I’ll get a jug,’ Claudia said already continuing on her way inside.
‘And four glasses,’ Daniel called out.

It was a game to Daniel he played with his father that always ended the same. Hoisted up under his father’s arm like a log of wood, screaming with shock and excitement at being caught despite its inevitable conclusion. The more Jonathon’s chased his son, the quicker he ran along the sidewalk.

Sally lightly traced over a jagged scar that ran down the left side of Daniel’s face and under his beard. She leaned over and gave him a playful kiss on his cheek.

Jonathon kept a confessional silence and grinned timidly. It was a snapshot in Jonathon’s mind. Daniel hurtling forward with his head turned back. His loud irrepressible chortle of excitement. Not looking at all ahead of him and where he was going. Even then there were so many choices available to Johnathon. A frigid wind blew a horror through Jonathon when he picked his son off the pavement. A pale, placid look of betrayal when his unobstructed eye met Johnathon for a fleeting moment before his son burst into hysterics from the shock and pain.

Claudia returned with the help of a young waiter, holding two wine glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio in a clear plastic wine cooler. Daniel looked up when the waiter asked who ordered the coffee. The waiter flinched because Daniel’s weak eye hadn’t caught up. The waiter tried to swallow the look as he put a frosted bottle of water in the middle of the table, and returned with four glasses.

Claudia sat and smartly filled Sally’s glass and then her own. Golden ripples from an oblique sun projected through the perspiring wine bottle and danced across the white tablecloth.

‘Okay I want a photo of the couple.’
Claudia blissfully ignored her son’s groan and daughter-in-law’s mocking face with her head buried in her handbag. She fished out a disposable camera she was in the habit of carrying everywhere with her.
‘I don’t care. One day you’ll get old and it’ll please you to torture your kids the same way.’
Seeing this perfect young, beautiful girl arm in arm with his son, Jonathon saw this was his son’s ultimate retribution.
‘Hey, I want a photo of father and son.’
Claudia handed Sally the camera.
‘Thanks mum.’
Sally excitedly started flapping her arms to motion Jonathon and Daniel to move closer together.

At the children’s hospital Jonathon instinctively played the recalcitrant disciple to doctors’ suggestive inquiries and insinuations. Claudia arrived and Jonathon unfurled what happened to her first with seething tears of contrition and disdain. The irony that the injury couldn’t possibly have been any more severe somehow made everyone infinitely more grateful their son wasn’t dead. All he received was commendation from whom he least suspected or wanted, and it was unbearable. Only Jonathon was there to see the traffic lights turn amber the instant his leg, a reflex of his footy days and desperate extension of life, stretched outward to clip his son’s ankles.

Jonathon sensed a great deception unveil itself, and suddenly felt winded and weak. He stood up to leave, lightheaded amidst Sally’s cries for him to stay and Claudia’s reprimands for him to stop being so silly. He offered some feeble excuse about work that seemed to flow naturally once he started and when he thought about what he said it wasn’t far from the truth. Only Daniel refrained from words. He knew they were no use, and instead softly smiled a silent smile at his father loping away.

The post Jamiau Vu appeared first on David McNamara.

S

Only one other man is still on the train when she wakes. He shares the same destination and service. His wife and children will have already eaten dinner, but every Tuesday and Thursday night, when the kids don’t have sports practise and his wife doesn’t have choir group, they wait by the platform to pick him up. On special occasions the mother makes the children wait till they pick up their father and go out to eat at the local Indian restaurant because it opens late.

The woman steps off the trains while it’s still moving. She hurries to her parked car, wrestling the distance with her handbag for her car keys. The headlights quickly disappear behind a forested road – disappearing towards a bottle of red wine and a dinner for one.

The post Single Woman appeared first on David McNamara.

L

Walking the concourse, he recalled being short of breath. Flushed in sweat, he was panting. His carry-on pack felt heavier than normal. He knew he packed it heavy with all of his electronics, second wallet, travelling documents, and reading material. He was forced to stop and lean on a recliner to gather his breath. That’s it. Nothing after.

‘Copenhagen airport?’
‘Yes. You were found unconscious on lassiez-faire seating in the departure lounge-
‘Suspected intoxication-
‘You were moved to emergency triage where symptoms manifested.’
‘What symptoms?’
‘We’re waiting on test results. Rest now. Lunch is being prepared. We’ll discuss any concerns when I return with the results.

As soon as the doctor left, pandemic sounds of crisis infiltrated the medical bivouac, growing louder, closer, more intense. Louie capitulated to his unquenchable desire to peel back the plastic curtain.

The marquee maze of gabled white peaks trapped a swell of stricken urgency, order, and subdued panic. Flight crews and civilians traipsed past Louie with stunned expressions and heavy gaits, dragging luggage, looking lost. Jostling around them and hurrying between were emergency workers dressed in white coats or blue medical scrubs with surgical mask. The only way Louie could identify them was by the bottom of their clothing and their shoes and there were all sorts. A bedlam of trainers, clogs, work boots, heels, sequined sandals, dress shoes.

Louie weaves like smoke to the short end of the row of examination tents. A small, old oriental woman squats on her haunches over a camping stove, frying a slab of pink flesh. She looks up at Louie.

‘Your lunch. You shouldn’t leave.’
‘What is it?’
The woman shrugs, ‘Duck?’ then adds, ‘I never cook before.’
Louie sees the sides of the skin start to yellow like a nicotine stain.
‘Keep cooking it skin down until super crispy, turn over, take off the heat to let it rest in the hot pan and you’re done.’

The woman nods, giving Louie no indication whether she understood or cared what he had said. Mirrored alleyways of temporary shelters fork off in all directions, loitered with dislocated travellers and more hawkers. The clinical fluorescent white lighting buzzing from the high rafters shadows a shantytown desperation, and Louie feels a seafaring dizziness rising. He tries to focus. Sounds are drowning in a plangent noise droning inside his ears. Where was his family and why was he in Copenhagen? And why can’t he remember where he was headed?  His thoughts are fuzzy and adrift, and he gets distracted trying to work out how he knew so precisely how to cook duck. What is duck? He didn’t eat duck did he?

Louie’s balance slips. He grimaces and fights to maintain concentration as he returns to a vacant enclosure. He hears a sharp, distant PA broadcasting garbled updates. Is it even in his own language, he wonders. Louie can’t make sense out any of the announcements and waves at a passing troop of armed military guard with gas masks for faces. One stops, urging the others to keep going.

‘Sorry I can’t understand what’s going on,’ Louie squints, pointing upwards.
‘Personnel announcements. No need to worry.’
‘How do I leave? I don’t think I belong here.’
There’s a muffled chuckle.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I… ummm-
‘Home, I guess.’
‘Where’s home.’
Again, Louie hesitates and stammers, hoping the right words will come. His mind is blank. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember,’ Louie finally admits, ‘long haul flying, am I right?’
‘Do you know what year it is?’
‘2023,’ Louie confidently states and as soon as he says it, he doubts himself.
‘Well, this is home for now,’ the guard replies, his jovial fleer supplanted by a softer tone Louis recognises as pity from behind the expressionless mask.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You try finding someone here who can remember how to pilot a plane,’ the guard explains while turning back around to face the arena of fear and doubt.

That’s when Louie senses the collective dread. Something is deeply wrong, and the cold, quiet terror of not knowing stiffens like mind hackles. He tries to remember other details but it feels like he’s grovelling in the dark and starts get a headache. The guard is about to resume his duty when he stops, as if remembering something.

‘Just don’t forget to hold on to what you’ve got.’
‘Okay,’ Louie replies, confused.

He looks around and see a duffel bag and daypack on a white plastic foldup chair. They must be his.

The post Hold on to What You Got appeared first on David McNamara.

Part I

Good chase Nicolai – carn Enzo. Get in there – keep on your man. Back em’ up boys – watch for the counter.

The Hamersley Rovers hadn’t won a game since Terry began coaching her son’s team at the start of the season. They were in the black and white strip of the Pies. Terry was glad about the uniform – at least something about the game looked familiar.  They were playing away against Kingsley, in the blue and black stripe who only had two wins under their belt – a good chance to notch up their first win.

Terry’s dad was a competent AFL player in his younger days — played reserve grade for the Lions in the early eighties. The club president warned Terry not to take things to seriously with the age group when he spotted her holding a book borrowed from the local library in the first weeks of practice. He said they’d lose most of the youngsters in the following two years to Aussie rules. Terry couldn’t work out why her boys played so badly. They were often a lot bigger and skilful than their opponents. Growing up, Terry had consumed a plethora of television sporting biopics. She knew mental impediments were the hardest to break. She silently hoped she wasn’t to blame for her kids becoming acclimatised to defeat.

Kingsley camp erupted with jubilant cheers and shouts. Each parent hollered congratulations and encouragement deeming their kid played the integral role in scoring another goal. Terry swore under her breath, Ewan McManus, Robbie’s dad swore out loud and Mr Jovic, Nicolai’s dad, a gangly figure all spectacles and neck threw his folded arms down by his side in frustration. Terry had never spoken to him because he stood alone deep in the Rover’s offensive half every game. Despite play rarely getting that far, Terry presumed it was to have a good view when his son scored.

Bad luck Yuli – nothin’ ya could do. Terry clapped the boys back to the centre of the pitch. Don’t worry ‘bout it boys – carn keep ya heads up – ‘member to man up.

At least none of the lads on the sideline bench appeared bothered. Perched on plastic eskies, Marc Jefferies, the substitute goalie nicknamed Milo was between excited short gulps of breath re-telling Bret Fletcher, Terry’s son about his dad’s heroic efforts that foiled an armed robbery of his pharmacy in Mirrabooka last Thursday night. Terry looked around for her other players. Jessie, an eight-year-old giant, and Laurie, a curly-haired spring were wrestling on the grass behind their temporary bench which consisted of a row of eskies and a rubble of the team’s gear. After mutually conceding to a stalemate, they rose in a dignified manner as if to handshake on a draw, but instead decided to start kicking each other in the shins because they had guards on.

Thompson, Graham! Quit acting like children.
But we are children, Laurie quipped, and they carried on tussling.
Cheeky lil’- Well done Yuli! Great save kiddo.
Terry clapped a couple of times in encouragement.

It was the fifth save from seven shots on goal so far in the first half. Corner kicks and throw-ins had kept the opposition parked in Rover’s defensive half. The Kingsley goalie and a defender had already been reprimanded twice for sitting down during play. Terry walked over to Robbie, a natural midfielder who tripped over the ball early in the first half.

Robbie was cut from the same slab of rectangular clay as his old man. A pallid, deep breather with a red turf growing on top. Ewan, his father, was the quintessential ancestor of Northern immigrants. Industrious, passionate, and hardened with a grimace in the kiln of outback Australia as a youth. He was at every one his son’s practices and games — shadowing him ruthlessly up and down the pitch along the boundary line, and like Robbie, instant exertion flushed Ewan’s blousy complexion with a salmon bruise.

Robbie rested on the grass with his legs outstretched and hands behind him keeping his back upright. Ewan had his son’s kit bag open, which was about the same size as Robbie. An ice pack was on Robbie’s left ankle and Ewan was deeply massaging Dencorub into his quads.

How’s our lightin’ right winger doin’?
Ar ‘ees gowna be fine Terre, Ewan said in a gruff voice. Just a wee twist to the ankle. Ijts ‘es weak one ye know – not the righ’ ankle so ‘e’ll be righ’ as rain.
Good ta hear.
Some ah’em laddies are starten’ to look a wee bit flat there Terre.

Terry knew eighteen minutes had elapsed. She glanced at her Fitbit to make sure. Only a couple of minutes and half of the game was over, Terry mentally sighed.

Almost halftime. I’ll substitute then – make sure they all get a dinkum run about.
Fair enough.
That was some good runnin’ kiddo – keep it up, Terry added and awkwardly ruffled Robbie’s hair.
Thanks coach.

Victory cries broke free once more from Kingsley supporters. A miss kick from the scrum of players packed in front of goals deflected innocuously off a bewildered Enzo and rolled past the unsuspecting Yuli Semynoych and between the red witches’ hats to notch up their third. 

The half-time whistle blows sweet relief from a tall, athletic teenager. He strides past Terry along the boundary line, and she can’t help but to try guess his age. A whisper of regret seeds a voice that is vanquished by a piercing choir of whistles. They stagger into dissonant unison as half-time breaks resound from the matrix of games around Timberlane Park.

The boys sprint off the pitch and guzzle from sport bottles filled with Sportade, Gatorade, Powerade with isotonic flavours as colourful as their names like Blue Blizzard, Red Storm, Orange Crush, Green Power. All are way more enticing than water. Terry watches her kids like they’re a zoo exhibit. They rip the lids off the eskies and shove orange quarters in the mouths like pacifiers then collapse on the grass by their gear.

Terry occasionally wondered what people without children would make of the Saturday morning chaos. She couldn’t imagine how the heck she never noticed this world before Bret started played rooball last year. When she started, it overwhelmed her. A medieval affair of miniature knights and jesters, jousting, fighting, running, screaming foul play. Banners and flags, shields, and crowns of all colours of the county, and mascots in droves. A carnival put on by little people in honour of their ruling giants lining the side lines, barracking war cries and bloody murder ‘till they’re horse in the throat.

I’ve got some cut up oranges if ya want Robbie.
We’re fine Terre. Where’s ye drink bottle?
Finished it dad.
That’s a good laddie. Ewan looks back up at Terry. Got ‘em soluble glucose mixture. Energy formula I invented it me self, Ewan beams.
I’ll put Robbie back on the second half then – give him a decent run.
Forget about the first half lads – ya all much better players than them. Ya doin’ well but ‘member ya training – keep a strict defensive and midfield line and ya’ll do fine. Robbie’s coming back on so Kuan you take a break.
Kuan obediently nods.
Jessie, Laurie? You’re in defence for Eric and Enzo. Nicolai take up Kuan’s position, but I need you coming forward in support. And Yuli you sit out the first ten minutes so Marc can have a go.

Terry squats down beside Bret who has sat on the grass next to Eric and Milo. Eric Hammond was Bret’s closest friend. He lived on the same street, was in the same class at Carine Primary and joined under 7’s rooball with Bret. Eric was a natural athlete who took to the game quickly and was a good defender. Bret was a small, acquiescent child – a strong kid Terry thought. Earnest with a good heart. She just couldn’t understand how he filled up so quickly at such a young age with self-doubt. Belief and wonder is being a child, Terry thought so she took the blame. Bret also struggled to improve in the under 7’s and his initial enthusiasm to go down to the park to practise with his dad eloped. His father stopped coming to watch him play (not that he attended regularly) and Bret thought it was because of him.

Bret shrunk even further in Milo’s garrulous, over-sized personality. Milo was repeating the story he told Bret to Eric. He took after his Pakistani mother, Ima in appearance but neither of the parent’s personalities combined could match their son. The fact the heist was a failure was mainly contributed to the thieves’ own incompetence. Don was badly beaten in what Milo boasted, according to police was a race-related crime. Terry overheard Milo’s loud, fanciful details and said nothing. He knew Don and Ima spent a lot of time at work and thought it was important a child believes their parents are safe when they are away for them.

Feel like gettin’ out there and havin’ a go kiddo.
Bret shakes his head.
Go’n Bret, Eric urges.
Nah I’m right mum – I mean coach.
Maybe we’ll get ya out there in a bit hey? Put you in the back line with Eric. You two’d make a bonza defensive team.
Deafening whistles from around the park signal the resumption of play.

Part II

It wasn’t long before Milo let an easy grab trickle between his legs for Kingsley’s forth. From the kick off Norman sheared clear like the wind. He was a Yamaji kid who came down from the north three weeks ago to stay with aunt so he could be schooled in Perth. He ran as if the earth and wind propelled him, his feet controlling the ball like it was attached by an invisible yo-yo string.

Go Norm.
Robbie swept out to the far right in support.
Robbie’s on ye right sonny, Ewan called out while scooting down the sideline after the boys, shouting competitively against Terry’s instructions.
Pass the ball laddie – Robbie’s open.
All the way Norman, Terry shouted.
Play finally reached Mr Jovic who had transported himself to the other end of the pitch. He saw Nicolai streaming down, unmarked and in open space and yelped in discord to both Terry and Ewan’s cries.
Before Norman could reach the goal square he was brought down by the opposition.
Carn ref, Terry cried.

A free was awarded and Norm quickly took it, floating the ball effortless across field, taking the goalie out of position and selflessly landing it at Robbie’s feet who only had to touch it into score.

All the players huddled together in celebration. Ewan howled with delight and Mr Jovic punched a fist in the palm of his other hand. Norman’s big Aunt Tyrell who watched his games from her white Datsun with a bottle of creaming soda, family-sized Samboy cheese and onion chips, and binoculars, tooted her horn and flashed her headlights from Woodvale Drive. The individual effort and elegance of the goal was so rare at junior level, Terry was struck by an epiphany of emptiness and momentarily left dumbfounded and speechless. The shrill of the whistled restart launched Terry back into focus.

Kinglsey pushed forward and Milo nervously quivered between the witches’ hats. Dimitri, Yuli’s Polish-born father wandered across from Yuli’s twin brother’s match. He stood behind his son with his hands affectionately jockeying on his shoulder. Dimitri purposely put his sons in separate teams and watched a half-game of each of their matches, which he then reversed in order the following week to be fair.

You put Yuli in soon?
Aye, I think ye need Yuli back in goal there Terre.
Terry flinched, not realising Ewan was back standing close beside her.
I will Ewan – have to be dinkum ‘bout it you know and give Marc a fair go.
Jessie, then Nicolai and Norman scuffled the ball forward. Laurie was tripped but no free was awarded.
Carn ref – call it, Terry screamed.

Play scratched about in front of Rover’s goal. Boys bullied each other, tripped and wrestled and stood on the ball and fell all over in the congestion. An indiscriminate kick by Jessie ricocheted off a player and ballooned into the air. A theatrical header by Laurie sealed their second.

Laurie was off, arms out doing the aeroplane like he’d seen on TV. Jessie ran up behind him and jumped on his back and instantly they both collapsed under Jessie’s weight near the corner marker.

You should have Yuli in now, Dimitri called from a few yards away.
Terry heard Ewan’s silent affirmation. She looked at her watch. Nine minutes into the half. That’d do I guess, thought Terry.

Sub!

Yuli cuts an anxious stare
Yuli, go take over for Marc.
Dimitri slaps his son on the back as he bolts onto the field.
Terry looks around.

Enzo, an Italian thoroughbred of the Gabrozini small goods chain is trading cards with Kuan, a tightly wound spring of sinewed muscles and spirit. Terry had never met his parents. The Tau’s never watched their son’s matches, but were punctual – always dropping him off on time, always waiting to pick him up.

Kuan give Norman a rest. Eric, Bret, you’re in for Laurie and Jessie.

Bret thrusts a frowning stare of dissent and disapproval at the coach, but quickly realises it’s one of those times his mother wasn’t asking.

Why are ye takinin’ the darkie off Terre, ‘es ye fastest boy?
Let’s go, let’s go, Terry chants to ignore Ewan.

It’s obvious Ewan was eager to inherit next season’s coaching mantle and Terry wasn’t fussed to lose it if it wasn’t for Bret. He wanted to quit two weeks into the season and Terry refused. The irony was not lost on Terry that by providing an example to her son, she had shackled both of them with assignments they despised.

Milo runs fastest off the pitch with a ruby face glowing sweet relief. Jessie and Laurie collapse, panting on the grass. Norman jogs with athletic poise to an open space between the playing fields and the treelined edge of the park where he lowers himself into a cross-legged seated position.

Well done laddies, Ewan trumpets with encouragement.

Bret’s first touch is uncertain, coming from a rogue ball spat out of a scrum in the middle of the pitch. He steps on the ball trying to pass it too quickly away, loses his balance and stumbles before raking the ball back into his possession.

Good recovery, Terry yells.

Bret indiscriminately passes the ball directly to an opposition number. Play quickly moves upfield. Bret is overtaken by speed and the simple overlap scores another goal for Kingsley United. Bret’s shoulders slump like he’s McEnroe — the way young kids shoulders do when they experience defeat because their bodies haven’t yet learnt to hide their emotions.

Jessie’s mother, a pointed, immaculate looking woman dressed in a seamless ensemble of active wear, approaches from her gleaming blue Beemer. Her husband, Roy Thompson was a prolific billboard face in the neighbourhood, and from what Terry gleaned from other parents was a moderately successful and wealthy real estate agent. Audrey sidesteps Jessie and Laurie rolling around on the grass like they’re someone else’s embarrassment.

How are the boys doing?
Not bad.
A wee chance at winnin’ this one, Ewan adds.
Why aren’t we then?

Like wolves Kingsley sense a weakness and start to punish Bret. They claim possession and jostle up the near side of the ground. Brett is bowled over without much effort.

Carn ref, call it.
Who’s that terrible player?
That’s our team Audrey.
The wee fighter is Terre’s kid, Ewan interjects.
Audrey’s gauche feminism has no room for subtlety or weakness.
Why don’t you take him off? You’re torturing the poor thing.
Ewan audibly swallows his words and refrains from responding.

Terry watches Eric shift instinctively drift across the pitch, almost directly behind Bret to protect his next mistake. Kingsley spots the hole created on the far side and pierce the feeble defence. Yuli does well to get a foot to the ball but the force of the shot slots it between the cones for another. Their sixth goal. The mirage of a victory or at least the glimmer of a draw vanishes as quickly as it levitated.

Not Yuli’s fault, Dimitri scolds, he no help out there.
I know.

Mr Jovic furiously flaps his arms at Terry from down the end of the field. Yuli starts shouting at Bret and so Eric shouts at Yuli who then shouts back at Eric.

Carn boys, Terry implores. No one’s ta blame – ya all on the same side.
Bret’s eyes turn red and fill with water.
I think ‘es ‘ad enough Terre.
Strewth Ewan, don’t you think I know that.
What about Jessie?
Not now Audrey, Terry snaps and motions to the boys play fighting behind her.

Audrey turns around and chastises Jessie and Laurie into submission with brutal finesse Terry can’t help but admire. Ophelia Gabrazini arrives at the same time as Jackie Graham and both mothers slide into competition either side of Audrey. Terry tries to keep her attention on the game but a lurking sense of entrapment garners a crippling weight. It reminds her of marriage. She questions if all the team’s parents have some preternatural sense of failure, compelling them to suddenly gather and besiege her with a solid defensive wall along the boundary line. Jackie is complaining about how discontented her life is. Terry realises the mothers’ attention divert like the weather to personal gossip and relaxes slightly.

Norman, Ewan beckons.
Norman quits juggling the practise ball on his feet, grounds the ball and jogs out from the shade to attention.
He’s not coming off Ewan. Terry turns to Norman, sorry son it’s okay. Keep practising.

The game degrades in the final minutes. Nicolai makes one last charge at the Kingsley goal. Players converge in the penalty area. The ball frees itself from the melee and rolls softly to Bret’s feet.

Shittt, Terry whispers to herself.

Bret hacks at the ball, misses, spins around on himself and falls over. Terry watches his eyes swell with tears. The final whistle blows.

Thank Christ, Terry mutters under her breath.

Players stream from the field in unified relief. Bret dashes towards the Rover’s camp, eyes to ground, passes Terry, slumps to the ground and curls up, knees high in a tight-fisted silent defence.

Bad luck boys. Don’t worry ‘bout it – ya all played well. See ya at practise. Terry adds, we’ll get ‘em next week, feeling her voice fade away.

There’s an agricultural efficiency in the manner all the kids are herded back to their respective sideline camps before being quickly transported away in cars with engines still running. After all the on-field drama and mayhem, Terry finds the speed to solitude satisfying. She playfully wanders over to Bret and tries to whisk him to his feet but he refuses.

Don’t be like that kiddo.
I told you I hate it – and I hate you.
Ya gotta grow up a bit Bret – ya tried ya best, just had a bad game is all.
Dad would have let me quit.
I told ya – you gotta finish what ya started son. Ya nan and pop would agree with me on that.
Bret’s sullen head and shoulders slump farther.
Tell ya what – help Eric pack the gear away and we’ll swing by McDonalds the way home.
Bret’s face fails to light up like it ordinarily did at the mention of fast food.
Eric can come too if ya like, Terry adds, avoiding the question in his son’s eyes.

The post The Game appeared first on David McNamara.

M

My mum has a nervous chortle which bookends all her comments in conversations.

My youngest sister has a signature laugh also — but hers is an authentic explosive volley that lights up the darkest room.

My mum serenades the house before leaving by stating the obvious.

My mum snorts when she laughs wholesomely at something funny and her whole body squinches.

My mum has a Wing Chun reflex to say “no” to anything, especially help, which she dodges and defends like any skilled martial artist; when forced to accept help, her discomfort would make you think she was allergic to it.

My mum only watches movies in which nothing “bad” happens.

My mum says, ‘I think I’m going a bit loopy.’

My mum used to fall asleep in the afternoon watching British murder-mysteries, bake-offs, and archaeological and antique roadshows.

My mum’s eyes water up at anything sad on television and labels everything a “tragedy”.

My mum is always cursing the flatscreen and wheeled remote control for not working properly.

My mum loves marmalade and figs and is always surprised by the news she’s the only family member who does. She also loves the choc-mint and orange-choc combos, asparagus, avocado, and always make giant salad bowls for dinner even though my father won’t touch “rabbit food”.

My mum always suspects she’s getting blamed for stuff when she’s not hence her war cry, ‘Well it’s not me!’

Growing up my mum’s war cries were “Stop being so obstreperous”, “You drive me to drink”, “I’ve had it up to here”, “Grow up!” and “You’re a pain in the neck”.

My mum remembers the parfum we bought for my birthday whenever I wear it, and phones me on my way back home after seeing her to apologise for not saying goodbye.

My mum never not says, ‘Everything’s fine.’

My mum never wants anything and when asked pathologically says, ‘No, I’m fine.’

My mum says, ‘I haven’t had a love in a long time,’ and my love bursts.

To understand my mum’s spectrum of “fine” you have to appreciate it’s a rich, semantic lexicon — when dining out it translates to her restaurant meal being so horrible she can’t eat it. We know she’ll never complain because making a fuss in public then being put in a home are her two biggest nightmares. Later she’ll admit it was “dis-GUS-Ting” but she didn’t want to make a scene.

If my mum had a mantra, it’d be her lifelong pensive sigh stating, ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s the other,’ which is why I know, deep down, she thinks life is a sacrifice and a struggle.

My mum bemoans getting old, groaning as I remind her about her weekly medical appointments and saying, ‘Why does life have to be so fucking difficult.’

My mum’s favourite thing is to potter around the house.

My mum loves to say “Très bon”, “higgledy-piggledy”, “c’est la vie”, and “stop fiddle-faddling about”.

My mum says she’s got the “heebie jeebies” when she’s struck by a ghostly frisson of dread or fright.

(When Mum tacitly accepts my help I know she’s genuinely feeling out-of-sorts.)

My mum is British-born and has the doughty wartime gumption of a ward nurse. Her concern over our wellbeing is her marrow; gruff yet inexorable, and the reason growing up we were never allowed to quit anything we started, and never got a day off school because she self-diagnosed stress as the universal cause of every childhood ailment and complaint.

My mum loves the Royal Family and will fiercely defend the Monarchy like they’re her extended family because the Queen is her surrogate mother.

My mum receives gifts with an uncomfortable level of guilt, which makes her unstoppably eager to rush out to the shops to buy flowers, bubbles, and cards of heartfelt thanks in return.

My mum says, ‘I think I’m going potty,’ then corrects herself and says, ‘going dotty,’ and we both laugh.

My mum always thinks she’s the one being made fun of.

My mum is a pinball host who irrepressibly ricochets from the coffee table to the kitchen sink, rallying dishes and forever interrupting conversations to ask if half-full cups and glasses are finished or whether anyone wants a top-up.

My mum loves giving way more than receiving, and as a doting wife selflessly acquiesced to my father her entire life because more than her own happiness, she cherishes the happiness of others more. Hence her philosophy of life, ‘Six of one; half a dozen of the other,’ (which to me implies Mum never viewed the life-glass as half full or half empty; life just is, and you soldier through it).

My mum has the keen gaze of a dilettante antiquarian, and hearing of a classically trained virtuoso.

My mum always reverts to Italian on vacation or in intercontinental restaurants and says, ‘Grazie, grazie,’ to everyone because she gets flustered trying to speak the language — and everyone smiles.

When my mum thinks someone is being disingenuous she says, ‘Give me a bucket.’

My mum can’t stand loose power cables, an unmade bed, and closed venetian blinds facing upwards.

My mum’s flaws are exquisitely transparent and beautiful.

My mum LOVES Christmas and always made sure the holiday was a fairy-tale extravaganza of food and mayhem. The front door is decorated with a wreath, promptly at the start of Advent; bowls of seasonal cherries, sugared almonds, and candy canes then begin to blossom in the entranceway to greet guests; storage boxes of heirloom decorations quickly adorn the tree and house; colourful lights start blinking at night; the hulking Victorian dinner table in the “good room” is immaculately set days before with posh placemats and coasters, Granny’s silverware and the good China, and every skerrick of mahogany real estate is embellished with Christmas crackers, ornamental candles, Roses chocolates, crystal wine and water glasses, and a glass salt-and-pepper cellar.

Finally, Christmas Day arrives with kitchen chaos and a prodigal smorgasbord of cold meats and chipolatas, cooked turkey breast, her mother’s potato salad recipe, three other random garden salads, and a seafood bounty of prawns, crayfish, scallops, oysters, and smoked salmon, which is self-served from the breakfast bench because there’s no room on the table; and for dessert mum presents her famous four-layered trifle which she refuses to serve standalone so it’s decadence is complemented by a pavlova or meringue shells with whipped cream and fresh fruit.

My mum loathes Christmas with her liturgical war cry, “I’m over it!” predictably marking the midpoint of the Advent calendar when her anxiety balloons with the demands and stresses of the silly season.

My mum says, ‘The old brain’s not working like it should today.’

My mum gets super angry watching the six o’clock nightly news on television, treating it like a live sporting event, loudly commentating to the segments and exclaiming how “shocking” the world is.

My mum religiously reads the obituaries in the daily newspaper, and macabrely focuses conversational stories around anecdotes of friends’ medical testing, cancer, and death.

My mum still cuts pertinent newspaper articles out of the morning paper and saves them for my older brother.

My mum still pushes cash into my younger brother’s hand when my father’s not paying attention, which isn’t hard anymore because he swallows days on the internet, sermonising to old friends on the phone, and sleeping in front of the Formula One.

‘I’ve got a lot on my mind,’ is my mum’s equivocal catchphrase because she worries about EVeryTHinG — the war in Ukraine, Ebola outbreaks in Africa, her children; not knowing where they are, the good samaritan on the nightly news who was slain while trying to break up a fight — which is why I have to make fun of her to calm her down even though I know I’ll spend my life missing it when it’s gone.

My mum swears whispers and says, ‘sssshiiiT,’ under her breath when she’s annoyed.

My mum swears more and more and says, ‘I can’t keep track of shit anymore.’

My mum says, ‘My fucking mind is going,’ and ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.’

My mum’s latest catchphrases are fixated on halves and eating as little as possible so she says, ‘I’m only eating half,’ followed by, ‘Won’t you eat some? You eat half.’

(I hate myself when I snap and have a go at mum for being a Mum.)

No matter how tired and grumpy, my younger brother can always make my mum laugh — and although I shouldn’t think it, (and mum would never admit it), he’s her favourite because she remembers him the most.

My mum loves throwing out trash and is obsessed with emptying the household bins, constantly ferrying refuse from the bathroom and kitchen bins to the wheelie bin outside. My younger brother, who lives at home, puts his wastebasket outside his room to stop my mum coming in all the time even though she still does to make his bed. He always shouts, ‘Stop ferreting around in the bins,’ when he hears my mum rummaging through his bin. She snorts and hollers back through the closed door, ‘I’m not FER-retting.’

My mum hates leaves, and on overcast days never fails to remark, ‘I hate this weather.’

My mum’s arch nemesis will always be the Kreepy Krawly.

My mum defines her beautiful insanity by picking leaves up off the ground like she thinks it matters; she’s always caught doing it on her way to and from the wheelie bin in autumn, which she does right before a stormfront, moaning on her old-new knees.

I think my mum hates inclement weather for the same reason; imagining all the deciduous trees shedding wilted leaves to sully her driveway and swirl around her is her ultimate Tuttle nightmare.

My mum repeatedly asks, ‘Aren’t you cold?’ and demands I put a jumper or shawl on in winter despite pointing out to her someone who’s over forty can generally work that out for themselves.

My mum moved with her family from England to Australia when she was twelve but her Acadian dream of retiring to the British countryside has never dimmed. She religiously watches daily episodes of Escape to the Country, and still affords subscriptions to Scottish Fields, Country Life, and the National Trust solely on her part-pension payments.

My mum eats like a starving kitten over the kitchen sink yet argues every mealtime she has no appetite.

My mum railed us when we were kids to eat over a plate; now she doesn’t care and at best, eats over a single ply from a kitchen roll boasting, ‘Saves on washing up.’

My mum now washes dishes like a bachelorette, treating hot, soapy water like a magical, dunking potion.

When my mum sees pictures of my grandfather she scoffs and says, ‘Horrible man,’ but doesn’t know why.

My mum licks her fingers to pick specks of dirt from the floor then licks her fingers again and double dips.

My mum’s sense of hospitality is legendary because it’s the warmest interrogation — welcoming guests on arrival by waterboarding them with incessant offerings of every conceivable food and beverage option, which she used to easily provide before my father was forced to do the shopping, when her pantry was a fully stocked doomsday prepper’s supermarket.

My mum says, ‘I think I’m losing my mind,’ and ‘my mind’s had its day.’

My mum says she must be going round the bend when she asks, ‘What did we just talked about?’

My mum says, ‘I think my brain’s getting addled.’

‘My fucking mind is going.’

When my mum tells stories, there’s so much convoluted and discursive backstory; the dynasty of characters, misleading tangents, and colourful tapestry she fabricates puts literary giants like Salman Rushdie and Xavier Herbert to shame.

My mum is a delicate balance of stubborn and lazy.

My mum is a selfless, baroque ocean queen who deserved better.

My mum represents an opposing force in the galaxy, reminding and reprimanding you of her universal, resiled importance whenever you act.

I turn on a ceiling light, ‘Make sure you turn it off!’ I open the fridge door and the decree is swift and loud, ‘Make sure you push it shut!’ I rest a champagne flute on the breakfast bench, ‘Are you done with that.’

My mum still throws me under the bus with a mischievous laugh to take her husband’s side when I try to defend and help her.

When I sleepover my mum always knocks and gently cracks the guest bedroom door before bedtime like when I was young; she says goodnight, queries if any of her other children are in the house, adds a giggle, a finger-flutter wave, says, ‘Sweet dreams,’ and closes it like a child closing the hinge of a dollhouse.

My mum, my only hero is performing the slowest magical act of vanishing. She is an ancient butte burning golden in the afternoon light, only to quietly disappear as the eternal sun folds inevitably to night and moonlight chisels stone back to desert sand.

The post My Mum’s Magical Vanishing Act appeared first on David McNamara.

The post The Dreaming Tree appeared first on David McNamara.

Well, it’s not for the results (obviously). They’re fucking awful. If I was results-driven and morally limber, titty bars and brothels would be a much cheaper and more efficient option.

Again, I remind you not to mistake online dating for Tinder and other social apps. Online dating (like real dating) can be fun because both parties arrive with matching expectations — or at the very least, similar, in that they both want to be there. Half the time, Tinder dates feel like job interviews that you spend a lot of time, money and effort on, all the while knowing you have no chance of getting the job.

In other words, if online date sites and Tinder were live venues, the online dating sites would be the exclusive cocktail clubs with entry fees and exorbitant drink prices, while Tinder is the free-for-all public house. And I like public houses. Public houses champion diversity, and don’t discriminate, especially with the most obvert and underhanded tool of discrimination — membership fees!

Like the quintessential watering hole, Tinder at least is trying to preserve the quixotic feeling you should always charge at earthen windmills, because occasionally nature or the windmill will let you feel like you won.

I must admit, I’m also a sucker for lists and most comfortable in situations of low expectations.

I also like the chase — I don’t mean chasing women. That’s really socially unacceptable theses days, and way too exhausting anyway.

I’m talking about the Tinder Race — the competition to be the first to uncouple and unmatch after a Tinder date. Often it’s a race to get home because you can’t legally use your phone while driving. However, I regularly let my mobile phone credit lapse and without wifi I can’t compete on the train ride home after a Tinder date. Both of these fixtures are fiscally determined (which I appreciate can contribute to the reason I’m single and on Tinder). So I can’t even compete in the race, which is also a bummer. Usually, I text to ask if they got home safe – half the motivation for this is to generate a digital date-stamp for an alibi; and the other half I can chalk up as chivalrous gesture.

When I wake the next morning, check my phone and realise the person I spent three hours developing a healthy rapport with the night before has become a ghost, with barely a digital footprint proving their existence beyond the memory is common (at least in my experience). And it is little wonder such experiences conjure latent bouts of depression and self-doubt, which leads to negativity and blame, and push-button rejection and deletion of dating apps like Tinder (at least for a while).

However, rejection is part of life. I mean now that it is performed surgically and remotely, isn’t it kind of better?

Well, yes and no. We are now no longer subjected to those insufferable marathon breakup sessions full of clichés, euphemisms, vague transformative self-discoveries and wildly irrelevant analogies. But surgery can be pretty fucking messy too. So now that our opposable thumbs smite connections with swipey gestures and drag-and-drop features based on the welter of the heart, or some preordained transfigurative idea of romance and a spark means there’s also lots more rejection in many peoples lives – often outweighing the good shit. Gone are the days of yore where courtships then marriage were class-driven, convoluted and corralled by social norms and expectation; where olden-day folk probably only ever got rejected once or twice in their lives.

I think it’s feelings of manipulation and lack of closure people resent when grappling with social dating apps (which is why everyone hates HR departments). But if we all had lots of exuberance, intense interaction, brutal honesty, and closure people would probably start to resent these things too.

Personally, I enjoy predicting outcomes — and the satisfaction of seeing a circumstance unfold or connection dither then vanish (as I envisaged) vindicates my agile instinct and intuition. Believing in bad luck is stable ground — as long as you don’t go too far and stop appreciating once in while how lucky most us fuckers out there are (especially if you can see and hear yourself out loud point and count out all of your fingers and all of your toes).

However, in the end I think the reason Tinder, and other social dating apps are peril is because of our old friend…

Timing.

And while mobile connectivity is a dynamic behemoth; it’s also a sly charlatan, a gimmick, a trick, that’s very good at exploiting a chief humanistic quality – we’re organic and as such slaves to ludicrous organic concepts of timing and calories. So we’re all kind of lazy unless there’s enough persuasion, incentive or reward; so rather than finding a good fit whether it be socially or physically, we have a limpet tendency to grab onto those within reach and hitch a free ride. In other words we try to make whatever is in our lives work, no matter how ill-fitting rather than seek out a more tailored or compatible fit – like a toddler bashing pieces together in a jigsaw set.

We did it with Tinder, corrupting a hookup app into a dating site with a strong majority seeking abstract shit like “spoons that fit” and “partners in crime” instead of uncomplicated one-nighters and no-strings-attached affairs. In the same manner we find it very easy to identify and appreciate what we don’t want; but we’re ratshit at doing the deep mental excavation to reveal what we do want. Even our entire speech centre goes batshit when confronted with anything remotely resembling what we might want. We revert to our most primitive selves, offering up monosyllabic salutations with a pixelated wink or smirk or high resolution snapshots of our genitals (while our profile pictures remain wide-angled and out of focus). 

So to make it easier, I’ve included a few handy blokey Tinder Tips below because let’s face it — consistent and continued failure can occur in real life too. And without a social dating app like Tinder to blame you could end up a litterbug and pariah of quaint villages in the UK like this guy.

Finally, don’t give up y’all. And look I get it — it’s tough out there, looking for meaningful connections in a world soaking in connectivity – where meaning seems to have less density these days, or we struggle to attribute the correct weight to it. Like basic literacy and reading habits such as skim-reading and glossing over words — it’s not that words have less meaning, we just ponder over them less and don’t give a shit about good grammar, leading to gross misinterpretations and inferences and insinuations. You just got to pivot, lean, roll-n-rock and adapt; to learn how to extract it from between the lines, in the spaces, the pulsating ellipses, the subtle placement of an emoji, real-time versus delayed reactions, and most of all don’t take shit too seriously and have some fun.

The post Tinder Will Fall (2017): Part II appeared first on David McNamara.

R

It was how much you loved Radiohead. You told me after I pointed to the OK Computer album poster hung up in the sitting area of your small flat. You told me it was your favourite album; I said mine was Pablo Honey (yeah, I’m that guy — the guy who likes Let it Be instead of Abbey Road or White Album). The same guy that puts Rushmore then Bottle Rocket in the top two spots when ranking favourite Wes Anderson films. That’s when I knew we’d survive, at least for a while — because we were OK Computer and Pablo Honey.

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