Day 120 - My Point of View

 MY POINT OF VIEW 

Prompt - My Point of View : Write in the first person point of view.

I will never forget her face.

It had been a good, a productive, morning.  I'd woken around six thirty, coffee and toast and straight to my desk.  Near enough the whole of chapter eight flowed out on to the screen in the hours to midday.  When I got back I'd go back to it and do some editing, sort out the closing paragraphs where there was a still a decision to be made, and that would be a decent day's work done.  I had a microwaved potato with some beans and cheese, and set off to walk along the front to the old abbey.

Writing, for me, is a matter of habit, of settling into a comfy routine.  I'd moved into the cottage three weeks ago and quickly established the pattern of my days.  Sleep, write, eat, walk, read, eat, write, read, sleep.  Simple, predictable, soothing, with the bagginess I needed for thinking time, contemplation.  I'd brought about a month's worth of supplies with me so I didn't even need to head into the village.  My walk took me in the opposite direction, heading west along the coast.  

I found that walk on the second day and had stuck with the same route ever since.  It exercised my body, stimulated my senses, raised questions in my mind.  And kept me away from others.  Down the hill from the cottage, a mile along the dune-shaped coastal pathway, then the climb up to the cliff and along to the fourteenth century ruin that marked my turning point.  The way back invariably into the wind and spray, and frequent rain squalls, coming in off the North Sea, ensuring I returned glowing, tingling, breathless, ready.  Every day the light was different, rolling shadows of cloud across the battered land and bruised waters, sending down shafts to highlight different details of my journey - a stunted tree, a rock the size and shape of a JCB, and, most memorably, a seal observing my progress from the whitecaps.  The abbey would be bright and welcoming, or dark and apprehensive, or shady and mysterious in the haar.  Best of all I saw nobody.  Except my silkie.

Until that day.  I was on my way back, in the sandy undulations before my final climb, so I didn't see her until we were about a hundred metres apart.  Then I couldn't miss her.  A mustard yellow waterproof, hood up, above blue jeans and daffodil wellies.   Her head was down, invisible at first, like she was treading carefully, unfamiliar with her route.  My hermitting instincts had me think of climbing to my right and concealing myself in the long beachgrass, but a writer's curiosity won out, and I kept to the trail.  

She briefly vanished from sight as we both stepped down into dips in the path, so that when we she first saw me we were only a few metres apart.  She stopped, and I had a chance to see her close up.  About thirty five I thought.  From beneath the hood strands of brown hair wisped in the breeze, giving her face an indeterminate and constantly shifting shape.  Pale white skin, a hint of pink in her cheeks, no makeup I could see, the nose straight and narrow above a wide tight mouth.  Her indeterminate eyes seemed to see and not see me at the same time.  Not a memorable face.  But the look she gave me - that was memorable.  That was unforgettable.  A desolate, uninhabited look.  No trace of fear, no sense of acknowledgement, I felt like a tree to be circumnavigated.  

I said Hi, the limit of my social skills at the time, but she just put her head back down and walked past me, shoulders scrunched up to make herself as narrow as possible, to avoid any possibility of contact.  For a few moments I watched her luminous back, and then the dunes took her from me.  I returned to my isolated home, turning over the incident in my mind and wondering where she might fit into my plot.

The following evening I was going over my morning's work when I heard a car approach, doors slam shut, boots on the gravel outside, and the inevitable knock on my door.  Even with all that time to prepare it still felt like a startling intrusion on my existence.  I opened up to find Little and Large, two women police officers.  Little spoke.

"Good evening sir, sorry to bother you, but we're making some enquiries about a woman who's gone missing and just wanted to ask you a few questions.  Mind if we come in for a minute?"

I let them in, saw them take in the state of the place.

"I'm a writer.  Keeping myself to myself while I get on with my work, so I don't see much."

"No problem sir, we won't take up much of your time."  She looked at her pal and went on.  "Can you tell me your name please, and where you're from?"

"Donald Ramsay, I'm up from Edinburgh, looking for a bit of isolation to work in."  I wondered if the name would generate any recognition, but nothing doing.  

"We're trying to trace the movements of a woman who we've got reason to be concerned about.  Is that your coat sir?"  She pointed at my brown stockman's coat, hanging on the back of the door, ready for the morn.  

"Well, yes, of course.  You need something long and dry around here."

"Indeed sir.  Were you out wearing it yesterday?"

"Yes, I go along towards the abbey every afternoon."

"And did you see anyone while you were out?"  She sounded slightly impatient now.

"Yes, a woman.  First person I've seen in the three weeks I've been going that way."  I paused, but their faces indicated they wanted more.  "Woman, mid thirties I'd guess, yellow coat and wellies, blue jeans.  Looked a bit... empty."

"Empty?  That's a strange word to use sir."

"Vacant.  As if there was nobody home.  Empty.  I can't think of another way to put it."

"Where was this sir, and can you recall the time?"

"Down on the path through the dunes."  I waved my arm vaguely in the relevant direction. "Must have been about four by then, I was nearly home."

"And did she say anything?"

"No.  Not a word.  I think I said Hi, you know, just trying to sort of neighbourly, but I'm not sure she even heard.  Just ignored me and went back to her walk.  Because of the dunes I wasn't able to see her for long."

"And did you go out that way again today?"

"Yes, same route, pretty much the same time.  It's become my routine."

"Didn't see anything different today?"

"There was a beam of light from the clouds that lit up the wee island about a mile out from the cliffs, and the abbey seemed even more foreboding than usual, and..."  I trailed off, their faces clearly indicating this wasn't the sort of 'different' they were interested in.  "But no, not really, nothing that would help you."

"Did you go into the abbey today?"

"No, not this time, like I said it was really dark and gloomy, so I went round the outside and then headed back.  Why d'you ask?"

"A note was found there, tucked into a gap in the stone bowl near the middle.  It mentioned a man in a brown drover's coat.  We believe it was written by the woman we're looking for."

"Are you able to tell me what it said?"

"Just thanks for saying hello to her, and that she wished she'd talked to you.  You looked different to the others."

"Others?"

"We're not yet clear what she meant by that.  Is there anything else you can tell us about the incident?"

"Em, not really, I think that's it.  I saw her walk towards me, although I got the feeling she hadn't seen me.  We both stopped when we got close and she stared, but as if she hadn't really seen me.  I said something and she put her head down and went on, seemed careful not to come near me.  Then she was gone and that was it."

"OK sir, thanks for your help, that's been really useful."  She didn't sound convinced.  "We'll be off now.  Please ring this number if you can think of anything else that might be of assistance."  She handed me a card.  PC Jean Muirhouse.

"Thank you PC Muirhouse."

She nodded.  Large nodded.  And they let themselves out.  I watched them get into their car and drive away.  Nobody waved.

A week later I walked into the village to top up my supplies.  Shuffled round McKenzie's General Store piling up my needs and wants for another three or four weeks, and hauled it up to the counter.  Mr McKenzie (I assumed) had greeted me when i came in, but saved the interrogation until he had me captive, waiting on his adding up.

"You'll be the man in Dougie Rae's cottage then?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"The man Jeannie was wanting to talk to?"  I raised my eyebrows.  "PC Muirhouse you'd be knowing her as.  She was wondering who had the coat" he said, nodding at my garment.  

"Yes, she came to see me.  I couldn't really help her much."

"Had you not seen our Mary then?"  

"The woman in the yellow raincoat?"

"That would be the one.  Mary McCallum."

"Only very briefly.  We didn't talk."

"No, well, she wasn't saying that much lately, and I suppose she won't be again.  It's a sad way to go though."

"Go?  She's not coming back?"  If he was going to quiz me I might as well see if there was a story in it.

"You'd not heard?"  I shook my head.  "She was found washed up on the shore on Saturday, along at Redcrags Bay."  It was Thursday now, I'd seen her on a Wednesday, so she was found three days after I'd seen her.  What had happened to her, what had she done?  And could I...?

"Where's Redcrags?"

"A couple of miles along from the old abbey.  Not easy to get to.  She was spotted by Jamie from the boat.  You don't see many seals wearing yellow, do you?"  I hadn't been along that far, but I knew I would be tomorrow.  

"She was a local here?"  

He paused and looked around before replying.

"Yes, I suppose.  I suppose she was.  Sort of.  But not really one of us, if you know what I mean."

"Not really.  I mean, I'm not one of you either, so I'm not sure what you're getting at."

Another pause, another look towards the door to the back of the shop.  Clearly considering how much to give away to an outsider.

"She'd been born here right enough.  Grew up a bit wild, went as soon as she could, over to Aberdeen we think."  

I gave him an encouraging look and he started up again.

"Poor Greta."  Another pause.  "Her mother, Greta McCallum.  Fine woman, did her best, widow.  Didn't deserve a bairn like Mary.  Fair broke her heart, eh?.  Died a couple of years back.  We all miss her.  All of us."

He drew to a close again, but I wasn't going to stop there.

"So Mary came back to her?"

He looked surprised.

"To her?  No, she'd never have done that.  Not Mary.  Poor Greta."

It was going to be a slow process.

"So Mary didn't get to see her mum before she died?"

"See her?"  A sudden look of anger flashed across his face.  "See her?  No, she wouldn't bloody see her.  Didn't come near until the poor woman was buried.  Not even home for the funeral.  But she was quick enough to take up Greta's place, free home for her.  Just moved in without a word to anyone.  Besom."

"She wasn't well liked here then?"

"Well liked?  She wasn't even badly liked.  Ignoring our Greta all those years, doing whatever she was doing.  There was a lot of anger in the village, can you understand that Mr...?"

"Ramsay."

"Mr Ramsay.  Can you understand that?  Ignoring her mother all those years, never a word after she left, then moving back in like that as if she owned the place.  Which she did apparently, but all the same.  Nobody had any time for her.  I wasn't going to serve her, that's for sure.  Got all her stuff delivered from somewhere and I don't miss the money."  His tone was fierce.  he stopped and recomposed his expression as he remembered he was speaking about a dead woman.  "I'll just add this lot up for you."

I paid my money over, asked if he could call me a taxi back to the cottage with my load of supplies.  He turned to the storeroom door and called out.

"Rab!  Man here wanting a taxi up to Dougie's place."  A small red haired man emerged, grabbed a load of my stuff from the counter, gave me a quick cock of the head to follow, and silently went out through the back room.  I lifted, carried and followed.  A Nissan awaited.  My stuff went in the boot, I went in the back seat and avoided looking at his mirror.  One questioning session was enough, and I guessed he'd been listening anyway.  

When we got to the cottage he finally spoke.  "I'll give you a hand in with this lot."  And he did.  As he was leaving he turned and looked at me, looked at the messy room, looked back at me.  "Did you speak to her?"

"Not really.  Said Hi, but she ignored me."

"Aye.  She would.  But at least you said more than the rest of us."  And he walked back to his car before I could think of a reply.  Maybe it was best that I didn't get a chance.

All I'd said was Hi.  I will never forget her face.

Day 119 - The Ex

 THE EX

Prompt - The Ex : Write a poem to someone who is estranged from you

I’ve never missed the silences that last

I’ve never missed the eggshells underfoot

I’ve never missed the intimacy barrier

I’ve never missed the dubious politics

The anti-thought outbursts

The hours of trashy romances

Forced to be trivial

I’ve never missed the mutual mismatch

Hatched from mutual desperation

The background of “I’m leaving”

The constantly looming divorce

And I wonder how we stayed for so long

How we let the pain go by without treatment

It was never all bad, nothing ever is

I hope happiness has found you

But 

I’ve never missed you

Dayy 118 - Shoes

 SHOES

Prompt - Shoes : What kind of shoes do you wear?  Where do they lead you feet?

That time of year is here again.  Well almost, as it's a bit cold yet!  But when the rains vanish and the sun comes out I will be getting my walking boots back out again.  A few short walks to begin with, to get the feet reconditioned, then starting push up the distances, until I'm back to doing twenty kilometres and more.

Of course the feet should already be used to them, but we have been in lockdown mode, and sporting events were not for mere fans to attend.  In more usual times the boots would have been kept bedded in over the winter, my preferred footwear at Murrayfield to watch Edinburgh Rugby do their thing.  Preferred largely because that lets me wear two thick pairs of socks, an essential component in preventing desperate shivering.  But now preferred also for their colour scheme.  Those blue boots suffered a broken lace at the end of last summer, and their replacements are a bright orange, to match my team's colours.

But attendance at rugby matches has had to be virtual for many months now (other than one outing last August when the SRU were permitted to experiment with a socially distanced crowd.  It wasn't even cold enough for the boots.  So the boots have sat, waiting patiently, until their summer role drags them from the top shelve of the hall cupboard.  That time is now.

My previous boots were bought specifically to attend games at Murrayfield.  Albeit back then it wasn't in the stadium, but in the covered art deco venue next door, the team was Edinburgh Capitals, and the sport ice hockey.  The rink was affectionately known as Freezerfield as it was the coldest in the league.  Wearing those boots, and the double socks they allowed for, meant I was consistently toasty though my normal three hour Sunday night stint in the place.  Then came my conversion to kilt wearing.

That came from a desire to do Kiltwalk to raise fund for the Capitals, but their sudden demise meant I'd walk for money for Advocard, where I was a long standing volunteer.  So the boots took on a new role, more like the one they were envisaged for by the manufacturers.  It wasn't hill walking, nor trekking across countryside, but pounding the streets of Edinburgh.  Helping my body adapt from walking perhaps eight or nine kilometres, to fifteen and twenty and more.  Continuous walking, trying to set a decent time, then a better time.  I set myself various routes, but once I was up to speed the most enjoyable was the full length of the Water of Leith Walkway.  And then the Kiltwalk itself, which proved to be really enjoyable, and less taxing on my ageing body than I'd expected.  I managed to do the route a lot quicker the year after.

Then the pandemic came.  My old boots developed a fault, were replaced by the new blue numbers.  Over the summer I still did my walks, avoiding people as much as possible, and while there was no formal Kiltwalk taking place I did complete a virtual one, walking the river walk previously mentioned in about three and a quarter hours.  Since when the boots have sat waiting for their chance to re-emerge.

There won't be an Edinburgh Kiltwalk this year.  I am waiting to see what the 'national' one will look like due to take place in Glasgow at the end of August.  Will the logistics make it feasible? I hope so.  If they do then I need to be prepared.  I need to start training, I need to break those blue and orange boots in again (or maybe I mean my feet...).  In a few days they will be back on, shorts donned, and I will walk in excess of ten kilometres, and see how I feel.  Then build up gradually, week by week.  Even if there is no Kiltwalk for me this year I can still enjoy the walks, the feeling of my legs getting stronger, the sun on my face, the sense of detachment it brings.  I have discovered, quite late in life, how much I like walking.  Alone with my own thoughts, just me pushing myself as hard as I can.  That might be a bit tougher now, being yet another year older, and having some breathing issues after a bout of (probably) covid, but I'll do my best and be content with that.  Those boots will take me over familiar paths - stretches of the usual KW route, a trek out to Murrayfield via the coast, into East Lothian, along the aforementioned walkway, and along the Union Canal.  I like to think the boots are looking forward to it as much as I am.

Day 117 - Beach Inspired

 BEACH INSPIRED 

Prompt - Beach Inspired : What's not to write about the beach?

"Hi Kerry, coming for a drink?"

Darren Brown, school bully, school football captain, school obnoxious prick, standing over us.  I'd finally got some time alone with Kerry MacDougall, lying there on the beach, just the two of us, chatting away and getting along (I thought) just fine.  She was in the year below, and I'd been besotted for the past eighteen months, but this was the first time I'd ever spent an time at all getting her full attention.  And now someone was here to spoil it.

I looked at Kerry, wondering if she was going to say anything.  She looked at Darren, looked at me, looked at Darren.  If anyone was going to reply it had to be me.

"I think Kerry's fine here, we were have a private chat."

"Oooh, a private chat, eh?  Fancy your chances, do you Little Weed."  He'd called me that before.  Kerry sniggered.  I got flustered.  Turned to her, turned back to him, and was met by a faceful of sand.  Eyes, mouth, hair full of grit, stinging, disgusting.  Dogs would shit on this beach.

By the time I could see again it was to realise I was alone.  And there, in the distance, Kerry walking away with Darren's arm over her shoulder.  Sand kicked in the face?  Wasn't that the Charles Atlas cliche?

Three years later.  I was back in town from uni, summer before me, walking the prom, and bumped into Kerry.  Still gorgeous, still unforgotten.  We got talking, we had a drink, we went and sat on the beach.  And talked and talked and just got on (I thought).

"Well, well, if it isn't Little Weed."

I knew the voice without turning.  I knew from the tone what would be coming.  What he didn't know is that I wasn't the same Little Weed he'd known back then.  Three years in the gym and playing squash had turned me into a Triffid.  I got to my feet and faced him.  Them.  Beside Darren stood Michael Brown, his big brother.  

"Fancy a drink Kerry?"

"I've already..."  Kerry began, and I turned to see if she was going to finish.  Found myself being pulled back by the shoulders, a leg behind my calves, and suddenly I was prostrate and winded on the ground.  Sand sprayed over me, getting everywhere, and I lay there blinded, gasping for breath, spitting out grains, writing to try and get myself upright again.

By the time I did I was alone again.  And three figures were walking up to the prom.

Charles bloody Atlas never told that version of the story, did he?

Day 116 - All Saints

 ALL SAINTS

Prompt - All Saints : Choose a saint and write a poem about his or her life

Jo never grounded a try in Northants

In Paisley she ne’er kicked a ball

New Orleans didn’t see a Josephine down   

Or her score a home run in Saint Paul

But Josephine joined the ranks of the saints

Cos the guy in the Vatican said

She’d been really special all through her life

And the word of the gospel she’d spread

Sold as a slave and whipped every day

Scarred o’er her body for life

So many years spent owned by bad men

An existence of struggle and strife

But in Venice she finally found herself free

A Cannossian Sister became

Talked of her time back in the Sudan

Looked back without anger or blame

Gentle and calm and smiling was she

The Vicenzans loved her as one

Madre Moretta they name that they gave

Forever their favourite nun

She seemed like their saviour during the war

When she died they came like a throng

To praise Josephine for her kindness and  love

To acclaim her in word and in song

Half a century passed by after her death

Until she was said to be holy

The saint of all who survive trafficking

But she’ll never be Saint Mirren’s goalie

 

(Written about Saint Josephine Bakhita)

Day 115 - Black and Blue

 BLACK AND BLUE

Prompt - Black and Blue : Write about a time you've been physically hurt

I'd not long turned five years old.  No doubt I have memories that predate this time, but none as vivid as this one, which would mean that on my very first day at school I turned up with my arm in a sling.  Yet even the initial school day isn't seared on to my consciousness like the event that gave me the injury.

We lived in one of the middle houses in a terrace of eight.  The back garden gate opened on to a dirt path that ran along behind the other gardens in our half of the block, to a Y shaped junction that, to the right, took you past the garden gates of the first four houses in the next block, and on the left out to the street.  It was a narrow path, just about wide enough for a wheelbarrow, with weeds sprouting, gravel scattered, ridges of mud baked hard by the incessantly dry summer weather.  

I ran along the path.  Where I was running to, who I thought I was going to se, I have no idea.  But I was running from our gate towards the junction, as fast as my spindly white limbs would take me. My uncalculating child mind, focussed only on whatever goal it had, was not yet equipped to assess the complex relationship between speed, mass and the coefficient of grip available on that dried up surface.  My thoughts said Left, my body said no, the dust and grit offering no adhesion to my plimsolls, and I fell feet first, to the full length of my short skinny body, and dragged along the ground.

I cried.  I howled.  All I knew was pain.  (And, probably, embarrassment.)  Through my tears I appealed to my father, now standing at our gate.  I forget his exact words, but they were along the lines of telling me to get back up, I wasn't really hurt, stop crying about nothing.  But I didn't, I was and I couldn't.  Eventually even he could see, through his laughter, that his assessment of the situation might be a bit flawed, and he came to get me, carry me back to the house where my mother fussed and probed and determined there was something wrong with my arm.

It was only a minor fracture.  Greenstick they call it, common in the growing pliable bones of early youth.  I would do it again a few years later, but to the other wrist.  But I don't recall that one, or the various sprains and other injuries one accumulates through growing up. Not like that one sliding, slipping moment and the burst of pain it brought with it, the laughter of my father, the sense of, very briefly, being alone in the world.  Perhaps that hurt me as much as the damaged limb?

Day 114 - Neighbours

 NEIGHBOURS

Prompt - Neighbours : Make up a story or poem about your next door neighbour.

When did you stop believing Santa Claus?

I was nearing thirteen, but I was always a bit of a gullible child.  My own kids would have been about ten or eleven, although I think my son was just pretending for a couple of years so his wee sister didn't know.  Not for her sake, but so he could take the piss out of her with his pals.

Nowadays they learn early.  A few days after Xmas I was coming up to my front door just as the woman next door emerged with her kids.  The boy's about five and had a shiny new bike in his hands.

"That's a lovely bike, did Santa bring you that?"  He looked at his sister who nodded fiercely, then turned back to me with solemn visage.

"My Mum and Dad gave me it.  There is no Santa."  It sounded rehearsed.  His mum shrugged at me with a 'what can you say?' look.  And off they went.

But they stayed with me when I went inside, and I could imagine what had happened.  The girl, she's about seven, had made a discovery.  Maybe it was under the bed, or in a cupboard she wouldn't normally go into.  These flats aren't all that big, so there's only so many hiding spaces.  She checks her mother is busy, seeks out her brother, hand over his mouth, swears (threatens) him to silence, and takes him to see the stash.  He turns back to her, wide eyed, curious.

"Has Santa been already?"

"No stupid, Mum and Dad put it here, there is no Santa.  They just pretend.  I heard someone say it at school, and this means they were right.  We'll keep quiet about it, OK, and then see what they say on Xmas day?  Right?"  He knew better than to question when she said like that.

I felt a little bit sorry for him.

I'd been knitting little animals for my grandkids, each one to contain a mini easter egg.  A couple of chickens, a rabbit, a bear.  Cute, personal, a bit different.  I'd even done the bear in the colours of a favourite football team.  They were fun to do so I thought who else might like them, and I remembered my little sceptic next door.  Another chicken, another rabbit quickly emerged from my needles.  Chocolate covered goo inside, wrapping paper applied, and into a small brightly coloured bag I'd found in my hoard.   A gift card saying "Happy Easter from the Easter Bunny".  Last thing before bed I put the bag on their doorstep, left my creations to their fate.

The next day the bag was gone.  That afternoon a post came up on the community Facebook page, mother and kids smiling, wooly figures in hand, caption saying thanks to the Easter Bunny.

And that was that.  Except in my head.  I could see the surprise when mum opened the door.  Looking round to see if anyone was lurking, watching.  The kids puzzled, wondering, watching as the bag is brought in.  Who's it from, who's it for?  Mum reads the gift tag.

"I think this is for you two."  Hands it over and the girl digs in, pulls out a pair of small colourful packages, weighs each up before handing one to her brother.  They tear the paper off, examine the contents, pleasure and puzzlement playing across faces, querying this unexpected start to their day.

"You did this?" says the girl, half questioning, half accusing.  The mother shakes her head.

"Nothing to do with me.  Look, see how different the handwriting is, showing shopping list alongside the card.  I'm as surprised as you are."  The girl reads her parent's face, sees genuine confusion.  "It must have been the Easter Bunny, like it says."

Girl and boy look at each other.  The boy nods, already convinced.  She's... almost there, wants to believe, doesn't know what else there is.  Then mum's getting the photo set up and she's swept along with it all.

They don't believe in Santa Claus.  But the Easter Bunny?  She's still out there, somewhere between doubt and belief.

Day 113 - Staircase

 STAIRCASE

Prompt - Staircase : Use a photo of a staircase or the stairs in your home or a building you love to inspire you.

Like the grunt that I blurt

When I bend to the floor

The surprise on my face 

At a knock on the door

When my hand cups my groin

As a ball flies my way

When I shout at the ref 

On seeing foul play

The purr of a smile 

When there’s chocolate to eat

The satisfied sigh

When I get to my seat

These things that I do

Without thought or pause

Are just part of me

I do them because

I can’t help myself

Perhaps it’s my age

But there’s one that annoys

Perhaps just ‘a stage’?

When describing our home

My hand won’t stay still

Insists on performing

A rotor blade whirl

As soon as I say 

“A spiral staircase”

I have to perform

Wherever the place

As if nobody there

Would know what I mean

Unless my hand rose

Like smoke out a machine

A curl of the fingers

A sweep of the hand

Ain’t going to help

Anyone understand

But still I insist

And make my daft action

I hope you’ll ignore

My pathetic distraction

The habit has stuck

And won’t go away

When I mention our stairs

No matter the day

My right hand moves up

In a circling motif

But the time when I don’t

Will be such a relief

Day 112 - Rushing

 RUSHING

Prompt - Rushing : Write about moving quickly and doing things fast.

"Come on Grandad, get a move on."

Why couldn't they understand that this was me 'getting a move on'?  When had it come to this?

I knew the answer to that one.  It had come, creeping step by creaking joint, for about the last twenty five years.  From Harry the Hare to Terry the Tortoise.  With a few other animals along the way.

They wouldn't kept up with me once upon a time.  The time being long before they were even born.  I had been quick.  I had been one of the quickest.  The Speedy Gonzalez quips all came my way.  I was in a hurry, always rushing, always on the move.  

As a kid of twelve I'd leave a big match deep in the crowd and be at the head of the pack by the time it emerged on to Richmond Terrace.  Weaving , ducking, sprinting.  Balanced, sharp, an eye for a gap and a plan in my head, I'd be through that seemingly impenetrable mass of striding legs and towering torsos like a mouse in a maze with the scent of cheddar in his nostrils.

In my teens and twenties I was on the end of many an exhortation to Slow Down.  But I never did.  It got me into trouble in school corridors, earned me praise on athletics track and rugby pitch.  Made people wary of walking with me, always worried they'd be dragged up to my level.  I became even more adept at calculating the most efficient route along a crowded pavement.  No little old ladies were harmed in the performance of my art.

Even in my forties, left to my own pace, nobody would pass me when walking.  Joggers maybe, but even some of them struggled.  I could keep up 8kph for hours on end.  I was a man in a hurry, even when there was nowhere to go.

And then it started to happen.  People passed me as I walked along.  Pride put on a spurt and I'd match them, but only for so long.  They had something I had left behind.  Youth.  Once one had done it there seemed to be others all the time.  In truth I was still quicker than 99% of pedestrians, but this clear sign on my bodily decline still hit hard.  My fifties were a time of facing up to reality.  Yet even in the following decade I tried.  To be as quick as others, to be quicker than most of the young people (surprisingly easy to do, for this was a slow generation).  

But time is relentless, as is decay, and the gradual diminution of our physical powers.  Now my twelve year old grandson tells me to get a move on - and my body doesn't do what my mind commands.  

I'd have passed on the baton if I could only catch him up.  

Day 111 - Questions

 QUESTIONS

Prompt - Questions : Write about questions you have for the universe.  Optional : Include an answer key.

Dear Universe,

What kind of fool am I?

Was the great Douglas right all along?  Is the answer forty two?  And if it is, what the hell was the question?

OK, I'll stop messing about and try to be serious.  You deserve that respect.  

I can handle the concept of infinity of space and time.  I say handle rather than comprehend, for that is too much to ask, but I have reached an acceptance with the basic concept.  There no boundaries to the entirety of the universe as a three dimensional entity, nor to the fourth dimension of time.  Beginning and ending have no meaning at that level, only transition.  Even matter and energy have no finite limitations.  

But that's only dealing with four dimensions.  The ones we can understand from our everyday existence.  Science plays about with mathematical concepts of further dimensions, but those are too abstract a notion for anyone not deeply steeped in pure maths and quantum physics. So my questions have to be prosaic, for that is the limit of my understanding.

How many dimensions are there?  How many can the human mind perceive in real life, outside of the laboratory?  And does the answer mean anything for the possibilities of interstellar travel?  Are there sentient minds elsewhere in this galaxy or beyond, in any period of time, who have, had, or will have that ability?

Our current technology is opening up exciting discoveries about another planet, Mars.  In earthbound terms it is a vast distance away from our home planet.  In universal terms it is right next door.  Our science tells us that it would be physically impossible to travel faster than the speed of light.  Even if, or when, we develop the technology to bring us close to that velocity, it would still take a ship five years to reach the nearest star system.  Deeper explorations of our own galaxy would take decades, centuries.  

Science Fiction writers get around this physical limitation by various means.  Hyperspace is a term used by several, a dimension,or multi dimensions, beyond our conventional quartet, where 'real' distance disappears and a form of remote displacement takes place.  (Different writers have their own takes on the theme, with various degrees of science behind their explanations, but in the end it's all speculation, essential for fiction to be able to employ the beloved idea of an interstellar empire of some sort.)  Is there any real possibility of discovering such a thing, or at least some means of deep space travel that wouldn't involve the people involved having to be put into a state of suspended animation for considerable periods of time?

Has any species managed to travel between the stars?  Of course there may have been times in the past, or in the future, where the question itself is meaningless.  If there was a Big Bang then when stars did come into existence in a recognisable solar form, they would not have been in the same locations they are now.  But, in those earlier days, life would not have evolved.  Science now says the universe is expanding.  But I think what that means is that all matter, including the stars around which planetary systems revolve, are in constant motion.  The universe can't 'expand' because it has no limits (see infinity above...), but all of it's matter has movement, realigning itself all the time.

If there was a Big Bang what came before that?  How did all that matter come together?  What 'shape' was it before that happened?  And before that, and before that....  Infinity of time and space also means that there are an infinite number of questions!

In the end there are no answers, not at that level.  The scientists postulate from the observable information they can gather.  The SF writers speculate based on what is known and the power of their imaginations.  It is to their benefit, and to those of us who consume their ideas, that the answers aren't known.  Speculation offers more fun that reality.  The Universe is gradually giving up the odd secret now and then, but there is so much for it to hold back, more than humanity has time for.

(And yes, we may not get to know many more answers, for our species has various means of ending their own survival, not linked to the eventual burn out and emise of our central provider of light and warmth and energy.  In my youth is was nuclear armageddon that seemed the most likely.  To which we can now add the increasingly imminent likelihood of global warming making the planet largely uninhabitable, and a far more dealy and irreversible viral pandemic doing the job.)

None of which will stop us from keeping on asking, for as long as we are able...

Are there really any answers?  We will find ourselves getting closer and closer to that, if we survive.  But the one thing we do know is that we can never ever know everything.  We can't even ask all the right questions.

FOOTNOTE : I'm disappointed with myself that I didn't make the time or effort to make some reference to questions about the idea of parallel universes!  Maybe there are other universes to ask questions of?

Day 110 - Country Mouse

 COUNTRY MOUSE

Prompt - County Mouse : Write about someone who grew up in the country visiting the city for the first time.

She found the smells to be the worst thing about the place.  And the people weren't much better.   There was hardly a single place in the city, at least in the old established part, that didn't stink of excrement, human and horse and dog and who knows what, or slops or beer or just of people.  Dirty people who swarmed everywhere, pushed by, looked her up and down without a word of greeting,  tried to cheat her, tried to get her to come into their dark damp lodgings for... she knew what for, but didn't want to think about it.  And the posh folks, the rich in their finery and sedan chairs and carriages, looked right through and beyond, expected her to vanish from their paths.  Even Master Duncan back home hadn't treated her with such disdain.

Her first seventeen years had been so different, and only now could she really appreciate them for what they offered.  Peace, as long as she did her jobs, friends, as long as she knew her place, love, being close to her family.  Dirleton was a small village, where everyone knew everyone else, where they were poor but helped each other, and from where she was taken into The Big Hoose when she was fourteen trained to be a servant.  She was pretty, quick witted and dainty on her movements, but always showed a willingness to learn, so she'd endeared herself to both family and staff.  Perhaps too much so to Master Duncan, who was known to have put at least three servants in the family way, despite his mother's chastisements, and who regularly sought to trap her into his room.  But she was smart, and one time she was almost caught persuaded him that she had her monthly on with the heaviest of flows.  He chose not to pursue the matter.  She also had a sweetheart, Davey, who worked in the stables and provided much fun in the straw.

The Mistress, seeing a vacancy for a maid in their Edinburgh house, decided that distancing her from both Duncan and Davey would be wise.  Having grown fond of the child, soe didn't want to lose her to motherhood so soon, and thought the experience in the city would do her good.  With her parents blessing Effie was packed off to the city.

Her life until then had all been within three miles of her father's home.  A few family visits, on foot, into North Berwick had been the extent of her travels.  A twenty mile cart journey was a terrifying prospect, with who knew what at the end of it?  But the carter was a good friend of her father, and pointed out the sights along the way, made sure she was well fed and watered, and let her chatter her excitement away.  He was ready for her immediate reaction when the olfactory impact became fully apparent, within seconds of entering the city gates, and confirmed it was almost always like this, but a bit worse in the summer months.

Her duties in the house were arduous, but no more than they had been before.  But the staff were less friendly, some of them looking down on a country girl (but she was fortunate there was another in the same position, and they became firm friends), and only when The Mistress came to stay did she feel valued for herself.  She got used to the routines, the people.  But the city?  Not in the least.  It was an alien world, demeaning and frightening, and she kept to her room when she could.  

There was one ray of hope in the gloom.  The household would decamp next year, north across the Nor Loch to a house then being built in the building site they called the New Town.  She could see over there from her window.  Fewer people, fresh thought in the planning, a more gentile populace.  But there was really only one thought in her mind.  It could never smell as bad as it did here - could it?

Day 109 - Carnival

 CARNIVAL

Prompt - Carnival : Write a poem or story or journal entry inspired by a carnival or street fair.

Through some long forgotten historical anomaly, the council owned a large patch of land on the eastern edge of the village.  Even more unusually, they'd always resisted tempting offers from developers to buy it up and plant housing there.  "It's a community resource" was the mantra, and they stuck with it.  There was a very basic community centre in the north western corner, with what passed for changing rooms and toilets, but otherwise it was just a big green space.  It got used for sports, both school and adult, and outdoor yoga and joggers and dog walkers and whatever anybody wanted to do there really. And every year, in the last weekend of September, it was Carnival Time.  Smithson's Travelling Funfair would arrive, set up camp, and people would come from all over the county to give themselves over to the classic pleasures of childhood.  

They won't be coming back.

We were there, the usual crowd, trying to pretend we were doing it all ironically and really imagining we were ten again.  The waltzer, the roundabout, the dodgems, the shooting and throwing and grabbing stalls, the fortune teller, in an atmosphere of flashing lights and electrical sparks and the smells and tastes of hot dogs and candyfloss.  Simple pleasures they're called, and it was best to set your mind to simple and enjoy.  

In the centre of it all, the bright beacon everyone saw as they drove into the valley.  The ferris wheel.  This one had only been in use for four years, finally replacing the rickety old thing that dated back to the sixties.  It had twenty four gondolas, three seats in each, largely open to the elements.  Go to the top and you could see every ride, every stall, every pleasure seeker, and into the quiet of the village beyond.  An annual must-do, a habit we couldn't break.

I was with Steve and Jackie and we'd come to a stop just one car down from the top spot.  We were laughing, shouting to and at the other cars, pointing out anything and everything, trying to give each other a scare.  The same as we did every year.  

So it took us a bit more time than most to realise we'd been stationary for a lot longer than usual. We looked down to see a crowd there.  Not the queuing and observing crowd that would have been normal, but a concerned crowd, trying to look into one of the gondolas that were down at access level.  Jackie spotted the St John's people pushing through, urgency guiding their movements.  This didn't look good.  

We were stuck up there for sixty five minutes.  A bit chilly, but we could see there was something more important than our comfort happening below.  An ambulance had turned up, police too, and the crowd had being pushed back.  We saw a laden stretcher being loaded into the ambulance which moved away.  Slowly.  The wheel started to move, but with longer pauses than normal, and it was another fifteen minutes before we could get off and be corralled into a makeshift pen, awaiting our turn to be questioned by the police.  This wasn't the excitement we'd come for.

By the time I left I knew a woman had been found dead in one of the gondolas.  She'd been on her own, but nobody seemed to know who she was or how she'd died.  That would only emerge over the next few days and weeks, which also brought us follow up police visits.  The woman was about thirty, very pretty, well dressed, but with nothing on her to identify who she was.  She'd paid in cash, didn't have any cards, phone or house keys.  Nobody knew who she'd come with, where she was from, why she'd chosen to go up there alone.  Nobody knew, or could figure out, how the slim blade had entered her heart and taken her life.  

Six months later and nobody knows.  Maybe they never will.  All we do know is that Smithson's won't be back.

This time next year there will be fifty eight new homes on that land.  

Day 108 - Taking Chances

 TAKING CHANCES

Prompt - Taking Chances : Everyone takes a risk at some point in their life.  Write about a time when you took a chance and what the result was.

Now, almost three decades later, it's fascinating to look back and recall what led up to it.  In rereading old diaries I amaze myself not that it happened at all, but that it took so long for me to make the decision.  Except that low self esteem and lack of confidence ooze from those same pages.  I couldn't make the choice because I didn't believe in myself.

And yet the evidence is there that my life was very unhappy.  I write a lot about death, and how it might come about, how it would be a preferable state to the one I was in.  There were times when i dreaded going home.  Not all the time, not by any means, but often enough to make me wonder now how I stuck it out for so long.  The silent treatment for days on end.  Being made to feel uncomfortable for doing things that made me happy, like watching Scotland play rugby.  feeling resentful that I was doing most of the work while she sat and read trashy novels.  The total lack of any sexual contact.  With a year of the wedding she'd threatened to leave me at least twice.  I wish she had.

Yes, there were times that were fun.  We had holidays, we had outings.  But so many of them seem to have been marred by rows, or just a general sense of not wanting to be there.  It couldn't have been all bad, nothing ever is.  But it was bad enough for it always to have some element of tension, of worry that the good bits couldn't last, and would inevitably break down into shouting then silence.

It took someone else to provide the catalyst - and even then it would be three years of turmoil before the final end point could be reached.  It took someone else in my life to make me feel worthwhile again, that I could be better off away from the toxicity of that relationship.  To realise that it wasn't all my fault, that I was more adequate than I had thought, and that I could make a better life for myself.  (And that she too might be better off without me in the long run.)  That someone else lit up my life, then left me in despair, and I flirted with the ultimate end, unsure of how serious I was about ending my own life.  Going that low was the best thing I could have done, for then there's only one way to go.  It was a slow process, an uneven one, but it brought me belief in myself, and an optimism I hadn't known for many, many years.

Of course divorce entailed some risk, but I took so long to reach the point of decision, and to enact it, that it felt like the only chance I had.  And look how it turned out - I am happier now than I've ever been.

Day 107 - Collection

 COLLECTION

Prompt - Collection : Write about collecting something, such as salt shakers, sea shells, or stamps.

One final wipe and it went into the cabinet, with the small red card so carefully prepared.  That made ten.  He had no idea how many more he might add to the collection, but he'd felt no inclination to stop yet.  Every new one added to the memories.

Of course the first three meant far more than any of the others, the very first one the most of all, but continuing the collection meant continuing the connection.  Every means of keeping that connection alive felt worthwhile pursuing.  And, if he was honest with himself, he got a bit of a thrill for the risk he took each time.  She'd liked that.

The first had come from a fancy gastropub in Scarborough, where they'd gone for a romantic weeknd.  Drinking their G&Ts, she'd talked about how lovely the glasses were.  Shapely semi-opaque goblets with the crest of the hotel engraved on the side of the bowl.  He'd never done anything like it before.  But somehow he managed it without anyone noticing.  She was shocked and delighted when he revealed it on their return to their room, baffled at how he'd kept the secret, even from her.  Her joy in this unexpected 'gift', and the adrenaline he'd fed on from a volatile mix of fear, excitement and achievement, gave their lovemaking an extra frisson that night.

He was able to surprise her twice more, with attractive gin glasses lifted from the a posh restaurant in town they'd never been to before and doubted they'd ever afford again, and  the circle bar of the Grand Theatre.  Both time she was shocked, charmed, thrilled at his audacity and devotion.  They had always been a quiet couple, safe and predictable, and this new found facet to his behaviour, and the hint of the illicit it brought into their relationship, added a little spark to their existence.  She'd look at the glasses in the cabinet and be reminded that he wasn't quite the man she'd married, that he was a man of unexpected secrets and abilities.  

And then she was gone.  Throat cancer.  Three brutally short months.  One devastated husband left to mourn, to remember, to live a half empty life.  Tonic without the gin.

Six months later and he was in another bar in another theatre, on his own.  Nice glass.  She'd have liked that glass, he thought.  He drank his drink and, without conscious thought, had it concealed and on it's way to join the trio behind the glass at home.  He found himself lost in the joy of imagination, of her pretend disapproval, the light in her eyes, the buzz in his being.  The memories rekindled.  It was one way to bring her back, if only briefly.

Now there were half a dozen more.  Every time his drink came in a glass she'd have loved.  He'd started going places for drinks just to see what glasses they came in.  Collection.  Obsession.  Love.  His triangle of risk, and one more reason to keep on going.

Day 106 - Spellbinding

 SPELLBINDING

Prompt - Spellbinding : Write a magic spell

The spell your grandad must incant and perform to see and hear his sister in Melbourne on the screen before him.  (NB Only works when you are present in the room too...)

I summon Gu Gel for choices three

Phase Thyme to hang from the apple tree

Skaipe from pier to pier doth werk  

Feisbuk by wizard Zoo Kerr Berk

On an airy ceebord  I must finger

Commands to come and chat and linger

Now I turn and turn and turn

Eyes tight shut until I learn

That you are here, your voice sounds clear

And by my spell your face is here

Day 105 - Heat

 HEAT 

Prompt - Heat : Write about being overheated and sweltering

I was warned.  Several times, especially by my Swedish friends.  So it's my own fault and I deserve the humiliation.  I know I do.  Why did I let pride, and a burgeoning friendship, fool me into going along with it?

It was my first time in the country and I'd been looking forward to it so much.  From a fascinating old capital city to start out on, to exploring further and further towards the Arctic Circle, into vast expanses of trees and water and wildlife and not much else.  Into genuinely underpopulated regions, something a man from the British Isles had never experienced.  Plus getting an opportunity to learn more about their progressive social policies, and just why they were consistently so successful in being one of the happiest places on the planet.

I drew the line at trying to learn the language of course - that way lies madness.  I should have drawn a second line.  

But I met Lassi.  Lovely guy, a history professor steeped in knowledge of the land and people, and a fellow runner.  He initiated me into their ways (and dramatically increased my caffeine intake!) and eventually persuaded me to take the ultimate challenge.

I've been in North Africa.  I've been to the Arizona desert.  I've experienced the humidity of Vietnamese forest.  I've been in plenty of hot situations, and I've coped.  My preference will always be for more temperate climes, but if going somewhere interesting means I have to endure a bit of sweltering then so be it.

And none of those prepared me.  For the steam, for sense of being broiled alive, for the feeling of every pore in my body opening wide and pouring forth my life juices.  Or for the laughter of Lassi and his pals as I admitted defeat, while they settled in comfortably.  There is nothing - absolutely nothing - prepares you for being in a Finnish sauna.  Never again....

Day 104 - Vacation

 VACATION (HOLIDAY!!)

Prompt - Vacation : Write about a vacation you took.

If I look back over the last near-on six and half decades and think of which holiday I had that still makes me smile more than any other it isn't the one that would seem most obvious.  Not spending a few days in one of the great European cities.  Not lying on a Mediterranean beach.  Not watching the glorious sunrises on a Greek island.  Not the sleeper train across three countries.  No, my favourite remains one which only lasted for three nights away (on one of which I got little sleep), took in three cities, and never left the main island of Great Britain (well, it was always underneath somewhere).  And which let me experience something I'd been thinking about for many years.

We still lived in Southport at the time.  So Day One consisted of making our way to the nearest train station, getting train and bus to Liverpool Airport, and boarding a flight to London City.  Then the DLR into central London.  Hotel for the night, a decent meal and a wander, and an earlyish night.  Day Two gave us a chance to go to a gallery, do some shopping, sit in the sun in the gardens in one of the Bloomsbury squares.  An excellent meal in a Belgian restaurant and off to Kings Cross to catch the sleeper to Inverness.

That was both experience I'd been wanting to try for a long time, and the largely sleepless night. I remember  being awake around three am and conscious that we'd stopped moving.  As it seemed to be a long stop I went to the window of our little cabin and tried to figure out where we were.  An old station clearly, a large and imposing one from what i could tell, and strangely familiar.  Maybe I hadn't quite come fully awake as it took me at least five minutes to realise it was Edinburgh Waverley, a place I should have recognised immediately.

Day three therefore began early.  By six it was clear I wouldn't be getting more sleep, so I dressed and sat in the dining car watching the scenery as the likes of Aviemore and Kingussie flw past in the clear Highlands morning.  We were given a laughably small breakfast (but the tickets were dead cheap so who's complaining?) and pitched out into chillingly cold Inverness station at eight am.  We had booked into the station hotel, and they took in our bags for us, but there were at least five hours to pass before we could get to our room.  So we wandered the streets of an unfeasibly uiet city, looking for somewhere suitable to eat.  There didn't seem to be much around, so maybe it was simple gratitude that made the cooked breakfast in the Lemon Tree Cafe taste like one of the finest repastys of my life.  Or maybe they just did a really good fry up.  Sadly, when I went back a few years later, it had closed down.

Fortified by the scran we did more exploring as the streets started to get a bit busier.  Looked in a few shops, checked out the river and the castle, and made the best discovery of the trip.  Leakey's Bookshop is housed in an old Gaelic church and is one of the biggest second hand book venders in the country.  What a wonderful place to pass a couple of hours, made more so by the cafe on the upper floor where we had lunch (though that too has fallen victim to the passing of time), and leaving with as many books as we thought would fit into our cases...

An evening in Inverness, a comfy room and a good night's sleep, and we entered Day 4, heading homewards.  A mid morning train to Glasgow took us to meet my oldest and best friend, who then took us to lunch in his favourite Italian.  Less than three hours after arriving we were on our way out of central Station heading for... Wigan.  OK, I didn't say the whole trip was perfect, did I?  Changing trains in Wigan means changing stations and standing on the platform of the hideously ugly Wigan Wallgate waiting for our final conveyance, the train to Southport. But so what if the final few hours were a bit of a come down?  By then I felt I'd had several memorable experiences, had finally got to take the sleeper from London to Inverness, discovered a great bookshop, and been able to see my pal I didn't get to see very often.  Sometimes it's the simplest things that prove the most memorable.

Day 103 - Secret message

 SECRET MESSAGE

Prompt - Secret message : Write something with a secret message hidden in between the words.  For example, you could make an acrostic poem using the last letters of the word or use secret code words in the poem.

Soon we’ll shower streets with confetti

Celebrate the long time creaking union

Overdue this arrival of it’s final end

The day when hope strides centre stage

Leaving the bonds of that sinking ship

And cede it to sad dreams of empire

Never doubting change will happen

Dangers can be overturned

Good can emerge from turbulence

Even though my words shuffle in

To reveal the meaning isn’t mystic

Summon the first and last of every line 

Day 102 - Wardrobe

 WARDROBE

Prompt - Wardrobe : Write about a fashion model or what's currently in your closet or drawers.

I haven't bought much in the way of new clothing in the past twelve months.  Partly because there have been so few opportunities to try anything on - often essential if you're even a slightly non-standard shape - and partly because there doesn't seem a lot of point.  Where would I be going to wear it anyway?  And I already had more than enough 'stuff', so adding to it for the sake of buying would achieve nothing.

With one exception.  There's a drawer I keep handkerchiefs in (yes, I am that old fashioned at times), which has had to make some space for an new everyday item of clothing.  One I wouldn't have imagined I'd have so many of, or indeed any of, but which now come with me every time I leave home.  And if you've got to wear something all the time you might as well make sure they reflect your personality, say something about you, or add a bit of colour to your day.  

Face masks.  When I counted them up I was surprised how many I have accumulated.  There are fifteen in the photo, one is in the wash, and I lost one a couple of weeks ago.  (Sadly the lost one was also one of the comfiest, and in a fetching tartan.)  Five reflecting my rugby supporting allegiances, a couple that are musically inclined, one political statement and the rest in varying shades and patterns.  Now choosing a mask for the day is the same as choosing my socks.  Plus a backup mask in case the elastic breaks - I've already been caught out that way once.

A lot of people seem to prefer the disposable masks.  Which seems a shame when they could be using them to add a little bit of interest to the world (don't tell me you don't check out other people's masks?).  And, far worse, too many seem to be in the habit of disposing them anywhere.  Walk down any street and there are more blue masks in the gutter than I have in my new drawer space - lucky old rats.  At least the washable variety come with a sense of ownership.

How long before that space in the drawer is no longer needed, before we cease to be a society of mask wearers?  Part of me hopes that isn't going to happen, and that masks become as generally acceptable here as they are in many countries in the East.  This must be the first year in decades where I haven't had a common cold.  Of course that could just be because I'm not going anywhere, but if masks were even partly responsible isn't that a reason to keep using them?  Or am I just saying that to protect my investment...?

Day 101 - Recycle

 RECYCLE

Prompt - Recycle : Take something you've written in the past and rewrite it into a completely different piece.

An old story,"The Visitor", revisited as a poem.

(Original here)

Henry sits splendidly amidst librarial confusion

Leo’s doomed heroine in hand

Will he or Anna be first to reach the end?

Does the man in the suit have it planned?

They share a dram in the firelit flickers of companionship

They will share the dimming of life’s light

When the train casts that fragile body to oblivion

And the scythe flashes in the night

When you can anticipate his arrival and face the day

Be ready with open greeting

There is no fear in the visitors powers

He is the last one you’ll be meeting

Day 100 - Normal

 NORMAL

Prompt - Normal : What does normal mean to you?  Is it good or bad to be normal?

A dictionary definition of normal say it's "conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected".  But who defines 'usual?  Or what's 'expected'.  I don't think you can use normal as an objective term, because everybody's idea of 'normal' is different.  It is, primarily, an objective evaluation, related to your own life experiences.

Of course it's possible to say that something is the the norm in a strictly mathematical sense, and from that say with some confidence that something is 'normal'.  But that's not how real life works.  There's been a lot of discussion lately about "the new normal", referring to what our society will look like, what our lives will look like, in the aftermath of trying to cope with the covid pandemic.  Everyone knows that things won't go back to how they were before, but trying to predict how that shapes the future is purely speculative - which won't stop us all doing it.

What we do know is that 'normal' changes, and is changing all the time.  What was normal to us in childhood may not be in later life.  What is normal in childhood is your own life.  I've seen people who were beaten or sexually abused when they were children say that as far as they knew at the time that was normal, that was what happened in everyone's home.  Have things changed with social media, where making direct comparisons is an easier thing to do?  I suspect not, as so much is still hidden within families, and some secrets still feel too shameful to discuss openly.  Because shame is normalised too.

But the same rules apply in more mundane matters.  As a child I'd often have Weetabix for my tea.  Did anyone else do the same?  I have no idea, but to me it was my normal.  What is normal in one life is alien in others.  I find it hard to imagine accepting the idea of servants as 'normal'.  But I suppose if it's something you're brought up with you wouldn't know any different, any better.  People learn to accept their own unhappiness as normal - often marriages wouldn't survive without being able to do so.  

As for wanting to be 'normal', what does that even mean?  It's really a way of trying to fit in to the perceived expectations of others.  If you're an introvert who doesn't want to be noticed, for fear of the embarrassment it causes you, then trying to be the same as others feels important.  In work it can be a way of seeming competent, or reliable, and suitable for promotion.  But how much damage does this urge to conformity do to people, and how much does the world lose through limiting self-expression?  In that respect our current society is so much healthier than it was, say, a century ago.  Look at photos of that time and there is so much conformity in styles of dress, and social mores.  We are able to express ourselves in more diverse ways now, and there's often an 'anything goes' vibe about being out in public.  Even better it has become possible for same sex couples to walk hand in hand along the street, something that would have been almost impossible when I was growing up, for the possible consequences of violence, or at the very least verbal abuse, being directed at the couple.  

None of which has really taken me anywhere in terms of trying to argue a position.  Except for one disgracefully trite thought - you should always try to be your own normal, not the one others expect of you.  

Day 99 - Seasonal

 SEASONAL

Prompt - Seasonal : Write about your favourite season.

Favourite?  Do I have a favourite?  There's a lot to be said for them all.  Their pleasures are so varied, both climatically and in terms of what cultural activities are on offer.  (Albeit less so over the past twelve months, where the changing weather has acquired a more prominent role in marking the passing of the days...)  But if I ws being pushed to choose I'd probably go for Winter.

Of course Spring offers the chance to get out more, the sense of rebirth that comes with daffodils and blossom and new foliage, a time to get the walking boots out and pile on a bit of mileage.  In previous years it would also have signalled the start of the city's festival season, starting with Tradfest.  But Spring feels tentative, a period of transition rather than having a real identity.

Summer means more time outside, more and more to do.  All those festivals would usually be there, and may be again next year (or perhaps even in reduced form in 2021?), with so much new film, music, comedy and drama to go see.  But the city is also full of tourists who get in the way and make progress so slow.  

Autumn signals the start of the rugby season (and, in happier times, that would once have been hockey season) so it's a period of optimism.  The big festivals are over, but there would still be plenty of gigs etc to attend.  But it's another 'nothing' season, as the colours of the trees change and fade, the streets start to become quieter, the nights start to 'draw in', and the warmer clothes can start to be considered.

Winter is the solid base of our times.  Hopefully there will be snow - I love walking in snow.  The weather becomes both friend and foe, a constantly changing, and sometimes treacherous, companion that needs to be listened to, and the mixing and matching of clothing that goes along with that.  I like knowing I'm going to get to wear more layers, have the cold weather coats and scarves and gloves and hats out again, more choices to make, more fun in those choices.  The year ends, the year begins.  A time of looking back, and of looking forward.  Of what's been done, and what's to be done.  A sense of sweeping clean, of promises and hopes.  People complain about Winter, because it's cold and wet and dark.  But that feels more like home to me.  That's my Scotland.  The one with hope for the future in it.

Day 98 - Smile

 SMILE

Prompt - Smile : Write a poem about the things that make you smile.

The cat coming down to sit on my lap

The warmth of a marital hug

Watching the crows while I sit at my desk

A drink from my favourite mug

Wearing the kilt on a non-windy day

Hiking boots stuck on my feet

Walking for miles in the warm Scottish sun

(And the rain and the wind and the sleet)

A soak in the bath when I’m back feeling tired

Relaxing there with a good book

Reading at any time of the day

Going into the kitchen to cook

The taste of roasted brussel sprouts

A pizza with those sprouts and stilton

Trying to create some exciting new tastes

From recipes I’ve previously built on

One of my sports teams winning a game

Or being in a crowd at a match

Memories of cheering on Edinburgh Caps

When MIR was my home patch

Lockdown chats with friends on the screen

The postie bringing surprises 

Every item he gives feels like a gift

No matter their shapes or their sizes

Live music and comics and drama and art

Discovering a new favourite band

The euphoria I get from listening to Lau

Stu and Garry improv at The Stand

Every poll with Yes still well ahead

Showing the way to a much better nation

A chance to create a happier place

On a genuine socialist foundation

Reading for knowledge and insight and pleasure

The stories that guide us through life

Where facts only bring the confusions of truth

Fiction can cut like a knife

But there’s one failsafe route to arrive at a grin

Like a shaft of light come from above

It’s the joy of knowing you’ve been the cause

A smile from someone you love

Day 97 - Whispers

 WHISPERS

Prompt - Whispers : Write about someone who has to whisper a secret to someone else.

Eight days in ICU before they moved me to a room of my own.  My first visitor was Detective Sergeant Jessica "just call me Jess" Felton.  Six feet tall, long black ponytail, bone crushing handshake, smileless face.  She quizzed me about the events that had put me in there, or tried to, for I could recall little.  I'd been out for a business meeting over a meal in Emmanuelle, I'd left, and I'd woken up in hospital.  That was it.  I'd need my diary to remember who I was meeting. 

 She left me with instructions to get in touch if I thought I could do any better and a loud grunt of frustration.  Charmed, I'm sure.

I had a sleepless night, staring at the dimly luminescent ceiling.  And suddenly there she was in my head.  Emily McGregor.  Sat opposite me at the table, picking delicately at her trout.  We'd both wanted to do a deal, but I couldn't have accepted her terms.  I'd have gone bust in six months.  She accepted that and we chatted away over dessert.  Then she had to go all of a sudden and she was up and her coat was on and she headed for the way out.  

I could see her on her way out, swooshing through the diners then stopping at a table near the door, two guys in suits sat drinking coffee.  She bent down and whispered into the ear of the one with his back to me, then left.  They guys paid their bill, followed her out.  I went out about five minutes later, walked towards the underground station.  And found myself being grabbed, dragged, pain like I'd never felt before and... walking up to. tubes and needles and fuss.

She'd whispered to the guy by the door.  I rang the bell for the night nurse.  Asked if she could leave a note for someone to call DS Felton in the morning.  I would be able to do better.

Day 96 - Fairy Tales

 FAIRY TALES

Prompt - Fairy Tales : Rewrite a fairy tale.  Give it a new ending or make it modern or write it as a poem.

"Martin!"  Martin's head appeared round the side of a shelving unit.  "Get your mop.  Aisle sixteen.  Now!"  The Floor Manager walked back out before he got an answer.  Martin was already busy, unloading a pallet onto the warehouse shelves, and the Warehouse Manager would be furious with him if he stopped.  And the Floor Manager would be furious with him if he didn't.  But Martin was used to people getting angry with, knew he was annoying.  He thought about asking someone what he should do, but there was nobody he could see, and the aisle spillage might be dangerous to customers, so he should go and do that.  And he did.

He was right.  There was glass and slippy liquids all over the floor and there could have been a nasty accident, maybe even for a child.  Martin was pleased with his choice.  But he received no thanks from anyone out front, just told three times to hurry up and get it all cleared.  And he got the bollocking he expected when he got back to his pallet.  But he still thought he'd done the right thing.

Fifteen seconds after the Warehouse Manager's tirade ended the tannoy sounded.

"Martin Keele to the manager's office immediately."  Martin looked at his gloomy boss, who glowered even more darkly and turned his back, strode off.  He took that to mean 'yes, OK', so he headed up to see the shop manager.  He'd never even been in there before, never had the call, so his mind fizzed over with possible explanations, but he didn't think it was another bollocking.  The big boss would hardly know who he was, and would think him too unimportant to waste time shouting at - there were plenty of others able to do it for him.

"Aah, Martin, come in, come in.   Take a seat."  A seat?  Martin readied himself for further surprises.  "You know that SupaSava runs a monthly competition for staff with a different prizes?"  Martin nodded, he'd heard about it in his basic training, and knew somebody who knew somebody in another shop who knew somebody who'd actually won it once, and got tickets for a play.  "Well it turns out that May's winner is here.  As in people from this shop."

The shop manager paused, looked closely at his most junior member of staff.  Martin didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.  

"Do you like the cinema Martin?"

"Oh yeah Mr Smart, I go every week."  He wondered if he'd won a couple of film tickets, which would be so much better than having to go to a stuffy old play.  The manager stifled an uncertain cough.

"Well we've been given ten tickets to the premiere of Caught in the Headlights at Leicester Square on the twelfth, next Wednesday.  I've been asked to choose six of the people to go, and head office have told me the other four names, presumably chosen at random from a a staff list.  And you are, em, you are one of those four.  Now you don't have to go if you don't want to, because you'll be representing the store, indeed the company, so it might seem like a lot of pressure to you.  Anyway you might already be busy next week.  Are you?" he ended hopefully.

But Martin was already visualising the red carpet, and who'd be on it.  He knew about Caught in the Headlights, knew it starred Keara Blakely, and knew she'd be going to Leicester Square.  Martin was a bit of a fan of Ms Blakely.

"No sir, not busy at all sir, and I don't think I'd feel any pressure and it would be great to go and I really like, like really like, Keara Blakely.  So yes, I'll go, I'll go if that's what they want me to do, happy to go sir.  Very happy."  Martin beamed appropriately, look a couple of centimetres taller.  

"OK then.  OK."  The manager paused again.  "I'll see to it you get your tickets and all the arrangements and, er, have a nice time Martin."

"Thank you Mr Smart"

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And when the details arrived it turned out there was a bit more to it than just a film ticket.  First Martin would have to go Tanmores, gentleman's outfitters, for his black tie outfit.  He'd never worn a dinner jacket before, let alone a bow tie.  When he saw himself in the mirror he remained wordless for thirty seconds, baffled at the transformation.  He didn't look at all like that in his anorak.  The shop assistant was relieved when Martin finally uttered a few words, worried that he'd done something to upset his customer.  Then he saw the grin, the sparkle in the eyes, and could share the happiness.

A couple of stretch limos took Martin and his co-workers to the film theatre.  Not that the others paid much attention to him, embarrassed by his resemblance to a manically giggling penguin.  At the theatre they weren't going to be watching the red carpet.  They went in walking along it, just as expectant crowds of fans were beginning to gather, and shown in to large room with free drinks and buffet.  While his colleagues drank champagne Martin sought out the mini sausage rolls, before disappointedly settling for venison tartlets and quails eggs.  

They were taken in to the theatre, shown to seats in the second row, listened to the opening speeches, and Martin watched every move, followed every word, of Keara Blakely, star of the show.  He watched the film, he loved the film, thought it was the second best thing Keara had ever done, and he'd seen them all.  Martin was enjoying his evening.

Back to the big reception room, but this time with cast and crew mingling with the guests.  Martin took a glass of something to blend in, but didn't drink, didn't talk.  He watched.  He watched the actors, he watched the director and writer and producers and director of photography and the CGI woman and the makeup guy and most of the time he watched Keara.  He was happy watching.

"Martin."  No answer.  "Martin!"  A tug on his DJ sleeve made him listen.  It was Mr Marchant, the Produce Manager who'd made himself de facto leader of their dectet, dragging him off to gather with the others.  They'd been asked to meet a few people as a group, as the lucky prizewinners who'd come into this world as outsiders.  "Just leave the talking to me" said Marchant.  A few grumbles in response.

First came the producers, then the director and some of the techies, and finally the actors.  Marchant did most of the talking, looked sharply at Christine when she tried to engage the director, coughed loudly when Peter Simkins asked the CGI woman a tech question.  Finally the lead actors, Else Kruger, Alan Cresswell, and Keara Blakely herself.  

"We all loved the film and thought you gave your finest performances to date." Else and Alan shone their teeth and said their thanks, dying slightly inside at the blandness of these people. Keara was about to add something when Martin spoke out.

"I do agree they were all great performances, and that's definitely the best I've seen from you Alan. But I think your Gabrielle in The Backstreets of Genoa is still your most powerful role," he said, nodding at Else, "and Keara, I still prefer you in Grime Street, that was a stunning piece of acting, especially the warehouse scene, but I'm sure you'll surpass it one day. Headlights' writing doesn't really provide you with the chance to reveal those depths of emotion, does it?"

Marchant jumped in, horrified at Martin's presumption. "I'm sure Ms Blakely doesn't want to be bothered with your daft views, so maybe we'll let her get back to some of the important people who

But Keara had years of experience ignoring men who thought they could tell her what to do. "Not at all Mr... Thingummy. It's good to hear from someone who doesn't just tell me what they imagine I want to hear. You've no idea how tedious it is hearing same banalities over and over," as she gave him the look that had turned back an army in Erica Johnson, "and nobody's more important than a real film fan," turning back to Martin. "So is Grime Street your favourite of mine?"

"No, that's your best performance, but Randall as the baddie felt miscast, and there were a couple of plot holes that spoiled the flow of the storyline. The Dreaming Sea is my favourite. Not just strong acting, but one of the most perfect soundtracks, and some stunning cinematography, especially the undersea stuff. I know your role was comparatively minor, but your character's revelations on the island were such a critical pivot in shifting our sympathies from Farrell to Krechov."

"You're right, and it was a joy to be directed by Jean Stillwell, I hope I get to work with her again one day."

And that was that. The other two actors drifted away. The SupaSava group drifted away, even Marchant realising that he wasn't going to be able to override Keara Blakely. Martin chatted happily, so absorbed in the film world that it never occurred to him that if you'd told him beforehand that he'd be chatting with his favourite actor for over an hour he'd have been terrified. Keara chatted happily, relieved to find a young man who loved movies, talked movies, knew about movies, and didn't stare at her with the eyes of a sick puppy.

"I think I need a drink. D'you want one?"

"I'm fine thanks, but..."

"OK. Stay there. Don't move. I'll be back in five." And Keara was off into the sparkling crowd, leaving Martin to realise what he'd been doing for the seventy minutes. It had been as easy for him as it was hard to believe.

"Jeez, you're still here Martin. Come on, we've got to go now, the cars are waiting and marchant's fuming, saying he'll leave you behind if you're not there quick." Peter grabbed Martin by the arm and hustled him across the floor and up the broad red-carpeted stairs to the main entrance. Keara returned to no Martin, saw him being manhandled out, plonked her dink into the hands of the nearest penguin, and ran after them. As she reached the foot of the stairs she looked up and saw Martin stagger, grab at his ear, and disappear like a child being pulled in by a particularly clumsy octopus. Something tiny object flashed in the light, fell to the carpet.

By the time she reached the top they were gone, and she reluctantly made her way back into the reception. A metallic glimmer on the second step down caught her eye, and she bent to pick it up. A stud earring, shaped like a tiny wave of surf. She'd seen it before.

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Caught in the Headlights proved to be big box office. After the Leicester Square launch Keara Blakely had one night at home and then four months doing the rounds. The Canadian premiere, the Australian premiere, the US premiere. Festivals, celebrations, public appearances, thirty eight red carpets (she counted every one). Flashlights, spotlights, crowds, politicians, directors, journalists, one to ones, one to manys, interviews, charity dinners, TV and radio and bloggers and vloggers. Flight after flight, hotel after hotel. It felt good to come home.

Home to relax. She was exhausted. Happy, yes. Thrilled by how well the film, and her own performance, had been received.    But tired of the fawning, and entirely fake, adulation, of the smiling and chatting with people she didn't know and would never see again, of the interviewers who understood so little about filming, of the desperate desire she saw lasered at her from so many eyes.  She wanted honesty, and some understanding.  Friends and family played their part, but none had any real love for cinema.  Her secretary, Simon, was efficient and effective, but reticent to speak his mind, and even if her did would it have been worth hearing?  She missed... something.

She'd been home a couple of days, slutting her way through the hours, and looking for the key to the drawer in the old kitchen table where she kept her 'for my eyes only' stuff. It turned up in the bowl in her study, along with a tiny wave shaped stud. It took her back to Leicester Square, one of the most absorbing conversations she'd had in years, and a man being rushed out of the building as if he was about to turn into a pumpkin or something. She never did learn his name, but hadn't he been part of some work group who'd won a prize?

One call and she had the name SupaSava, and the location of the shop the party had come from. She could get someone to sort it out for her, but a daft idea was grasping it's way into her brain, like a particularly determined octopus.

The next morning she was on the road and heading for a town she'd never been to before, looking for a supermarket she'd never shopped in before. Parked up, went in, asked if she could speak to the manager. Smart didn't recognise her immediately, but went into full fawning mode when he realised. At least it made him helpful.

"I'm looking for one of the men who came to the movie premiere back in April. Didn't get his name, but I have something I think is his, and I'd like to meet him again. It's not often I get to meet so knowledgeable and interesting a fan."

"Oh certainly, certainly, let me just bring up the list of names. What age would you say he was?"

"About twenty five maybe? Twenty six? Something like that."

OK, I have four here who'd fit, but I think we can rule out a couple of them. Let me call up the others." Smart got the call out for Ben Crighton and Gerry Crimmin, and they duly obeyed their way to his office. Keara shook her head. She'd didn't recall either of them. What about the other two?

"That would have to be Peter then. Knowledgeable and interesting aren't the adjectives that would normally spring to mind, but perhaps he has hidden depths I've yet to see" Smart said with forced jocularity.

"And what about the fourth man? Couldn't have hidden depths as well?"

"Martin? Oh, I really don't think so, I really don't. What you see is what you get with Martin."

Peter Simpkins came into the office.

"Oh it's you." Smart's face mixed surprise with relief at Keara's words. And fell sour again when she said "You're the one who dragged him up the stairs, aren't you? Took him away from me when we really just getting going. Is he around?"

Smart cut Peter off before he had a chance to reply. "I don't think Martin is in today, but I really don't think he's the one you're looking for."  

Keara went up to Peter, looked directly at him and asked "Have you seen Martin today?"  He opened his mouth, looked at Smart, closed his mouth, opened it again and still no sound emerged.  Peter looked like he was wishing he wasn't there.

"I'll take that as yes.  Would you call him please Mr Smart" the 'Mister' given full thespian significance, "or should I go out and have a look, maybe ask around?"  The manager did as he was told.

Martin went up to the office, as puzzled at receiving the order as he had been those months before.  And surprised to find that sitting in front the big boss was his favourite actor. Keare got up and came towards him. 

"Hello Martin, it's good to see you again , it's a shame some people made it so difficult."  Smart looked at the screen on his desk.  "I think I've got something of yours."  And she handed him the tiny wave.

Martin looked at the shiny stud in his hand and smiled warmly at the person who'd come all this way to had it over.  "I wondered where I'd lost it.  I got it to remind me of..."

"...The Dreaming Sea" they said together, and laughed.

"What time do you finish work today?"

"Six."

"Would you be able to have dinner with me after that?  There's something I'd like to ask you.  And we never got to finish off our conversation at the premiere properly."

"Yeah, sure, that would be, em, really good.  There was still so much I wanted to say and ask and, you know..."  He'd seen Smart looking at him.  

"Right, I'll be back here then.  If I'm not there by the door look out for a blue Audi in the car park.  See you then."  She turned.  "Thank you Mister Smart, it's been good to find someone so knowledgeable and interesting in your shop."  She grinned at the confused Martin and left the office.  Smart barked "Get out.", and Martin quickly followed.

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Martin asked if he could go up to the manager's office the following morning.  Where he presented Smart with his notice.  "I think with the leave I'm due that means I finish on the sixteenth?  Will somebody check that for me?  I hope so, because Keara's expecting me to start my new job on the nineteenth, and I've got to get myself moved to London by then."

"HR will be in touch.  What happened Martin?"

"I got a better offer sir.  A much much better offer.  I think my fairy godmother must have been looking out for me or something."  

Martin never saw Smart again.