Day 151 - The Grass is Greener

 THE GRASS IS GREENER

Prompt - The Grass is Greener : Write about switching the place with someone or going to where it seems the grass is greener.

Jim and John both wanted change

So they've gone and made a switch

John's at Jim's and Jim's at John's

Both need to scratch their itch

They've known each other fifty years

From school to death of wives

They stayed so close yet far apart

Lived very different lives

Jim's wee cottage is on the coast

Pettycur Beach close at hand

But he wants to be among people

Had enough of the sea, sky and sand

John's flat in Leith looks out on the docks

Across the Forth from Jim

Fed up of the crowds and the sirens

The silence sounds perfect to him

So they've swapped over lives for a month

Each certain the other has found

The right way to live in contentment

Both seeking for answers profound

Both of them soon learn their lesson

And, phoning, they quickly admitted

That this wasn't working the way that they'd hoped

Their own lives the ones they best fitted

Day 150 - Magazine

 MAGAZINE

Prompt - Magazine : randomly flip to a page in a magazine and write using the first few words you see as an opening line.

"I'm very influenced by my travels, particularly in Marrakech, Paris and London.  It's the intermingling of those palettes that helps create the sense of displacement in my work."

This was Geremmy, Shiv's latest boyfriend.  Her latest pretentious prick.  She knew exactly what I'd think of him and couldn't wait to throw the full horror in my face, and laugh at my reaction.  And I played along, because that's what we did.  My sister played to shock, I had to act out the older brother role.  I wondered if that would ever change?

So I let her have her laugh, I talked to her friends, I even let myself be patronised by yet another painter whose 'work' looked like something a five year old could have done, but with more honesty.  

"I'm heading for Berlin next, see if a little of that Brandenburg magic can rub off on me, I can feel a more angular phase coming over me and Germanic is exactly the right vibe for the moment."  I nodded, tried to make polite noises.  And, to my own surprise, found myself asking the overblown daub -monkey a genuine question about the canvases he was flaunting.

"Why is there always a knife blade in your painting?"  It was the one thing I'd noticed, the only part that intrigued.  There was good chance the answer would be a load of bollocks, but I thought I'd give him a chance.

"Aah, well spotted, my little recurring symbol, a link to my internal thought process.  Not a knife though.  A letter opener.  A device to unlock the unknown, both the eagerly awaited love missive and the unwanted tax demand.  An opening into aspects of life that suddenly appear before us on our doormat.  Opportunities and responsibilities, friends and strangers, the casual, the formal, a celebration or a death, news and old memories, openings into future and past.  The mailbox is a window into times to come, the blade the means to unfold those times."

I'd been right.  Total bollocks.

Time to say my goodbyes so I sought out sis, took her to one side.

"You hate him, don't you?"  She wanted me to, it would make her proud.  One nil to the youngster.  

"I can safely say he's the worst yet.  I only hope you know what you're doing.  Try not to let this one hurt you too much Shiv."  She faux-scowled back, then gave me a hug and told me to piss off.  Good, we were still friends.

A couple of months went by.  I'd only seen my sister once since the poncey exhibition, and she'd told me she might go off to Germany for a bit.

"Still Geremmy?"

"Yeah.  So?"  Challenging.  of course.

"Nothing.  Do what you want to do sis, would I ever dare try to stop you?"  She smiled that cutesy lopsided grin of hers, punched me on the arm and said she'd soon be back in Dublin.  I'd not heard anything since.

Reading the Sunday paper, just bored enough, waiting til I could head to the pub and few pints with the lads.  It was only five column inches in the international section, easy to miss, but the word Interpol in the headline drew me in.  I was always a sucker for a bit of cross border criminality.  Berlin police had found the body of a young woman, the fatal wounds from a narrow blade suggesting the killer had been performing a kind of ritual.  Interpol had become involved because of the similarities with unsolved murders in Paris, London, Greece and Morocco.  All of women with long dark hair, all killed in an identical manner, all still unidentified.

The connection wasn't instant.  Even when the thought came into my mind I tried to shove it away as sibling paranoia, overprotectiveness.  But I called Shiv.  No answer.  Texted, Whatsapped, emailed, looking for a response.  Left it overnight.  Slept little.  Still nothing in the morning.  

I went to the Garda, expecting to be told not to be so daft.  I wasn't.  Oh Shiv...

Day 149 - Colour Palette

 COLOUR PALETTE 

Prompt - Colour Palette : Search online for colour palettes and be inspired by one you resonate with

Link to colour palette chosen

So so close to the selection of hues that has already brought inspiration, and now causes eager anticipation.

Our living room furniture is raspberry.  A quality suede in a pleasant shade, tough, heard wearing, surprisingly cat resistant.  All good qualities.  But.  The weight suggests over engineering, the size leads to a lack of flexibility in the seating area, and... it really isn't all that comfy.  And that's the killer fact.

There are two big sofas, easy three seaters, four without too much squeeze.  They're the heavy ones.  There's also a matching chair, low slung, metal arms, which, with the right cushion in place, makes for a good place in which to read (an essential spot in any home, surely?).  But the sofas have hard squabs, albeit of a good depth, and overly upright backs, leading to a lack of support.  My lower back aches from too long spent TV watching.  (This is why I prefer channels with ad breaks - they provide valuable stretching time!)

So they have to go.  In the other half of the room sits a dining table, all glass and wood, and six chairs that have the same raspberry fabric.  We would never find a match for that, so the best solution is to break out into a totally different palette, the better to distinguish between the purposes of the two areas.   So we set off in search of the blues.

We now await August for the results, with the various new pieces all due to be delivered by and during that month.  One sofa gets a direct replacement, a three seater, but this time in a velour and a colour not far off the teal in my chosen palette.  Not, most definitely not, a heavyweight monster, but a lighter structure, on light coloured wooden legs, with a soft and welcoming set of cushions (and, crucially, a one piece squab, so that the poor sod sat in the middle doesn't fall into the gap!).  There is already a small two seater sofa in the entrance hall, where us oldies can sit to put on and take off footwear.  It too is in velour, a golden yellow, and the car can be found sleeping there on many evenings.  No claw induced damage has resulted, so we have hopes for this fabric!

The low slung chair, the reading place, is to be replaced by something more upright, but lighter to move around, lighter to look at, with the same wooden legs as the sofa.  It too will be in a velour, but this time much like the yellow on the palette, albeit a touch more mustardy.  The bright counterpoint to the blues of it's companions.

There's a break in the pattern when we come to the other sofa replacement, for it is far from being a like for like.  One becomes two, with a pair of armchairs filling the space, lined up to be the principal TV viewing points.  They rotate on their spindly aluminium base, recline and support rthe legs at the touch of a few buttons, and give all the support an ageing body could want.  They are the pale blue element of the colour chart, although the reality will be a slightly deeper shade.  In leather.  A risk, with those claws about the place, but we'll take the chance for the prospect of such comfort.

There's just the navy blue left, and we already have that one here, ready to fit into it's allotted space once all the rest have come home and changed the look.  It's a small storage footstool, again in velour, with a metallic band on it which will match with the armchair bases.  And that's the palette.  That's the colour scheme I wait upon, with some excitement.  Not just for the new look, although the greater sense of space will be welcome, but for the sake of my poor old back!

Day 148 - Beat

 BEAT

Prompt - Beat : Listen to music with a strong rhythm or listen to drum loops.  Write something that goes along with the beet you feel and hear

Deep in a Congolese jungle a grumpy but occasionally charming (when drunk) and frequently wisecracking (when sober) man in sweat stained fatigues and a crumpled sailor's hat (played, of course, by Humphrey Bogart) is journeying down river, back to the safety of the colonial administration, pursued by the local tribesmen he has angered by unintentionally insulting their god.  On board with him are two crew members, three passengers.  The engineer is long past his prime, living off reminiscences of the glory days when he was in charge of the engines of one of the great liners.  Or was it a battleship?  Or both?  While the deckhand is at the opposite end of his seafaring career, young, gawky, naive, prone to panic, exaggeration and all kinds of youthful behaviour that appears to irritate his boss, who hides his affection for the lad behind snapping commands and regular abuse.

Passenger one is a middle aged man with long curly hair tucked under a bush hat, a sneer permanently on his pock marked face.  He is a diamond smuggler, keen to obscure his identity from all, he tells everyone he's a wildlife enthusiast, keen on conversation.  Bogart, smart as ever, has never believed him.

The final passengers come as a pair.  An ageing Anglican missionary and his daughter.  The man is a little befuddled by events, unable to understand why the locals seem to have turned against him.  The daughter, outwardly modest and inwardly feisty, suspects the 'wildlife enthusiast' has a lot to do with it.  The mutual antipathy towards the 'baddie' draws hard bitten forty something sailor and young woman, innocent but also surprisingly knowing, into an unlikely alliance which hints at romance, becomes mutual antagonism, and ends with warmly loving relationship.  Hollywood's perfect couple.

The river's route is fraught with dangers for our disparate but ultimately intrepid band of travellers, with attacks from angry locals, engine trouble from the decrepit old machinery, a few crocodiles ready to snap up the careless, some highly photogenic, rapids, and volatility and arguments amongst the group, thrown together in stress and fear.  The baddie will be bad, but ends up giving his life to save the old man, convinced of his badness by the daughter's goodness.  Of course first to die, from a well thrown spear, is the young deckhand, and is that a small tear in the corner of the cpatain's eye?  Of course not, he's much too much of a man for that to happen.  

And so on, to the swelling strings behind the happy ending, as cliche piles on cliche and the hero delivers his classically understated assessment of what they've been through during their days and nights on the dangerous waters.

Instant classic (in atmospheric monochrome).  Working title, The Jungle Drums.

Day 147 - Break the Silence

 BREAK THE SILENCE

Prompt - Break the Silence : record yourself speaking, then write down what you spoke and revise it into a short story or poem

Me : What's the plan?

Her :  I'm not sure

Me :  I need a hand

her : Well, it's whether you want to go to Rusty Pallet today, or go tomorrow - spread out the birthday.

Me : Spread out the joy?  (laughs lightly)

Her : Up to you.  Your birthday.  You have to choose everything today.  

Me : (laughs out loud)

Me : What was the eye roll for?

Her : Cause you usually refer to me all the time.

Me : (continues laughing)  Yeah, let's go for it, might still go to The Haven in the morning, who knows?

Her : Hmmm

She was fed up always being the one.  The one who decided.  What to eat, where to go, when to  do this or that.  It got on her nerves, always being the one.  It was true that half the times he suggested something she'd find some reason not to do it, got there, eat that, but at least then she felt he'd made some contribution to the process, not just sloped shoulders and left it all to her.  And occasionally, very occasionally, he did come up with a good idea.  Very occasionally.

But today was his day.  He got the presents, he got taken out for  meal.  The least he could do was take a little responsibility as well.  Then he couldn't blame her if he didn't get the day he wanted.  If he knew what he wanted... which wasn't usually the case anyway.

It wasn't easy always being right.  

Day 146 - Clear and Transparent

 CLEAR AND TRANSPARENT 

Prompt - Clear and Transparent : Write a poem about being able to see through something

I can see through window panes

And the spray from an atomiser

But the clearest fabrications come

From the government's sacked adviser

I can see your boobs real clear

In that shimmering chiffon dress

But not as clear the PM's fibs

That tit's brought an Eton mess

I can see through ads on telly

And the plots of Archer's stories

But the most transparent lies of all

Are the ones that come from tories

Day 145 - Flying

 FLYING

Prompt - Flying : Write about having wings and what you would do

This is it, he thinks, I'm going back.  And away.  Back to those who created who I was, away from the ones who made me who I am now.  And I am someone, something, in between the two.    From the ones who accepted him to the ones who... he had no clear notion of what his reception might be, but it wasn't going to be like going back if he had still been who he was.

Time had been difficult to measure since the crash.  He remembered nothing of what happened, or his rescue and reconstruction by the birds.  He still had no proper understanding of how they did what they did, how they had mastered such a high level of medical and biological engineering, but he was living proof of their abilities.  He was a man, but a man with wings.  Great black and white feathered constructions, spreading out more than three metres when extended, but light and able to fold away tight into his back and sides, and functioned as if they'd always been a part of him, like he'd been born that way.  He was able to retract short arms from the wings, each ending in four jointed talon-fingers that allowed him to grasp and manipulate.  The rest of him was as it had been, but repaired and improved from the near lifeless being that had been pulled from the helicopter wreckage.  He'd been to see it, and it was a miracle that anyone had survived.  Why him?

But that, he reckoned, must have been about seven or eight years ago.  The birds didn't have the same concept of time as humans, and he'd had periods of unknown length where he'd been totally unaware of the world, so his estimate was mostly guesswork.  If he was right he must be about twenty eight now.  Somebody would be able to tell him.  If they'd even talk to him.

There had been no mirrors, but he'd looked at his reflection in still waters.  The best he could tell his face should still be recognisable to anyone who'd known him before.  His body was in better shape than it had ever been before.  Something that had been all too obvious, until he'd fashioned himself a leaves and feather suit, initially for temperature reasons, but it would do for modesty cover as well. 

For the past few months, as his confidence in his flying abilities had increased, he'd gone further and further, in different directions, improving his technique, learning to use the thermals effectively, and gradually figuring out the geography.  By piecing together mountain tops and river valleys and forests he'd built a mental map that matched those he'd been brought up with, and could say, with near certainty, that he knew the way home.  The birds were sad to see him go, but understood his desire to return.  They hoped they'd see him again.

He'd screeched his goodbyes and set off, climbing higher and higher to take in the landscape and allow himself longer periods of gliding when he could rest his flying muscles.  As the sun fell behind him he descended, looking for a place that would provide food and concealment.  A place where he could go over, once again, what he could possibly say to whoever he would first encounter.  And if he could make himself understood.  It had been so long since he'd talked in his native language, and although he'd practised the sounds out loud he wasn't confident he could make himself understood.  He had to stop thinking like a bird, and find a way to be a man.

Early morning and he stretched, preened, took to the air.  High, higher.  If anyone saw him he wanted to look like a bird, a winded shape in the sky.  He circled over the farm where he'd lived so much of his life.  Saw people moving.  Not just any people, but his people.  Father, brothers, sister, his friend Jaime who lived with them and looked after the cattle.  Even from his considerable altitude he could be certain.  Something else the birds had done for him.  Eagle eyes were well named. 

He could soar like this for the rest of the day.  Or he could pick one of those bipedal ants and go down to meet them.  The risks were high, but what else was there to do?  He chose Jaime, both because he was now distant from the others, and it might be marginally less traumatic for a non relative to see him reincarnated in feathered form.  

Gliding in from behind, the first Jaime knew of his arrival was the whooshing sound of his landing.  The man spun round, eyes and mouth wide, hands tensed as if to grasp the meaning of what was before him.

"Jaime."  He'd managed to pronounce it correctly, he was sure.  "It's me, Rubén.  I've come back.  I'm... changed" he added lamely.

The man saw a giant bird, some kind of mutant eagle perhaps, just ten meters away and screeching threateningly at him.  This creature could tear him apart if he let it, or it would be picking the new calves and carrying them off into the hills.  He couldn't let that happen.  Jaime dived to the tractor and pulled the rifle from it's mounting.  He saw the creature unfold it's massive wings, point them towards him, heard it shriek and howl, step flappingly towards him.  Rifle raised, bolt slammed, trigger pulled.  The giant bird staggered.  Another shot.  The bird fell, it's chest rising and falling, breathing sucking and bubbling.  It made one last sound before it died, less birdlike than before.  He thought it said "Jaime", but that was just his imagination.  Wasn't it?

Day 144 - Mystical Creatures

 MYSTICAL CREATURES

Prompt - Mystical Creatures : Angles, fairies or other mystical creatures - write about them!

"Hello dear."

I whipped around in shock at hearing a voice from what had been an empty space a minute before.  

"Sorry, did I shock you?  It must feel like I was creeping up on you."  She smiled warmly.  Unable to say anything for a few seconds, I took in this mystery woman who'd suddenly appeared in my bedroom.  About sixty I thought, middle height, wide hips, sturdy stance, round affectionate face topped with grey curls randomly sticking out form the strangest floral hat I'd ever seen, all pinks and yellows.  She wore a woolen twin set in salmon, straight from a 1950s knitting pattern.  Her voice was accented in a way that suggested English wasn't her first langage, yet at the same time imitated Home Counties  pretensions.  There was nothing about her that said threat, but she had mysteriously materialised so i could't be anything but suspicious.  She filled the silence.

"No doubt you're wondering who I am dear,and why I'm here.  Shall I fill you in on the details?"  I nodded.  "Let me give you the short version, then you can ask questions afterwards.  You are Gemma Stanton, we haven't met before, at least not in the sense you'd mean, but I do know a lot about you.  My name is Serena and I, and I know this will come as a bit of a surprise to you dear, I am your fairy godmother."

"What?"  I hadn't recovered my articulacy.  I wasn't sure my hearing was functioning properly either.

"I did say it would be a surprise, didn't I?  You weren't aware I existed, but I can assure you I'm real.  And I'm here to help."

"Fairy.  Godmother?  That's... There's...  You can't... Who are you really and whose idea was this?"  I was starting to feel annoyed, I'd never been much of a fan for practical jokes.  

Serena sighed, still smiling.  "Don't worry, this bit is always difficult, everyone finds it hard to believe at first.  So maybe i can lay on a little demonstration, to win you over."  She smiled even more broadly, appeared to be enjoying herself.  "Earlier this evening - and what a lovely night it is, don't you think? - earlier on you were getting a bit exasperated that you couldn't get the chord change right after the middle eight.  Try it now."  

She'd been listening in, must have been.  My window was open, and she'd heard me play the same section of the song over and over, trying to get the transition effect I wanted.  But why, how, would it be any different this time?

"I know, I know, what is the crazy old lady talking about?  Just humour me dear, go on.  You might find something's changed."

I still couldn't think what to say to her, and maybe shattering her daft fantasy would be a way to bring this charade to an end, so I turned back to the keyboard.  Picked up the tune a few bars from the end of the eight and... played something I'd never played before, a natural progression that lifted all that gone before and transformed the whole song.  How the hell had that happened?

I played it again.  It felt so right, so natural, I wondered why I hadn't thought of it right from the start.  I turned back to face a beaming Serena.

"I hate to say I told you so, but..."  She laughed, a laugh decade younger than her voice.

"How did you do that?  Did you do that?  What happened there?"

"All I did was unlock what was already there inside you.  You just hadn't found it yet.  But what you just played exactly fits the vision you began with, doesn't it?"

"Uh huh."  I still had no idea what was going on.  "And that was you doing that?"

"No, no, it was you dear, all you.  I just did a little unblocking."

I still had no idea what to say.  

"Perhaps one more little gift from me might help convince you?"  I said nothing, moved nothing, felt ever more unsure.  "You remember you were trying to play that boogie-woogie tune yesterday?"  I nodded.  "It was giving you a few problems, and you gave up in frustration.  I think maybe you should give it another go now.  Will you do that for me?"

What else could I do?  This was the strangest, scariest, stupefying event of my life so far, but it also felt transformative, even if I didn't have any understanding of what or how, or why.  I put fingers to keys again and played.  And played.  What had seemed so near to impossible the day before flowed from me today.  Behind me I could hear dance steps and little whops of joy.  

When I turned back Serena was redder of cheek, dishevelled of garb, and the wide smile has somehow got wider.  "Oh, I needed that, a good jig about was just what I needed.  And now... starting to believe in me yet?"

"Fairy Godmother?"

"Yes dear.  But we're not all like Cinderella's you know.  Not many of us left these days, it's so hard to get people to believe.  And if not enough believe, well, that's it for us.  It's belief that keeps us going.  So, you see, I need you as much as you may find you need me."

"And why do you think I 'need' you?"

She paused, looked thoughtfully at me, as if considering the best approach to whatever came next.

"D'you mind if I sit down?  Bit puffed after the knees up, not as young as I used to be."  She moved over to the bed and plonked herself down.  "Sorry about the cliches, one of the hazards of the job.  Got to slot into the stereotypes sometimes.

"Anyway, to business, if that's OK with you."  She swept on without waiting for an answer.  "You're seeing a producer on Tuesday and you need to impress him.  Do that and your career can take off, fail and you'll be stuck going round the bars doing open mic nights.  You've got a good collection of songs, but they're album material, not hits.  Or they weren't until a few minutes ago.  Keep going from that progression you came out with earlier and you'll find you have something wonderful on your hands.  So wonderful that he won't be able to ignore it.  Am I right so far?"

Yes.  But.. Yes.  You're right."  I knew she was.  I didn't know how I knew, but I did.

"You also need something that bit different to show your versatility.  There's a song about the suffragettes in your head, but you've never worked out what form to play it in.  But if you use your boogie-woogie abilities..."

She was right.  Again.  I could hear it in my head, couldn't wait to make a start.  But first I had to finish the song I'd been working on.  I turned back to the piano, looked at Serena.  She nodded.  I played, I sang, I wrote.  I did it.  But when I turned again, triumphant, she was gone.  

Had she ever been there?

Two days later I did my thing for the producer, he signed me up immediately, and that was where it began.  Today is the twenty first anniversary of the most marvellous, mystifying, mind blowing night of my life.  I still have no idea what happened.  But I do believe.  And I hope Serena's made it to some of my gigs.  I hope she danced.

Day 143 - Failure

 FAILURE

Prompt - Failure : Write about a time you failed at something.  Did you try again or give up completely?

Berster Lamp Table.  His first flatpack.  Should be simple enough.  Shouldn't it?  It looked simple enough when he'd first seen it.  Four curved metal legs rising up to support a circular wooden table top, with a small drawer underneath.  There's be instructions and he'd follow them to the letter.

So he sliced open the box, spread the cardboard wide.  Surely there were bits there he wouldn't need?  It seemed like an awful lot of bits for one wee table.  But he'd best crack on.  

He found the instructions.  So maybe he wouldn't be following them to the letter, because there weren't any.  Letters.  Or words.  Just numbers for all the different parts (although no explanation as to what they were, but maybe that would become clear...), and cartoonish diagrams showing a little person putting it all together.  The diagrams looked... well, he'd best give it a go.  But firsdt he'd get the screwdriver and hammer it said were all the tools he'd require.

He'd be methodical.  Not rush.  Didn't want to do anything silly.  Took everything out, one by one, tried to identify every part against the numbered pictures showing how many of each there should be.  Laid them neatly in what he thought was some kind of order, although in reality all he could do was group similar bits together.  Apart from the biggest items - table top, drawer sides, legs, that sort of thing - he still couldn't say what most of those bits did.  And why on earth was he going to need sixteen of those strangely broken wheels?

The slowest bit was counting out the tiny metal pieces.  Tiny nails, small boltish things with domed heads, thin bars of different lengths.  One of the longer ones was missing.  He checked again, looked inside what remained of the box, checked under the bits he'd already laid out.  Nope, it definitely wasn't there, although he did have what appeared to be an extra shorter bar.  Maybe that would do?  The missing part resembled a big nail, and he had some of those, so maybe he'd get one out and, when the time came, see if he was best using the small extra bit, or his own nail.  

He made a start.  It took him twenty minutes to figure out exactly what the first cartoon wanted him to do, having it upside down at one point, trying to get his head around it.  Eventually, by risking increasing levels of his very limited brute force, he got it done.  Time for a break and a drink...

He put it off as long as possible, found other tasks which suddenly became urgent, but back he came, ready to emulate the weird cartoon character as best he could.  And, to his surprise, it started to go well.  Things fitted together at the first, sometimes second, attempt.  The diagrams started to make more sense.  With bit of hammering and twisting he had something that looked very like a drawer.  It was when he came to mount it in the almost free standing frame he'd built that he had to make his choice.  Use the short extra bit, or his nail?  He tried out both, tried them both again, neither was exactly right, but neither exactly wrong either.  Which to go with?  After several minutes of not really having a clue he picked up the nail and went with it.  What was the worst that could happen?

And there it was.  A lamp table, with drawer, that looked almost, but not quite, like the final cartoon picture.  It seemed solid, enough.  He felt a surge of unanticipated pride, mingled with satisfaction and surprise.  It was hard to believe, but there it was.  His first bit of furniture that wasn't a hand me down or from a charity shop.  He went into the kitchen, filled the vase with water, and stuck in the bunch of flowers he'd bought that morning for just this moment.  Took it through and placed it carefully, delicately, on the new table.  Stood back a couple of steps to admire.  Just a bit too far.  He saw it happen, in slow motion, he watched and could do nothing.  That nail, his nail, squeezed out under the new weight above it, the table top took to tipping left, the vase began to slid, the legs began to part and, before he could react, had collapsed to the floor in a welter of twisting metal, unjoined, wood, squelching water and forlorn blooms.

He'd never buy flatpack again.

Day 142 - Furniture

 FURNITURE

Prompt - Furniture : Write about a piece of furniture in your home

It was a bit of junk really.  A charity shop find, that I took on as, pretentiously, an 'art project'.  The arty bit proved beyond my limited capabilities, but the result was, and remains, pleasing, and one of the best and most satisfying DIY projects I've undertaken.

A five drawer chest, with a slim vanity compartment on top, where the lid lifted to reveal a mirror.  There was very little damage, but the hinges on the lid looked to be nearing the end of their life, the handles were hideous twisted brass that belong in the thirties, and the varnish was thin to non existent in places.  But I saw potential in it, and decided to drag it off to the garage and set about giving it new life.

That meant ditching the old handles, taking out the cracked mirror, and removing the remaining varnish.  A bit of sanding, quite a lot of sanding really, and it was ready for undercoating.  I decided to give it as full body paint job.  Meaning anything that might be seen would get painted and varnished.  That included the interiors of the drawers, and of the lidded compartment.  For a relatively small household item that translates into a surprising amount of surface area to be covered.  But I was in no hurry and worked at it whenever I could, taking time to get the job right. 

 Once everything had been undercoated I set about applying the gloss.  There six different colours of paint (it was going to be seven, but I chickened out on that one, but more of that in a moment), which meant drawing up a plan before I started.  I had a clear vision of what I wanted to end up with.  The carcass was in a mid-blue shade.  That meant the sides, all the bars at the front, the stubby legs, and the interior of the top compartment.  It would be the most prevalent colour, and yet, in some ways, the least noticeable.

The five drawers were each in a different colour.  There was a pale blue and a navy, a pale green and a forest green, and a stand out fire engine red.  From top to bottom the drawers were navy, pale green, red, pale blue, and dark green.  Plus the liftable lid was to be in the same red, both inside and out, with a new mirror and hinges.  I had bought some simple wooden knobs for handles and the same five colours adorned them, two knobs to each shade.  They would be distributed such that each drawer had knobs of two different colours.  For instance, the red knobs were on each of the darker drawers, while the red drawer had pale green and blue knobs.

Two, sometimes three coats, were applied, then everything got two coats of clear varnish for protection.  This chest was for use, not just show.  The end result looks bright, primary, a cross between a children's nursery item and statement piece.  I was especially pleased with the lidded compartment - which, sadly, has never really had any use.

I mentioned a seventh colour and a bit of artiness.  My original plan had been to add a finishing touch of thin wavy yellow lines, reaching across and around the variously coloured sections.  I made some trial strokes on old bits of wood and convinced myself that my limited artistic talents meant there was greater risk of ruining than enhancing, so I gave that not-so-smart idea a miss.

That must have been about ten years ago, and the chest remains in service and looking striking.  I am still proud of what I achieved.  

Day 141 - It's a sign

 IT'S A SIGN

Prompt - It's a Sign : Have you seen any interesting road signs lately?

There's no way through says grumpy cat

You must not pass this way

If you try I will ensure

That you will swiftly pay

A ten tonne truck will come along

And shove you from it's path

And cry in twisted metal wreck

Your own painful aftermath

So heed my eyes and turn away

And bugger off tout suite

Try not to be so daft again

This is a one way street

Day 140 - Cactus

 CACTUS

Prompt - Cactus : Write from the viewpoint of a cactus - what's it like to live in the dessert (sic) or have a prickly personality?

A window sill?  The fucking kitchen window sill?  Behind a bloody figurine of a rictus bearing 'jolly' baker?  What's the point in having me if you're going to stick me out of sight?  These people don't deserve anything as beautiful, timeless and elegant as me.

Yes, I do like the heat, so I suppose sticking me next to the boiler is their unthinking way of making me feel at home.  But it's a dry heat I crave, not one laden with fat molecules and nasty nutrients that are alien to my system.  And who gets to see me here, appreciate me?  We're way up high so it isn't going to be anyone outside, unless there are cacti-fancying pigeons out there.    And I'm cut off from admirers indoors, both by that inane fat pottery woman, and being in a room where visitors rarely stray.  

So why have me?  At all?  I mean, if you're going to take home something as lovely as me you better have thought out how to show me off to best advantage.  No wonder I'm coming over all prickly.

Day 139 - Sharing

 SHARING

Prompt - Sharing : Write about sharing something with someone else

"Tiramisu please"

"Certainly sir"  

The waiter moved to my adjacent table and asked the same question.  I'd been thinking about the lemon torte, but a little caffeine and cocoa kick suddenly appealed so I gave the same answer.

A couple of minutes passed.  An attention seeking throat clearing prefaced "Excuse me gentlemen."  We both looked up from our screens.  "My apologies, but there's only a single portion of the the tiramisu left, would either of you like to make another choice?"

He'd asked first, I'd be happen with a citrus bite, but before I could answer he said "Why don't we share?"

I took my first proper look at him.  When I have to eat alone I generally keep my head down, concentrating on my food (surprisingly good so far, given the overall scruffiness of the place) and scrolling lackadaisically through the usual nonsense on my phone.  I'd been planning to return to my hotel room as soon as I'd finished, read up my notes for the morning's meeting, maybe a bit of TV and a read.  A quiet night before what could turn out to be an important day.

He was about ten years younger than me, with a well scrubbed look to his face, spiky blonde hair, wearing a short sleeved check shirt in reds and purples.  Beyond that three things stood out.  In his left ear a small sparkling stud.  The smile on the broad mouth was warm and, somehow, incredibly genuine.  And his lashes were... amazing.  Had to be fake, didn't they?  Outside of a drag club I'd never seen a man with lashes that long and think and  silky black.

"OK.  I was getting a bit full anyway."

"You can always fit a bit more in though, can't you?"  He grinned at the waiter who shrugged and made hi way back to the kitchen.

Before I could say any more he was up, across, had his jacket on the back of the seat and was sitting opposite me, elbows on the table.

"Matt."  His eyes were ready to hook a response out of me.

"Hi, I'm David."

"You don't sound local David, here on a visit?  And yes, they are really real and no I don't put anything on them."  I looked down at the table, suddenly aware how intently I'd been studding those flashing lines above the grey eyes.  "Don't feel embarrassed, everyone does the same.  My blessing and my curse" he said with a well rehearsed laugh.  "Mostly a blessing though..."

I looked back at him.  "They're certainly eye catching.  Em, sorry, that wasn't meant to be a bad joke, just came out that way, I..."

"Like I say David, happens all the time.  And they do have the useful superpower of being good at starting conversations I'd like to have."

I wasn't sure what to say next, but the waiter returned before the need became pressing.  Two bowls with what looked like pretty standard portion sizes, looking like the chef had just scraped out everything that was left and decided quantity trumped presentation.  Good move.

When we'd both scraped our bowls to near cleanliness we had our starter to get us going.  How good was that, what had we each had before, and what were we doing here, eating alone?  He lived alone in a nearby flat, hadn't tried the place before and decided to give it a go when he'd ended up coming home late from work.  I told him where I'd come from, where I was going in the morning, and, in response to teasing questioning, a bit about my aims for the meeting.

We paid our bills, went out into the damp night air, walked along together, chatting inconsequentially.  

"Pint?"  Matt had stopped.  I hadn't even noticed we were passing a pub.  It wasn't in my plans, but... why not?  I could read my notes on the bus in the morning and the stained glass and real ale ads promised to be a step up from the sterility of my uniformly samey hotel room.  We went in, ended up squeezed side by side onto a bench seat under a long mirror, amid the raucous chatter, punctuating laughter and clinking glasses .  Had to lean into one another to be heard.  I had to keep telling myself not to watch those lashes, but they were like multi pronged magnets, exuding their own mesmeric force.

Three pints in, it's a bit quieter now, we have the table to ourselves, and still we lean in, talking conspiratorially, secrets seeping into the mundane.  I realise his hand is on my thigh.  I realise I don't mind.  I realise... that this is what's happening.

I'd always thought of myself as the straightest of straight guys, a sexual A to B man .  An Italian dessert, and a fringing of eye hair, told me otherwise.

Day 138 - Mailbox

 MAILBOX

Prompt - Mailbox: Write something based on a recent item of mail you've received

In a year that's been short on excitements in life, devoid of live entertainments or the pleasures of eating out, some elements of the mundane have taken on a new significance.  One of these has been the arrival of mail.  And while the sound of an envelope or small package falling from the letter box has seen us perk up and look in wonder at one another (even when we know the actual contents are likely to be a disappointment...), it is as nothing to the thrill of hearing a sound that can only mean one thing.  The doorbell going means there is a parcel too big to slip through the slot, or it needs evidence of delivery.  In lockdown life those have been moments to savour.

Such has been their impact that I have found myself ordering items I don't really need (even if I do want them) just for that buzz that delivery brings.  Even if the postie has left whatever it is on the door mat, and got away as quick as, the occasion has retained it's power to please, despite the lack of actual human contact.  It doesn't matter if the parcel was not for me, but for my wife, the power of the moment remained the same.

Now that the pandemic lockdown rules are beginning to ease, and the world, at least locally, is returning to some kind of 'normal' (and in the knowledge that this easing might yet prove to have to be temporary), the postie's arrival might not have quite the same significance in social terms, but there is still plenty to be excited about.  I know I will have several deliveries over the coming months, albeit most to an uncertain timescale, and each one promises something new in my life.

The biggest of these items, which should appear before the end of June, is an ebike.  I haven't cycled at all for about eight years.  I haven't cycled in Edinburgh for more than four decades.  So it will be a near new experience for me.  It's for no purpose other than pleasure, so I'm no hurry, but it would be good to enjoy some of the summer months in the saddle.  However it's been on 'order', since last April.  The reason for the long lead time, and for the quotation marks, is that it's a pledge on a crowdfunding site.  There are always question marks associated with their timescales, but this one seems to be coming to a close in the near future.  That will be a big moment.

Many of those items I'm expected are also crowdfunding pledges.  One which delivered recently was associated with the cycling I plan to do.  A helmet that has inbuilt lighting and indicators.  But buying a bike means I have to purchase a few more accessories, to keep it and me safe.  So this week's postie excitement will be twofold.  On Thursday I expect delivery of a couple of heavy duty D rings which can be fitted to the floor and wall of our garage, to enable the bike to be well chained up.  And on friday the large drill bit I need to fit those hefty rings.  I have one padlock already, but another couple need to be purchased in the coming weeks, as will a bell.  Other associated items have already been bought.

So the postie is anticipated, and although the contents of the packages won't be the most exciting in themselves, they presage interesting times ahead.  My eagerness to answer the doorbell remains strong.

Day 137 - Blog-o-sphere

 BLOG-O-SPHERE

Prompt - Blog-o-sphere : Visit your favourite blog or your feedreader and craft a story, journal 

entry, or poem based on the latest blog post you read.

Writing is the only true freedom

Says the man hanging from sheets

It's the art we can all create

It's not just for the elites

But you need to be hitting the streets

A life behind bars is no place to create

As Oscar would surely agree

His muse never made it to Reading

His body had need to be free

His mind locked away by that key

But knowledge brings freedom

Of it's own special kind

Knowledge is fuel

If creatively inclined

Words are the keys to the mind

Footnote - My task was hampered by being especially tired on this particular day, and, even more so, by my not following any blogs nowadays.  Which meant searching out some random post that would provide me with subject matter.  My eventual choice rested on a blog from Reading Museum, which linked Banksy's artwork of a prisoner climbing down a rope of sheets, with a typewriter tied to the end, with Oscar Wilde's incarceration in Reading Gaol.  It's not a blog I plan on returning to....

Day 136 - Bizarre Holiday

 BIZARRE HOLIDAY

Prompt - Bizarre Holiday : There is a bizarre holiday for any date!  Look up a holiday for today's date and create a poem in greeting card fashion or write a short story about the holiday to celebrate

Once upon a time there were two kingdoms who were constantly at war with each other.  The wars were never about anything important, but the kings of both countries were always taking offence over silly things.  So they had the War of the Trampled Asparagus (which left a peculiar smell behind for days), the War of Black Cats (it fizzled out because nobody wanted to cross the road), the War of One Hundred Beefsteaks (that was a particularly bloody war), the War of the Idle Tinker (more of a skirmish than an actual war), the War of the Martins (nobody could ever figure out if this had begun as a fight ovr birds or people with boring names), the Lost Columns War (quite a peaceful one in the end, and many, many more.

This went on for years and years and years and the people of both countries were getting sick of it, what with their sons getting killed and their young women raped and the asparagus crops ruined.  But the kings kept finding reasons to attack one another, although they never did any of the fighting themselves.  Or went near to where fighting took place.  Or sent their sons into the fighting.  And they kept their women, and their vegetable patches, at a safe distance from the enemy.  And so yet another war began, this time because one king accused the other (it doesn't really matter who was who) of deliberately displaying badly drawn cats, felines that looked full of evil, knowing full well that his opposite number's regal symbol was a pouncing tom.  And that, for those mad monarchs, was enough reason to send out the troops.  Again.  This war, which began life as the War of the Wicked Puss, would come to be the known as The war to end All Wars.  And this is why.

I don't think I'd told you yet, but the army of one side, let's call them the Northish Army, wore blue uniforms.  And the army of the other side, we'll refer to them as the Southish, wore red coats.  It was the Fourteenth of May in this long ago year, in a distant century, and there was a small battle taking pace, only about twenty on either side.  Neither was really winning, but they weren't losing either.  Which well suited most of them, except for their stupid young officers, who still believed in daft notions like patriotism and glory.  As darkness was falling each officer commanded one of their men to sneak forward along the edge of the cliff and see if they could find out exactly where the enemy were, with a view to mounting a night time attack.  Each man set off, reluctantly, and cautiously edged forward, wondering how long they'd have to be away from their friends until they could turn back and say that at least they'd tried.  So neither was paying as much attention as he should to what was around him, and both got a big surprise when they found themselves face to face, barely a meter apart. There was just enough light for one to see that the fellow he'd encountered was wearing blue, and for the other to see red.  Both hoped the other would run away, but neither did.  Both hoped the other would say something, but neither did.  So, each at the same time, they realised they should this other man, who, according to custom and the whims of their king, was their enemy.

So fight they did.  But without weapons, without conviction, and without any real desire to hurt their opponent.  They danced around one another for a few minutes, took the odd swing and missed, until the man in red tripped over a tussock, staggered into his adversary, and both found themselves falling over the edge of the cliff.  On the way down they were convinced that they were going to die, but there was luck on their side.  They fell into the giant wooden wash tub of the village that sat by the beach.  The washing had long since been done, but the soapy water, still surprisingly warm, remained, and there was enough to break their fall so that they didn't break any bones, but each took a blow to the head and fell unconscious immediately.  Luck was even more in evidence, because they both ended up sitting in the water, with their faces just clear enough from the water so they wouldn't drown.

They came to in the morning when one of the women of the village found them there in the suds and splashed some water into their faces to see if they were alive.  Spluttering, sore and surprised, they looked at the woman, looked at each other, and gave big sighs of wonderment that the luck I mentioned had spared them.  Both wanted to laugh, but found that it hurt too much.  But they couldn't help themselves when they eventually emerged from the tub.  A night spent in frothy cleanser had leached the dye from their jackets, the colours mixing in the water, and their clothing had both taken on the new hue.  A fetching shade of light purple.

They agreed that this clearly indicated they were on the same side now (even more so when each discovered the other's name was Martin) and they agreed to be friends from now on, and their kings and officers could go hang if they didn't like it.  The woman said how lovely it was to watch them seeing sense and didn't they know that that was how all the people, in both kingdoms, felt about these stupid wars?  And if they could become friends like that couldn't they persuade their fellow soldiers to do the same?  They both saw the sense this woman talked, so they came up with a plan.

Each went back to his platoon and led them forward along the cliff, saying this was the best route to spring a surprise on the enemy.  They'd arranged to meet near the place of their encounter the night before.  When the two groups came upon one another the Martins sprang into the middle and said they were friends now, because they both wore the same colour, and wouldn't it be good if everyone did the same?  All the men agreed, except the stupid officers, so they were grabbed and thrown over the cliff at almost the exact same spot as the fall the night before.  Everyone heard a big splash.  Then the Martins told the men to take off their coats and throw them over the cliff too, then they led the way down to the little village.

When they got to the beach they found the two officers dead.  That 'almost' had been enough.  Nobody was upset about this as the young men had been truly horrible.  They also found their coats in the big sudsy tub, being worked hard by the woman and her friends.  The women told them the job would take a few hours, but if they went round the corner there was a party waiting for them, with food and drink and music and dancing.  A Peace Party they said.

It was a wild party and the men had a wonderful time, and slept the night away in an exhausted stupor.  When they woke they found their coats were now dry, and their coats were all the same shade of purple as the two Martins.  Keeping together they went from one of bit one army to another, spreading their message of peace to both sides, and all the soldiers turned on their stupid officers and wanted their coats dyed purple.  The people rejoiced to see the war ending this way, the kings fumed and shouted, but had to run away for fear the people would turn on them, and both countries became republics and singed a thousand year treaty to be allies and collaborators in progress.  

And that, children, is why every Sixteenth of May is Wear Purple for Peace Day, and why I dress up like the Emperor Nero.

Day 135 - Ladders

 LADDERS

Prompt  Ladders : Write a story or poem that uses ladders as a symbol.

I am the fire starter.  I am the fire victim.  I need to be rescued.

The fire service is here.  I can hear them, though smoke still blinds me.  Will they find me in time?  Will they penetrate the smoke and the flames, the heat and the debris?  Will this be the time when they fail?  I know the ladders are rising, the spray from the hoses begins to steam away the fringes of the blaze, I see a small gap of hope through the swirling soot and gases.  They press on and in, getting closer, alert to my cries, fashioning a tunnel through which they can reach me, swing my near lifeless form shoulder high, descend the rungs with this barely human sack of potatoes.  Saved.  Again.

I am awake, the nightmare over for another day.  The nurses have returned my consciousness, soothed my panic, opened my eyes, the ladders have returned to their turntables, the trucks departed.  Nothing to see here.  Just a smouldering shell of a man, living a sort of life.  A day will pass, the night will arrive, and with it the flames and the smoke.

One day the ladders won't reach.

Day 134 - Bring on the Cheese

 BRING ON THE CHEESE

Prompt - Bring on the Cheese : Write a tacky love poem that is so cheesy, it belongs on top of a pizza

That pretty face, with eyes so golden

All soft and warm, I feel I've rolled in

Silk or satin when you come close

So joyful I'm the one you chose

I won't accept them saying that

I'm being daft since you're a cat

Day 133 - Gadgets

 GADGETS

Prompt - Gadgets : If you could invent a gadget, what would it do?  Are there any gadgets that make your life easier?

"Police have identified the man as 78 year old Arthur Macauley from Cardoon, and remain uncertain about the events which led to his death on the rocks at Marris Bay.  Mr Macauley lived alone and has no known family.  Neighbours say he kept himself to himself and was seen as a harmless eccentric by the local community."

Arthur danced around the workshop, a weird raggedy dance of flailing limbs and uncoordinated joy.  Forty six years it taken him, but he'd done it.  Forty six years of genius, stupidity, achievement, frustration, tears of pleasure, tears of anger, dedication, resignation, imagination, repetition, success and failure and, finally, success.  Four and half decades of a life given over to one aim.  And just when you think time must be running out...

His mother had died when he was a lad, and he became close to his father, near idolised him.     The old man was a bit of an inventor, a bit of an entrepreneur, and he encouraged his son to be likewise.  So in the sixties Arthur had come up with a few ideas for some electronic gadgets that had made him a decent sum of money.  When his father died suddenly, and totally unexpectedly, Arthur was only 32, withdrew into himself.  Left with the big house, it's spacious workshop, and more than enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life, he gave up his business life, gave up on his friends, and set about finding himself a purpose.  He already had a good idea where he might find it.

In the early days of his tinkering about, Arthur noticed something that had played on his mind ever since.  He'd accidentally dropped a small battery powered torch into a box that contained a new kind of generator he was working on, was briefly distracted by his assistant, and forgot to remove it when he went back to his experiment.   When the new machine was switched on, and bombarded with radio waves, the torch suddenly appeared from the top of the box, apparently floating free of gravity.  Arthur was astonished and tried quickly to recreate  the phenomenon, but couldn't get it to work.  He returned to the task in hand, and the resulting product turned out to be one of his biggest money spinners.  But he could never get the torch, or any other object, to lift again, and didn't have the time he needed to pursue it.

Until he found himself without his mentor, and feeling adrift from humanity, but with time and money and a need for goal for his life.  If he could figure out how that torch had risen and learn how to make it happen at will, he would have discovered something that would see him immortalised.  Levitation, anti-gravity, call it whatever, but here was a phantom worth pursuing, a potential boon to a world he had disconnected himself from.

He set to work, and work, and work.  Failure after failure, but he never let the setbacks deflect him from his lifework.  It took more than thirty years, but eventually he got another torch to rise.  He still didn't understand it, but he could at last dispel the inner doubts that tried to convince him that the original event had been a mirage.  Another six years for him to be able to grasp the basic concepts involved and get the experiment to work every time.  And now another seven had passed and he'd finally perfected a device that could rise, not from the laboratory conditions of a protected box, but from an open surface, and with enough power to lift the spanner he'd chosen as his trial object.  The dance been long in coming.

It took a further 2 years of building ever larger and larger lifters before he was able to grasp for the ultimate prize - a machine that could lift a man from the ground and respond to his instruction.   False dawns abounded.  His body wasn't what it once was, so it was harder to bring the necessary steadiness and concentration to bear.  But one day his contraption carried him half a metre into the air, went forward three metres, and set him back down again without too much of a thump.  And he knew that this time he was close.

The flights within the workshop, got a bit higher, a bit longer, a bit more controllable, until he reached the point where there was no longer enough space.  He would have to take the biggest leap so far and venture outside.  Not yet ready to go public - he demanded perfection of himself before that could ever happen - he thought about how best to avoid unwanted eyes.

His nearest neighbours were over four hundred metres away so there was ample privacy for him to undertake some short hops.  The lifter emitted little noise, but plenty of light, so it would have be in daylight hours, preferably in bright sunshine.  He became more attentive to the weather forecasts.

On clear days dawn flights became his routine.  He reached a height above the top of the workshop roof, he flew the whole length of the building.  Further adjustments, new refinements, and he was able to make a circuit of the walls from which his innovation had emerged.  Then over his home, then several figure of eights around house and workshop.  He felt close to being ready to go public, but wanted one more test flight, somewhere beyond the safety of his own property.  The flightpath to the cliffs, some kilometre and a half away, need not cross directly over any other homes if he planned his route carefully.  He went back to his weather studies.

The morning arrived, he set off at five thirty, the light not yet strong, but more than enough to navigate by.  Takeoff went smoothly, he rose to level that took him well clear of the treeline, and followed a zigzag course to the coast.  He had never know such exhilaration.

He should have known.  He did know, but should have remembered.  If he stayed above the land there wouldn't have been a problem.  But joy is a powerful drug, overcoming sense with ease.  He let his judgement falter in the moment, allowed himself to drift beyond the cliff edge.  The effective change in altitude cancelled out the anti-grav and he was falling before he could make any adjustments to his controls.  His final thought, "they never knew...".

"Following the recent unexplained death of Arthur Macauley, investigators have discovered a collection of unusual machines and devices in the large workshop adjacent to the deceased's home.  So far nobody has been able to figure out their function, but they have evidently been manufactured by Mr Macauley himself, probably over a period of several decades.  Police would like to hear from anyone who has any knowledge of these discoveries, or what Mr Macauley was trying to achieve."

Day 132 - Transportation

 TRANSPORTATION 

Prompt - Transportation : Write about taking your favourite (or least favourite) form of transportation

Once upon a time I'd have been tempted to look to the air for my favoured mode of transport.  Flying took one to more distant places, in a short time, and airports were interesting places.  That latter statement has altered drastically in the past two decades.  Airports are to be endured, and for spending as little time in as possible.  Flying has become a (sometimes) necessary evil.

I used to love driving too, and recall being sat at the wheel for nigh on twelve hours to traverse much of Spain, and thoroughly enjoying it.  Perhaps I still might on those quiet roads, but I suspect not.  My concentration is not what it was thirty plus years ago, and I become stiff and sore after a much shorter distance sat in one place.  I prefer somebody else to be doing all the work.  In Edinburgh I rarely drive, not when I enjoy waking and the bus and tram service is so good.

I might make an exception for cycling, which I always used to enjoy, and am looking forward to trying again.  But that will be locally, for fun and fun only, and is not really 'proper' transport in consequence.

So my favourite nowadays has to be on rails.  Able to sit and look out at the changing scenery, read or listen to music, get up and have a walk up and down, and with end points that still retain some of their glamour.  Railway stations are far more pleasant places to be than airports, and you don't have to spend so long in them either!

And out of the forms of train travel I've experienced by far the most memorable (if not the most relaxing...) is the sleeper train.  I guess if it's a service you use regularly you can get into a routine and a rhythm that allows to you to really sleep.  So far I've only made three sleeper journeys.  (At least as an adult -  I can vaguely recall going on one from Ostend to Austria, and back again, as a schoolboy.  The magic somewhat diluted by having to share a cabin with five other farty kids...)  On none did I get a good night's sleep.  But all three provided memorable moments and images in my mind which will always remain.  

This is making me want to book a sleeper to somewhere, just for the sake of it...

Day 131 - Macro

 MACRO

Prompt - Macro : Write a description of an object close up

Where to commence, top or bottom, form or function, beginning or end?  I will start with the flat area, getting the ugliness out of the way early on.

The flatness enables smooth movement, but is marred, visually, by lines and openings and the markings of commercialisation and legislative progress.  To the front a curve of limo window black defines the forward outline, swiftly curtailed by a straight line from side to side.  And then a label, not quite full width, showing tiny defining script, in English, symbols for the cognoscenti, a lengthy bar code, a lengthy numeric code, and a few characters of Chinese script.  Every bit of it ignorable in the everyday.

The remainder of the surface is in the same striking turquoise shade as the main body, through to the rer where the end piece is the same limo black as at the front, but with a more pronounced curve and deeper body.  In between those extremes there are three blemishes to the smooth surface.

To the left, towards the label, a 10mm rectangle with curved sides, about 3mm deep, contains a small switch that can be moved from left to right, right to left.  To it's immediate right  tiny engraved symbol indicating the function of the switch.  Behind that a bigger oval with defining outline, an inner border, and slope sided indentation ending in clear material, which itself has a small dome protruding.  A flickering red light sometimes signals the presence of activity within (in response to activity without).

To the right, and taking up slightly more than half the surface area between label and rearwards blackness, is a form of hatch, flush with the surface but clearly outlined.  Outwith it's right hand edge there is an indentation, thumb tip sized, that curves up at the side and then straightlines only a couple of millimetres from the edge of the flatness.  At the foot of the indentation, against the hatch, a further thin indentation.  On the hatch surface itself, another couple of millimetres in and slightly longer than the indentation in both directions, another line, this one looking into the darkness within.  And, finally, inboard of that, another cryptic symbol explaining the overall purpose of the hatch.

It is good to be able to turn the object over now, to show it's far more attractive upper aspect, and restore it to carrying out the functions for which it is intended.  From the flat base the front and sides rise outwards, expanding the overall width, the front mildly convex, the sides more clearly concave, while at the rear there is one smooth rising curve towards the upper surface, this curve linking in smoothly to changes of direction from it's siblings, helping to create the smooth bulbosity of the upper surface.

That surface is a clear outline, a curved carapace of a slightly different hue to the main body (matt to the body's gloss), although in part that is down to discolouration due to constant daily use.  Clear grey lettering to the back of this surface communicates who is the manufacturer, a globally recognised brand.  This surface, in contrast to the rigid body, is designed to flex to the touch, and a dividing line at the front allows left or right to be manipulated independently.  Behind that divider a long gloss insert, perhaps 25 to 30mm long, and around 12mm across, with a small knurled wheel, aligned fore and aft, protruding from dead centre, and in line with the most flexible areas of the main surface.  It, and those independently flexing curves, are at the heart of the device's functionality.

Put it all together and I have something that, in colour and shape, is an attractive addition to its environment, and performs functions essential to much that I do.  What more could you ask from an inanimate object?  And, in return, perhaps I should clean it more often...

Day 130 - Read the News Today

 READ THE NEWS TODAY

Prompt - Read the News Today : Construct a poem or story using a news headline for your first line

Sturgeon tells Johnson that Indyref2's

Now a matter of 'when' and not 'if'

After us voters have clearly said we

Won't tolerate even a whiff

Of tory intransigence to a new test

On whether the union should end

Ignoring a nation's electoral choice 

Isn't something you'd ever defend

A new referendum's coming our way

Democracy undoubtedly shows 

In a few years we'll be bringing

This broken union to a close

Headline came from here.

Day 129 - Commotion

 COMMOTION

Prompt - Commotion : Write about being overstimulated by a lot of chaos

I have got better with maturity, old age, call it what you will, but I still would not pretend to be good at dealing with chaotic situations.  Too many sensory inputs at once can feel overwhelming.  In part I put this down to my hearing, which has always had problems coping with loud and/or constant background noise, which can render it impossible for me to concentrate on the sounds I'm trying to listen to.  Some of us are like that.

So I never feel completely comfortable in crowds, and rampant confusion can induce feelings of panic.  Does that count as over-excitement?  

I do remember being heavily pressured at work sometimes, which would lead to an overactive brain, making it impossible to sleep.  During 1999, the most pressured year of my career, I probably resorted to downing bottles of wine a bit too often.  (It's the only year when I've really put on much unwanted weight.)

Nowadays I let great music gigs provide my overstimulation!  And watching a pro-Indy landslide unfold before my eyes...

Day 128 - The Promise

 THE PROMISE

Prompt - The promise : Write about a promise you've made to someone.  Did you keep that promise?

"Promise Mummy?"  The winter-wrapped bundle of expectation that was her son looked up at Melissa pleadingly.

"Promise wee man."  And went on to transmute his grin into giggles with a quickfire "Promise, promise, promise, promise, promise.."

She would not, let him down, certainly not in something she knew to be as important as this.  Memories of just how that would feel drifted her mind back twenty nine years, to when she was James' age.

Of being promised the magic she imagined would be hers if she could get to the funfair.  They lived a way out on a farm, about seven miles from the village, and wasn't taken out in the evenings very often.  But she had heard so much at school about the waltzers and stalls and shows and lights and noise and candyfloss that she knew, absolutely knew, that she had to go, had to see this mythical world.  So she pestered and pleaded and looked sweet and looked grumpy until she got her way, and Dad had agreed to take her.

They drove down the lanes from their hilltop, stars gleaming on this already-frosty night, as her eyes gleamed with excitement.  They parked up and walked along the road leading to where the sky was lit up by dancing colours and defined by the mock screams of thrilldom.  A voice called out from across the way, a man standing outside the Horse and Shovel.

"Martin!  Martin!  Come away and have a pint man."  Her father stopped, looked over, still with a tight grasp on her tiny hand.  

"John it's yourself there.  We're away to the funfair, someone here insists."  She knew she was just 'someone'.

"Oh, you've time for a swift one, the fair's not going anywhere, and it'll warm you up before all that traipsing round."

Her father looked down.  "Come on, we'll get you something to drink, so you've more strength for going round, eh?"  And without waiting for her protests she found herself being dragged across to the unwelcoming pub, where she knew she'd be ignored, the men all smelled terrible and her father would become silly.  "Just the one then, like you say it'll do us good."

And that was her evening at the funfair.  One turned to two, to three, the point of the trip was forgotten, she was told, over and over, to keep quiet and drink her lemonade.  That it wouldn't be long now.  But it was.  Too long.  She cried a bit, and was still ignored.  She tried sneaking out, but was swiftly called back.  He wasn't taking chances.  She fell asleep, the excitement dissipated, the disappointment no longer enough to keep her awake.  Next she knew she was lying on the back seat of the car and they were nearly home.  She never did get to the funfair.

Recalling all this had taken her away in the moment.  An urgent tug on her hand, a voice with a note of desperation, brought her back to now.  

"Come on then, let's do it, you and me.  What colour should we go for?"

James' eyes widened.  "Red."

"Red it is then."  Hand in hand they half-an onward, straight for the sparks and cries of the dodgems.  A promise was a promise.

Day 127 - Know-it-All

 KNOW-IT-ALL

Prompt - Know-it-All : Write about something you are very knowledgeable about, for example a favourite hobby or passion of yours.

"Are you OK sir?  Can I help at all?"  For once David was less in awe of the elderly man who'd just fallen to the floor, and more genuinely concerned for his welfare.  Professor Askwith was his tutor, mentor, longstanding head of the history faculty, and a man with an international reputation for his knowledge and writings on the Byzantine Empire.  And here he was, lying flat out, face down, on the grey tiled corridor, having gone from vertical to horizontal so quickly that David had missed it all.  He bent down to help the man get turned over and sat up, helped him check for bodily damage.  Shaken clearly, but there were no cuts, no sign of any breaks or sprains, although that would become clearer when he tried getting to his feet.

David looked at said appendages, noticed that both sets of shoelaces were undone.  He'd always seen the professor in slip ons before.  

"That looks like the culprits sir, must have tripped over them.  Easy done when they come undone like that."

"Um, yes, they will have, won't they.  Will be.  They are."    The professor was still flustered by his embarrassing experience.

"Best get them done up and I can give you a hand up if you want me to?"

"Um, yes, do they up.  Do you think you could do them for me, bit of a stretch, feel a bit stiff after all this?"

"Certainly sir"  I hunkered down and pulled the laces together, tired a double knot in each.  It was strange, the laces themselves didn't have that crimped twisted feeling they usually do when they've been tied tight.  In fact they looked pristine, yet faded. When I looked up he seemed to have been carefully observing my hands.

I got the prof back up, asked how he felt, handed him the bag briefcase that had slid across the floor.  He insisted he was fine, just a bit shocked, and he'd be taking more care in future.  Thanked me for my assistance, as polite and formal as ever.  And off he went.

As did I.  It was only later, when I was recounting the incident to a friend, that I had a realisation. Those laces had never been tied.  Ever.  Professor Askwith was one of the top ten experts in the world on a major historical civilisation, a vast and complex subject that had loaned it's name to the devious intricacies of bureaucracy.  And he didn't know how to tie his shoes.

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A decade ago I used to say that everyone had a list in them, some information they had retained through their life that they could reel off.  It might be, often was, useless information, it might even be something that the person concerned realised they could do.  Mine was being able to take any year, since 1950 when the title was inaugurated, and name who the Formula One World champion was, and what car he was driving when he won it.  Pointless information, but it was mine.

Until I found myself realising that I was totally bred with the world of motorsport, and gave up following it.  I can't name any champion since 2010, and that wider lack of interest has damaged my ability to exhibit my claimed list expertise.  I simply don't care any more.

There has been no replacement.  I can claim no detailed knowledge or long term passion for any hobby or interest.  There are sports I follow, but not in the encyclopedic manner I once did with almost anything on four wheels.  

And that's why I chose to adopt a fictional approach to today's prompt, even if it meant not really meeting the brief...

Day 126 - Alone

 ALONE

Prompt - Alone : Do you like to be alone or do you like having company?

As an only child who ended up spending a lot of time on my own I still find time alone to not only be important, but near essential.  A chance to go into my head, or read a book, or simply walk.  I lived alone for several years and at times that would get a bit lonely, but not really a problem.  I am able to amuse myself, and, in later life, am happy in my own company for long periods.

But the type of loneliness I hate most is the sense of being totally ignored in a roomful of people.  I'm someone who finds it hard to initiate conversations, or socialise generally.  The exception to that rule is when I've acted in some kind of professional capacity.  Acting is the right word, for I could effectively play the role of the socialite if I had a job title to hide behind.  But when I'm just me it's never been easy.  That has led me into hating parties, or large groups of people where I dont really know anyone.  So many times I seem to have found myself standing against a wall, trying not to drink too fast, wishing i could be somewhere else.

Being alone is not the same as being lonely.  I would much rather be by myself than have to feel lonely in a room full of others.

Day 125 - Frozen

 FROZEN

Prompt - Frozen : Write about a moment in your life you wish you could freeze and preserve

"Octogenarian's debut novel on Booker short list"

Octogenarian?  True enough, I turned eighty four years old last week.  Debut novel?  Well, sort of.   It was certainly the first one I knew was worth sharing with anyone outside my immediate circle of friends and family.  'First readable novel' would be more accurate.

I will not win the award.  And do not care.  I doubt I'll ever write another book, and what, at my age, would I spend the money on anyway?  The headline means a lot to me, the realisation that I have finally done it, along with the regret that it can't be shared, or even seen, but the man who is responsible for the book just as much as I am.  

He is a moment in time, a memory that has been with me for more almost six decades, a gem I have taken out and polished, sometimes neglecting it for years, but always returning, hauntingly inspirational.

I had written poems and short stories spasmodically since my mid teens.  Just for me, just for the joy of writing.  I knew they were terrible, self indulgent, unimaginative, uninspired and uninspiring in content and language.  But I had fun creating them anyway.  From somewhere i found the nerve to apply to join a local creative writing class.  I regretted it immediately, sure i was getting above myself, being as pretentious as I knew would be the verdict of others.  I would not, could not have gone, except for a phone call.  The tutor, Mike Merrett, called me up a couple of days before the first class, checking up that I would be coming along, knew where to go, how to negotiate the dodgy door handle, bring along any existing samples of my work if I could.  I did, dear reader, try to express my doubts, but they were swept aside by Mike's tsunamic enthusiasm.  He left me feeling that he was too nice a man for me to let him down.  Good tactics, eh?

So along I went, every nerve twitching, but soon found myself laughing at Mike's jokes, smiling at his smile.  Each of us who brought something along had to read out a few sentences.  No comments, no judgements, he wanted to hear our voices.  I read mine out, and nobody laughed, or even smirked.  He gave us some general tips, set the homework for the following week, and we were gone into the night, each of us feeling more special than when we went in.

Ten weeks it lasted.  Short stories, poems, an essay based on a newspaper item, we were gently stretched into corners we hadn't explored before.  Everyone got their own personal critique, and indicators towards their likely niche.  

On the final evening he went round the circled group, gave everyone of us his thoughts and comments and encouragements.  His choosing who to talk to next seemed random at first, but a pattern seemed to emerge and I wondered where I'd fit in.  Last.  I knew I'd improved a lot under his instruction and kindness, I knew, to my genuine surprise, that some weeks my story was clearly the best of the lot.  But I still wasn't ready for the praise I received.  

Most of what he said was lost to me the next day, it had all happened so fast, but I retained the general sense of his intent.  That I should think about writing longer works, think about extending the range of my characterisations, and work through as many ideas as possible to decide what really interested me, where the passion was.  But there was one single phrase that stayed with me, and is still here today.  It is that moment in time, the one I picked up, ran away with and put into my emergency freezer, to be preserved, and taken out and admired whenever it was needed.  

"You should be starving in a garrett somewhere."

In any other context it would be insulting.  But I knew what he meant.  Those words, and the attendant smiles from the circle, the recognition of my peers, have stayed with me through every failure, every fallow period, every crisis of confidence, every twisted spring of doubt and self-deprecation.  Without those words there would be no headline about an octogenarian author.  MM, I wish you were here to see it.

Day 124 - Fireworks

 FIREWORKS

Prompt - Fireworks : Do they inspire you or do you not like the noise and commotion.  Write about it.

2020 was a good year for the dogs of central Edinburgh.  This has become, over the past couple of decades, a city of fireworks.  We have fireworks for, it seems, almost everything.  Not just bonfire night and the celebration of bringing in the new year.  Not just the big fireworks with music synchronised concert/display that marks the end of the madness of the main festival period in August.  But every night in August, sometimes more than once in an evening, and for other celebrations or commemorations of greater or lesser import across the year.  Fireworks are a matter of routine if you live in Edinburgh.

There are minor displays in all parts of the city at differing times.  Out flat faces away from the centre, yet as midnight hits and January the first begins we can always see at least three sets of fireworks going off.  Not the back garden sort, but proper professional series of explosions and light and colour.  Far enough away for us to take in the benefits of the sight without the concomitant loudness of sound.  Our cat remains undisturbed throughout.

She would not be if we were within a few hundred meters of the Castle Rock.  That is the centre point for all the most impressive, brightest, longest lasting, and noisiest displays.  No fun for the dogs and other pets, and humans of an aurally sensitive nature, who are nearby.  And last year, and this so far, provided some respite from that.  There were fireworks to mark 2021 arriving, but there has been little else in the past twelve months.  It won't last.  Edinburgh loves its light and sound displays.

And me, what do I feel about this artistic use of gunpowder?  I recall my father setting off catherine wheels and jumping jacks and the rockets from a milk bottle that fizzed and plopped to real effect, eacht fifth of November.  There might have been a few more impressive rockets around us, but I recall being impressed by his efforts, my younger self enjoying the minor sensation of power that waving a sparkler stick in the air provided for a few seconds.  But after that fireworks became a take it or leave it experience.  If there was a display conveniently on hand I would watch, but I wouldn't go out of my way.  The exceptions came in my forties, when we'd sometimes go to the see the national firework championships, held over three nights by the seafront in the town where we lived.   It was within walking distance of home, so why not?  They were lengthy displays, choreographed by the fireworks manufacturers themselves, to accompany their chosen pieces of music.  Good to watch, and even listen to for the synchronicity, as long as the weather was decent enough.

Then we moved to Edinburgh.  Thirty five years before, when I'd left, fireworks were a small scale affair.  I returned to a metropolis where spectacular aerial vistas were almost a commonplace.  In the first couple of years we'd make a point of joining the throngs in the vicinity of princes Street to watch the end of festival show.  If we were in town during August, and in a suitable viewing point when the fun began, we'd stop and watch.  But watch too many and they all blend into a oneness.  It's easy to become blase about something that might be a source of joy to begin with, but the experience of which palls due to repetition.  

I like a good fireworks display.  Perhaps, after a year near enough without, I will enjoy them more when they brighten out skyline later this year (although, at time of writing, it's by no means certain what form our festival month will take, but to imagine it without fireworks almost seem like blasphemy!).  But in August 2022?  I'll be back in take it or leave it mode, and feeling sorry for those dogs.

Day 123 - Your bed

 YOUR BED

Prompt - Your Bed : Describe where you sleep each night

Having a comfy welcoming bed has always been important, but perhaps even more so over the past year of lockdowns and restrictions and health worries.  There's a danger that sticking with established routines can lead to boredom, while not have any structure can feel chaotic, so hitting the middle ground is important.  Trying to find ways to break up the day, shuffle things around, has not always been easy in these times.  But having a bed routine feels important, a cocoon of safety and comfort in an uncertain environment

I am, buy most standards I guess, a late-to-bedder.  There was a time, many years ago, when I could make myself a morning person.  Partly from necessity, as I had to earn a living, partly from self motivation, specifically during the period when I could often be found in a gym at seven in the morning.  Now, firmly and happily retired, there is no pressure for either.  And the occasional early mornings I had before the first lockdown have vanished too.  For early Fringe shows, for appointments associated with my volunteering work, for getting in practice walks to prepare my body for Kiltwalk.  Only the latter came up in 2020, and never really caught on in my new life.  

So bedtime is generally around midnight, and I will read a book until my eyes are closing.  Meaning a good bedside light is essential.  

Sleep (hopefully).  Waken when my body is ready (hopefully).  The shock of an alarm has become another distant memory.  Get the hot drinks - lemon, honey and ginger - and return to bed.  Read, check social media, check overnight sports results (I am following NHL matches), drink the drink, have a hug, get up.  At nine.  Or ten.  Or whenever.  

That regime would only be possible in a place where I feel happy.  It's a bright room, plenty of spce to move around the bed, two decent sized windows, mirrored wardrobes along one wall adding to the feeling of space and light.  A few bits of furniture against the walls, the bed dominates, taking up most of the space between the windows.  A king size (we're both tall), wooden frame, slatted base, slanted backrest, well sprung mattress with different levels of support on either side (medium for her, firm for me), three pillows apiece, light duvet.  The walls are pale grey, ceiling white and carpet green, wooden doors to hallway and en suite.  White venetian blinds on the windows, looking out on to a tall tree and the greenery of the cemetery, a war memorial with white celtic cross down below.  Pictures on the walls (including one of us as a much younger couple, usually discretely hidden behind the door - who wants to be constantly reminded of how they used to look?), books on one shelf, a the usual bedroom clutter on each bedside cabinet.  Cosy, friendly.  And that door stays open.  The cat likes to sleep on me sometimes!

A happy place.

The haven at the end of days

A place that reaches out and says

Come on in and rest your head

There's nowhere betters your own bed

A room for peace and calm and sleep

To give no need for counting sheep

Read until you'll read no more

Until unwound you droop and snore

Wake up in your warming berth

There is no better spot on earth

Day 122 - Stop and Stare

 STOP AND STARR

Prompt - Stop and Stare : Create a poem or story about something you could watch forever.

"Hi Dave, good to see you again.  The usual?"

"Yes please."

Dave took his coffee, his glass of water and his bacon roll and sat down in his usual seat, facing the usual way.  He'd been hanging about outside for near on half an hour before he saw his usual table come free, and got straight in there before anyone could beat him to it.  It was a quiet time of day, his usual time, and most tables were empty.  But a couple of older women had been at his, chatting over a long finished pot of tea.  He knew the wait was wroth it though.

He ate his roll, drank his coffee, watched.  Sipped his water, watched, transfixed now.  Ben, at the counter, eyed Dave with amusement, familiar with the routine.  Didn't mind that he'd be sat there for at least ninety minutes.  Just once he'd had to move him, when a coachload arrived, but that was a very rare occurrence.  Mostly Dave was doing no harm, and clearly he benefited from the experience of coming to the cafe, and watching.

So Dave watched, fascinated.  He'd been doing the same thing, three times a week, fifty two weeks of the year, for nearly three years now.  Ever since Ben had put it up on the shelf facing the usual table, the usual seat.  It had been put there as a joke really, a kitsch outlier in an otherwise contemporary setting, a talking point, an oddity.  Not thinking that for one customer it would be a magnet, a personal nirvana, an experience.  Ben often wondered if Dave had one at home, or was he missing the point?  He could never be sure, but he was glad it had made somebody happy.  Amazing what a simple bit of seventies nostalgia can do.  The light and bubbles and shape shifting interior of a lava lamp had turned Dave into the cafe's most regular, most reliable, most self absorbed customer.  

Day 121 - Stray Animal

 STRAY ANIMAL

Prompt - Stray Animal : Think of the life of a stray cat or dog and write about that.

Pip.  Scruff.  Biscuit.  Cat.  If I need food, and you're offering, you can call me any damn name you like (except Moggy - I hate Moggy).  I'm up for mutually beneficial exchanges.  You feed me, maybe give me a little shelter from the elements for a bit, and you get to stroke me, feel my softness, hear me purr.  We both part happy.  

None of that for days.  Just rain and more rain, three days on end.  I managed to scavenge a few bits and pieces from around the bins.  Found the scant leftovers of a pigeon a fox had feasted on.  Caught a mouse last night.  Sheltered where I could, shared the outlet grid form a basement kitchen with a guy as homeless as me.  I was a famished feline, a tousled tom, a pissed off pussy.

But now the sun's out and the good life has returned.  And how.  Spruced up, slinking along, surveying the sights.  And smells.  One in particular grabs my olfactory attention.  I know that scent, I'm on my way.  Up one fence and over, climb a tree to drop down a high wall, keep to the shrubbery, swift and steady.  I need to get there first, check out the scenario, weigh up my chances.

And there it is.  Open window, today's bonus ball on the sill, steam still rising, fragrance on the breeze.  It has my name(s) on it.  No humans show themselves through my senses.  I flatten myself to the grass, stalk across the lawn, hit the path and... jump.  And grab, teeth deep into my still-warm prey, and drop back to the path below.  With a squelchy thud.  Bugger me, this thing's heavy.  But worth it, worth every spark of energy it takes to carry it away at something near to a run, to get into the bushes and find a spot, get the breath back, take stock of threats and protection.  Have a few mouthfuls to restore my strength.   I'm too close to the scene of the crime, but there's no way to get this lump over the fence.  So it's riskier route, close to the border, keep to cover until there's only the driveway.  Do I wait for some cover, or risk the open?  There's a shout behind, more of a scream really.  The theft has been discovered.  Time to take risks.  Get a good grip, hoist and jogtrot.  it's hard squeezing my prize through the bars of the gate, but I am empowered by the knowledge that success will recoup my losses of the damp days now done.  So I skulk along, under cars, short sprints between, until I see the alley, slip in, head for the wooded edge of the park.  And settle.  Eat.  Still wary, senses keen, ears up, poised for action.  It's been worth it, I have emerged triumphant.  It's not every day a cat gets a whole roast chicken to himself.