Day 181 - Discovery

 DISCOVERY

Prompt - Discovery : Think of something you've recently discovered and use it as inspiration

The past eighteen months have changed the world.  Provided lessons for governments, health services, wider society.  We learned who the really valuable members of society are (hint : it's not bankers and hedge fund managers), who the selfish people are (the weird Fox of the family somehow comes to mind...), and a lot about ourselves.  The world has changed and so have we as individuals.

Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into one of those profound personal epiphanies about how my experience of lockdown has helped me discover some deeply buried truths from my inner being.  None of that bollocks.  For although I do think I have discovered some things about myself, and my relationship, in lockdown times, it's a very different discovery that feels like the most important personal revelation of covid times.

Roast brussel sprouts.  How did I not know about these before?  Much as I've been one of those people who always liked their sprouts, the roasting of these wee tight packed bundles of leaves makes them into something else.  It came about by luck really, when I put a few into a tray of roasting vegetables and they emerged as the star of the show.  Then, having been introduced to this culinary delight, I began to wonder what more elaborate uses they might be put to.

Google turned up sprout and stilton risotto.  Some will turn away at this point, the dry boke their only reaction.  For those willing to continue let me tell you this is wonderful.  You shred half the sprouts and cook them in with the arborio, half roast the others to be added to the mix at the end.  Wonderful, one of the best risottos I've ever made.

But there's one more step to this story.  If stilton and sprouts work so well together in risotto, where else could the combo be successful?  What works well with cheese and veg?  What needs high temperatures to cook at it's best?  Pizza...

And that's my lockdown discovery.  Roast sprouts are delicious in their own right.  Sprout and stilton risotto is to become a Crawford winter staple.  And there is no better pizza than brussels and blue.  Trust me.

Day 180 - Running

 RUNNING

Prompt - Running : Write about running away from someone or something.

Was she really this unfit?  Shouldn't adrenaline compensate in some way?  Answers wouldn't help right now, so she concentrated on keeping going, keeping her pace up.  Her legs already ached, despite it all being downhill.  Her feet felt sore and sweaty from shoes that were never intended for athleticism.  But the worst was in her lungs, her whole chest.  The burn, the grip that wouldn't let go, the sense that there wasn't enough space in there for the breath she needed, the feeling of that oh so necessary supply giving out.  She couldn't hear anyone behind, but she wasn't going to risk slowing down to look round, she was in enough danger already.  So she kept on running, jumping the steps, trying to look out for pitfalls in her path, anything that might turn flight into fall.  And hoped that she could make it to safety...

She'd been to the French Institute for a film.  Stayed behind for the Q&A with the director, even though she struggled to understand much.  So then Julie had to explain it to her after, and by the time they's parted it was well after eleven.  Julie dashed for her bus back to Morningside, Lucy headed down the Mile to get hers on The Bridges. There was nobody about, but she walked briskly, conscious there wouldn't be many more buses to Leith at that time.  And that there was always the chance of something happening to a single woman on her own.

She regretted that thought within seconds.  As she approached St Giles two guys suddenly appeared from the shadows as she was approaching the Heart, the romantic stone insert in the cobbles that commemorated a place of execution.  She stepped over the link chain to cross over to the north side.  The two guys watched.  As she almost drew level with them one headed straight for her, the other down the hill, on a path that would take him in front of her.  She sped up.  So did they.  She looked around for an escape route, or someone to call to, but there was nowhere, nobody.  And it was clear they could run faster.

The trio converged, Lucy forced towards the wall.  

"What'd'you want?" she snapped out, the panic clear in her tone.

"Don be like tha, we jus wanna tok, yeah."  The beer fumes, the look in his eyes, said more than the words.  

"Jus tok, yeah" giggled the other one, moving closer.  "You look nice."  She processed the thought that this was his chat up line, suppressed an inappropriate giggle of her own.  Tried to think.  She had one advantage.  Sobriety.  Reaction time.  And fear.  

"Yeah, nice" said the first one.  "Gonna be nice tae us, eh?  Eh?"

The front one grabbed her, pulled her towards him, pushed a hand in between her thighs.  She froze in reaction, shock the dominant emotion.  But the other sliding his hand around to grab, far from gently, her right boob, brought her back.  From somewhere she didn't know existed she found her arm shoot out and, fingers V shaped, poked hard into the eyes of the first groper.  He staggered back, yelping, hands up, bent over, legs wobbling.

"What the..?"

The other one looked at his pal, uncertain what had happened, brain slowly trying to figure out this new situation.  Lucy turned and kicked with every ounce of strength and energy and desperation she possessed, landed on target, right in the goolies.  Just as well he was a shortarse she managed to realise.  He doubled over, breath pumped out hard, followed by the groan.

She looked.  She realised.  She ran.

Down the hill was easier, and towards where she needed to be.  But how long before one or both recovered, set off after her?  Which they would, wouldn't they?  She had to act as if they would, didn't she?  But which way?  The most obvious was the way she'd been walking, straight on down to The Bridges.  But there was nobody about, she'd be clearly visible on the way, and when she got there what if there was still nobody?  There's be some traffic, but how did she get anyone to stop and help?  And she could hardly go and wait for her bus...

Heading for Waverley sounded like the best option.  There would, if she could make it, be people there, police too.  And going down one of the closes would maybe confuse them, taking her out of sight.  It would be darker for her down there, but for them too.

She took Advocate's Close.  Wrong choice?  It was narrower, darker, steeper than she remembered.  Too late to turn back now.  She had to commit.  She ran.  And jumped.  And ran.  Kept on running like she hadn't run in years and years.  The close turned, she saw the lights of Cockburn Street at the bottom.  Just those few more steps and...

She stumbled and spilled out on to the pavement, and into the road from the momentum and need to keep herself upright.  Into the path of a car.  Slow moving.  White.  With fluorescent markings on it.  Could not believe her luck.  A policeman got out of the passenger door just as a figure ejected from the close.

"Theah you ah.  Got you now."  It was groper one, his eyes still looking watery, and clearly not fully registering what he was looking at.  The drivers door opened.  Groper two hobbled down behind, pale and even more unsteady than number one.

The police looked at all three.

"I was looking for you" she said.

Day 179 - Gifts

 GIFTS

Prompt - Gifts : Write about a gift you have given or received

It was my birthday last month.  Fifty four, thanks for asking, and no I don't really look it, do I?  

In the two months running up to the day there was the usual danceathon at home.  My wife would ask me what I wanted, I'd say I didn't really have anything in mind, she'd say I must have, I'd say I really didn't.  And repeat.  And repeat.  One two three, one two three.  I was being honest.  There wasn't anything I could think that I needed, and if wanted stuff I just bought it anyway.  So what was the point?

"I've got to get you something, it's your birthday."

"I know, but you really don't.  Or just get me a bar of chocolate.  You can surprise me with what type."

"You never eat chocolate."

"I would if you gave me one."

"No, that's not enough, I need to get you something you need."

"But I don't need anything.  Just you being with me."

She knows the rules of the game too well, and wasn't about to be thrown by my predictable feint.

"No you have to have something, something nice, something you'll want.  Or maybe you think you don't need to buy anything for my birthday?"

She's good, isn't she?  Predictable right enough, but still good.  It's all in the timing.  She had me on the defensive.

"Of course I wouldn't do that, but..."  I didn't get to knock back my response.

"Then you can see how I've got to get you something, can't you?  This IS a marriage of equals, isn't it?"

I knew when to retreat.

"OK, OK, but I still don't have any ideas what you could get me."

"Then we'll have to go and look for something, won't we?"  There is no answer to this.

And so I went through two Saturdays of 'shopping', a process which means going into shops at random, then wandering vaguely around each in the hope something will jump off a rack and shout "me, me me".  Even IKEA had become a more attractive option.  

It was getting late, we were in some clothes place or other, and I picked up a green jacket.  Just to show interest.

"Oh, now that's nice.  Well maybe not the colour.  But try it on anyway."  I complied.  "I was right, fits perfectly, but the colour isn't you.  What else have they got?"  She brusquely assaulted the rails, looking at alternatives, while I put the green one back.  What was my colour then?  You'd think I'd know by now.  "Now try this one."  She handed me a jacket that was... green.  

"I thought green wasn't my colour?"

"Well not THAT green, obviously," she said like I was about ten, "and the blue's so boring, I'm not going to be seen with you in that brown and the red is a bit too Portillo for you, you couldn't really pull it off like he does.  Anyway, this is less green and more aqua, not a green green, more a blue green."  I pulled on the 'aqua'.  "Yes, yes, that's the one.  What do you think?"

I thought that I'd like to get home and open a Zinfandel, but I said "Yes, I see what you mean, it is me, isn't it?"  Maybe it was, I no longer had much idea who me might be.

"And would you like it for your birthday?"  There was only one correct answer.  And that's how we chose my birthday present.

It's her birthday next month.  I asked what she'd like me to get, was there anything she needed or had seen that she wanted?  

"Surprise me."

Day 178 - Jury Duty

 JURY DUTY

Prompt - Jury Duty : Write a short story or poem that takes place in a courtroom

We had all listened to the same people.  To the same statements, facts, opinions, evidence, interviews, summings up, instruction.  We had all been in the same room at the same times.  We were all mature adults, with different life experiences and outlooks of course, but all civilised members of  the same society.  So how could we come to such radically different conclusions?

A pandemic lockdown jury is not like other juries.  It's still fifteen individuals trying their best to carry out their civic duty, to reach a mutual decision that would see justice served.  But we are not in the courtroom.  The action is one step removed from our presence, shown on a big screen.  We can not observe one another's reactions, or easily talk with each other.  Our jury room is in a cinema, we are very, very socially distanced, our small band scattered across seating intended for two or three hundred.  Even when we are divorced from the judge's command and told to come to our decision, we remain in our seats.  Our faces are shown, slightly fuzzily, on screen, but there is no way to look your fellow jurors in the eye and question their motivation.  

The defendant had fingered his ex, after a party, when she was asleep.  It was perfectly clear that this was non consensual sexual activity, which is exactly what the law said he should be prosecuted for.  There were two witnesses who said that she hadn't looked comfortable around him during the party.  There was another who the defendant had confided in immediately after the incident, after the young woman who had been subjected to the assault had stormed off in a whirl of anger and upset, and she said it was clear he knew he had done something wrong.  Even he knew.

So when we went around the room and announced what verdict each, as individuals, were leaning towards, it was a major shock to find that only I and two others considered him guilty.  The rest a mix of not proven and not guilty.  And that the explanations given for these verdicts was doubt over the credibility of the witnesses, despite one corroborating the evidence of the other, and, and this was the one that left me almost speechless in it's lack of consideration for the young woman who'd had the bravery to take her case to the police, that the lad who'd assaulted her had had some reason to think that she might have wanted him to.

What?  Is that a real thing in these people's heads?  That she MIGHT have wanted it, despite keeping her distance, so they'd give him the benefit of the doubt?  And while the majority of jurors who expressed this view were, no surprise, men, there were women who joined in to, which shocked me.  The women who did were middle aged.  Of the three of us who stuck to our guilty verdict throughout, I was the only man, there was one middle aged woman, and one younger who was perhaps the same age as the victim.  The latter stormed off looking angry at the end.  I sympathised.

It didn't take long.  The three of us tried our best, but convinced nobody.  No one changed their mind, we were same after a couple of hours as we were at the start.  As that intransigence, and the wholly different world views they represented, was clearly fixed I had to give way in the end and allow a majority verdict of not guilty.  Even though he was.  If I had been able to make eye contact, to engage with consciences, maybe some difference could have been made.  No wonder women don't bother to report sexual assaults so often...

Day 177 - How Does Your Garden Grow?

 HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

Prompt - How Does Your Garden Grow? : Write about a flower that grows in an unusual place

Was that what they call 'a seminal moment'?  Probably not, unless the subliminality of it resonated in ways I fail to understand.  I'm pretty clear about how and why and when my vocation for botany came to be, and it wasn't when I was eight years old.  Yet that fleeting discovery still comes back to me as a pointer, one small, early expression of who I was to become, and maybe it's enough that I think it so. 

The eighties were not kind to Scotland.  We were not the people Thatcher considered as 'us'.  Scrapheap material.  As a kid I was vaguely aware of the hardships in our wee town, that the times were not kind to mining communities.  I had no idea why, no reference frame that allowed me to ask the questions, and my parents were happy to keep it that way, shelter me from the worst.  What I saw was how little I, and most of my pals, were now getting for xmas, or birthdays.  The world had changed and we had to change with it.

It's such a cliche I know, but we really did have to make our own entertainment.  Health and safety had yet to kick in, children were allowed to wander and do whatever, as long as they got home for tea.  There were always adults around who knew you, it was that sort of place.  If you wanted the adventure of being beyond their gaze there were places to go.  The ones we were warned against, but without an outright ban being applied.

So it was that me and Gregorz found ourselves, one summer afternoon, exploring the slag heaps just off the Glasgow Road.  Gregorz Nowak.  I wonder he is now?  We lost touch over twenty years ago, but back in '88 we were best pals, egging one another on into further scrapes and falls from seeing if...  Always seeing if...  My friend had the same accent as me, a fourth generation Scot who'd never had any Polishness about him.  We'd been sat together in our first school class, and had remained close ever since.

We didn't really expect to find anything of interest at the heaps, but we'd been warned away from the area, and you never knew what might turn up.  We went because it was there, and it wasn't where we would usually be.  It was dirty, and we were soon looking like two overly excitable grey ghosts.  But it didn't take long for us to start feeling bored with the sameness of it all.  One slope was much like another, no summit offered more of a view than any other, and our only prize had been a hammer head without a handle.  So we headed for the burn, thinking that would at least allow us to clean up our skin and hair a bit.  That's when I saw them.

A little flash of colour amidst the sooty grime.  It was off to our left, nestled down a south facing slope, and I could so easily have missed it.  I called Gregorz back, to check out the find.  Three small purple flowers, with vivid yellow centres, clinging to a thin fissure in the surface.  There were a few scrappy flowers in our back garden, sometimes my mum had them in the house.  In the town square there were a couple of tubs with vegetation in them, which occasionally showed a bit more than green.  None of which I paid any attention to, or even noticed other than as a background to my world.  But this was different.  Something wild, that should never have been where it was, a floral rebel rising against the destruction of the landscape.  

Gregorz went to touch them, but I pulled him back, urging him to leave them.  I don't think I understood why, but it felt clear to me that they deserved respect.  For finding a way to appear in this unlikeliest of scenarios, and for providing relief from the gloom of our surroundings.  They should be left for others to discover and get the same sensation of having spotted something surprising, nature's hope upon the land.

Back then I had no idea what the flowers were.  Wee and purple with yellow bits was the limit of my descriptive ability.  Now I reckon they were probably aubretia, but by the time I knew that the heaps had been destroyed, replaced by building works and landscaping for the new industrial park.  My passion for plant life would be summoned into life by Miss Garton, my biology teacher, seven years later.  I resist the temptation to tell the story of the little purple flowers.

Day 176 - Jealousy

 JEALOUSY

Prompt - Jealousy : Write with a theme of jealousy and envy

I don't get out much.  There's work of course, and Tesco, but that's about it.  I like my privacy, I like my solitude, I like not having to meet people.  And I like to watch.  Sat behind the blind in the bay window, I see them all.  Neighbours, families, visitors, tradespeople, passers by, the business of my end of the street.  They all live lives that most people would consider more interesting than mine.  I do not agree with most people.

Richard lives at number thirty eight, across the road and two houses to the right.  He is, I think, the most like me of those I see.  Goes to work (I have never asked what he does), stays home most of the time.  Gives the occasional nod of recognition, and an even less frequent 'Hi'.  I'm not sure how I know his name, but I do.

There are new neighbours at number forty four, across from me and one to the left.  Three young women now share the house.  They seem cheerful, exuberant, friendly, and one of them, I can't help but notice, is very very attractive.  I am wary, indeed fearful, of them.  And I do not like change.

Richard has changed.  He is not the Richard I thought, hoped, he was.  He is not like me.  Richard has been talking to the women at number forty four.  He smiles and laughs with them, he appears to flirt.  He goes into number forty four more often as the days go by.

The very very attractive young woman is called Becky.  I heard one of her friends shout to her as I came home.  When I got to my window Becky was outside number thirty eight.  She went inside.  Hours passed before she came out again and went home to number forty four.  A part of me tries to imagine what it could be like if Becky were to visit number forty one.  

Richard has driven a red Audi on to his driveway.  He did not have a car before.  The Audi has a 21 plate and is clearly brand new.  When Richard comes out the following morning he is wearing a suit.  It looks expensive.  I have not seen him in a suit before.  He drives off in the Audi.  I go for my bus.  Richard used to get the bus.  

Becky has moved into number thirty eight.  She is living with Richard.  A different young woman has joined the others in number forty four, replacing Becky.  She is not as attractive, but she smiled at me one morning.  I did not say anything.  I did not know what to say.

I know it should not be this way, but it is the way it is.  I spend too much of my time watching number thirty eight, wanting to know.  I spend too much time wanting to drive Richard's car and wear Richard's suit.  Most of all I spend too much time wishing I was Richard, with his car and his suit.  And with Becky.  Most of all I want to be with Becky.  Even though she also terrifies me.  

The different young woman said hello today and asked how I was.  I do not think she was really interested in my health.  So I said hello and went into my house.

The different young woman is called Julia.  She told me, and asked my name.  I told her.  She asked what I did at work.  I told her.  She seemed to want me to ask her something, so I asked what she did.  She's a plumber.  That reminded me that my water pressure has been reducing over the past month.  I wanted to ask her about Becky, but I didn't know what I wanted to ask.

Richard and Becky look happy together.  They smile, they laugh, every time I see them.  They go out most nights, return late.  Richard looks confident, well groomed, Becky looks poised, optimistic, they make a lovely couple.  I hate them both.

When I got home tonight there was a police car outside number thirty eight.  As I turned to close my gate I saw a policewoman and a policeman come out, with Richard between them.  He was wearing an expensive suit, no tie, and handcuffs.  They put him in the back of the police car and drove away.  I saw Julia cross the road and come to my gate.  

"Fraud" she said, "he's been siphoning money out of customer accounts for years now.  Turns out the Audi didn't come out of an inheritance after all.  Becky told Annabel she found out a couple of says ago.  She's broken up about it."  I guessed Annabel must be one of the other young women at forty four.  

"That's sad for Becky" I eventually managed to say.  And found that I meant it.  This surprised me.

Julia was about to leave.  I asked if she thought she might be able to do anything about my water pressure.  She said she'd come over tonight to have a look.  

Day 175 - All that Glitters

 ALL THAT GLITTERS

Prompt - All that Glitter : Write about a shiny object

I missed our home.  I sometimes missed my dad, but then I remembered.  I had to hold on to those memories, for Mum's sake.  And maybe for my own too.  But mostly it was our house I missed.  Having a garden, having friends around.  I knew that it wasn't her fault we'd ended up here.  But sometimes that was hard to remember too.

We'd moved to the twenty third floor of a tatty, urine scented tower block.  It was all she could get.  One day we'll get out of here she promised.  From day one.  But it had been more than a year now.  I hated my school, I hated the other kids in the block, I hated being here.  Oh, and I hated being told how good the bloody view was.  

Except that today it was, there was a slight compensation for our exile.  It had rained heavily during the night, and most of the morning.  But suddenly the darkest clouds started to gust off, patches of clear sky appeared, and the sky did a sort of good cop, bad cop routine.  I went out on the tiny balcony to take it in.  Overhead the blue was deep and clear and moist, to the east the layers of cloud were banked up into a sandwich of blacks and greys and purples, and then the sky and sun harmonised to create a band of light across the land and the most perfect full rainbow I had ever seen.  Each colour distinct, both ends visible as they hit land.  To the north it balanced on the bungalows of the Tregarn estate, and I followed the arc, up and across and down, to an end point where something shone, glittered, flashed.  The bouncing light from some object that mirrored it back in all directions, enhancing the rays with it's own refractions.  The rainbow began to fade, I looked up to see the sky changing again, more rain coming in, and when I looked back the colours were near gone, the end point lost to me.

What had caused that wild light display at the south end of the coloured crescent?  I was thirteen, I wasn't still falling for that 'crock of gold' crap.  Was I?  That would be stupid.  Yet there had definitely been something there.  Not gold, of course not gold, but it could still be something valuable.  I stared intensely at the area where I'd seen the light.  It looked to be a bit past the community centre (hah! - bad joke) where I thought was some waste ground.  Maybe I should just take a look, you never knew...

So I donned my most waterproof shoes, and parka, and set off.  Everything looked so different at ground level, and I began to doubt that the flashing thing was where I'd thought it was.  But I went on, found the waste ground, hunted about, and eventually came across my treasure.  One of those big American style fridges, abandoned, battered and broken so that bits of inside and outside combined to create a complex of shiny metal surfaces that would reflect light in all directions.

I admit there was a little part of me was disappointed.  There was nothing here that could help Mum get us off the twenty third floor.  But I was pleased with myself for being observant and figuring out where the leprechauns had hidden their fridge.  I might tell Mum about it.

Day 174 - Gloves

 GLOVES

Prompt - Gloves : Write about a pair of gloves - what kind of gloves are they?  Who wears them and why?

The gloves were the last thing to go on, moments before he left the car.  Black, latex, easily disposed off later.  No DNA, no fingerprints, that was the aim.  His black windcheater and trousers were slick nylon, hard for anything to adhere to, easily thrown into the machine and washed as soon as he got home.  Black boots with flat, patternless soles, the trousers tucked in to minimise risks of catching on anything.  A totally different outfit to the one he left the flat wearing.

He'd stopped at the Old Byre, a dark and unfrequented spot, where he could change into his work clothes without rush or risk.  Then on to the place he'd decided on last week.  A fifteen minute walk from his target, plenty of other cars, no CCTV.  His planning had, as always, been thorough.  He ran through the checklist again.  Toolkit in the belt round his waist.  Flicknife is his right hand pocket.  The little Walther pistol, a last choice insurance measure, in the holster under his left armpit.  A fold up backpack in the left jacket pocket.  It would, he hoped, be well filled on the return journey.

He checked his watch.  Bang on time.  Pulled the balaclava on to his head to look like a stocking cap.  And then the gloves.  Out the car, click shut - he'd disabled the confirmatory beeps and flashing lights - and key in trouser pocket.  Gloved hands deep into the jacket, he set off on the path he'd walked ten times before.  In forty five minutes he'd be back.  But for now it was time to go to work.

Day 173 - Silver Lining

 SILVER LINING

Prompt - Silver Lining : Write about the good that happens in a bad situation

I offer thanks to that bastard of a landlord.  His shitty actions have turned my life around.  But I still hate him.

"We're having to let you go.  I'm sorry."  She wasn't.  She was HR and that's what they were trained to say.  But no matter how many questions I asked, no matter how much I pleaded or shouted, it wasn't going to change reality.  I'd been made redundant.  

Three weeks later Janet left me.  And no matter how many questions, how much pleading and shouting, that too wasn't going to change.  It had been hanging in the air for months, my sudden loss of employed status the final coin drop that pushed her over the edge.

There were no jobs, not for someone with my limited qualifications, and vague CV after working in the one place since I was seventeen.  Loyalty, eh?

So I did exactly what I shouldn't have done.  

Got.  

Pissed.  

Every.  

Single.  

Day.

I lost it.  Totally.  I can admit that now, but back then?  No way?  I was having too much fun feeling deeply, irritatingly sorry for myself.  So the bills weren't paid, the jobs didn't get done, the man I was departed, replaced by this dirty, smelly, incoherent, self centred dung heap of a creature.  Eviction inevitable.  I deserved it.  OK, maybe the landlord wasn't as much of a bastard as I made out.  Still hate him though.  There was no need to tell me I was... what I was.

Hostels, living rough, the descent complete, final.  Hope walked off one night from under the boots of the guys who decided I'd be a fine bit of target practice.  It's not like I was an actual human, was it?  It.  That's what I'd become now.

Every Tuesday and Thursday there was a van.  Soup, company, even jokes.  And these people who, bizarrely, cared.  They'd ask us about our present, our past.  Nobody mentioned a future.

Except one.  Sara.  She was there on Thursdays and she always wanted to talk, to ask, to know, to dig for the people inside these walking wounded.  She asked me.  I said nothing.  Then a little.  Then a bit more.  Week by week she found out.  Even told me a bit about herself.  There was a darkness in her past.  And a light about her now.  Thursday became my day to live for.

This had been going on for about four months and there comes a day where she asks me to stay behind after the others have gone, she's got a proposal for me.  Sara or not, I'm too numb to have the curiosity I'd once have shown.  So I wait, and she says she'll take me to a cafe and we can talk.  This is new.  I didn't think they were allowed to do this.  You know, get too close, get attached.  But here we are.

"I've been asking a couple of friends of mine if they'd be able to use a jack of all trades, and one of them thinks he might have a spot.  You used to turn your hand to anything, yeah?"

I stare at her, not understanding, knowing the meaning of each word and unable to draw meaning from them.  It feels like a trap.  But this is Sara.  She tries again.

"When you were at work you were the odd job guy, weren't you?  The handyman who could do a bit of everything, fix anything.  That was you, wasn't it?

"I suppose so."  Slow.  Cautious.  Wary.

"And some businesses really need someone like that, who can be there to keep everything working, keep on top of problems before they come up.  This guy Martin Mackay needs someone like that, I said I knew just the man."

She was stubborn was Sara.  Persistent.  Teeth sunk in, she didn't let go.  So my blank expression was there to be wiped away, whatever it took.  She went on, explaining, repeating, cajoling, until it gradually sank in.  She was offering me the chance to get a job.  A job...

Once I'd realised, once I'd said yes, she was off again.  She'd already given this plenty of thought.  I'd need a home address to give, so I could use her.  And I could come to hers to get cleaned up, get dressed for the interview.  She'd buy me the clothes for now, I could pay her back later.  I'd need to be interview ready, so she'd be happy to prepare me.  

Overwhelmed.  Grateful.  Terrified.  Amazed.  Unbelieving.  Faithless.  But mostly terrified.  She saw me through it.  I spent a lot of time at her flat, she'd let me stay the night, I did a load of DIY jobs I spotted about the place.

"See, I knew you'd be good."  I looked at her, once again baffled.  "The odd job man.  You haven't lost it, have you?"  It took a while to sink in, what she was revealing.  I'd been doing the things I used to do, without being asked, without thinking.  I had a purpose again.  I was getting back to being me.

I got the job.  And I got the girl.  Sara says she just got used to having me around.  Ha!  Doesn't want me getting too full of myself.  But I'll take that.  This woman saved me and I will do anything for her.

So there you go Mr Bastard.  And Ms HR.  I can be happy you did what you did.  The arithmetic says that redundancy plus eviction equals Sara.  The perfect sum.

Day 172 - Crossword Puzzle

 CROSSWORD PUZZLE

Prompt - Crossword Puzzle : Open up a newspaper or find a crossword puzzle online and choose one of the clues to use as inspiration for your writing

Clue - _____ Disaster, happened 51 years ago today (5)  (The answer is Ibrox)

They moan about the price of a ticket, that the seats aren't that comfy, that there isn't the legroom, that it isn't as warm as it must have been when everyone huddled in together.  Maybe they've stood on terracing in the past and enjoyed the experience.  Maybe they've just heard about it and been given the rose tinted version.  Maybe their memories aren't too good.

I remember.  And yes, it was warmer, it was more 'together' in some ways.  And the prices were cheaper because you could get more people in.  many, many more people, especially if you weren't too scrupulous about counting.  But I have another memory, one that none of them do.  Because if they had it they wouldn't even dare suggest we went back to those days.

It wasn't Ibrox.  Nowhere near that scale.  But it was, in it's smaller, less headline-grabbing way, a contributor to where we are now.  To safety.  And if you'd seen what I saw, felt what I felt - and feared what I feared - you would never make a joke about 'health and safety gone mad'.  You'd know it wasn't.  

We were 2-3 down, the clock was belting along and there had to be less than five minutes left.  A cup tie, against a much bigger, much wealthier, club from the division above.  More people packed into that wee ground than there had ever been.  Or ever would be.  I remember the goal in detail.  Johnson nutmegging their star name full back down the left touchline and taking flight to get to the line, the cross in delicately weighted and curved, right into the path of McKenna, who one timed a half volley into the top right corner.  I can see it all, played back a thousand times, I can feel the elation, hear the roar, taste the disbelief.  To equalise, and with such a goal, the stuff of dreams.  

And then it gets confused.  And I'm glad of that, for the less I can recall the better.  Off balance from jumping up and down, I was easily pressed forward, as those behind gained momentum.  My instinct was to grab the barrier, two feet to my left, and I missed.  That miss saved my life.  After the goal that nearly ended it.

I tried to keep my feet as I moved inexorably towards the front, with a speed that went beyond my control.  I used what I could - and who I could - to try to remain upright in a press of bodies that had to contend with gravity and mass and the unforgiving concrete, and the boots and bodies of those to come.  It all happened in seconds of course, so I can't take any credit for my luck.  But somehow I slipped into a gap between two sets of falling fellow humans and found a gap under the next barrier before me.  Most of me made it, but I was trapped by who knows how many men on my legs.  I blacked out with the pain, so I have no clear idea how long I lay there before I was able to cry for help, for that help to arrive, for those on and around me to be moved.  Even that incurred another wait, for the few stretchers they had were in constant use.  

But move me they did, and give what help was available, and then hospital, recovery, rehabilitation, acceptance.  Accepting that I would always walk with this limp, always have pains in my left leg, always have the memories, the recurring nightmares, of the great collapse that day.  

It took many years before I could return to the ground.  And then only because the changes made it almost unrecognisable. To challenge the memories.  I can enjoy the games now, and cheer along with the rest.  But I never complain about the prices.

Day 171 - Acrostic

 ACROSTIC

Prompt - Acrostic : Choose a word and write an acrostic poem where every line starts with a letter from the word

Scotland needs to get out soon

Choose to go in a new direction

Our lives are being steadily ruined by

The curse of the brexshit infection

Leave England to sort her own mess out

And show them that we have a thirst

Not to follow the mammon path

Decide the people will always come first

Giving you just what you need

Batshit and the craziest views

None of your usual leftie facts

Ever ready to let bigotry ooze

We make shit up as we go along

So you won't get any real news...

Day 170 - Risk

 RISK

Prompt - Risk : Write about taking a gamble on something.

I have never been inside a betting shop.  My only ventures into casinos have been as part of a group meal, and although we were given some betting chips to use I was glad when they were gone as it all seemed so boring and pointless.  I have never bought a lottery ticket, although many years ago i chipped a quid into the pot to get some for a group of us a few times.  I wouldn't known if we'd won or not unless someone told me.  Nor have I ever even considered online betting, despite there being constant ads urging me to just that ("responsibly"...).

In no way could I be considered a 'thrill seeker'.  Danger seems like something to be avoided, not invited.  I have almost always been risk averse in much of my life, with the possible exception of a few daft cars I bought along the way.

So gambling is not in my nature.  I really don't see the point.  Except that it seems to be what I do now.  Via the medium of crowdfunding.  I love pledging for crowdfunding projects, and have now backed well over thirty.  Again there's not really any risk, other than the possibility of losing a bit of money, and I never pledge more than I feel comfortable accepting the loss of.  I might end up with something that turns out to be completely useless in my life, but the attraction is the possibility of getting something that's 'different', that few others will have, and that it works well for me.

I have pledged to a wide variety of companies, some experienced manufacturers needing a bit of a financial boost to get their project underway, some first timers.  The latter, obviously, the more risky.  They have come from a wide variety of countries, and include tech gadgets, bags of various kinds (my name is Blyth and I am a backpackaholic...), wallets, an umbrella and something that was, to be honest, little more than a toy (fun though).  Plus a few music projects, and one book.  Few have arrived within the promised timescale.  A couple look like never arriving at all.  Some have proved unreliable, others not what I'd hoped for.  But most have proved successful, and a few are in near-enough daily use.

At time of writing I still have fourteen pledges awaited.  One, I'm now certain, will never materialise, one will deliver something other that what I originally hoped I'd receive (it's a long story...), but the rest will, eventually, turn up at the door and I will see what I make of them.  It's an exciting moment receiving one of these items.  I imagine it's the sort of excitement you can get from gambling.

Day 169 - Treehouse

 TREEHOUSE

Prompt - Treehouse : Write about your own secret treehouse hideaway

I guess most of us, when we're kids, imagine some kind of hideaway, or assembly point, or club house.  Somewhere beyond adults, hidden from the world where kids get to act out kid things.  For many it would be a treehouse, especially if they live in an area near woodland.  It might be a fantasy, or even partial reality, shared with siblings or friends.

I was an only child, mixed infrequently with other kids, and lived on a bland housing estate with no clumps of trees within a mile of home.  So did I engage in total fantasy, creating an environment for myself, or limit myself to the real world and make use of whatever was near by.  being of a prosaic turn of mind I opted for the latter, and imagined a hidey hole that grew with me as I turned into a teenager, and was a staple of much of my childhood.

We lived in a street of 1950s terraces, a narrow stett of narrow houses, and, predominantly, narrow people.  My mother was certainly one of those.  Our rear garden backed on to the gardens of the semis in the street behind, a setting where everyone saw everyone and everything.  But on the opposite side of the road the terraces backed on to a steep earth banking that sloped up to the road behind.This banking was left to go wild, and could be accessed either through the driveways that separated the eight home terraces, or from the upper road which had a simple wire fence and wide gaps, plenty big enough for a child to get through.  

Most of the banking was covered in long weeds, a few small bushes, nothing that provided much by way of concealment.  But at one point, near the back of the home of one of my acquaintances, there was small tree.  Dark, prickly, pressed up hard against the wire fence, overhanging the slope in the other direction.  There was a natural hollow at it's base, in amongst the roots, and we would sometimes go in there, out of sight from all but the most persistent viewer, our secret place.

It didn't amount to much.  Shade and dirt.  The most unromantic of spots, and far removed from the treehouses of childhood fiction.  Except in my head.  Not when I was there - reality loomed too hard upon my imagination.  Back back in my room the fantasies began.

There was no room in the stunted overgrowth for any kind of hiding place, so my head turned underground.  This puzzles me, for I always suffered from claustrophobia to some extent, so the notion of an underground lair should have terrified me.  But this wasn't reality, and my weaknesses and foibles were of no count.  If I could have a fantasy location I could have a fantasy me too.

To begin with it was a simple underground room, with little light, but a secret place where treasures could be stored, examined, and adventures planned.  Except I wasn't really one for adventures either, so I turned further inward, downward.  Over the years the dingle room became an underground complex, more like the lair of a Bond villain than a child's play place.

I can no longer remember what plots I hatched.  Not world domination at least.  It's possible there was no real plan for what I had, the enjoyment was in having it.  A place, albeit imaginary, where I had control - something we never have as children, and still rarely find as adults.  A place where I was confident, competent, respected by... whoever was there.  I know there were people, but can't recall any of them - except for one of my history teachers!

The fantasy lasted well beyond the time when, on a few occasions, I crouched in the dark earth under the black branches and thought myself brave to be there.  But it obviously made a lasting impact, for as soon as I saw today's writing prompt it was what immediately came to mind.  ButI was a strange child...

Day 168 - Baker's Dozen

 BAKER'S DOZEN

Prompt - Baker's Dozen : Imagine the scents and sights of a bakery and write

It wasn't a night for sleep.  Too cold, too damp.  My old bones would seize up, my body give up the fight.  So I kept moving, only the briefest of stops, marvelling at those who could snore away in cardboard and blankets, envying those who'd found a bit of warmth.  When you've got this low you can only compare yourself with others at the same depth.  The safety of four walls becomes an unimaginable fantasy.

Four thirty am.  I walked down the hill, only one place showing lights.  They knew me there, but would be too busy to see me, let alone give me anything.  Gabbie's bakers.  Getting the orders ready for the mornings deliveries.  Rolls mostly, for the sandwich shops and cafes that fed the workers that fed me their spare change.  I stopped, squinting while my eyes adjusted to the brightness from the big single window that, with a narrow doorway, was the whole frontage of the shop.  Inside the shelves were empty, the cabinets unfilled.  They'd be out the back, baking, bagging,  bantering and laughing.  Always a happy bunch.  Gabriel, his son Tony, and Marj.

As I became accustomed to the light I saw a figure come out of the back, peer, recognise, and wave.  Tony.  Lovely lad, late twenties, a bit taller than me, but chubby featured, putting on the dough.  Floury.  Has given me the odd sandwich, or a bit of cake, or a mug of tea.  He came to the door, opened up, called me in, stretching his aching muscles while he waited.

"You sure?"  Pride survives, a hint of imposing brings shame to the cheeks.  Some things don't change, right enough.

"Come in Albert, it's bitter out there and we've got a bit of warmth to spare.  It's not like you're just anyone, eh?" 

I walked in, ever wary of any welcome, even from the likes of this man.  Too many experiences, too much history.

"Nowhere to sleep tonight?"

"Naw, out o luck, too raw to get down unless there's a chance of keeping goin."

"Aye well, good I saw you then.  Can't offer you a bed, but there's plenty warmth and a bit to eat if you'll have it.  Keep you going until the day comes.  Come on through."

I'd never been in the back before, the place where the ovens, and the people, turned raw beige lumps into crisp outers and soft inners, awaiting their fillings.  Even in my situation I could see this was a special moment. 

"Look who I found" said Tony, making a show of my shape in the doorway.  The others must have responded, must have said hi, but I didn't hear.  As soon as I walked in my senses went into overload, my mind had to convince me that I was still alive, awake, that this was real.

There had been scents in the shop that made me hungry, the fresh bread smells that please in every bakers shop.  But this was an olfactory wall.  Wheaty, yeasty, doughy, bready.  Sweet from the sugared doughnuts, sharp from the caraway seeds, burny from the well fired rolls, summery from the vanilla tarts.  And the heat?  Not spring warmth, but full on summer roasting.  It was a shock after so many hours in the icy weather outside.

I looked around.  Beyond the three red and smiling faces above their while overalls, the big room was packed with ovens, and machines I knew nothing about, and cupboards and racks with tools and ingredients, and steel shelving being steadily filled with the morning produce, and steel work surfaces where making and finishing and packing all happened.

Gabby came up to me, hands wiping apron like a proper baker should.  "Put your backpack and coat and stuff in that corner, or you'll melt in here.  We'll get you properly warmed up before you go back out.  There's a wee seat there so you plonk yourself down there.  We're ahead of ourselves this morning so you're welcome in for a bit.  What can we get you?"

Generosity makes me dumb.  So he reels off the options and I say I'll have a cheese roll and Marj brings me that, and a doughnut, and a tea, and they get on with their work and I just sit there watching them and smelling those smells and feeling the love of baked goods.

"Don't forget to eat, Jimmy!" from Tony.

"Don't let your tea get cold" from Marj.

They smile, I take a bite from my roll, surprised because I really had forgotten it was in my hand, so transfixed have I been by the scene, by the sensual overwhelment of the moment, and I drink my tea  there, in that hot, busy room, watching those hot busy people, I don't think that I will have to go back out soon, that life will be shit again, that I will have to figure out where to sleep safe, where the next meal is, who will hate me or pity me or tell me to get a job, because now, this moment, in here with these people and the sounds and smells and the roll and tea going down me, is a bookmark in my life, marking a page on which I was happy, content, at one with my bit of the world.  A smile, a roll, a hot drink, but a sensual experience too.  And all I'll need to be back here is the smell of a loaf.

Day 167 - Give and Receive

 GIVE AND RECEIVE 

Prompt - Give and Receive : Write about giving and receiving

Hours pass without a movement and she suddenly appears by my side.  I know what she wants and I go to give it to her.  No thanks received, only the evidence that my gift is being fully appreciated below me.

This will happen again later.  And again tomorrow.  I am always giving.  Sometimes she turns up demanding a different form of attention.  Play.  Chasing.  Grooming.  Hugs and strokes and a finger to bite.  I give.  Again.  

But every day she gives back.  Sits on me.  Comes to the bed and settles on my thighs.  Rubs face to face, purrs, says this is you and me and we belong together.  

As long as you keep giving.  Cats keep us in our place.

Day 166 - Fantasy

 FANTASY

Prompt - Fantasy : Write about fairies, gnomes, elves or other mythical creatures

Davey watched the big man from his window.  He was coming up the track that began down in the cove, round by the caves.  Even at a distance he could clearly see that the stranger was powerfully built, was walking with purpose.  And heading his way.

He'd always known this day would come.  Tried not to think about it, just as he'd try not to cry now.  But they were never going to let him keep her, were they?  And she would go with him, wouldn't she?  Wouldn't she?  He hated himself for cradling this tiny orphan of hope.

Did he tell her now?  Had she already seen?  He'd best find out, and accept what was coming.  No clever plan came to him, no ingenious exit route.  Even base denial seemed pointless.  This man looked like he knew.  Everything.

Davey went downstairs.  Marina was at the window, had seen her... abductor? rescuer? mate?  He didn't know what was in her mind.

"Will you tell him where to look?"  A simple question, and one that told him everything about where he stood at this moment.  Part query, part command.  There was no doubt in her voice, in her green eyes.

"Aye, if that's what you want."

"I do."

"I don't want to."

I know.  And I thank you for that, and for my time here, you've been kind.  But the need to return has never left me.  I belong to the sea.  I belong with Dehyde.  I need to be Asham again."

"Dehyde?  Is that...?"  He nodded towards the path, she nodded in return.  

"Do not be angry with me."

He looked at her, as closely as he'd ever looked.  Pale skinned, silver haired, with the power and grace of a swimmer's body.  His perfect woman, who'd turned up in wonder, with a sense of curiosity and playfulness, and a naivety he couldn't comprehend at first.  Until he realised who, what, she was.  A selkie.   A walking myth.  A seal that had shed it's skin and come to land in human form, simply to see.  

Davey had lived alone for a long time.  Saw little company.  Had never had a girlfriend, let alone a wife.  Had known he never would.  Until she came to him.  He thanked the sea for its unearned munificence.  And knew what he had to do.

She was angry at first, swiftly saw through his lies, demanded her skin back.  Weeks passed, he tried to please, he pleaded, he offered, he appealed, he showed his appreciation of her presence.  So she chose to bide with him, to bide her time, living out this experience, learning, taking land based pleasures while she could.  Davey the cautious crofter became davey the ardent lover in her silky hands.  It had been good for both, but biding was all it could ever be.

"I can't be.  You have given me..."  He hadn't the words.

The big man was closer now.  Davey opened the door, stood waiting.  Dehye stopped three metres short, looked at the smaller man, looked beyond at the woman.  

"Where is it?" he demanded in a deep, salty voice.  Calmly, with no sense of threat, in a tone that knew it would be obeyed.

Davey looked round at the woman.  She already looked different to his eyes, eager to rejoin aquatic life.

"Go along the cliff," he said, indicating the path to his left, "and look for a little V shaped dirt track going down to the beach.  Not quite half way down there's an old barrel on it's side wedged into a gorse bush."

"I looked there once" said a surprised Marina. 

"I know.  What you didn't see was the false bottom that conceals a hole behind.  The skin - sorry, your skin - is in there, wrapped in oilcloth and covered with tractor grease to hide the scent."  He looked please with his own deviousness.

"You really did want to keep me here, didn't you?"  What could he say to that?

She moved forward, gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  "Thank you.  But you knew it was never going to be forever, didn't you?  He smiled thinly.  She turned to the big man, placidly waiting.  "Where's your skin?"

"Ekrel and Mara wait on us in a sea cave, my skin their treasure."  She walked out to him, took his hand.  One half wave and they were on their way.

Davey still stood in the doorway.  About twenty minutes later the selkies came by, her skin in his hands, ready for her transformative return to sealdom.  They didn't look back.

Day 165 - Suitcase

 SUITCASE

Prompt - Suitcase : Write about packing for a trip or unpacking from when you arrive home

I'd only gone in to get out of the rain.  And ended up getting away from it all.  

One night in Aberdeen.  I enjoyed the gig I'd booked for the evening, even if the meal before hadn't been up to much.  Went back to my hotel, and an early night with my book.  In the morning I woke to the Granite City, but it didn't sparkle.  Dark clouds, constant showers.  Dreich city.  So much for the morning's sightseeing until my train left.  Instead I found myself dodging the drench, from shop to shop, a more-interesting-than-expected hour in the Maritime Museum, to be finally driven into the shelter of a shopping mall.  Not exactly my favourite sort of place, but short sprint distance from the station.

Wandered aimlessly.  I had no desire to buy anything, my backpack already had enough weight with books and laptop stowed.  It was TK maxx that changed everything.  I'm still not sure why.

Suitcases.  Rows of multicoloured bags.  Soft sided, hard shelled, zipped, padlocked, big, small, pricey, cheap, very cheap.  It was the colour that drew my eyes at first.  It was the promise that held me there.  

It wasn't that I didn't want to go back home.  More that I wanted to be somewhere else for a while.  To hide from all the pressures I'd be dropped back into.  To take off where nobody knew who or what I was.  And to pretend - no, not pretend, but work at being a writer.  I'd promised it to myself for years and years, the promise meaningless, broken, easily defeated by distractions and lethargy and self loathing and procrastination and any and every excuse that people always use.  So here it was.  The chance.

Which is how I found myself in the baby changing room of the station.  Because where else would I find a big enough flat surface and a bit of privacy?  Time to sort out the purchases I'd emerged with.  To cut away price tags and daft labels.

Number one, a small blue suitcase.  Half a dozen tee shirts, the same for pants and socks, a pair each of jeans and waterproof overtrousers.  A better, warmer, more rain proof hooded jacket than the one I had brought along.  And a half decent pair of walking boots I hoped would prove as comfy in the real world as they had in the shop.  My haul from TK.  

My other wee spree had been in Waterstones.  A few more paperbacks for the trains.  And what I hoped would be the tools of the craft I hoped, no, intended, to develop in my solitude.  Three A4 notebooks, an assortment of pens.  

Labels and packaging all gone, my new life packed neatly into the case, I closed the lid, slid the zip round, put it on the floor and raised the handle.  On the concourse I looked up at the Departures board.  There was a train to Forres leaving in sixteen minutes.  That would do for a start.

The suitcase wheels hummed as we made our way to the ticket office.

Day 164 - Left Out

 LEFT OUT

Prompt - Left Out : Write about a time when you've felt left out or you've noticed someone else feeling as if they didn't belong

"Hi Mark, wanna go to a party tonight?"

It took me a few seconds to come up with reply to this surprising question.  I only knew Dave from sociology tutorials.  We'd never had many conversations, and then only about the classes and essays, so this sudden invitation shouted 'ulterior motive'.  And I had always had a fear of parties, reinforced by my experiences at almost every one I'd every been to.  As a child there had been occasional invitations to classmates' birthday parties, which my mother insisted on me attending, in the forlorn hope that they would lead to me making a friend.  I hated them.  She even tried to hold one for me, but had to abandon the idea when it quickly emerged that nobody was going to come, which I was relieved about.  Then there were he xmas parties for the families of factory workers where my father put in his time.  They were a little better, as most of us didn't know anyone else so they weren't already in little cliques.  But that didn't stop me being left out on my own most of the time.  I simply didn't possess the sociability gene.

As a teenager I got used to being on my own most of the time, happy to remain on the outside.  Only when I went on to uni did I think about the possibility that maybe I could find myself a niche, somewhere I fitted in.  We came from all over, we were on our own, and, surely, somewhere in this morass of spotty humanity there had to be somebody who was a bit like me?  Plus I had yet to go out with a girl and I wasn't totally hideous, was I?

So I made an effort to talk to people, to try and sound interested and interesting, to mix and be 'one of them'.  I found myself in a group, albeit on the fringe, and got invited along to parties in flats.  And I'd go, full of hope, only to leave drunk and alone having spent most of the evening stood up in the hallway, avoiding eye contact and wishing somebody would simply take pity.  They never did.  

Until one night in a part of town I'd never been to before.  There had been a couple of conversations with girls earlier, but they had both drifted away, and the night looked like ending as it always did.  I was trying to figure out the best route to walk back to halls when one of those girls, the blonde, stopped in front of me, coat in hand.

"Are you coming?"

"What?"  Not the most intelligent of replies, but I had given up by then.

"Back with us.  We're going back to the flat."  I looked round to see the girl she'd said was her flatmate walking towards the door with a guy all over.  I remembered blondie mentioned they had come in the other's van.  I didn't remember her name.

"Um.  OK."  More because I couldn't think what else to say.

And so I found myself in the back of a van with a girl I hardly knew, but who quickly made it obvious that she wanted to know me better.  Exhilaration and terror in equal parts.  Despite which it went well enough that she suggested we meet again.  It only took six weeks for her to become bored with me, but she did enough to pump a little air into my deflated balloon of optimism and I now went to parties looking for something to happen.

That had been over a year ago, and nothing had.  I reclaimed my wallflower status, the balloon collapsed, and parties, any social gatherings, became no go areas, off limits to my fragile ego.  All this formed the background to my response to the decidedly eager Dave, my immediate reaction being an unchangeable No.  Well, no thanks, it's very kind but I'm busy.  I still didn't have the confidence needed for straight rejections.  

Dave was persistent.  And explained his motives.  There was a girl he was going to get off with, he knew he would, but her friend might be a problem, and the friend was nice and she'd like me and it would be a great night, wouldn't it?  I queried how many others he'd asked before coming to me.  I think it was his crestfallen honesty - seven - that made me take pity on him.  And if there was a girl involved then maybe this was the night my fortunes changed again.

So we went to the party, miles from halls, and he was right, she was really keen on him.  And he was wrong, because her pal gave up on my after five minutes and was last seen under a long haired caftan wearer.  While I found my familiar spot in the hall, an obstacle to be got round.  By twelve thirty I'd had enough and left, pissed, broke, and a long walk in the drizzle ahead of me.

Were there classes I could take in how to say No?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark stopped typing, happy with how it had gone.  He probably shouldn't use his own name, but he could sort that out when he went through for an edit.  It felt like one of his better efforts so far.  He'd been enjoying the Creative Writing course he'd been doing, but 'Left Out' had been the first prompt they'd had that had chimed immediately with his own experiences.  The story was both about him, the him of forty seven years before, and also not, for he'd changed enough of the facts to be able to justify it as fiction.  This would be the first one he'd feel comfortable reading out loud.  

He thought about those years, and how he'd changed since.  One thing hadn't altered - his dislike for parties.  The class was hard enough, but at least there was someone making them all feel included.  But random social gatherings?  Shudderingly awful.  

He'd found someone who'd marry him, eventually, and had grabbed the opportunity before it slid away.  Without, he soon realised, fully explaining his fraternisation phobias.  The big wedding, his new spouse's insistence on a reception that went on and on and on, his sense of loneliness on very day he got married, hinted at an uncertain future.  It lasted little more than two years, her frustrations at his non-gregarious nature and running critique on his inability to have 'fun' a swif r route to the stop off point. 

He accepted his life alone, avoided office xmas outings and birthday celebrations, accepted his 'hermit' nickname.  Over the forty years he was there he developed into an object of affectionate contempt to his coworkers, their very own misanthrope.  

Now he was going to use that past.  The miseries and humiliations of childhood, school, uni, work, marriage would all become fuel to his keyboard dancing fingers.  He felt he'd found his niche.

Day 163 - Set it Free

 SET IT FREE

Prompt - Set it Free : Think of a time when you had to let someone or something go to be free... did they come back?

I check the windowsill every morning.  It is always bare.  I lie, there was a pigeon there a couple of weeks ago.  Too big and puffed up and annoying to fool me.  Vermin.  None of the charm, the colour, the exuberance of Siya.  Black head, green back, yellow breast, that's what I want to see. 

He turned up four months ago.  On that same windowsill.  At first sight I watched with wonder at something so perfect coming so close to my tiny fetid bedsit.  At second sight I looked on with concern.  For all the beauty of the colours it was clear that something was wrong.  Birds can't do facial expressions, but the body language was eloquent.  Forlorn.  A closer examination showed a dull eye and flat feathers.  And an appeal for help.  Yes, I was anthropomorphising, but don't we all?  Doesn't every cat and dog owner?  And hamster and snake and even the mindless goldfish?

I reached out of the open window, took him in my hands, trying to find the balance between conviction and deadly.  Brought him in and thought "what now?".  I didn't have a cage.  And what did tits eat, what did I need if I was to coax this wee refugee back to health?  I put him on the table, closed the window.  He didn't move much, but kept an eye on my every movement.  

Google.  He was a Great Tit.  Largest of the tit family.  Eats insects, nuts and seeds.  I had some brazil nuts, and pumpkin seeds.  I broke up a nut, added some seeds, presented him with his dinner on a saucer, and he pecked half heartedly.  Hungry, but without the energy to satisfy that need.

A bit more internet research, I emptied out the box I kept my cables in, punched a few air holes, and line it with scrunched up paper.  It wasn't much, but the best I could do at short notice.  Placed him gently in his new bedroom.  I put the lid on, but then kept worrying about him, so I took it off and he seemed to like being able to see me.  Well, I thought so.

Next day I did some more research, went to a pet shop, asked questions, bought supplies, gave him a new home where I could observe, and followed the health restoration advice I'd found.  A week passed, the improvement was clear, another week and he was flying about my room, summoning his impatience.  Another week and I realised I had no justification for keeping this wild creature captive.  With a sense of ritual I placed him back on his windowsill.  He sang his rusty gate song, gave an expressive flutter, and blurred into the air.  I missed him immediately.

Did he know?  For he was back within the hour, hopped in freely, returned to his 'room'.  I did a little dance.

This pattern continued for four days.  Until it didn't.  Each time the flight had got a bit longer, a bit longer, but now it became endless.  Maybe he wanted a night out and would be back tomorrow?

But he wasn't.  Or the next day, or the next.  I knew it was right, that he was wild, not suited to my muted domesticity.  But that didn't stop me missing him

So now I check the windowsill every morning.  It's always bare.

Day 162 - Missing You

 MISSING YOU

Prompt - Missing You : Write about someone you miss

'Happy New Year Dave'

'Happy New Year to you too - but I'm not Dave.  Who are you?'

'Oops, sorry.  Must have written his number down wrong.  I'm Gerry.'

'No problem.  I'm Graham.  In Aberdeen.'

"Opposite end of the island.  St Ives.'

And so it began.  A mistyped digit, a series of texts, and two curious minds.  The first exchange didn't last long, but a couple of days later it turned out we both had a bit of time on our hands, and we started to question, answer, find out things.  At first it was just the usual chat - jobs, families, had we always lived there?  That sort of stuff.  Something clicked, no one defining moment, but a growing appreciation that we were on the same wavelength on so many subjects - music, art, TV, even politics (although it took a few months to get to that one...).

Gerry was thirteen years younger, so we were at slightly different points in our lives, but that never mattered.  There was always something to talk about, to discuss in detail.  Text gave way to Whatsapp, and emails.  Photos exchanged, plans discussed, we were in touch most days.

And confidences.  It turned out that both of us, independently of one another, had decided this relationship was something to keep to ourselves, a bit of life that was for us only.  We were both only children, so maybe that had a part in those decisions.  But I think it was a deeper, darker need in both our lives.  Sharing secrets doesn't come naturally to men, not with other men.  Especially not if it involves thoughts you're ashamed of.  Even to yourself.

It took over a year for me to ask Gerry if he was happy with his life.  Like, really happy.  We'd both moaned about work of course, and about our kids.  But I'd tried to hint at a bigger problem, one I hadn't shared with anyone else.  Was I being smart, and reading between the lines, or engaging in wish fulfilment, to think that my virtual pal was giving off similar clues?  Smart was the answer.  Both of us had unhappy marriages, both of us knew we wouldn't have the nerve to leave, both of us had kept going without confiding in anyone.  Face to face would have been impossible for our uptight natures, but a virtual pal was another matter.

Once the initial barrier had been cracked it allowed both to let go of those banged up feelings, resentments, fears, and push them across the anonymity of the internet to a fellow sufferer.    It brought us closer together, and ensured we never met.  Our talk of one day meeting up had always been in the hypothetical dimension of our friendship, we both knew we couldn't find an excuse to get away without owning up to our spouses, and that was never going to happen.   Now it wasn't what we wanted either, and talk of the real world dissolved.

I'd 'known' Gerry for almost ten years when he told me.  Told me before he told anyone else.   He had the big C.  Pancreatic.  Diagnosed way too late for much to be done.  He had six months, maybe a year.   Did he want to talk?  Like, really talk, using our actual voices?  It was a question that had never come up before.  But neither had death.

We did talk.  Twice.  Laughed at the accents, joked we couldn't understand, and, for once, avoided the truth.  Neither of us could cope with this when it was a clearly a real human being on the other end.  We returned to the virtual.

Together we went through his treatments, his agonies, his terrors and joys.  We laughed.  I cried.  He probably did too.

His messages became less frequent.  And, heartbreakingly, much funnier.  I made him laugh in return.  There was a gap of over a week.  Every day my anguish expanded, my dread got deeper.  How long did I have to give it before I could admit that he'd gone?  Really gone.

And then he wasn't.  He'd been rushed to hospital in the middle of the night, but they'd managed to stabilise him and he was back home.  Photos of Gerry in one of those ridiculous hospital gowns, comprehensively tubed and wired, giving a thumbs up.  He was exhausted, but still going, stuck in bed, stuck at home, missing me during those long few days.  I wanted to ask, but couldn't.  So he old me anyway.  No, there was no way of knowing which of his messages to me would be his last.  That night had been a reminder of how quickly changes could happen.  So let's say our goodbyes now, because there would be nobody to tell me he'd gone.  So we did.

He was still 'with' me for another three weeks.  Then, once again, he wasn't.  Never was again.  It took me nearly four months to accept it, to try to jam that wee radio beacon of hope within me.  My wife... never asked.

I'm happy I wasn't Dave.  I'm happy I made a friend like no other I've had in my seventy one years of jumbled up existence.   I'm happy that we supported each other.  

We never met.  Never shook hands, never had a pint, never sat on the sofa watching a game.  I miss him.  I miss a man the rest of the world would think was a stranger to me.  I miss him more than I ever missed my parents, more than I ever missed my kids when they left home, more, much more, than I will miss my wife.  How can that be?  Life is communication.  Life is in words, emotions, sharing.  Gerry's gone.  He took so much of my life with him.

Day 161 - Eco-friendly

 ECO-FRIENDLY

Prompt - Eco-friendly : Write about going green or an environmental concern you have

Capitalism has shown itself to be a bit shit this past year or so, hasn't it?  Needing to be bailed out by socialism.  Again.  The pandemic brought much misery, capitalism aggravated it.  Now it looks to regain it's dominance over us, as if so many wealthy leeches haven't profited enough already from the difficulties of others in these covid times.  

Yet the world has benefited from lockdowns in so many ways, and the wish to return to what was perceived a 'normal' looks likely to wipe away those gains.  Nature has been able to reclaim some of its losses.  We could hear birdsong in the city again, and the air smelt fresher.  The big drop in air travel, and travel generally, has been good for the atmosphere.  Returning to our old consumerist ways threatens to reverse those improvements.  

There are no easy answers.  Our society is structured in such a way that people have to 'make a living'.  The whole ethos is geared up to produce more, to sell, more to make us buy more, to keep the cycle going until the next disaster shows it up again.  Yet lockdown has demonstrated what we need, what (and who) is important to our lives.  You'd think people might see that the throwaway culture was not beneficial to any of us in the long run.  We've seen much needed improvements to the environment, perhaps not enough to stave off potential climate disaster, but clear signs of the best way forward.  But capitalism will ensure we soon forget.  It's begun already.

When lockdown recently ended in Edinburgh I went along Princes Street on a bus.  Only two shops had lengthy queues outside.  Primark and Zara.  Throwaway almost be definition.  Cheap, low quality, ephemeral products.  I've bought from both of them myself.  Now I'll try not to.

I already avoid the likes of Amazon for their tax avoiding antics.  Now I will try to stop myself from buying cheap, throwaway clothes.  It's not much, but every little step...

Perhaps I've always thought that way to some extent.  Much of my wardrobe is ten or even twenty years old, and still in use.  I do try to get rid of clothes I find I no longer wear, but to charity shops where possible (often not quite as altruistic as they would have you think, but at least the clothes get a new life with someone who'll appreciate them).  In their place I will try to make myself buy better quality, more classic styles of clothes, utility outfits that will be with me for years.  Of course that has a knock-on effect to the poor workers who manufacture the Primark type goods, but something needs to trigger change.  A pandemic hasn't done it, but maybe as many of us as possible making small changes could do.

Day 160 - Cliche

 CLICHE

Prompt - Cliche : Choose a common cliche, then write something that says the same thing but without using the catch phrase

Opposites attract - Fire heats water, water inhibits fire

Every cloud has a silver lining - Even the ferocious storm nurtures the earth

Don’t cry over spilled milk - Tears won't bring back the dead

The calm before the storm - Every war begins with peace

Laughter is the best medicine - Comedy lights up the world

Scared out of my wits - Fear drives out reason

Haste makes waste - Rash loses cash

The writing's on the wall - The stone has been thrown

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade - Choose the door that opens on chance

Day 159 - Miss Manners

 MISS MANNERS

Prompt - Miss Manners : Use the words 'please' and 'thank you' in your writing

"Miss Manners, could you take some dictation please?"  Mr Morrison had come to her desk to ask, not just stuck his head around the door like so many others would.  He always said 'please', even though it wasn't an order you could choose to ignore.  He always thanked her for her work, always made a point of saying 'good morning Miss Manners' and 'good night Miss Manners'.  He wished her a pleasant evening and asked how she was each morning.

The secretary got up with her usual sullen reluctance and followed her boss into his office.  They sat down, she with pencil and pad poised, looking down at the blank page ready to make the first squiggles of shorthand.  He paused for a moment, trying, as he did nearly every day, wondering what had turned the woman from the bright, bubbly, attractive girl he'd had the pleasure of working with for three years, into the surly, uncommunicative woman she'd become in the past nine months.  It couldn't be anything he'd done, surely?  But this was no time to ponder, on with the work, and he began to order his thoughts and let the words stumble out.

"Dear Mr Gormley, Thank you for your letter of the seventeenth inst.  Your proposals have several merits which interest me, and I would like you to come to our offices for detailed discussions on the possibilities your ideas open up.  Of particular interest... no, delete those three words please Miss Manners.  The suggestion that we could automate our accounts using..."

He paused again, uncertain of the word.  The secretary sighed.  Morrison looked askance at her, but the face remained resolutely pointed towards the paper.

"...a computer... That's what they call them, isn't it Miss Manners?"

"I really wouldn't know sir."  The head remained bowed.

"Well, it will have to do.  Where was I?"  She read back the uncompleted sentence to him.

"Ah yes...  a computer is of particular interest.  I hope that you are well practiced in explaining the complexities of these machines to the lay person, as it is not something the firm of Grafton and Sons has had experience of to date."  

He paused again, hoping she'd look up.  No luck.

Thank you Miss Manners.  Please finish it off with an invitation to Mr Gormley to come and see me - next Tuesday would be ideal, if there's space in the diary.  I think we should give it a couple of hours.  And invite Mr Spencer along too.  You'll minute of course."

"Will that be all for now sir?"

Morrison's turn to sigh.  It was like dealing with a porcupine.  "That will be all Miss Manners, thank you very much."

The woman rose, made her way back to her desk, and set about arranging the meeting.  Composed in her movements, efficient at her task, furious of expression.  And in her head asking the question that she asked every day.  Why, nine months after she'd married Joe, did the idiot in there still call her Miss Manners, when she was now Mrs Rask?  No amount of pleases and thank yous could cancel out the offence.

Day 158 - Party Animal

 

PARTY ANIMAL

Prompt – Party Animal : Have you ever gone to a party you didn’t want to leave? Or do you hate parties? Write about it!

I hate parties. Well, not all parties. Most parties. Almost all parties. So I can feel happy that I haven’t had to attend one for a good few years now, indeed not once since we moved up to Scotland near on seven years ago. Good news. Parties were not really a feature of my childhood, and I never had a birthday party. I don’t think I ever wanted one.

The parties I have attended, back in the past, fall broadly into three categories. There were the student parties, where I usually went along as part of a group, often with the vague hope of meeting a woman who might like me. That almost never happened, and I can only recall three occasions. Two of those resulted in me suddenly finding a girlfriend. In both cases because they asked me!

Those were parties with good outcomes, but I don’t recall the events themselves being any more enjoyable than most of the others. One was in somebody’s flat, and I’m not sure how I ended up there as I don’t remember knowing anyone, and spent a lot of time standing on my own. The other was a wedding party, where I didn’t know the people getting married, but went along as part of a crowd (of whom I only knew two), and it was one of that group who decided she was attracted to me. Strange woman!

The most memorable parties I can recall from that period were the ones after midnight at New Year. I was usually very drunk by then and got into a few interesting conversations.

Then there family parties, for somebody else’s family. Meaning one or other of my two wives. Weddings, anniversaries, other special occasions usually. I knew almost nobody at any of them, and couldn’t wait to get away. Tedious affairs, with boring people.

Finally the ‘other’ category. Weddings mostly, or house warming or house cooling. They sometimes meant more people I knew, they passed a bit better than the others. And into this category is probably the best party I’ve been to, the wedding reception for my oldest pal, Douglas. Although we knew hardly anyone it didn’t matter so much. Somehow I managed to hit, and hold on to, the sweet spot of drunkenness. Inhibitions loosened a bit, but still coherent and aware of my surroundings. I even danced with my wife, which is a rare enough event, but also enjoyed it! The music was right, the night was right, and I was happy. Not even a bit uncomfortable with myself.

It will never happen again. And I still hate parties.

(I wrote this on the day when I had my second covid jag, and wasn't feeling overly well...)

Day 157 - What Time is It?

 WHAT TIME IS IT?

Prompt - What Time is It? : Write about the time of day it is right now.  What are people doing?  What do you usually do at this time each day?

The clock in the corner of my PC says it's 18.14.  The daft bit of my brain is going "one year before Waterloo", but that's irrelevant.  A quarter past six is, in this home, approaching dinner time.  Most nights I would be in the kitchen, making a meal.  I suspect a lot of other people would be too, although this is a Sunday, so habits vary at weekends.  Is it still a thing in some homes to have Sunday lunch?  The main meal mid afternoon?  It has never been a custom I've shared, except in the houses of others.  (My one time mother in law was the only person I really knew who was keen on the whole Sunday lunch thing - most people of my acquaintance tend to eat their main meal in the evening.)  

But on this occasion I have the day off.  (As I did yesterday, but that was because we had a takeaway.)   Dinner is being provided by my wife.  A goats cheese and caramelised onion tart she's made, and a bit of salad.  It's nice to have a meal made for me, something that used to happen a lot, but is less frequent nowadays, as standing in the kitchen for too long is hard on her knees and dodgy hip.  

I suppose, once upon a time, and not at weekends of course, 18.15 was often getting home time, from the office where I worked.  Which meant I'd only just be starting out on knocking up whatever we might be eating that night.  Now there is more flexibility in our schedule, but we do find that it's a good thing to keep to regular (ish) meal times.  Maybe it's an old person thing!

Tomorrow at 18.15 I will be in the kitchen preparing whatever is going to be on the menu.  For now I can sit at my desk and type away.  Enjoy the moment.

Day 156 - Swish, Buzz, Pop

 SWISH, BUZZ, POP 

Prompt - Swish, Buzz, Pop : Create a poem that uses onomatopoeia

The ball in hand he pinballs in

A bump, a thump, a bish

Men cannot get a grip on him

The whirlwind that is Mish

Day 155 - Aromatherapy

 AROMATHERAPY

Prompt - Aromatherapy : Write about scents you just absolutely love

I do not have a strong sense of smell.  Or so my wife always tells me, and it's true that she often picks up scents that I haven't even noticed.  Which means that when I do enjoy a particular smell it has to be one with a bit of oomph, that throws out a full nasal assault.  And which, ideally, engages other senses as well.  

Nature throws up a range of evocative aromas, and I can find pleasure in the heady freshness of a forest or the salty addictiveness of the sea.  But most of my life is lived in the city, and it's the smells which cut through the general fug of the urban atmosphere that most excite.  Some repel strongly - I quicken my pace when passing one of those Lush shops, the carbolic undertones bringing stinging reinders of school toilets.  But the best smells are the ones that make me hungry, and two dominate my desires.

There's no aroma like a chippie aroma.  Warm, greasy, with a hint of vinegar acidity and the background layer of fried fish and potato.  Hard to resist, generating an immediate reaction of desire and memory and fingers to be licked.  At it's very best when mingled with the aforementioned sea air. 

But my ultimate perfume comes from a different kind of culinary establishment.  For want of a better word I will use the blanket term Indian Restaurant.  What I mean is any kitchen sending out, and drawing me in with, spices.  Eastern spices, in many, many combination.  My blanket takes in every kind of cuisine from the sub continent, and is, for the purposes of this essay, flexible enough to encompass the likes of Thai, Malayan and Vietnamese cooking, although there is nothing quite like the scent of fenugreek to bring on salivation.  

You can have all the flowers and perfumes and air fresheners and scented soaps.  Just give me the smell of a good curry...

Day154 - Twenty-One

 TWENTY-ONE

Prompt - Twenty-One : Write about your 21st birthday

Sounds like the Westminster powers that be are already planning a big fuss over Queenie's 'Platinum' jubilee, which I think is meant to mark seventy years of one unelected individual having significant power and influence over the rest of us.  Not something to celebrate when you think about it that way, but that won't stop those who rule us and want the status quo maintained, since it benefits them and their wealthy pals.  

And as human beings we do love to fetishise dates.  Birthdays, anniversaries, arbitrary numbers of days marking this that and the next thing.  Specific days of the year named after past events, whether imaginary or not.  They can be useful as ways of marking the passing of time, and our changes in life, be that personal or societal, but it does get carried too far for much of the time.  And sometimes the significance given to particular numbers can work against those who don't experience the same pleasures that are allegedly attached to certain events.  Like xmas.

This train of thought was put in motion by today's writing prompt, which asked me to write abut my twenty first birthday.  Turning 21 was once considered the point of 'coming of age', another arbitrary marker that paid no attention to the reality of individual lives.  I guess the subject was chosen because, convention says, we are supposed to have particularly memories of that one event in our life.  We'd have had a party or a night out or some incredible shared experience that would remain a fond recollection for the rest of our life.  That fantasy was not the reality for me, not, I suspect, for many, many other people.

When asked to recall that single day, just over forty four years ago, there were two positives came to mind.  I was given a very nice Omega watch as my main present (it stopped working many years ago, but is on my wall in a small display of some of my old watches), and dinner was one of my mother's special salads, my favourite meal at the time.  But what else happened?  What was my state of mind.  I had no solid memory of the day to hold on to, so I went back to my diary entry of the time.

Right enough, there was the watch and the nice meal (what we had wasn't written down, but I do have a genuine memory of what it would have consisted of), but they were pretty much the only good bits.  A few other presents I seem to have liked, and being in my room listening to LPs are the other high points.  But as for the rest...

No friends, because I didn't have any.  No party, no going out.  The latter probably at my request.  To this day I usually prefer a good meal at home to one in a restaurant.  The only people involved were my parents, and my mother's elderly aunt, who had been more of a granny figure to me than either of my actual grandmothers.  I spent a lot of the time on my own, from preference.  And the one interchange that gets a mention is a long talk with my mum, where she told me how difficult I was to live with because I was so sullen and uninvolved in everything (at least that's what I conclude from the sketchy description available to me today).  But I also wrote that I wasn't entirely honest with her, never mentioning the times when I contemplated suicide.  That was something I had largely forgotten about.

Looking back it's clear that, if the same had been happening today, there's a good chance i would have been diagnosed with low level depression.  But this was the seventies and we didn't think that way back then.  So I had what was really happening behind this sullen mask I wore, and tried to get through what was going on in my head.  There was nobody to talk to except my mother, and our relationship was frequently ropey.  The diary shows we had a blazing row two days after the birthday.  It wasn't a unique occurence...

So I have sympathy for anyone who's told that should be out having a good time because they are eighteen, or twenty one, or whatever, on some particular day.  Better to strive to accept people for who they are, and who they are happiest being, than try to force them into a 'special' modd just because the calendar lands on one set of numbers.   

A few days ago Naomi Osaka said she wouldn't talk to the press at the French Open, for the sake of her mental health.  She subsequently withdrew from the tournament, as her statement was becoming more reported than the actual tennis.  The usual suspect, like the vile Piers Morgan, have given her a hard time for this.  I'm with Naomi, and I hope more will speak out in her defence.  We can't go on forcing people to be who we want them to.  Let everyone be themselves.

Day 153 - Shaping Up

 SHAPING UP 

Prompt - Shaping Up : Write something that makes a shape on the page...ie a circle , a heart, a square etc

                                               AlifeinsixunevenactsGrowingupAfailedexpe

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