Day 243 - Sestina

 SESTINA 

Prompt - Sestina : Give a try to writing a sestina poem

I am a product of this Land

But understanding's Hard

What can tell you where to Look?

Does anyone really Know?

All I really want is Hope

Amidst the random Noise

I'll add my voice to all that Noise

In the debate across the Land

Can I give some added Hope?

But giving hope is Hard

When could you ever Know

If people take a Look?

It doesn't matter how I Look

What matters now is Noise

To say, to hear, to Know

Being cleared to sagely Land

On ground that shows up Hard

And resonates with Hope

How to unlock that Hope?

Where do the people Look?

When they try so Hard

To hear beyond the empty Noise

That blares across the Land

But why they do not Know

What is there now to Know

Except that we need Hope

Like catching sight of Land

From the crow's nest's clear eyed Look

Push beyond the ocean's Noise

The landing hits us Hard

The bed we've made is Hard

The life we've come to Know

We all must make our Noise

We all must marry Hope

We all must clearly Look

Upon the silence of the Land

It's always Hard to find real Hope

To Know where one should Look

With so much Noise across the Land

Day 242 - Cheater

 CHEATER

Prompt - Cheater : Write about someone who is unfaithful

She removed herself from touching distance as soon as he approached, her disdain for his profligacy fully displayed in her bearing, her lack of eye contact, in the way in which she made him feel small.  It had only been a brief dalliance, little more than a quick fondle, but she sensed it from his demeanour, and from the scent that, to her keen nostrils and receptiveness to the slightest of slights, rolled out in waves of betrayal.

It had been such a brief moment.  Pleasant, entrancing, irresistible.  Unavoidable.  His temptress had almost placed herself in his path, inviting attention.  A great beauty, demanding her dues.  Soft and warm and welcoming, playful and yet still distant, a courtesan of the walls.  He had been tempted to stay, but he had not.  He had come home to the love of his life, and yet she spurned him.  He felt shame.

Cats could do that to you.

Day 241 - Comedy Club

 COMEDY CLUB 

Prompt - Comedy Club : Write something inspired by a comedian

Taken from a routine performed by Andrew Maxwell.

Eighteen months.  Eighteen months and three days to be precise.  Or four hundred and ninety one days if you want to make it sound like a really long fucking time.  Which is how it's felt.  Like it would never end.  Like he'd never stand in front of a noisy, breathing, breathless carpet of happy faces ever again.  

There had been Zoom gigs.  If ever there was a route to suck the soul from comedy this was the one to follow.  A road into an ever changing kaleidoscope of peering faces, of weirdly decorated living rooms and worse.  Of nose pickers and ball scratchers and apparent indifference.  Of realising that just because someone is one of your fans it doesn't follow that their partner is too.  So many couples where one is laughing while the other disdainfully flicks through their phone screen.  A lesson to the ego.

And there had been, once, because once was one time too many, a car park gig.  In the rain.  On a tall stage under a leaky cover, staring out into a muddy field of glass and metal boxes.  He'd asked how he'd know if they were laughing.  Was told they would honk their horns in approval.  He wasn't sure he'd enjoy being honked at.

He never found out.  Fifteen minutes before he went on came the message - there had been complaints about the potential noise so horns were banned.  Maybe they'd flash their lights in appreciation?  A few did, but soon decided that their batteries were more important, especially as they had to keep flicking the wipers to see hom.  Wands of rubber scraping over screens became his only sign that there were were people out there.  Who may or may not be laughing.  That wasn't a comedy gig, that was a man howling into a soggy sponge of despair.

So here he was.  On a stage, in a room, with a front row, and more, where he could make out individual faces, feel their anticipation, their own sense of release.  At first he could barely speak, stood hunched and shaking, trying to stop the tears.  He shouted out.  Realised it had been so long that he'd forgotten that he needed the microphone.  Laughed at himself.  They laughed with him.  They laughed and cheered and whooped, and that was all he needed.  His words took off and circled round the room, swooping and gliding and raising hope.  He was back.

Day 240 - Alphabetical

 ALPHABETICAL

Prompt - Alphabetical : Write a poem that has every letter of the alphabet in it

A zebra going off for a walk with a fox?

Is this a joke that you're telling?

Did anything come of their puzzling talks,

For in nature it looks like rebelling.

I've so many questions to ask of this pair

For they make such an unlikely brace

Like where did they meet and what did they wear,

And did they decide on a race?

But maybe we've followed the wrong lines

Because nobody knows where this ends

Let us accept all these positive signs

That a zebra and fox can be friends

Day 239 - Cinquain

 CINQUAIN

Prompt - Cinquain : Write a cinquain poem, which consists of 5 lines which do not rhyme.

(Note- The original cinquain had a very specific format, and I have tried to stick to that.)

Clothing

Warm, dry

Colouring, hiding, enhancing

Show who I am

Identity

Words

Powerful, necessary

Writing, talking, absorbing

Give meaning to life

Communication

Phone

Handy, constant

Enticing, absorbing, demanding

I don't see life

Trap

Book

Knowledge, stories

Entertaining, informing, educating

Can't leave home without

Essential

Breakfast

Fruity, oaty

Awakening, satisfying, sustaining

Start to the day

Food

Day 238 - Pocket

 POCKET

Prompt - Pocket : Rummage through your pockets and write about what you keep or find in your pockets

Pockets.  Pre or post pandemic?  Summer or Winter?  Wet or dry?  The contents of my pockets vary, albeit to a fairly limited degree.  Take away the hot weather and there are more little pouches within which to carry objects, as jackets and coats are donned to cope with cool, cold, wet.  So I'll go with the simplest - now.  A hot day, but one where we are still entered closed buildings with our face masks on, where we keep our distances.  just jeans and tee, few pockets.  Enough for the essentials.  

Front left.  Wallet, container of the various cards that get frequent use (the list topped by the debit card used to buy food, and my buss pass), with today's face mask of choice.  Front right contains my phone, a handkerchief (I'm old fashioned that way), and my keys once I leave home.  Rear left has a small pouch, containing a decent sized shopping bag, for those moments when you suddenly find yourself given, or purchasing, an item that won't fit into your restricted spaces.  And rear right, the most covid related of all the pockets, for it contains a spare face mask.  And has done since the day last summer when I ran for a bus, pulled on my mask as I ran, and the elastic broke.  It's not easy to use your card and hang on to the rails as the bus moves, because you've got one hand up to the side of your face holding the offending mask in place...  

Beyond those basics it all depends on where I'm going, what I'm planning to do, who I'm going with or meeting.  If I have a bag, usually a backpack, with me it takes in most of the extra items.  But without one my jackets might accommodate a book or ereader, maybe my Gemini if I plan on writing, maybe a notebook if I'm going to be reviewing, perhaps tickets to an event or a snack for later.  Pockets are amazing, and I'm not surprised that women feel delighted when their dresses have a couple.  I'm a big fan of pockets...

Day 237 - Obituaries

 OBITUARIES

Prompt - Obituaries : Look at the recent obituaries online or in the newspaper and imagine the life of someone and write about that person.

"SWANSTON Morag (North Berwick) Morag passed away on August 3rd, 2021. She was a loving partner to Robert, a magical mum to Adam and Jackson, beloved daughter of Pam and the late Ian, amazing sister to Fiona and a wonderful friend and colleague to many. A service will be held at Mortonhall Crematorium Main Chapel on Monday August 23rd, at 11am to which all are welcome."

Loving.  Magical.  Beloved.  Amazing.  Wonderful.  Really?  George smiled to himself, a corner of his mouth twisted to reflect his cynicism about the bollocks he'd just read.  The 'never speak ill of the dead' maxim had been applied liberally, with great shiny dollops of lardy-arsed glitter.  There was certainly no 'ill' in that brief obituary, but to have twisted the truth to such an extent... Then he found himself wondering who had written it?  And why they had chosen to paint such such a flagrantly false picture?

Surely not Robert?  The obvious choice, in that it would have fallen to him to organise things.  Yet it also seemed so unlikely.  Morag had left George for his best friend eighteen years ago, after not quite five years of marriage.  He'd been angry at first, but that was simple pride, the humiliation of the cuckold.  Relief emerged with surprising speed.  That he was no longer being shouted at, that he didn't have to worry about where the money was going, that he didn't have lay down the eggshells for his feet every day.  Within a year he'd been back seeing Robert again, and over time became a sounding board, an agony uncle, a sympathetic (but inwardly grinning) ear.  Robert's life was hell, but he couldn't have left Morag without his precious dignity taking a hit.  George wondered what she'd died of, and if it were all simply fate, or had there been a little human intervention in the process?  It wouldn't surprise him and he'd happily give his pal an alibi if needed.

Adam and/or Jackson?  Huh!  Not bloody likely.  Not unless one of them wrote it for a piss take.  The only magical element to Morag's mothering was her ability to suddenly pop up and try to take credit for his dedication to bringing them up, but her attempts at bribery and flattery rarely ended well, and the boys soon understood why George, not Robert, was the lucky one.

Fiona?  As far as he knew she hadn't spoken to her sister for at least eight years.  The boys sometimes went to see their aunt and reported back on the state of hostilities.  He liked Fiona, if only because she was so different to her elder sibling, so human.  But they'd hardly seen one another for years, the price of mixed allegiances.

That left Pam.  It had to be Pam.  She always was a bitch, and should have been his warning.  There was another old saying - 'if you want to know how your wife is going to be when she's older just look at her mother'.  Wise old saying, he had realised too late.  Morag's mum was an eighteen carat pain in the arse.  Becoming more rancid as she aged.  He had Robert's testimony to that.  She'd have had this pish printed just for the joy of winding other people up.  

Wouldn't get more people to the ceremony though.  Not unless they had their own motives.

The 23rd?  He thought he might be able to get the day off.  He might just go along.  It would be a laugh.  

Day 236 - Liar, Liar

 LIAR, LIAR

Prompt - Liar, Liar : Make up a poem or story of complete lies about yourself or someone else

My mother only admitted it to me on her death bed.  Very early in my life she had been forced to stop breast feeding me.  Not because it was painful, but due to the effect it had on her.  Such was the unconscious skill with which I manipulated her nipple that, whilst gaining the nourishment I needed, I was also turning her on.  It was only when she had orgasmed during a feed that, tainted with guilt, she gave up on a practice that gave her as much joy as it did me.  She died tragically young, from a broken heart brought on by knowing she could never possess, in the way she wanted to, the beautiful, perfect man she had brought into the world, and who would be going on to give so much pleasure to countless others.

I truly was the bonniest of babies, but it was when I first went to nursery, aged three, that the nature of my gift started to become apparent to others.  As soon as I entered the room I became the centre of attention for all the females, infant and adult, who were present.  Each vied for my attention, for my touch, wanted to be close to me.  Several fell out over me in the first week.  Infants and adults.  I had found my role in life.

On my first day in primary school Miss Anderson, who taught the first year class, took a special interest in me.  A very special interest.  The extra time she insisted on spending with me not only gave me a head start educationally over the others, but confirmed that I had a power over heterosexual women I could do nothing to turn down.  Even at five I knew my destiny.  Miss Anderson was sad when I moved on to year two.  I became the most popular pupil in the school, loved by the girls, admired and envied by the boys, doted on by the female teachers.  And Mr Kemp, the fey music teacher.  He loved my ability to pick up his arpeggios.

When the time came to move on to secondary I received special goodbyes from Miss Anderson and Mr Kemp.  The latter provided me with a special lesson, showing how his fingers could bring out joyful sounds, and amazed at how swiftly I was able to gain maestro status in the flute play he instructed me in.  My final farewell was to my first teacher, a shaking Miss Anderson.  She told me that I was the most special pupil she had ever had and there was a part of my education she would love to help me complete.  But was I ready for it?  It was my twelfth birthday, and she was able to give me the most remarkable present, for her touch, and kisses soon provided evidence that I was indeed well up to the moment.  Shocked and delighted by the sheer size of one so young, I then greatly surprised her with my detailed knowledge of biology and anatomy.  It was a memorable initiation and a fit ending to my time there.  

Secondary was, well, more of the same really.  Success came to me in every form.  Academic, sporting, popularity.  And sexual.  Even in my first year I found I could have my pick of the sixteen year olds.  And, once my reputation became solidly established, the sixth year as well.  Girls.  Mostly.

By the time I went to university my mother knew she had given the world her greatest gift and that she could no longer share a part of that legacy, so she passed away.  My father, knowing he could not compete with his prodigy offspring, accepted the role of provider until the time has come for me to make my way in the world.  He is a good man, and knows he can be proud of his son, who will go places he could only dream of.

So here I am.  Graduate, postgraduate, a healthy stream of job offers in my inbox.  And a different woman every night.  Career options remain open, but whichever I choose I will be brilliant at.  But my professional reputation will always be in the shadow of one thing and one thing only.  My abilities as a lover.  That is why they are calling me Dr Blyth Crawford - the new Casanova.

Day 235 - Breathing

 BREATHING

Prompt - Breathing : Take a few minutes to do some deep breathing relaxation techniques.  Once your mind is clear, just write the first few things that you think of.

I'm lucky to have kept awake during that exercise, as I had little more than three hours sleep last night.

I stayed awake large because I'm so bad at trying to do the whole mind-emptying thing, and always have been.  Shutting down my thoughts seems impossible, so that's mostly what I thought about as I lay back and closed my eyes.

I also thought about my new desk PC arriving later this week, and the need to spend the weekend not just setting it up, but cleaning and tidying the whole study environment, which has got into such a mess.  NOt just the desk, but the floor, the shelves, every little space.  Clutter, awaiting some sort of attention, but some of it now so old I will have forgotten what it's there for.  Of course this plan clashes with my need to walk every day (and Saturday is now my designated 'boots on' walking day where possible) and to write.  So I need a working keyboard on each and every day, but a laptop could provide the necessary if required.  I want this setting up process to be right.

Last night my mind was the problem when I tried to get back to sleep.  I recall one sequence that seemed to began with being a Caps supporter, then making the xmas song video and having to hold it back due to Kristich suddenly vanishing back to Russia, then recalling the choir friends who came here to help make it, followed by all the videos I recorded of Barbara's choir performing - and if they never get back together, and she doesn't join another, is there any point to my camcorder?  And if not now, can I create one?  I did think about vlogging, even came up with a rough initial script in my head.  But then remembered how bad I am at keeping my ordinary blog going!

No mind-emptying going on here...

Day 234 - Underwater

 UNDERWATER 

Prompt - Underwater : Write about sea creatures and under water life.  What's under the surface of the ocean?  What adventures might be waiting?

'Be careful what you wish for.'

'All that glitters is not gold.'

And even

'Look before you leap.'

Of course nobody said these actual words to him, but there were plenty ready to lecture Sulyman with similar phrases in his own language.  All because he saw the sea as an adventure, a place to explore, a place of mysteries and excitement.  Where everyone else saw only a source of the food, a way of living, the boy grew up dreaming of what he might find if he was able to dive deeper, further, than the pearl fishermen did, than the squid hunters did, than any diver could manage without benefit of artificial assistance.

Then they laughed when he had been to the city, and worked hard, and returned with the tools to his dream.  A wetsuit.  Flippers.  Breathing apparatus.  The oxygen which would enable his dream.  What did he hope to find?  Didn't he know there were dangers out there?  Dangers well beyond what so many villagers faced on a daily basis in pursuit of their livelihood?  Diving was work, not fun.  A skill, not a hobby.  Who did he think he was?

Sulyman didn't care.  He had already been places, and done things, and achieved more, than anyone in the village had ever dared imagine.  Even his family treated his efforts and attainments with suspicion, especially when he aw no need to work any more.  Did he think he was better than them?

Only the children showed any interest in the amazing things he'd brought back with him.  A suit to swim in?  Why?  Big heavy tanks on his back that meant he didn't have to hold his breath?  How?  Big flippers on his feet?  Was he turning into a fish?  They loved watching him don the complex outfit, clumsily make his way into the sea, and... vanish.  Only to return, magically, long after any normal diver would have been given up on. 

Sulyman worked on his technique, purchased more equipment as he became bolder, went further and deeper and wider.  He'd always return with fish for the family, but never pearls.  He had no desire to upset the traditionalists even further.  In time he had explored the whole bay out as far as the point where the shelf fell away and the black depths plummeted underneath him.  Which meant it was time for him to venture further.

He'd got himself a small boat from which to dive, and practiced with that, over and over.  Falling out over the side was easy enough, but it took many attempts before he could smoothly raise himself back in.  Once he felt confident he took the boat out to the edge of the shelf and set down his anchor.  Got all his gear on, including the bigger oxygen cylinders which would allow him to stay down for over an hour, and ran through the safety checks that had been drilled into him back in the city.  All done, he sat on the side of the boat, and allowed himself to fall down into the warm water.

He swam down to the shelf, then pushed out into the deeper water, and set himself a steady routine of descent and adjustment, the increasing darkness illuminated by the spotlight on his helmet.  Suddenly he found himself but ten meters away from a large pink and green octopus.  He handled his camera into position and took the shot, checked the result on his screen.  The octopus had one eye shut, as if winking.  He looked up.  The octopus winked.  He did.  Didn't he?  The octopus smiled.  That wasn't possible, was it?  Sulyman metaphorically shook his head and wiped his eyes.  The octopus continued to smile, or appear to smile.  Then it raised two tentacles, beckoned him on, and turned away, checking round to see if he'd follow.  Cephalopods weren't known for being so communicative.

But this one was, or seemed to be at least, and Sulyman had taken up diving for adventure and mystery, so how could he resist?  He followed the pumping blob and went deeper still.  As the darkness got thicker he sped up and closed in on his guide until the octopus stopped and he found they were face to face.  

"We have been waiting for you."

The octopus had spoken.  A speaking octopus?  This couldn't be happening.  Yet he had heard the words, clearly, through water and rubber and the sound of his own steady breathing.  But with the mouthpiece in he couldn't reply, so he tried to give a quizzical look through the mask.  

"You were not expecting us, but we have been expecting you.  We have watched you these past months, becoming bolder, looking at one with our world.  Looking for something that you cannot find on the land.  We would like you to join us."  And the octopus turned again and dived deeper.  Sulyman followed.  Who was 'we'?

The answer came minutes later, when they approached a rockface, in which a large cave mouth was set.  Together they entered the cave and Sulyman saw before him nothing he'd expected and everything he'd dreamed of.  

The cave mouth had expanded into a large chamber, with phosphorescent streaks in the rock providing a rippling glow to the interior.  Arranged around the space, be it in welcome or otherwise, was a huge variety of sea creatures - was this the 'we' they'd been heading for?  Octopuses, squid and cuttlefish mixed with rays, skates, anglerfish, and so many more he didn't have names for.  His guide wafted off into the crowd and a dark blue squid came forward.

"Welcome.  We have been looking forward to your arrival."

"Welcome Sulyman." said the assembled shoal.

Sulyman didn't know what to say.  Didn't know how to say.  The squid was ahead of him.

"Think your words to us Sulyman, and we will hear them."  So he did, and they did, and they conversed.  They had been aware of his diving, of his ambitions, for months.  They had read his desires in his actions and knew he wasn't like the others of his kind.  They knew he was a sea creature.  

Enthralled by his discovery, or perhaps his being discovered, Sulyman had lost all track of time.  So when he looked at his dials he was hit by shock, bewilderment, panic.  More than ninety minutes had passed since he left the boat, and even his emergency tank of oxygen was long since depleted.  He must be dead, this must be the afterlife, he would never see his family again, he...  He looked around him, at the welcoming assembly.  Cautiously he removed his mouthpiece.  He could still breathe.

"You no longer have any need of your suit, " said Ashtane, for that was the blue squid's name, "you really are one of us now, you are of the sea."  So he removed his headgear, and felt no pressure, felt no sense of cold.  He removed his gloves, and saw that there was a membrane of skin grown between his fingers, the better to propel him through the water.  He removed his flippers and his toes had elongated and sprouted identical skin formations.  He removed his empty oxygen tanks, and they drifted to the floor of the cavern, deep into the sand.  He removed his weight belt it too vanished below, while he remaining in place, with no sudden movement surfacewards.  He removed his wetsit and found his body sleek, sheathed, shimmering.  The squid was right.  he was one of them now.  He had found his adventure

It was as well he would never return to land.  They would never have believed him.

Day 233 - Hotel

 HOTEL

Prompt - Hotel : Write from the perspective of someone who works at a hotel or staying at a hotel

"Oh.  Sorry sir, I'll come back later."

"No, do it now.  I've got work to do after this so I won't be wanting interruptions.  By the time you've done in here I'll be finished in there."  And he retreated back into the bathroom,closed the door behind him.

We're told not to do the rooms when the guests are in there, unless they give good reason.  And the word round the staff is never to do a room when there's only a man in there, though the managers would say that was nonsense.  They just want us to get everything done as quick as possible, with minimum complaints.  From us or the guests.  

I'd knocked.  Twice.  No answer.  Let myself in, started bringing in what I needed from the trolley, and then he'd emerged.  Short, balding, paunchy.  White and a bit hairy.  Easy to see when he comes out with just a towel around his stretchy middle.  I should get out.  But his tone had been commanding, and he clearly had the desk set up for some kind of work.  If I said I'd return he might complain.  Looked like he hadn't really dried himself off yet, so I probably had time to get the bedroom done, then shut myself into the bathroom when he came back out.  Followed by a quick escape.  Anyway, he sounded a lot more interested in his job than he was in me.  Just part of the furniture again...

So I got on with making the bed, giving the room a clean, taking care around his laptop and papers, tidying up his mess.  And, right enough, he came out just as I was done.

"I'll just do the bathroom while you get dressed and then I'll be done sir."  And I was in, locked the door, cleaned the shower and sink and toilet, replenished the wee bottles, stuck the new towels up and took away the dirty face towel.  I could pick up the bath towel on my way out.  he should be dressed by now.

But I knocked anyway.  "Coming out now sir, if that's OK with you?"

Nothing.

"Sir?"  Nothing.  "Are you there?"  I shouted this time.  No panic.  Don't panic.  Perfectly good explanation.  It'll be fine.

I opened the door.  The dirty towel was on the floor.  I picked it up and turned to leave.  He was there, between me and the exit.  He hadn't dressed.  At all.  This didn't look good.  He certainly didn't.

"I was just wondering what kind of room service I could get.  You know?"  He saw the horror in my eyes.  "There's something in it for you."  And he indicated a pile of banknotes on the bedside table.  "I'm not some kind of monster you know.  But it's been a stressful week, and I'm sure you could use a bit of extra cash and maybe we can do something for each other, eh?"  He was trying to look sure of himself, but hs big gut and tiny cock got in the way of him ever achieving that.  If ever a man needed clothes to have some authority...

I grew up with three brothers.  They made me smart, they made me fiesty.  I had to be smarter and feistier than them to make life tolerable.  As for this wee nyaff...

I smiled at him, warmly, put down the bits and pieces in my hands, and picked up the towel from the floor.  Nice and soggy.  Twisted it up a bit, feeling it's weight and movement in my hands.  Thank goodness this hotel skimped on quality, thinner was definitely better for my purposes.  He had started moving my direction, salaciously smirking, not twigging what was up.  I pulled the towel back, took a step towards him, and let rip.  One fat, soggy towel end whipped into naked flesh.  On target.  Right where it hurt.  His mouth and eyes widened, and he doubled forward, clutching himself where it hurt.  I slammed the wet towel down on his neck and kicked his foot away to aid his descent.  Kicked him where the towel had first impacted.  Then I grabbed my things and made for the door.  No, hang on.  I went back for the money, as he watched me pass him by, fearful of what I might do next.  His attempted grab at my passing ankle earned him another kick.

Of course he might complain.  It would be his word against mine, and I knew who management would believe, or at least say they believed.  So I went and had a chat with Kev.  Security.  Pal of mine.  Kev would be having a word with my podgy suitor.  I didn't think he'd complain.

Day 232 - Tech Support

 TECH SUPPORT

Prompt - Tech Support : Use computers or a conversation with tech support you've had as inspiration

"Help Desk.  Sean speaking, how can I help?"

"My PC isn't working."

"OK, can I just take some details first please?  Can you give me your name?"

"Garfield Strange.  I'm in Accounts."

"Thank you Garfield, and is the problem with a laptop or a desktop PC?"

"It's on my desk."  Sean sensed this was a long one coming.

"Yes, but is it the type you can fold up and carry away with you?"

"Fold up?  What do you mean 'fold up'?  It's a computer, not a sweater."

"I mean that the screen and keyboard would be attached to each other, and hinges allow the screen to fold down on to the keyboard for carrying.  But it sounds like you don't have one, so you must have a desktop.  Is the PC actually on your desk, or in a cradle underneath?"

"I'm looking at it."

"So it's on your desk, yes?"

"Of course it's on my desk, how else could I look at it?  You're the one who called it a desktop."

"OK."  Sean paused to take a deep breath. "Near to the button you press in the morning to turn it on there should be a white label with a serial number.  Could you read it out to me please?"

"I don't turn it on, Janice does that."

"Well can you see a white label anyway?"

"No, just a sort of code thingy down the bottom right corner."

"OK, can you read that back to me please?"

"Haitch.  Pee.  They're both capitals.  Then a double yoo.  That's small.  Then a number.  One.  Nine..."

"Can I just stop you there Garfield?  That's not the number I need so there's no need to read the rest of it.  That's not your PC, that's the monitor."

"Monitor?  What are you on about.  It's on the bottom of the screen."

Yes, I know.  But it isn't the screen number I need, I..."

"Well you said to read out what was on my desk, so maybe you need to clearer.  Do you mean the typewriter bit?  That's got some number on it too."

"No, no, not the keyboard, it's the black box that get's turned on first thing, and which you can insert USB devices into."

"US what?  What are you on about?  Are you going to get my computer working or not?"

"That's what I'm trying to do, I just need you to help me through the steps, OK?  It would really help if you can find me this number.  Is there a black box under your desk, sat in a cradle?"

"The thing that makes the whirry sound?"

"That would be it, that'll be the cooling fan you're hearing.  Can you look at that and read off the serial number please?"

"But it's on the floor."

"Yes, that's to save space on your desk."

"But you said it was on top of the desk.  You said that right at the start."

"No, I said it was a desktop, it's just the name we give them to distinguish then from laptops, but they don't actually have to sit on your desk."

"Sounds stupid to me, but you're the technical man, so I suppose you must know.  I have trouble bending down though so I'm not sure I can be doing that you're telling me."

"Ok, is there anybody there who could get down there for you?  Janice maybe?"

"Janice isn't in today.  Sick or something."  Sean smiled for the first time since the call began.

"So with Janice not being there did somebody else switch your PC on for you?"

"How would I know?  I didn't get in until nine thirty.  Bloody trains, another one late.  It's getting to be so bad they might as well rewrite the timetable to match what they are actually capable of.  Do you use the trains?"

"No, I don't but..."

"Well you won't know how bad it is.  Ridiculous.  How do they expect people to be productive in this country if the trains can't run on time?  I'm right, aren't I?"

"If we could just get back to your PC, please?  Can you look at the box on the floor and tell me if there's a green light showing?"

"Why?  I thought you wanted the serial number?  Why are you changing your mind now, don't you know how to fix this?"

"Garfield, please, can you see a light or not?"  There was a pause and plenty of background muttering and grunting.

"No."

"Then that might be your problem - a lack of Janice."

"Lack of Janice?  Are you saying I can't do my work without Janice?  I'll have you know I've been in this department thirty three years, while that girl's hardly been here six months."

"I mean without her switching your PC on it isn't going to do anything is it?"  Sean fought to keep the exasperation from his voice.  "So you need to find someone else to press the switch, unless you think you can bend down far enough?"

"Can't you do it?"

"I'm on the other side of town, so it's probably not a good use of my time to drive all the way over, press a button and drive all the way back.  Not a very good use of company resources."

There was silence from Garfield.  Sean sat back.

"Garfield?"  Silence.  "Garfield?  Are you there?"  He could hear voices, one of them Garfield's, the other younger and female.  And amused.  He heard the woman say 'there you go' and the man say 'thank you Grace'.  Garfield came back on the line.

"I seem to have fixed the problem by myself so I won't be needing you any further."  The line went dead.

Day 231 - Rhyme & No Reason

 RHYME AND NO REASON

Prompt - Rhyme & No Reason : Make up a silly rhyming poem using made up words

On a gert and vaffy grasm

Gerwil streels his cliebour

Runding bengeful coledums

Up to his qandol piedor

Lyrtal in the bassmeuz

He streels larul, larul

Hippling asker namgreep

Lengrit in his mrool

Gerwil lanz e kperdol

Cluns grafty to the wence

Seefs the nesh won Crasbar

Whol jeels the yoplled vens

Vvealuf mu cradaffer

Arsel wostantac

Gerwil nussin cliebour

Ee frelim gosstun dak!

Day 230 - Energised

 ENERGISED

Prompt - Energised : Write about how you feel when you're either at a high or low energy level for the day

There are those days.  the one when you feel you've slept well and nothing aches (much), when the sun is coming in through the blinds and you feel like getting up early (earlier...), getting the day started.  When you know there are plans for the day, something to look forward to.  When you get through the morning jobs without having to stop to think.  When you do your exercises and they come easily, and you feel like doing a bit extra.  When you can't wait to get out into the world and walk briskly and take in what's around you.  The good days.  The ones when you have energy.

And then there's the other ones.  CBA days.  Can't.  Be.  Arsed.  It's hard to wake up.  You fall back asleep and wake with a start, wondering how the clock has jumped forty minutes.  Disorientated.  Struggle from the bed, wondering why you're even bothering.  Bumble through the chores, need a seat half way through.  Can't be bothered exercising and wonder how it got to midday and you still haven't had breakfast.  You're pleased there's nothing much to do because you could do nothing much.  And if you do go out... you wish you hadn't.  The ones where energy is something that comes from a socket.

The energy days are good days.  The CBA days are what they are.  They happen.  Accept them.  They are a part of you too.

Day 229 - Fresh & Clean

 FRESH & CLEAN

Prompt - Fresh & Clean : Write about how you feel after you take a shower

I'm old enough to remember having one bath a week, on a Sunday evening, and the rest of the week it was just a quick wash in the sink.  Perfectly normal in the days before central heating.  Showers?  What were they?  The only places you'd encounter them was at the swimming baths, or on holiday in mainland Europe, where they were much more commonplace.  A daily shower, as I tend to have now, only came into my life in my thirties.  Even then it was a rubbishy rubber hose attachment thingy, that sprayed water everywhere and didn't last overlong.

Fast forward a couple of decades and the idea of a home without a shower - in it's own cubicle, not over the bath - has become hard to imagine.  A bath nowadays is, for me, a rarity, usually following a very long walk and meeting a need to relax my leg muscles. A bath takes time  - perhap because it's so rare I treat it as a luxury, having a good soak with book in hand.  A shower is a five minutes affair, or can be.  There are attractions in a longer shower too.

How do I feel after I've showered?  There are a lot of variables at play in reaching any conclusions.  The regular daily shower, at home, is as much a habit as anything else, slotting into a morning routine that doesn't vary greatly.  Get up, make the drinks, return to bed, drink drink and catch up with the world, go down to prepare the fresh fruit for breakfast, come back up to do some stretches and maybe exercise, have a shower, dress and eat.  The shower has it's due place, after doing some exercise.  Which might have got me a bit sweaty, especially if it involved a trip to the gym.  

In the shower I seem to have speeded up in recent times.  Lockdown taught me that I don't need to soap every part of my body, every single day.  So the washing might just concentrate on the most important (sweaty!) areas, or it might extend to all over, including washing my hair (the daily hair wash was also a pre-covid element of the routine).  It could extend to a long stand under the flow of water, something more likely if I have some back pain and the hot water hitting it feels beneficial.  It might include, should include, a short period of standing on each leg, for about thirty seconds each side, to help maintain my sense of balance and some strength in my legs and hips.  The shower might seem a strange place to do this, given that the surface my bare feet on is naturally slippy, but I like that I have four 'walls' close around me, meaning if I start to tilt it's easy to use a hand to redress the situation (not that I need to).  

I come out of the shower feeling ready for the next stage of the day.  One stage nearer to being ready to face the world.  Cleansed of the sweatiness of the night, of the exertions I might have put in since getting up.  I might be in a rush, but that's rare nowadays, with so few appointments in my calendar and no incentive to hurry anywhere, so usually I can take my time getting dried, applying some cream and hair gel, a bit of deodorant and after shave.  If I've trimmed my beard before showering, something that happens roughly once a week, I'll have an even cleaner feel, a sleekness I don't get at other times.  I am at my best (probably the best I'll be all day, all week maybe!) and thinking about what to wear, what the weather is, what I have planned for my day ahead.  

Of course these feelings aren't exactly the same if the shower is happening on holiday, perhaps after a swim, possibly outdoors.  A different kind of feeling.  A holiday feeling.  But that seems oh so long ago...

Day 228 - Mailbox

 MAILBOX

Prompt - Mailbox : Open your mailbox and write something inspired by one of the pieces of mail you received

At what point did we switch from thinking 'mailbox' meant email rather than faithful old snail mail?  In the US that might be an interesting question.  Over here it's pretty meaningless, as only addicts of American TV would ever have referred to receiving their letter and parcels in a 'mailbox'.  It either came through the letter box or you opened the door to receive it.  So a 'mailbox' here has pretty much always been electronic, since we first started having email as a common element in our lives (about a couple of decades?).  

So the physical mailbox isn't what first springs to mind.  Yet it often provides the more engaging experience - items we can hold in our own hands.  Today I received a CD (which is now playing in the background as I type) which I paid for months ago and had totally forgotten about.  That's the kind of surprise that electronic mail struggles to provide.  Or there was the shock, a few days ago, of finding an actual postcard in our post.  When did that last happen.  But it did come from a couple of my wife's relatives who are deep into their eighties, and to whom email, Whatsapp, Messenger etc will always be a mystery.

There are emails I anticipate with some relish, but not with with as much excitement as I do the end result - an item I can touch.  So getting a tracking number, or delivery details, for an item I've ordered, is good, but the actual delivery is so much better.  Even more so with crowdfunded or pre-ordered items, like that CD, where the anticipation has gone on for months and months - or even been forgotten about.  I have several crowdfunded projects that look as if they will deliver what I'm after in the next two months, and those final moments will be the real highlights of my daily humdrum.  

These thoughts were spurred, not only by the CD, but by an email from another music project I'm backing, this one by Dean Owens, saying he has a show available to view online, and providing links.  Now that's something snail mail can't do!

Day 227 - Trash Day

 TRASH DAY

Prompt - Trash Day : Write from the perspective of a garbage collector

"Haud on!"  I regretted the words as soon as I'd shouted them.  Not least because of the glares I was getting from Danny and Karl, they just wanted to get on and get the shift over with.

"What's up this time?"  Danny snarled, "it better be good."

This was the third time in the past month when I called a halt, sure I'd seen something falling from a bin that shouldn't have been there.  Twice I'd got it wrong, so I ought to have learned to keep my mouth shut by now.  But this was different.  

The first time I was sure I'd seen a big silver teapot that might be valuable.  Turned out to be a big ball of tinfoil.  Then there was the camera that turned out to be a battered novelty handbag. Shame about that, he was good at fixing cameras.

But this time was not like those others.  This time he was sure, and it made him feel sick.  It made him wish he'd looked away.  For what he'd seen falling, mixed up with all the other detritus of the big black bin, was a human arm.  From it's bloody shoulder stump to the whitewashed fingers, it could only be the one thing.  This time he hoped he was wrong.

"Just gie me a minute tae look."  He stepped on the back of the truck, started pushing stuff around until he found what he was looking for.  And wished he was wrong.  

"Whit is it this time, the crown jewels?"  Danny and karl were laughing at him.  He wanted to be able to join in, to take the piss out of himself again.  He wanted to say he'd got it wrong again.  he couldn't, could he?

"Come and look.  Tell me it's not what I think it is."  Danny joined him on the step.

"Fuck!"

They wouldn't be emptying any more bins today.

Day 226 - Admiration

 ADMIRATION

Prompt - Admiration : is there someone you admire?  Write about those feelings.

Who do I admire?  It's hard to think of one specific individual over others.  I admire anyone who cares about others, who wants everyone to have the chance of a decent life, and who actually does something about it.  That can be politicians campaigning for an Indy Scotland and the chance to create a fairer society.  Or people who give up part of their lives to do something for others.  Or even people who, through some other endeavour, have achieved public prominence and use that to campaign for positive, progressive change.  I'm thinking the likes of Naomi Osaka, Andy Murray and Marcus Rashford.

I want change, I want Indy, I want a fairer, more progressive society.  But.  Other than little bit of voluntary work, I 'do' very little, just talk or tweet about things.  I am not a change enabler, never will be.  I lack the necessary dedication, work ethic, determination, call it what you will.  So I can admire anyway who does.  

But if I had to pick an actual individual, it would be my wife.  She has to put up with a very flawed, at times hypocritical, person in her life, and I sometimes wonder how she manages.  I can only be grateful and wondering.  And as loving as possible.  In terms of the definition I advanced above, of doing good for society, she's as limited as me, as lethargic and inactive (which might be one reason why we're so well matched...), but all of that is nothing compared to her ability to get on with this introverted sociopath!

Day 225 - Online Friends

 ONLINE FRIENDS

Prompt - Online Friends : Write an ode to someone online you've met and become friends with.

Ode to an Unseen Virologist

We bonded over balls and grass

The pressure and the worry

Of waiting for the winning pass

Supporting Andy Murray

Shared a vision of a door

To a fairer Indy nation

Where human rights are to the fore

And tories face damnation

Now you're my source for expert views

On this global viral menace

Today you have become my muse

But we started off with tennis

Day 224 - Drinks on Me

 DRINKS ON ME 

Prompt - Drinks on Me : Write a poem or short story that takes place in a bar.

A horse sat in the corner of a bar, contentedly supping his pint, and observing the world around him.  He was happy, very happy, but nobody could see that.  From the table next to him came a fascinating conversation about climate change, which the horse found really energising.  There were three men, and by their very different accents he judged them to be from Birmingham, Cork and Glasgow.  While they all had something valuable to contribute to the discussion, and were equally concerned about the lack of action which was leading to humanity's doom, it was clear that the irishman was regarded with awe by the others, for he was clearly an expert in climate science and communicated his knowledge so effectively.

A middle aged red faced man in an expensive pinstriped suit walked in and demanded a pink gin.  The barman threw him out saying he wouldn't serve stereotypes in his place.

Day 223 - So Close

 SO CLOSE

Prompt - So Close : Write about coming close to reaching a goal.

Dan Marino's arm.  Dan Marino's charisma.  They were responsible for bringing Pete and his dad together at last, and for where he was sitting now.  He and his father had always had a difficult relationship, Pete never living up to the standards expected, but when he was sixteen Channel 4 started showing American football, and they discovered some common ground, a shared interest.  And then Mr Marino came along.

The new Miami Dolphins quarterback was an immediate hit with both of them, and that shared interest became a joint passion for for the Floridian team in aqua and coral.  With the game gaining some ground in the UK, Dad encouraged Pete to have a go.  And while he'd never be Dan, his bulk, short range mobility and good peripheral vision made him into a half decent defensive end.  Pete loved his football.  They vowed that one day they'd make it to Miami, take in a Dolphins game together.

He'd had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, and had always rebelled against the life his father had chosen, but their new closeness made him give the shop a go, and he found he enjoyed it more than expected.  To his surprise he found that he and dad were now best pals.

So what happened next was the more difficult to deal with.  Leukemia.  Terminal.  Six months at best.  The diagnosis was brutal.  The end came soon after.  Dad insisted Pete keep the shop going, so he wasn't even by the bed when his father passed away.  He closed the shop for a week, then threw himself back into it as if nothing else mattered.

He gave up playing, but still watched the Channel 4 shows faithfully, still cheered on the Fins, still absorbed all he could about the game.  Thought that he should still make that trip one day, in dad's memory.  

His mother's death was even more sudden, the proverb brought to life, and death.  She was hit by a bus.  Pete was twenty four, alone, and all he had was his shop, and Dan Marino.  An old friend, trying to get him out of himself, arranged for them to go on a double date, said he could choose which one he liked.  So Pete went for the taller, darker of the pair.  They got on well, and a year later they were married.  It took Pete another couple of years to admit to her that he hadn't chosen her because he thought she was the most attractive, but because her name was Claire.  Like Mrs Marino.  By then she knew, and even shared, his love of the sport, and his dream to get to a Miami home game one day.  They could go together, planned it for Pete's fortieth in 2006.  

They didn't.  In '01 Claire started to find herself getting tired too easily, her vision became blurred at times, and there were some strange pains.  It took time, but eventually there was another hammer blow diagnosis.  MS.  

Within a year Claire was unable to work, needed a lot of looking after.  The shop suffered.  Pete took on Gary, the guy who'd brought him and Claire together, recently redundant and happy to take on the running of the place.  Gary had ideas, like bringing in DVD rental, and soon the shop was doing far better than it ever had under Pete's direction.  They talked about expansion, got bigger premises, than another shop, then another.  Gary worked hard.  Pete did the finance.  Claire's condition got worse.  And worse.  

Claire died in 2020, covid the final imposition her wasted body was unable to withstand.  After the NFL had vanished from their screens they'd not followed what was happening with the Dolphins much, but once Claire found it hard to leave the house Pete had found out where the internet could fill the gap, and they companionably watched a lot of matches together.  Pete was still a fan.

In time he got back to working more closely with Gary, the business recovering well from pandemic times.  Claire had once told Gary about Pete's long held desire to get to Miami, so he was the one who suggested that Pete should treat himself for his sixtieth.

And that's why he was sitting in a hotel room in Miami Gardens, a short taxi ride away from the Hard Rock Stadium.  Tomorrow was the day.  He checked his ticket for the forty third time.  Miami Dolphins versus New York Jets, 1:00PM on November 24, 2026.  His ticket.  To finally see the Fins after a four decade period of anticipation.  He wished his dad was here.  He wished Claire was here.  He wondered if Dan Marino would turn up.

Too early to sleep yet so he turned on the TV.  Local news.  There was a storm warning.  Storm Georgina had veered slightly from it's expected path and was now headed straight for Miami.  Everyone was advised to stay indoors for the next forty eight hours, and the Mayor of Miami had ordered all sports and cultural events cancelled for that period.

Pete looked at his ticket.

Day 222 - Fashion

 FASHION 

Prompt - Fashion : Go through a fashion magazine or browse fashion websites online and write about a style you love.

A style I love?  Is there such a thing?  I've looked through so many photos, so many looks, today, without finding one that really shouted "wear ME" to my desires.  But I did notice a strong theme running through all those that drew my eye in a positive manner, and equally a thread to the ones I immediately rebelled against.

Many years of wearing suit, collar and tie turned me against that formal form of dress as soon as I retired.  In the eleven years since I have worn that same outfit about four times, for weddings and funerals.  Plus once I wore a tie to a formal party, with a tartan jacket.  Finally, the cream coloured suit has come out a few times in summer with tee and sneakers, a take on formality I find acceptable.  Maybe I should wear it again soon.  But most telling has been the steady reduction in the formal part of my wardrobe.  From thirteen suits on the day I left work, to two now (1 funeral, 1 wedding!).  My tie rack was thinned out, and still has far too many.  And the formal shirts are down to about five or six - why, I do not know.  My substantial collection of cufflinks sits there neglected.

For I liked making my suited look a bit distinctive.  I shied away from the plain blacks and greys and blues of most cloth, and tried to find things that were a little different.  My socks would flash a bit of colour, my ties some pattern, and my links some individuality.  And there is still a hankering in my system to wear things that show some small spark of difference.  But with a far greater emphasis on simplicity.  Tee shirt and jeans was the mantra all that time ago, and it's one I have, by and large, stuck to.  But there are so many possible variations and embellishments, especially once the weather is a bit cooler than it is now.

And there was one outfit I came across, on a blog, that seemed to embrace that philosophy.  The model was young, of course, so the outfit itself probably wouldn't work for me.  A grey and white striped, long sleeved tee worn with white deck trousers, white socks and sneakers, and topped with a pale jade zip up up jacket.  Not a lot of colour in that look, yet the combination of the simple blocks of colour with the stripes is one that appeals.  And reminded me of a look I'm trying to create.

Summer here has either been hot and sunny, meaning no need for a top beyond the tee, or cool and damp, or even soaking, requiring something at least shower proof be worn on top.  But there were days in Spring, and I hope there will be again as Summer ends, where it has been perfectly clear and dry, but with a cool breeze that mitigates against bare arms, needs another lightweight layer on the body.  To that end I received a Breton cotton jacket, by Armor Lux, in a darkish orange colour, which perfect when the temperature drops a few degrees.  It is clearly more jacket than short though.  I have since added two other pieces to that section of my wardrobe, both with a foot on each side of the jacket/overshirt border (and no, I will NOT be using the hideous portmanteau word invented to cover this type of garment...).  In doing so I found myself doing some research into the background of these items, and much leads back to the simple French workman's jacket - the chore jacket, usually in blue with three patch pockets and roomy enough to be used with layers.  That led me to a modern interpretation from Uskees, in that same jade I mentioned from the photo, and an original, vintage, but unworn, French jacket from the sixties or thereabout.  Both perfect for the days where the temperature is around fifteen or so.  

I do not have a striped shirt to wear with them, but I was already contemplating getting some, and this photo has convinced me to do so.  Red and white to go with the blue, black and white for the jade, and blue and white for the orange.  There may or may not be light coloured jeans worn with them (I don't have white, but cream is available...).  And the sneakers and socks with bring further colour (although I was looking at some white sneakers in TK Maxx today, and could be tempted back, and if there were any white jeans...).

There was no photo of this style I (hope I will) love, but the one I found was close enough to provide the inspiration to chase the look I'd already envisaged, perhaps with that snowy addition...

Day 221 - Grocery Shopping

 GROCERY SHOPPING

Prompt - Grocery Shopping : Write about an experience at the grocery store.

"Excuse me sir, could you come with me please?"

I 'd had a feeling he was heading my way, and that's where he stopped.  About my height, but a whole lot wider, crew cut hair, serious beard and a professionally disengaged expression.  His sweater logo said 'Zidek' in small red letters, with a stylised Z symbol alongside, with the word 'SECURITY' in much bigger lettering underneath, and he had a comms earpiece on the right of his head.  So it was clear who I was dealing with.

"Is there a problem?"  I knew what the problem would be, but a part of me wanted to play the game.

"That's what I'd like to ask you about sir.  Would you come to the office please?"  He made sir sound like a four letter word.

I went along with him, observed by several of the shoppers I'd been observing moments before.  We went into a small windowless room, where a small, sharpish looking woman sat behind an industrial size desk.  He indicated for me to sit down.  I tried to look both quizzical and innocent.

"A member of staff was a bit worried about your behaviour and suggested we have a word with you.  She says you seemed to be following some of the other customers, and looked to be taking photos and sending information to someone.  Would that be true sir?"  I looked up at him, I looked at the woman.  She stared back, silent, impassive.

"Yes, in a way.  At least the following bit, and I did take a few photos, but I wasn't sending anyone anything.  Not that I could have if I'd wanted to, as there's no signal in here, is there?"  He looked like he hadn't thought of this.  She looked impassive.

"OK, yes, but you were following people?  Why would that be, eh?"  He paused.  "Siiir."  I think that was the best he could manage for sarcasm.

"I've been trying to make myself write more fiction, but I'm a bit rubbish at coming up with ideas sometimes.  So this year I've been trying out a challenge.  I found a list of writing prompts, suggestions that are supposed to give me ideas to write about, one for every day this year.  So far it's worked pretty well, but there are days when I feel really stuck."  He'd been looking increasingly exasperated by my so-called explanation, and had to interrupt.  She looked impassive.

"What's this got to do with you following our customers and taking photos?  Why don't you tell me that instead of this nonsense?"

"I'm just about to get to that bit, I just thought a bit of background would help you know where I was coming from."  Ms Impassive continued to be so, while he looked ready to interrupt again, so I pushed on.  "Today's challenge was to write about something that happened in a grocery store - it's an American site so they mean supermarket."  That might have been a step too patronising, so I kept going.  "I thought if I had a look at some of the people in the shop today I might get some ideas, and taking photos and taking down some notes helps my memory for later.  I can show you the photos and what I've written if you want."

This wasn't any of the answers he'd been expecting.  He looked at the woman, who continued to look as if she'd been expecting everything and nothing.  She nodded to him curtly.

"Perhaps if I could see these photos then, and what it is you're writing about people, maybe you could make me believe this..."  He refrained from adding 'nonsense', or something a bit stronger perhaps.

I showed him a picture, taken from behind, of a tall guy in baggy shorts and big boots looking into the meats.  Then the note - 'Random shopping - all over place, beans, baguette, bulbs'.  My interrogator didn't look as enlightened by this as I'd hoped.

"He interested me because he seemed to have no pattern to his moving around the shop, and I liked the alliteration of some of the stuff in his basket.  I was hoping he'd pick up some brisket."  My poor attempt at humour didn't register.

"So why would you be interested in him?"  This was going to be hard work...

"It's just the ideas it sparks off in my mind, and if they can then be turned into the basis of a story.  There was a pleasing oddity to him that suggested I might get something."

"Did you?"  

"No.  Not yet.  But maybe at home."

"What about the others?"  I quickly flipped through the rest of my 'targets'  (I'm sure he was thinking of them as such.)  An elderly couple both supporting themselves on the trolley.  A small woman in a hijab with an exhausted look and her son jumping about in the trolley.  Two slim men in check shirts touching hands as they went past the biscuits.  A young guy with a baseball cap and skateboard under one arm.  Each accompanied by a cryptic note that summarised what had made me notice them.  Exactly as I'd said.

"Is any of that a problem?  I'll delete the photos now if you would prefer me to, I don't think I'm going to use any of them anyway."

"Why not?"  She spoke!  My nemesis looked as startled as I did.

"Because none of them really sparked anything in my head, and now I've got a better idea anyway."

"Which is?"  said the queen of succinct.

"This."  They looked at each other.  "What's happened here.  I'll write a story about a writer who's going round a supermarket looking for ideas and gets questioned about his suspicious behaviour.  It's got a bit of dramas, some tension, and I think I've got a bit of a twist I can throw in.  So I should be thanking you really."  I smiled, aiming for ingratiating.

"Will I be in it?"

"Well, there will be a security guard, but he won't be you, he'll be a fictional character."

"Why not me, what's wrong with me?"

"I don't think you'd work too well as you are, I need my character to be a bit stupid.  Which isn't you, clearly.  Someone a lot less intelligent than you would make the story work better."

"Will she be in it?"

"Oh yes.  Well, someone vaguely like her.  The security guard taking the writer into an empty room might feel a bit too menacing, so I need someone else in there.  She wouldn't have to say much though, this is all about the guard.  I suppose I might give her a few words just to make her more real."  She looked impassive.  "Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Would I get to read it?"

"Er, yes, well, if I feel it turns out OK.  Sometimes I get these ideas and the end result is rubbish.  But if it feels any good, then sure."  He looked quite excited, a better look than the guard persona he'd been acting out.  "Give me your email and I'll send it to you."  He looked at the woman.  She nodded.  He wrote down his email.  "Am I OK to go now?"

"Yes sir.  thank you for your time."  She had to have the last word.

Day 220 - Limerick

 LIMERICK

Prompt - Limerick : Write a limerick today

I'm in love with a woman called Barbara

We often sit down by the harboura

We'll eat fish and chips

Sit there licking our lips

Then seek out the shade of an arboura

We've got an old cat name of Zoe

Her movement's still supple and flowy

And though she's asleep

Amber eyes will still peep

From her fur which is tabby and snowy

There was an old man name of Blyth

Who appeared unreasonably lithe

But looks easily fool

He's the grace of a mule

As his walk will so easily kythe

Day 219 - So Ironic

 SO IRONIC

Prompt - So Ironic : Write about an ironic situation you've been in throughout your life.

This should have been a prompt which inspired a fictional story.  Or perhaps some half-amusing look back at part of my life.  But there's only one ironic situation I seem able to think of, to the exclusion of others, and it won't allow my to fictionalise it, while there is little amusement on offer.

My relationship with my mother was rarely an easy one.  Late in life she'd tell me she knew she was a difficult person to put up with.  And certainly there were times when I could look back and understand why my father almost left her - indeed did for a short period - twice.  A lot of it lay in her upbringing of course, and the mental twists that added to her character.

She, one of four sisters, was farmed out to a widowed aunt when she was still young, perhaps only about twelve or so.  She would form a strong familial bond with the aunt - Aunt Ina - but seems to have always harboured a hurt of rejection from having to leave her parents, some form of branding that marked her as different.  At the same time two of the three siblings were jealous, thinking their sister had been singled out for special treatment in some way.  From such occurrences are long lasting resentments and grudges spawned.  Ultimately it would lead to them falling out for good when their mother died (the other, neutral, sister, the only one never to marry and perhaps the only person in my mother's family with whom I found myself identifying, had died long before).  For the final twenty years of her life she had no contact with either of the others, and I didn't bother to try and inform them of her demise.  I had no idea where they were, if they were still alive, and cared not one bit.

She had a strong desire to...  I was going to say 'better herself', but that's not true.  She didn't have enough self confidence to imagine that she could ever be like her 'betters'.  She felt she knew her place in society and all she could do within those boundaries was make life comfortable for her family, and be seen to be behaving respectably.  Those few words at the end of that sentence contain a lifetime of guilt and anguish and puzzlement.

While she wanted me to go to university and have a different life to the one she and my dad had, she didn't want me to become one of those 'betters' she seemed almost fearful of.  I was something to be controlled, or at least moulded, which I always kicked against yet always ended up conforming.  But when I started to have some creative urges, through writing and eventually trying to learn to play music, she, unlike my father, was not overly enthusiastic.  Years later, when they came to see me performa in a stage play, something I think they only managed to do twice in the list of twenty or so productions I appeared in, it felt like she was trying to make the 'right' noises, whilst being baffled by my wanting to pareade myself in front of people like that.  People like us didn't do things like that, that was for our 'betters' - ?  I might be misjudging her, but that was what it felt like.  

I never felt like I'd done well enough.  I was encouraged to 'improve', but to what purpose I'm not sure.  She didn't value learning as a benefit in it's own right, but as a means to do something.  At least my father had some artistic side to him.  This cold criticism would extend into my personal life, especially my relationships with women.  I was warned, I was told not be over emotional, and when I got involved with a married woman that was very much my own fault - it came too close to home I think.  When I suddenly announced I was getting married she was surprised.  But there was good reason for that - I'd told her little about Julie, for fear of what I'd get back in return.  She was not an easy woman to confide in.

Life went on, the parents retired, mellowed a bit.  Well, a lot in my dad's case, hardly at all in my  mum's.  She had been outraged that I'd left my wife for a married woman, couldn't accept that there was any fault other than my own.  For about two years she wouldn't even speak to, indeed of, Barbara.  If she had to be mentioned she was 'that woman'.  It would change in time.  But it was interesting that barbara said she was much easier to get on with when I was't around.  Perhaps because she wasn't constantly having to look for things to be critical of?  We did make the mistake of going on a week's holiday with them, in France.  That experience was never repeated.  My mother wanted to do everything herself...

Where's the irony in all this?  My dad died in 2002, suicide, and my mother blamed herself.  She felt, I think, she'd driven him to it.  While she might have been annoying I don't think that was the case at all.  But it was hard to disagree when she said that bit about being difficult to live with.  I went up on my own far more than I had before, to do the jobs she could't do.  I would never be doing them right, I wasn't doing them the way Harry would have.  Why she couldn't trust me I don't know.  The one bit of praise I recall from that period was being told I was a better driver than my father.  Mind you, she also had a phobia about music being played in the car...

And so to the final, ironic, period.  Miserable for almost three years, seeming to hate herself, and therefore me more, I realised how much my dad had protected me from her worst behaviour.  She was hard work, and this was when I wondered how he'd managed to stay with her all those decades.  It all changed when she got her diagnosis.  Terminal lung cancer.  Might last a year, maybe longer.  This transformed her - into a better person, at least as far as our relationship was concerned.  Suddenly I could be trusted, I could do everything, I was the perfect son (and Barbara the perfect daughter in law!).  In the final two months, which she spent in a hospice, we became best friends.  I felt like I was being shown off to her new (and very temporary) friends who shared the accommodation with.  It was a strange feeling, one I wished we could have had at other times in our lives.  But only imminent death, a welcome end as far as she was concerned, brought that change.  Now that's ironic, isn't it?

Day 218 - First Kiss

 FIRST KISS

Prompt - First Kiss : Write about your first kiss

It had happened, hadn't it?  Sheila'd barely had time to register the moment, it was more in recall that she was able to remember.  Once she'd gone up the path, gone into the house, talked to her parents, made a fuss of the cat and then, finally, gone up to her room was she able to rerun the images of what had taken place.  And there it was, right at the end.  Or almost the end, for there were words came after, from him, from her, and she could turn away.  Even then he was still there, at the gate, when she turned in the doorway.  He waved and set off along the road.

She wouldn't say it was memorable, not in the way she'd always hoped it might be.  But it was a milestone, wasn't it?  Your first kiss?  Especially at her age.  Most especially at her age.

Sheltered.  That had been her life.  Since she'd been diagnosed with diabetes at three.  Her mother had been wonderful.  Maybe too wonderful?  How could she know?  But her big sister, more 'normal' than she, had been allowed to do much as she wanted.  Sport.  Going out.  Boys.  But there had always been some reason, however contrived, why she shouldn't follow those examples.  And she'd gone along with it because she was 'different'.  Or at least she'd always been told she was.  And why wouldn't she believe her mother?

So she lived her life vicariously through her sister, listening to her stories, encounters, hopes, disappointments, always wondering if one day they would become hers too.  But it seemed so far fetched.  She would just have to be content with being herself.   The sister had married, left home, there was nobody left to feed her dreams.  She didn't go out so she had no real friends.  She didn't go out so she didn't meet boys - the men at her work were all about her father's age, protective and patronising.  She wondered if any of them had desires for her, but none showed any sign of doing so.  And she wouldn't have known what to do if they had...

She was allowed ('allowed'?  At 22?) to join the local drama group.  It was considered safe enough.  Not far to walk on dark nights, all on well lit paths.  Not a place where people got 'out of hand' as her father described it.  Civilised people.  And, to her relief and disappointment, so they were.  Mostly women, only one of whom regularly got drunk.  Her name was Val, and Sheila worshipped her.  And couldn't tell anyone.  The few men were either a lot older, often married to other members of the group, or mere teenagers.  There was only one anywhere near her age and one of Val's first juicy titbits was that he was gay.  The group was fun, but showed no sign of ever being exciting.

Then he arrived.  And was immediately distinct from the others.  Tall, not bad looking, late twenties, from somewhere up north.  Seemed confident and shy at the same time.  Looked at her a lot, but said little.  He'd acted before, and wasn't too bad.  The shortage of competent men in their twenties pushed into the lead role in his first production with them.  Sheila had a small part as a maid in the home of the woman the man was wooing (it was an old play).  The love interest was eighteen, beautiful, nearly as tall as he, and clearly interested in him.  She knew she had no chance of making him interested in her, not against that sort of opposition.

But she was wrong.  He found the eighteen year old pleasant enough, and physically attractive, but cold, reticent and poor company.  More alarmingly, her parents were also in the group and the mother, possessed of a savage tongue at times, watched her girl closely.  

One night after rehearsal she managed to leave at the same time as him.  (Or did he leave at the same time as her?)

"Got far to go?"

"No.  Only five minutes."

"Which way?"

"Down there, round Garforth Crescent."  Her heart seemed to be sounding loud in her throat.

"Mind if I come round with you?  It's not really out my way."

"OK."

And so he did.  Only five minutes, not much said.

He did again the next night.  And the next.  The chat got a bit more interesting.  She learned where he lived, what he did at work.  The chats got longer which meant standing for a few minutes by her gate.  A few minutes more each time.  She daren't ask him in, the interrogations had already begun.

And then it happened.

"I'm going to see a band in Dornley on Friday night, fancy coming along?"  He sounded nervous.  She just about managed to hesitate before saying yes.  He smiled.  Closed in to give her a hug.  She hugged back, trying to be firm enough to seem interested, not so firm she'd seem too interested.  Old lessons.  She looked up.  He was a long way above her.  Smiled, leaned down, kissed her.  On the lips.  Brief, but real, and undeniable.  Not memorable, not really.  It just sort of happened.  Then he was pulling away, telling her what time he'd pick her up, saying good night.  And she must have agreed and said goodnight.  She walked up the path.  Looked back.  He smiled, gave a little wave, and walked away.

She had turned 24 a couple of weeks ago, celebrating with nobody but her parents.  But now it had happened.  There wasn't much to it, was there?  It would get better, wouldn't it?  She must call her sister tomorrow.

Day 217 - Waterfall

 WATERFALL

Prompt - Waterfall : Think of a waterfall you've seen in person or spend some time browsing photos of waterfalls online.  Write about the movement, flow, and energy.

The word waterfall conjures a huge variety of images, from the little weirs we have nearby on the Water of Leith, to the power and majesty of Niagara, Victoria, Angel.  Both have much in common, and much that is different.

Waterfalls are sections of rivers that drop from one level to another in a (near enough) sheer face, so that the current forces the water over the edge and down to join the lower downstream section.  They all create some noise, they all refract light in fascinating patters, they are all worth watching .  Some, artificially created by dams, generate power.  They are in almost every country in the world, wherever there is high ground and a water source there is a chance that a waterfall, of some degree or other, will appear somewhere along the course of the river.

The smaller waterfalls are pretty, especially on a sunny day, often a feeding ground for birds, and an indication of the volume of water coming through on a daily basis.  As the size increases so does the ability to impress, to create a sense of awe at the power and art of nature.  To the light dancing across the surface of the falling water, highlighting the disturbed and swirling recipient it dives into, is the refractions from clouds of spray, the sheer weight and volume too much for the water below and sending some of what it has taken back into the air in droplets that can soak the onlooker, obscure the view, and create an atmospheric curtain that adds mystery to the excitement.

Clearly there are huge differences between the tiny and the huge, but the most notable is probably the noise.  A big waterfall is not only visually impressive, but audibly as well.  A shooshing roar that never lets up, never need pause for breath, never hesitates or changes.  Even the winds cannot drown it out, it a voice across the ages.  The water falls at increasing pace from a great height, crashing into the seething maelstrom below, whether or not anyone comes to see it, or hear, whatever the weather, whatever the time of year.  It is one of the wonders of the world.

(Written on the day of my first root canal treatment, so I wasn't feeling very coherent...)

Day 216 - Oh So Lonely

 OH SO LONELY

Prompt - Oh So Lonely : Write a poem about what you do when you are alone - do you feel lonely or do you enjoy your own company?

I like to spend days alone with my gonnas

Gonna get a lot of writing done

Gonna get a lot of cleaning done

Gonna get to go places

Gonna climb to the top of that hill

My gonnas never happen, and I have learned to let them go

For I am happy just being me

From music and books and the web around the world

I let the joy in

Gonna be happy, whatever

But it's always best when she gets home

Day 215 - Collage

 COLLAGE

Prompt - Collage : Go through a magazine and cut out words that gab your attention.  Use these words to construct a poem or as a story starter or inspiration for your journal.

'With humble spirit I look out.  The moon shines on the terrace beneath me, a rabbit scampers through the pine needles at the edge of the forest.  I take a drag on my roll up, musing on the fluke of circumstance that brought me here.  This was my fourth road trip, in search of what I still didn't know.  But here I was, in a moment of time that carried a sense of journey's end.  I had been drawn into this unfamiliar land of Mediterranean pastels, baking daylight and soft summer evenings, and here I feel I will stay.  Here I will end my days.  Take care of yourself, remember me fondly.  Your Bina xxxx'

I had read this passage so many times, knew every word by heart, and still kept finding new thoughts lurking in the shadows of meaning.  Sabrina had written it on a postcard in her fine, unlaboured script, while the reverse showed a cheap tourist beach with big straw sun umbrellas and ugly red tourists on loungers, totally removed from the picture her words painted.  She'd always liked irony.  

No address given.  The card told me the photo was of La Pineda.  Google told me La Pineda was a Catalan resort near Tarragona.  Which helped decipher the likely meaning of the smudged postmark.  Tarragona.  The date looked to be about two weeks ago.  She'd been gone for seven months, and this was the first trace I'd had of her.

It was my fault.  Or so I couldn't help telling myself.  I was never enough for her.  Sabrina was the personification of Wild Child.  Colourful, outrageous, passionate, mystical, independent, needy, she lived a tangled life where midnight and midday had been transposed, and experience was all.  I loved her deeply and hated the people she spent her time with when we weren't together.  She loved me too, in the ways she could, and would always return to our bed, no matter the nature of her latest adventure.  Until she didn't.

At first I said, did, nothing, for it had happened before.  She'd be away for a couple of nights and then she'd be back, as if she'd only seen me a few hours ago.  I wanted to search and resisted, knowing she'd hate me acting as if I owned her.  But four days passed and I gave in, sought out those friends I disliked, asking where she was, humiliating myself to their cool offhandedness.  And so a story emerged.  A beach party.  A beach fire. Everyone high, everyone drunk.  One dared another, and another dared him, the dares got bigger, riskier.  The fire bit, a woman died.  On Sabrina's dare.  She wept, she feared, she fled.  Gabrielle, the woman Bina had always described as Sister, admitted she had given her a bag with a few clothes.  When I went home I found her passport, and the little she had by way of jewels and money, had gone from her drawer.  I hadn't even thought to look until then.  She had gone, really gone this time, and I had no idea where she could be.

I went to the police.  But what could they do?  She was an adult who'd decided to leave.  There was no crime (I omitted to mention her role in the beach tragedy, as, it seems, had everyone else) to investigate.  They were able to tell me that she'd taken a flight to Nice a week after she'd last been seen.  I flew out there, found a couple of people who had met her briefly, but after that there was no trail to follow.  She could be anywhere.

Until the postcard arrived.  The only words she had sent.  I had not been forgotten.  She was out there, and so was a part of me.  I got time off, I flew to Barcelona, and looked for the sort of people she'd have gravitated to in Tarragona.  They weren't hard to find.  And led me to Gunther and Maria, a couple of German stoners she'd stayed with in a villa on the edge of the pine forest.  I looked out for a rabbit.

I followed silently into a room that looked familiar from watching too many crime dramas.  He slid the drawer out, and held the sheet in his fist, looked at me for confirmation.  I nodded, he pulled it back.  The black hair fanned out on the white beneath, dark eyes stared, the familiar long, thin nose and pointed chin marked who she was.  Sabrina.  I almost thought of her as 'my Sabrina', but that would have been ridiculous.  The attendant waited for my signal.  I nodded before the tears came, and he slid her back into the wall.  

"a moment of time that carried a sense of journey's end"  The words echoed around my brain as I left the mortuary, her few possessions in my bag.  Her finality, the ending of her days, brought a close to my physical search.  If only emotions could be so cleanly curtailed.

Day 214 - Grandparents

 GRANDPARENTS

Prompt - Grandparents : Write about a moment in your grandparent's life.

"The both ae us?!"

"Aye, that's how it is.  They're no bothered who it is.  It's naw like they'd ever give ony thocht tae the likes o us."

She wouldn't cry.  She wouldn't show emotion.  That was her creed and she wouldn't want to give 'them' the satisfaction anyway.  But on top of hearing she'd been told she was no longer required in the market, now she learned that Harry had been given the same message.  

They both knew that that Fishmarket had been overstaffed, as Newhaven's importance declined, the fishing moved further and further north, and there was less to be carted about the place, less gutting to do, less of everything.  But to have it happen to the both of them on the same day - that was hard to bear.  Yet bear it they would, because that was who they were.  Jimmy and Liston were bringing in a wage now, Nan could be soon.  Chrissie would be leaving the school next year, and wee Harry the year after.  They would manage.  Harry would have to find work in the docks over in leith, while she could surely find somebody needing a cleaner?

They walked the short distance back home.  The younger children were already home.  She carefully removed the old fishwives outfit she used, the traditional garb of the village women, all stripes and voluminous folds and practical enough for the work she had to do.  Had had to do.  She wondered if she'd ever wear it again.  

Her final paypacket, and Harry's, for at least he wasn't a drinker like her father, went into the tin.  She counted what they had.  With a bit from Jimmy and Liston they'd have enough to see out the month, maybe a bit more.  By then she'd have fund something, anything, to bring in some pennies.  It was what she was for.

She set about getting the tea ready.

Day 213 - Schedule

 SCHEDULE

Prompt - Schedule : Take a look at your calendar and use the schedule for inspiration in writing

THE RETURN OF THE GREEN AND BLUE

Like many people I colour code the entries in my calendar to make an at a glance assessment of what's coming up that bit easier.  Not that it's been all that difficult over the fifteen months as there was hardly ever anything in there.  2020 was a quiet year for doing.  The majority of entries didn't involve going anywhere, but marked video calls with friends or livestreams of entertainment and sport.  

The colour coding is simple enough.  Uncategorised events are in maroon, anything to do with my voluntary work is yellow, reminders are a mid blue.  Regular reminders (the really mundane stuff, like cleaning the dishwasher filter once a month!) are apricot, my wife's appointments (we share our calendars) in lilac.  They have all, to varying degrees, been around for the past year.  But there were two colours that were noticeably sparse, and each reflected something taking place online, rather than their intended purpose of marking the intent to be somewhere oher than home.

Green entries show entertainment.  Dark blue indicate rugby matches.  It is sooo good to see both starting to make a reappearance.  August shows a splattering of green, and that shade reoccurs each month thereafter, albeit infrequently so far.  Of course it doesn't look anything like the pre-pandemic Augusts, which had few non-green days, and many had multiple entries.  By our 'usual' Fringe standards it will be a modest effort, but anything is in improvement over the emptiness of twelve months ago.  And, although the final dates and times have still to be released, from mid September onwards the number of blues will become regular.  Marking either an Edinburgh Rugby away match to watch online, or, at last, a trip to Murrayfield to do a bit of shouting.  That should be in our new stadium, if covid infection rates permit, otherwise we've been told they may still use the national stadium, with appropriate social distancing.  Whichever it is will be hugely welcome.

But it's Fringe time soon, our first gig booked for Monday the ninth.  We went to one gig in the Jazz and Blues Festival and that proved a stimulating reminder of what we have missed out on for so long.  Yes there will still be masks, yes we'll still be keeping our distance from others, but even in those circumstances there is nothing to beat the thrill of the live.  Here's to a lot more green and blue in my calendar.