Day 360 - Review

 REVIEW

Prompt - Review : Review your week, month or year in a journal entry or poem format

The final month of 2021, the second year of the global pandemic that has done so much damage around the globe.  Throughout those two years I've always been conscious that we, my wife and I, are less affected than most, lucky to lead the life we do.  Other than contracting the virus itself, but making pretty full recoveries (I have been left a short of breath, which appears to be a permanent legacy), the only limitations on our lives have been genuine 'first world problems' that are of little significance in the bigger picture.  Missing out on gigs and rugby matches and travel are not major issues, certainly not compared to all the people who have been reduced to poverty, had their health suffer, lost loved ones, been lonely and desperate.  We have each other, a cat, a nice warm home, enough money to meet our needs, far more than the basics of life.

December 2021 has been more of the same.  It began, for me, alone, as Barbara was visiting family down south.  That in itself was a change as it had been impossible last year.  She returned the day after, and I had two nights out.  One a pub meal with other volunteers and staff from where I do my 'work'.  The second an evening match, watching Edinburgh beat Benetton.  So the month started well.

Then it was life as usual.  Going into the office on a Wednesday afternoon.  The usual minutiae of daily life, the shopping and cooking and doing some writing.  Getting out every day,no matter the weather, although it was mostly dry but cold anyway.  Good to be wrapped up in winter clothing, albeit confusing when we had a short warmer spell, and I could feel the sweat forming after a few hundred meters.  Barbara had a meal out with friends, and another few days away with family, this time in Windermere.  And, as the month wore on, some xmas preparations.  Although since it's just a quiet time for the two of us, and our main present to each other is a trip away next February, there wasn't even much of that.

But covid has intervened as well.  A mid month music gig was cancelled due to the musicians contracting the disease.  And then another, for the same reason, a few days later.  Finally the government has, sensibly, called for a mini-lockdown after xmas and we have lost the Hogmanay gig in Greyfriars Kirk we were so looking forward to.

Still, there were other highlights.  The Crawford 'staff night out' went ahead as planned, with a trip to Dundee on the twenty second to watch our comedian friend Aidan Goatley perform.  That was fun.  And although there was no more live rugby to go to (and, not strictly relevant here except for the sense of loss, I won't be going to Murrayfield to see Edinburgh play Glasgow on second of January, all the worse because I'd managed to book the best seats I've ever had in the stadium!) there was a stunning highlight in watching Edinburgh beat Saracens, at the latter's home ground, in a live TV broadcast that had me shouting and jumping up at regular intervals.  Oh, and I got to watch 'my' NHL team, the New York Islanders, playing live without having to stay up into the middle of the night, as they had an afternoon faceoff which translated into seven in the evening here.  Pity they lost on penalties though!

And we had xmas day yesterday, with presents and food and just having a nice time being with one another.  Like most days.

What's left for this month?  More of the same I suppose.  Getting out every day.  Eating well. Writing and reading and TV.   Tomorrow the chance to watch Edinburgh again, this time away in Glasgow.  Some volunteering work, by phone.  And being together.  

Covid times are bad times for many, but have still been happy times for us, and December 2021, despite the occasional glitch of lost opportunities, has been more of the same.  Roll on 2022.

Day 358 - Picnic

 PICNIC

Prompt - Picnic : Write about going on a picnic

"an occasion when a packed meal is eaten outdoors, especially during an outing to the countryside"

I am not a fan of picnics.  Perhaps due to childhood memories.  If I try hard I can recall some enjoyable picnics, most of which were at Stow.  But my overriding memories of eating outdoors is the intervention of sand in the food, if at the beach, or the interfering persistence of ants and other insects in the country.  Picnics get a better press than they deserve.

So the picnic is not a staple of the Crawford household.  But was one last year, and a sort-of one this year, both of which have provided happy recollections.  Last year, during the summer of lockdowns, we took a couple of folding chairs, and a couple of insulated bags, and made our way across the road to Pilrig Park.  Spot in the sun selected, chairs erected, cups placed in cup holders, drinks poured food unpacked, we sat and ate and talked and had a lovely couple of hours on the grass, surrounded by trees and the sights and sounds of others having fun - kicking a ball about, making their dogs chase, throwing frisbees, sat cross legged sharing drinks, reading books, lying back to soak up a dose of vitamin D.  That was a good afternoon.

That one probably met the definition I opened this essay with, albeit an urban park isn't really 'the countryside'.  But this year's experience is even more tenuous, if that opening line is the guide.  Once a gain the scene was a public park.  But this time I'm not sure if it could be described as a 'packed meal'  I suppose it came in cardboard boxes and paper bags, but the only edible I'd actually packed for the outing was a flask of tap water.

But whether or not it meets the strict definition of picnic is not really the important thing.  What matters most is knowing that we had a good time, and it's an experience we want to repeat next year.  We had got ourselves on a bus to Bruntsfield, on a sunny day.  While being conveyed to our destination I used my phone to place an order with Meltmongers, the toastie shop in said location.  This was a place we'd been meaning to try for years.  But the stools inside the shop never look very comfortable, so it would have to be a nice day when we could comfortably sit on a bench on Bruntsfield Links.  It proved worth the wait.

While Barbara got herself a coffee from one of the old police box kiosks, I went in to collect our order.  A toastie apiece, and a box of sweet potato fries to share.  Then we made out way to a bench, remote from others, and consumed our bread based feast.  Delicious.  To be repeated.  I had jalapenos in my filling, and their bite went so well with the sweetness of the chips.  Great bread they use too.  And, a bit like that day at Pilrig, but on a lesser scale, we could indulge in people watching while we sat and ate.  A large family playing games around a bench.  A couple laughing hysterically at their own flawed efforts with a frisbee.  People walking dogs, people simply walking.  And us, hungrily devouring our simple but tasty repast.  That sounds like the spirit of picnicness.

Day 329 - Trail and Error

 TRIAL AND ERROR

Prompt - Trial and Error : Write about something you learned the hard way

Learning stuff came too easily to me during my school years.  I was a natural at exams and didn't have to work hard to pass them.  Rather than try to develop this intellectual talent I instead became lazy.  Why bother trying if you could get by without much effort?  Of course I struggled with some subjects, failed the odd exam, but I always did enough to be near the top of the class in most of what I did.  

This did mean I missed out on my one childhood dream career, as an airline pilot, because I was told I'd struggle to pass physics.  Rather than say I'd give it a go I took the simpler path.  That carried on into university, until, when it looked like I really would have to do some actual work, I opted out, took a lesser degree and went on my way.

So when I had to try and learn to do a real world job, especially one I had little natural aptitude for, I struggled.  Hugely.  And would end up resigning within nine months - before they fired me!  I went back to doing a low level job that was very simple and which I was good at, while trying to figure out what to do with my life.

It was a careers adviser at the Jobcentre who suggested computers (not IT - that term hadn't arrived yet!), based on some aptitude tests and my interests.  I had no previous experience of computing (at that time I hadn't even seen an ATM) so in the end the only place that would take me on, and train me from scratch, was the civil service.  And so I found myself over four hundred miles from home, learning to become a COBOL programmer with three other people.

Within a few weeks it was obvious to everyone, even me, that I was going to be the star of the quartet.  The logic and language used came naturally to me, and I loved learning to design and code.  Then I hit a bit of a snag.

Not in my understanding of what I was having to learn, but physically.  I was lucky enough to find a GP who knew about glandular fever, and was able to diagnose it quickly.  Except that there wasn't really any treatment, it was something I had to get through.  That meant about three weeks off work at first.  I came back, and soon caught up with the others.  Then I was off again, for a bit longer this time.  When I returned to the office I was not having an easy time of it.  Weak, slow, easily tired, couldn't socialise with anyone as I felt so exhausted and unable to consume alcohol anyway.  I would work on the training course as hard as I could, struggle home, and collapse.  Sometimes I would get in, flop on the sofa, and be unable to move for a couple of hours.  As in literally unable to find the energy to open an eyelid.

The people I lived with thought I was asleep when I was in that state.  But I was usually conscious, able to listen and process what I heard, but totally unable to respond in any way.  So they'd say what they really thought, clearly unable to understand what the illness did to me, or simply not caring.  i was boring, I was a pain, I was getting in everyone's way, I was useless.

Things were better in the office, where most in my immediate circle were more understanding, but I was still seen as an outsider who wouldn't join in.

All I had was the job, trying to get through the course so that I could start my career.  So for once in my life I worked hard.  So hard that, despite having lost about six or seven weeks of a four month training period, I caught and passed the others and was seen as the top prospect by the end of it.  So much so that I was recommended to one of the sections which took the brightest graduates from training.

That produced further fear of failure, for even by that time I was still physically very weak - it would take well over eight months to be back to anything like my normal self - and thought I couldn't live up to the build up I was being given.  But my new bosses were very good, gave me time to develop my skills and accepted that I wouldn't always be able to deliver one hundred per cent. 

I'm glad I got glandular fever.  While I would always be lazy, and still am, that period showed I could fight for what I wanted if I really needed to, and that memory would help me in the future.

Day 323 - Decade

 DECADE

Prompt - Decade : Choose a favourite decade and write about it

Decisions, decisions.  Do I choose a personal favourite, when I felt happiest, or the decade before the UK started turning into the toxic shithole it has become in recent years?  Especailly considering that the former is also the most sriking example to demonstrate the latter progression...

My personal favourite has been the decade just gone.  What do we call it?  The Tens?  The Teens?  Whatever name history bestows, it was a hugely enjoyable ten years for me, between 2010 and 2019.  It began with retirement, and the chance to do with life as I wished.  And hten, other than my diagnosis of gout, and the annoyance that breifly brought, it turned into a decade of self development, of change and discovery, of enjoyment.  It took me fro a nice house in Southport to a wonderful flat in Edinburgh.  From a relatively sterile fan of motor racing to an active fan of first hockey, then rugby.  From someone who wrote a daily diary and little else into someone who wrote something, anything, every day, and which would eventually lead to this year of coming up with short stories and poems.  From being moderately fit to being able to walk for hours.  And who had, sort of, returned to gym work.  From being unsure about how th rest of life would turn out, to finding some sense of purpose, and getting to enjoy so much creativity laid before me.  It has been a happy decade.

It also allowed m to develop a new approach to life.  To treat life as a series of phases, either major or minor, and not to dwell too long on the phase gone by, but to concentrae on making the best of the phase ahead.  The most major examples of that were leaving paid employment, and the move north back to my home town.  But along the way there has been losing the social activity of being in the Caps family, the move into the new flat, the recognition that Advocard work was something I was quite good at.  All adjustments to be made, taken into the daily fabric of life.

There has also been my development as a writer (of sorts).  The discovery of 750words and the help that gave me in becoming committed to writing every single day  (I am currently on a 1409 day streak, which started well back into my chosen decade!).  The impetus to start a blog, which has now been going, in fits and starts, for over nine years.  That leading into the hobby of writing reviews of the shows and films I go to see.  And on into what would become the 365 project this year, with, I hope, more to come.

My creativity has extended to the visual, with the enjoyment of Instagram, although I did let myself down by finally buying the DSLR I'd been promising, then failing to learn to use it!

At the same time our new found liesure has increased our consumption of live culture, and sport.  That's been enhanced by the move to Edinburgh.  The golden years were 2015 to 2018, when we truly had life sorted.  Summers spent at all the wonderful festivals - Trad, Film, Jazz, Fringe etc - and a winter of going to our second home at Murrayfield Ice Rink, where we became a part of the furniture, where we elt we fitted in.  It was sad when the Caps period came to an end, but I was lucky to them move on to Edinburgh Rugby, which would ultimately lead on to reconnection with my oldest friend.

In contrast to that hugely enjoyable personal life, the political background has been disastrous.  We moved up to Scotland in 2014, full of hope for independence, and I played a minor role in the campaign, only to have those hopes shattered.  Worse was to come two years later with the madness of Trump and brexshit.  The latter continues to make lives worse, and there's more to come.  But those events were part of the logical flow that began in the eighties, with Regan and the vile Thatcher.  Ever since I watched the rise of far right influence in UK politics, and that is currently our greaest danger.  

Which is why I'd choose the seventies as my best decade in the wider world, alhough less so if you were part of any minorities.  But the far right were a bad joke, with scum like the BNP enjoying risible support.  For all that there were serious problems in that decad, like three day weeks and the winter of discontent, they were share problems.  The UK was a far happier place pre Thatcher's divisiveness, mostly because it was more equal.  And that's something we have to learn to recapture. Roll on Indy...

Day 313 - Playground

 PLAYGROUND

Prompt - Playground : Whether it is the swings or the sandbox or the sliding boards, write about your memories of being on a playground

I do not know if I am odd or not, but my memories of my childhood seem to be far less clear than many other people I've talked to about the subject.  Or less clear than they claim their recollections to be.  For we all know memory is fallible.  We are able to recall particular highs and lows, but the daily habits of existence become strangers to us, to be replaced by new habits, and replaced again, as our lives change.  So I feel I am unclear about my earliest memory, and some of the contenders only really exist in my consciousness because of photos I've seen.   All of which is by way of saying that what I am about to relate comes through rose tinted vision and is both selective and unreliable.

The word playground primarily conjures up images of hard concrete and tarmac expanses at school, either kicking a small ball around, or playing the sort of games children played in the sixties.  But a playground with swings and slides and the like?  There would have been plenty around, yet none stick in my mind, bar one.  And that one carries with it the (imagined?) golden magic of summers outside the city.

Each year the family would take a cottage in the small village of Stow, which sits on the A7 a few miles to the north of Galashiels, and I would spend a good part of my summer holidays there.  Sometimes with my parents, mostly with a grandmother and great aunt.  There may have been others who came to stay for a time, but I don't remember other kids being among them.

So I'd explore the village, go for walks, make my own entertainment.  There was a burn in the woods, down in the valley (probably only a slight dip in the landscape, but to a small boy...) where I wasn't supposed to go, but still managed to fall in a couple of times.  The graveyard, which dated back many centuries, became a place of fascination.  But the one place that was both a parentally approved destination, and somewhere I wanted to be, was the playground in the public park.  

It's a few years since I drove down the A7, but the last time I did I saw there was a still a play facility there.  Easy to see as it's on the right , in open space, a bit before the village proper starts.  It didn't look much like the playground of my memories, for it had been updated, and made a lot safer.  No more falling onto the solid concrete of my day.  

I remember a slide, a roundabout and some swings.  If there was more then it's been consigned to my mental dustbin.  I remember lots and lots of sunny days, but this was Scotland so even I'm suspicious of that one.  Mostly I went there accompanied by elderly relatives, who would sit on a bench and watch me entertain myself.  It's strange, but I don't recall there ever being any other kids there at the same time as me.  Where were the locals?  Maybe they were all holidaying in Edinburgh!  There must have been some, but not a single one has lasted in my mind over the decades.

It's the roundabout I remember best.  Especially for the days when my dad came down, for then it would move much faster and for longer that I was capable of managing on my own.  Plus he was the only one of the family up for that bit extra speed.  But mostly I still see myself propelling it round and round on my own, until I was too tired or dizzy, or was called home for my tea.  I have no recall of what I was thinking, other than 'faster, faster', or sense of whether I felt privileged or lonely or excited.  It was what we did, it was what it was, and I was a child used to spending time on his own and in my own head.  

My playground is not a sociable place.

Day 306 - Long Distance Love

 LONG DISTANCE LOVE

Prompt - Long Distance Love : Write about a couple that is separated by a distance

It wouldn't have worked out that way nowadays, would it?  But this was over forty years ago.  No mobile phones, no social media, no video calling.  No means of staying in regular touch except by (expensive) landline and the art of letter writing.  In longhand.  On paper.  And putting it into a letter box.  But you try telling that to the kids today....!

So the warning signs weren't there, weren't available.  Which made it all the more surprising when they flooded in on that train journey from Waterloo to Portsmouth Harbour.  With me sitting there wondering if she could see them too?

Annie and I had met at a party about two and a half years before, where she'd drunkenly started playing footsie with me under the table, then proceeded to drag me on to the dance floor and drape herself around me, admitting no others, before keeping a tight grip on my arm and taking me along to her flat.  I wasn't going to argue, because she was gorgeous (too gorgeous for me?) and I'd liked her as soon as I'd seen her.  

This happened only two months before I was due to leave Edinburgh and head off to live more than four hundred miles to the south.  I was, at least, honest with her about that.  So the relationship felt doomed from the start, and perhaps that made it more frenetic than it might otherwise have been.  I'd been looking forward to my big move, but Annie spoiled that - suddenly I had a good reason to remain.  Twas not to be though.

We parted with sadness and joy, and thought we'd only ever be friends.  But the connection persisted.  Six weeks after I left I fell ill.  With glandular fever, the disease Annie had only just recovered from when we first met.  They call it 'the kissing disease', and we'd certainly done a lot of that.  When I was finally well enough to return back home we met again, at another party, got talking, and conversation turned to our shared experience of unwellness.  It brought us close again and, somehow or other, I found myself back in her bed.  But it still felt doomed.

Nonetheless we stayed in touch more frequently, and when I came returned for the second time we spent a lot of time together, and decided that we were a couple after all.  Of sorts.  This was continued on my next trip up, even though there were many months between each.  And talk turned to having a holiday together, to find out just how much this relationship was worth.  Money was tight, camping was the answer.  I lived in warmer climes, so that would be our starting point.

The plan came together as Winter dawdled past, Spring rushed by, and Summer arrived.  I'd got together all the gear we needed, identified likely sites for pitching.  She'd come down to London on the train, I'd go up to meet her, we'd come back down together.  The letters got steamier, the phone calls longer, my sighs louder and excitement greater.  And then I was on my way.  But.

Something didn't feel right, and I had no idea what it was.  Until Kings Cross.  She came off the platform.  She looked the same.  Smiled the same, walked the same, looked pleased to see me same.  But.  But there was no response from inside.  I made myself smile, say the right things, hug tightly, but it had become more performance than passion.  The train trip down proved that whatever was there had gone AWOL, and at the worst possible moment.  I didn't want to spend a week in a tent with this woman.  After eight months if thinking of just that, for large portions of every single day.  How could that happen?

I had no answer.  Nor could I keep the performance for long.  She stayed two nights, and I saw her off on the train to London.  We'd be sort-of friends for a while after that, but I'd hurt her badly and within a year I'd seen her for the last time.

These memories don't come back to often, but when they do I feel such guilt, such anguish for causing pain and handling it so badly.  Would I have been able to do things better with today's technology?

Would I?

Day 286 - Outcast

 OUTCAST

Prompt - Outcast : Write about a time when you had to make a difficult choice

My admission had set the process in motion and, despite her efforts to reverse from the endpoint, and my own doubts about my future, it still had a slow burning fuse of inevitability about it.  I'd told her about the affair, that it had ended, and that despite that I was left with the feeling that I could do better than I had now.  That the life we had wasn't enough, wasn't doing me, or maybe her, any good.  

After the howls of anger, the tears and accusations, it eventually calmed down, and her schemes began.  Would I go to divorce counselling?  What did she need to do to make it better?  Surely I'd be unhappier on my own?

The irony wasn't lost on me.  One of the many reasons that drove me to seek out the company of someone else, apart from the magnetic attraction, had been the up and down nature of my married life.  The constant threats of leaving, the frequent suggestion that we'd be better apart, the big bust ups without the pleasure of a proper reconciliation.  And yet now here she was, being given the chance to grab on to the one thing she's been suggesting for almost all of our time together, and pushing it away like a child been given the present they'd asked for from Santa and then complaining it wasn't grown up enough.  

So we sought out counselling.  It took months before we reached the point on the list where we could be seen.  And in those months, despite the loss of my lover from my life, there was nothing in her 'reformed' behaviour that had shown me I was wrong.  The counsellor was pleasant enough, keen to explore and suggest.  I went along with it, partly to see if it would make a difference, partly to be able to say I'd tried.  There was one session stood out in my head.  I'd been asked to leave the room for a bit, so I went out for some fresh air.  And there, across the road, was my lover's car.  She was just getting out, saw me, hesitated.  Trying to save her own marriage, so I wasn't convenient.  But so what?  She smiled.  She stood by the car, unsure what to do next.  And then the counsellor called me back in.  I shrugged and went with her.  But a part of me remained outside.

I pretended.  I pretended because I didn't know how to make it final.  But I knew it had to be, and the longer I pretend the worse it would be.  We'd done the counselling sessions.  We were, in theory, doing alright, making progress, coming together, shaping a future, any one of endless  bland platitudes that hid away what was really happening.  I didn't want to be there, to be with her.  Nothing in those two years had changed that.

I still had doubts.  Seven years living with someone makes you wonder how you'll cope on your own.  memories of the years before that time weren't always encouraging.  But I was a new person, I was not the man who'd hidden away back then.  I wanted to be out there.  

I tried to choose my time.  But no choice made it easier.  I'd decided, the only hard part was announcing it, and making sure it stuck.

So I did.

"Sorry, I know you've tired, but I still feel the same as I did two years ago.  We need to part."  I had set the final stage of the process in motion.

Day 285 - Repeat

 REPEAT

Prompt - Repeat : Write about a time when you had to make a difficult choice

There are important discussions you have to rush, because failure to do so will make things worse, and there are others where the time spent on coming to the answer is well worth it, for the end result needs to be carefully considered.  If there's an immovable deadline there can be no choice but to have to pick a way forward, even if not fully informed.  But where time isn't an issue, and especially if the choice to be made determines how life will then unfold, then best to gather as much information as possible, and carefully examine the options.

In the nineties I recall having to make many decisions, but one in each of the above categories stands out.  The informed choice ended up with me splitting from my first wife, and finding a much happier life.  The realisation that I could do so much better came out of an affair, which then ended.  But it taught me to value myself more, made me realise I could be someone and do things I didn't think I was capable of, and that I would be able to live a happier life on my own than in a broken marriage.  It took years to get to that point, and the story would have a very happy ending, because the person I had had the affair with reached the same decision a little later, and we have been together for twenty eight years.  But getting to the point of going for it took months, years, of deliberation, looking at alternatives, procrastination, indecision, but ultimately the right choice.  

The time-pressured choice came in '99, when I was a so-called 'millennium bug' project manager.  So there was a clear deadline to meet, a plan to be adhered to as best I could, but knowing that along the way there would be points where things weren't working out as envisaged, and then I would be faced with difficult judgements.  Times when I would have to rely on instinct as much as information and opinion.  In this case both my deputies were pressing me to delay the next stage of the rollout, arguing that there were too many flaws in the software.  they were right in that respect, but the bigger picture was the impact of delaying this stage on the overall plan, and what that would do for our already fragile credibility in the user community.  I went against their advice, told them I would take full responsibility and let my board know that I was doing this in the face of a very considered reluctance from my team.  It was a nerve wracjking moment, and I suspect I lost a lot of sleep that night, but I knew that, whether right or wrong in the end, it was essential that I do something.  Eventually my choice proved to be the right one, to my relief (and my team's surprise!), but it could so easily have backfired.  Yet not as much as deferring and deferring and making no decision at all.  Leadership is like that.

Day 276 - Doodle

 DOODLE

Prompt - Doodle : Spend some time today doodling for about 5-10 minutes.  Write about the thoughts you had while doodling, or create something inspired by your finished doodle.

My doodling invariably becomes colouring in, if I have more than one colour of pen available, or shading in if not.  I like to see what patterns turn up from drawing a few lines on a page, then move on into becoming something more visually interesting.  And today I did that again, after a gap of - I don't know how long.  But that simple act took me back to when I was more prolific in producing this kind of visual decoration.

It was a habit to do something like this to boost my mood when I was bored at work.  And, for several years, it was a daily habit in the paper diaries I used to keep.  There were several variations of this.  Some of these volumes, A4 in size, had several of these designs in them.  

Many were like the picture I drew today, with swirling lines intersecting and creating strangely shaped and variously sized spaces.  These would then be coloured in, usually with solid colours, in a far more meticulous and time consuming process than that I've done today.  They would be completed gradually over the course of the year.  

But the most interesting ones were the 'date snakes'.  On the first of January I would create a small outline shape, at random on the page.  Then it would be filled in with some colour or colours, and the number 1.  The following day another shape would be drawn to adjoin the first one, this time with contrasting colour and the number 2.  And so on, all the way to 365.  The challenge was to get the snake to near enough fill the A4 page on the final day of the year, so the 'snake' had to wend it's way carefully, not get blocked or snarled up within itself, so that it filled the space at the right time, and not before.  The shapes would vary in size and detail, usually getting a bit larger once I hit three figures, and again at two hundred.

A lost art, to me at least, for my diaries are all online nowadays, have been for several years.  The date snake would never get started, let alone completed.  And I think I already have enough daily challenges with my 11k steps, 750 words and 365 writing!  But todays' exercise reminded me of those times, and how lovely some of the end products were.  Maybe colour means more to me than I realise...

Day 264 - Light at the End of the Tunnel

 LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

Prompt - Light at the End of the Tunnel : Write about a time when you saw hope when it seemed like a hopeless situation

"It's for you."  Jess put the phone down and walked away, with one muttered word.  "Her."

I picked up the receiver, with a mix of trepidation, exultation, puzzlement and surprise.  

"Hello?"

"You're going to get what you wanted."  The words were half sobbed, half rushed, but I knew what they meant.  Immediately.  We would be together.  Carol, who I'd known and loved for more than three years, would finally be leaving her husband and coming to be with me.  For good.

Our conversation was brief, the tearfulness from the other end dampening the excitement of the moment.   When I put the phone down I went to find some space to myself, time to think, and to go through the implications of that short conversation.  When I finally came out of this dark tunnel I'd inhabited for so long there would be a destination to head for.  There would be a goal.

But this wasn't the moment when the light had first hit me, when I'd been able to visualise my route out.  That had come a few months before.  

The tunnel had turned and twisted for almost two years, and there plenty of times when I felt like giving up.  Of accepting the darkness because that's what I deserved.  Jess wouldn't let me go, Carol wouldn't be coming to me, I was worthless to everyone, including myself.  Our affair had lasted nine glorious months, in less than glorious circumstances.  Sneaking about, meeting in cars parked up quiet roads, finding ways to leave secret messages, the odd night away in a hotel, always shoulder looking for fear of discovery  Exciting and degrading at the same time.   

Then it ended.  She had decided to give her marriage a try.  So I did the same.  Came clean.  Aimed for a new beginning.

I tried.  Jess tried.  We really did.  But by then I was deep into the tunnel, and with every mile, every twist, it became clearer that she wasn't the light I was looking for, the light I needed.   Until she admitted it was better if we parted.  For ever.  There was still a lot of tunnel to go through, with the house taking months to sell, but there was that chink of light.  There was glimpse of sunshine I needed.  A life without Jess was a return to open skies, to possibilities.  Even if it didn't include Carol they were still enough for me.  It was hope, and I thought I'd left hope behind me a long time ago.

Now when I came out of the dark, out of this broken relationship, it was with a purpose, a chance to build a new reality.  But even if that failed to happen the light was still there.  I had learned to love me again.

Day 259 - Under the Influence

 UNDER THE INFLUENCE

Prompt - Under the Influence : What is something that has impacted you positively in your life?

Something?  Or someone?  Have people influenced me more than 'things'?  Of course.  'Things' can influence of course.  Many of my political stances go back to my time at university, with the content of some courses a major influence.  But I'd credit the biggest changes to my Sociology tutor, who opened my eyes to many aspects of sociopolitical life.  Or at least that's what memory says, for my diaries are surprisingly mute on this evolutionary aspect of my thinking at the time.

There's the problem - looking for influences is dependent on memory, and memory is flawed.  So whatever I choose as my major influence here will probably ignore some aspects of my life that I've long forgotten about.

In more recent years I could choose hockey as a major influence, or at least my involvement with Caps, because it made me realise what supporting a team was all about, something that had eluded me for decades.  Or there's my work at Advocard, which has made me look more closely at my own beliefs, and appreciate my privilege more fully.  If the greatest influences have come from people then my parents had a huge role, although not always positive.  There have been teachers, colleagues, friends, lovers, all of whom have had some positive impacts upon me in so many ways.

But ultimately there is only one answer to the question of what, or who, has been the greatest positive influence in my life.  Barbara.  My wife of twenty four years, partner of twenty eight, obsession of thirty one.  She has helped shape me, and make me a better person, more than anyone else.

But what is 'positively' anyway?  What is 'better'?  I think there are two main aspects to this, closely interlinked.  The way in which I treat and think of others, and the way in which I treat and think of myself.  And in influencing the latter for the better she has also influenced the former.  For it took Barbara to make me realise that you can't have love and respect for others unless you have those things for yourself.  You need to be your own 'number one'.  Not in a selfish, grasping, me first manner, but in recognising your own worth, knowing and understanding who you are, believing that you are perhaps more interesting than you thought.  She did much to shape, or help me to shape, much of my character, which had been ground down by several years in a lopsided marriage.  I had little belief in myself as a person.   Felt sexually, socially and professionally inadequate too much of the time.  Had little real self confidence, despite some career progression and being able to take the stage in amateur dramatics.  So what did she actually do to effect some gradual transformations?

Most of the influences are more subtle, but some were obvious.  Like dress sense.  I dressed cautiously, like an old man, looked a mess.  Barbara changed that, helped me try on 'looks' I wouldn't have ever considered, persuaded me to buy clothes I wouldn't have looked at before, made others notice the change in me.  That others noticed was something I hadn't been used to, having always preferred to fade into the background.  I discovered styles of dress I'd shied away from, and over the years developed the confidence to find my own style.  Now I rarely feel the need to consult her, although I always seek her approval.  But she's given me the confidence to be me.

That was a part of treating myself better, of starting to like me more.  She also encouraged me to follow my own little dreams.  The 'sportscar before I'm forty' became a reality, which it never would have without her.  That in turn led us on adventures, Matra meetings, I'd have missed out on otherwise.  We became a part of a diverse group that had nothing in common but the cars they drove.  An interesting period in my life.

Now I'm trying to write.  She encouraged my blog, commented positively on my dedication to my 750words, has appreciated my efforts this year to write stories and poems (in this blog).  And now, in her own time of crisis, she has made me appreciate again how much I love her, how big a part of my life she is, and how cataclysmic would be the change in my life were she not here. She is more than an influence.  I am my own person, but would be a lesser one without her.

Day 255 - Dance

 DANCE

Prompt - Dance : Write about a dancer or a time you remember dancing

I hate dancing.  Not that I've got anything against other people doing it.  And there are often times when watching dance can be entertaining.  It's me doing it I can't abide.  Self consciousness.  Awkward of movement.  Lacking grace.  Easily embarrassed (by myself).  Even more so nowadays when I can no longer get pished enough not too care too much.

So any exceptions to that basic rule stand out in my memory.  There are two that live on in my head.

The first was when I went to a ceilidh with a pal, neither of us having been before.  We'd been invited by another friend who was playing fiddle in the dance band.  Our first half hour was spent sitting on the distant fringes of the hall, pints being downed, a well placed table cutting us off from any possible involvement with the rest of humanity.  Then a guy took to the floor in his kilt.  Not just a kilt, but the full formal outfit, right down to the sgian dubh.  "He'll be good" we thought, probably worth watching.  Well he wasn't good, and he was definitely worth watching.  He inspired up.  If somebody that crap at it could get up there and not bother then why not us?

So, come the next dance, we tentatively lined up, found ourselves allocated partners, and listened to the caller's instructions.  I remember her well.  Her name was Sheila Kidney, and she was short and round.  She was also, when she demonstrated what we were to do, incredibly light on her feet.  More importantly she was a good caller - clear, able to demonstrate, patient and funny.  So we walked through the movements, had one trial run, and realised that if there was chaos it wasn't always down to us.  Maybe fear made us listen more closely.

The dance began, we both got through it without major cockups, and returned to our table.  Puffing slightly, grinning a lot.  This was more fun to do that it had looked.  I don't think we sat one out for the next hour or more.  A couple of women friends arrived and we soon tired them out, had to move on.  We had a great night, and would go to several more.  The memories of those times also took me along to a couple of barn dances when I was living in the south of England.  Just as much fun, despite, having driven, being pretty sober.  So when I say I don't like dancing it's the kind where you have to make stuff up that's the problem.  If I'm told clearly exactly what to do, and realise I can run through it rather than actually dance, I'm in my element apparently.  (Except that nowadays I'd be out of breath too quickly!)

So there's one further exception to my original rule, and it also breaks the second one, for I had to improvise my movements.  Fortunately my dance partner, when she wasn't laughing at me too much, was helpful with advice and guidance. 

It was my best friend's wedding, we'd travelled down to York for it, and there was a big party afterwards.  With dancing.  We knew hardly anyone, other than bride and groom, but a few introductions were made, alcohol was consumed, and Barbara was insistent.  This was an opportunity she wasn't going to miss, no matter how awful I was at it.  So I found myself on the dance floor.

I must have had just the right amount of booze in my system, for I found myself, shockingly, having fun.  It was a cheerful occasion, I was happy for my oldest pal, and I was with the woman I loved.  Circumstances.  Context.  The one dance I can really recall was after all the quicker, shaking about (!) stuff, we held each other close and danced to The Bangles' Eternal Flame.  Not the greatest of songs, but it became ours in that moment.  We were in love, really deeply in love at that moment, intensely connected, and is that something dance can do?  It never has again, probably never will, but that moment is seared across my memory filaments.

I still don't like dancing though.

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 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 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 199 - Hiding Spaces

 HIDING SPACES

Prompt - Hiding Spaces : Write about things you like to hide things at.  What was a favourite hiding spot for you as a child playing hide-and-seek?

It had to be this room, didn't it?  Either that or the garage, which was carrying inconvenience a bit too far.  This was the only room she rarely had any good reason to come into.  There were books she might choose of course, but mostly she stuck to the trash from the library, so it was unlikely.

He'd looked round everywhere else, trying to think as she would.  The only place downstairs she might not be able to check out was on top of the kitchen cupboards.  But if he was spotted bringing it down from there he'd then worry and have to seek out a new spot.  So upstairs it was.  

Their bedroom had a few decent hiding places, but she spent more time in there than he did.  If she felt she had reason to look for it she would also have the time and opportunity.  Burying it in a drawer full of sweaters might appear secure, but not if she felt determined.  And he still worried she might.  While the spare room had few obvious places to hide it.  Down the back of the wardrobe was as much an inconvenience as the garage option.  Anyway, it was in here he would always use it.

When the crisis had first blown up he'd taken it into the office, locked it in his desk drawer.  That had been OK for a couple of weeks, but one of his colleagues had got a bit too nosey.  Anyway, that created a different problem at weekends, not to mention forgetting what had happened the day before!  So it had to come home.  And now the task was to come up with at least one place where it could be safe from prying hands, preferably with alternatives, just in case he was spotted in the act of taking out or putting away.

His desk had no lock.  Nor did the cupboard.  The book cases were open shelving, and it was too big to hide easily behind most of the volumes in there.  But they were high, reaching close to the low ceiling, and deep enough that it would be out of casual sight if pushed to the back.  He'd only be able to get it down by standing on something, but that, and far longer reach he had over her, made it the best place he could think of.  And he could change which one it sat atop each time.

So that's what he did, and took care not to be seen reaching for it each evening (or, in more stressful moments when he needed to unload, during the day).  It felt ridiculous.  But necessary.  After what had happened he didn't want any repeat, and he could no longer trust her to stick to her word.

But it always came back to one simple question - what sort of person reads another's personal diary?

Day 196 - Neighbourhood

 NEIGHBOURHOOD

Prompt - Neighbourhood : Write about your favourite place in your neighbourhood to visit and hang out at.

There are no doubts in my mind if asked to name my favourite spot in the locality.  Indeed my favourite place in all of the city.  The doubts arise when I consider why it should be so.  I think there are three main reasons.

The place itself is Newhaven Harbour.  Once a busy fishing port, and home to a big fish market, there's little gets landed any more.  Instead it's home to a substantial number of leisure boats, the Port O'Leith Motor Boat Club, and a jetty installed to take passengers from cruise liners to and from their 'home' on shuttle craft.  The structure of the old fish market remains, but is now home to a few restaurants, one of which has a thriving chippie takeaway section, and an excellent fishmonger.  There's an old lighthouse, some interesting old buildings on the other side of the road, but most of the other architecture is modern brutal or boring, notably the hideously bland Premier Inn.

I went down there today, to give me a reminder of some of the details of the place.  One of the hottest days of the year, so it was shimmering in sunshine under blue sky.  The coast of Fife was clear despite some haze, the Ochil Hills rolling behind.  To the west the spires of all three Forth Bridges made their importance known.  Benches were mostly taken, people sitting talking, eating, admiring, or just sun soaking.  Under the lighthouse a bunch of kids had been in swimming - a risky but exhilarating experience.  Tables outside the restaurants were full - it's a fabulous place to sit and have a meal.

All of which goes some way to explaining the attractions of the spot.  But not why I should consider it preferable to Queens Park or Blackford Hill or the Castle or Cramond.  There are so many spots of beauty and fascination across the city.  Yet this fairly unremarkable old harbour tops my chart.  In part that may be down to proximity.  When I first began my return to Edinburgh we had bought a small flat in Leith, down near the old docks.  Although there were many, many short visits over the decades, it had been almost thirty years since I'd last lived here, and back then I was out on the west side.  We had had family in Leith, and I went to primary school not far from Newhaven, but it wasn't an are I knew intimately.  I was certainly aware of the harbour, and can recall visiting the fish market more than once, but it wasn't a place I knew well.  By the time we had our new accommodation here I had discovered a personal reason to take an interest into the area, more of which in a moment.

Having our holiday flat in Leith meant a lot of exploring, both to ascertain where the best local places to shop and eat, but also simply to see.  We were very near to The Shore, so that was pleasant in itself.  But with close walking distances the most attractive places to have a sit down in the sun were leith Links to the east, and the harbour to the west.  It became a favourite spot to walk to, to take photos of, and to eat in, for by then the fish market element had been reduced to  a preparation plant for the fish shop, and a restaurant in the south end of the long, low red building.  Even though we now live a bit further away, it's still an easy enough walk, or a short bus hop away.

I mentioned taking lots of photos there, and that's another reason why I love the place.  Today was bright and sunny.  Tonight there might well be one of those gorgeous red-gold sunsets that light up the surface of the Firth and make the world feel special.  But those days are rare.  As are all the others, for the harbour has many faces.  Light, wind and, frequently, precipitation levels make this a place that changes daily, and still remains beautiful.  It might be a wave-lashed, salt bearing storm from Norway, but there's a still a beauty to it.  As there is when the haar descends and it's hard to even make out the lighthouse from the main road.  When the whole scene is soft and muffled and ghostly.  The photographic possibilities are endless.  That's also why you do see artists rendering the scene quite often.  

I said there were three reasons and my last is the personal one I mentioned earlier.  In the late nineties the old fish market building housed a small Newhaven Museum.  We went there with my parents one day, having eaten looking out across the harbour, over past Granton, to those bridges I talked about (except they were just a duo in those days).  Many of the photos showed Newhaven fishwives in their traditional striped and weirdly voluminous outfits, and my father surprised me by knowing who some of them were.  With even a distant relative in one.  Yet he said little about his connection to the area.  It was only after he died I found out that he'd been born on Main Street, the one that runs parallel to the main road the fronts to the harbour.  And that both his parents has worked in the fish market, his mother one of those who wore that stripey outfit.  

So when we first had a base here there was already a familial link in my mind to the harbour area.  I love being there because of all I've written about already.  But there's an emotional connection too.  Artificial in many ways, but that doesn't make it less real.  Time at the harbour brings many satisfactions.  And lovely fresh fish...

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 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 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...)