Day 130 - Read the News Today

 READ THE NEWS TODAY

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

Sturgeon tells Johnson that Indyref2's

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

After us voters have clearly said we

Won't tolerate even a whiff

Of tory intransigence to a new test

On whether the union should end

Ignoring a nation's electoral choice 

Isn't something you'd ever defend

A new referendum's coming our way

Democracy undoubtedly shows 

In a few years we'll be bringing

This broken union to a close

Headline came from here.

Day 129 - Commotion

 COMMOTION

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

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

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

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

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

Day 128 - The Promise

 THE PROMISE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James' eyes widened.  "Red."

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

Day 127 - Know-it-All

 KNOW-IT-ALL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 126 - Alone

 ALONE

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

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

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

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

Day 125 - Frozen

 FROZEN

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

"Octogenarian's debut novel on Booker short list"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You should be starving in a garrett somewhere."

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

Day 124 - Fireworks

 FIREWORKS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 123 - Your bed

 YOUR BED

Prompt - Your Bed : Describe where you sleep each night

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

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

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

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

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

A happy place.

The haven at the end of days

A place that reaches out and says

Come on in and rest your head

There's nowhere betters your own bed

A room for peace and calm and sleep

To give no need for counting sheep

Read until you'll read no more

Until unwound you droop and snore

Wake up in your warming berth

There is no better spot on earth

Day 122 - Stop and Stare

 STOP AND STARR

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

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

"Yes please."

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

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

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

Day 121 - Stray Animal

 STRAY ANIMAL

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

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

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

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

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