Day 191 - Cartoon

 CARTOON

Prompt - Cartoon : Think of your favourite cartoon or comic.  Write a poem of story that takes place in that setting.

I'd looked closely, impressed at the brushwork.  Time to take a few steps back and soak in the entirety of the painting, the scope of a work that had grabbed my attention the moment I had walked into this area of the outdoor exhibition.  Something stopped me, a firm press in the centre of my lower back, and a clipped electronic voice said "Please keep two meter distance".  I turned to see who had halted my movement.

"Oh.  Sorry about that.  It gets a bit over enthusiastic sometimes, without me being fully in control.  It's all automatic you know." said a smooth friendly voice, a hint of apology in his tone.

The owner of the voice was a small man of unusual appearance.  He wore a bright red tie and a green tank top that looked as if it had been made from recycled tyre treads.  Over each shoulder there was a curiously bulgy metallic black support strap, joined across his chest by a squidgy looking band with a small nozzle, presumably belonging to some kind of pack on his back.  He had a strange head, bald, pear shaped, with the widest grin I'd ever seen, a bulbous, round nose, and sticky out ears that would have shamed crazy plant-talking Charlie from the palace.

"No problem, I just got a bit of a surprise.  But what do you mean by 'automatic'?"  The man had me puzzled.

"It's my covid-o-matic backpack" he said, turning slightly and indicating the bulky object the straps held up.  "Keeps me safe from infection.  I'm an inventor, aren't I lad?"  He looked down.  The 'lad' shuffled round from behind him, a smooth coated dog of unknown breed, with big curved ears, and huge black nose and... well, no mouth that I could see.  His big eyes looked up at his master, then at me, and did a bit of a roll as if to say "see what I'm stuck with?"

"So how does it keep you safe, what did it do to stop me getting close?"

"Come a bit nearer and you'll see."  I moved towards him and a stick like arm with a small, padded, wooden hand on the end shot from the side of the backpack, landing firmly in the middle of my chest.  "Please keep two meter distance" said a hidden speaker.  

"Does that if anyone gets a bit close.  Still got to make a few fine adjustments, but it's mostly working well."  The curious dog looked sceptical.  "And whenever I go indoors I just pull on this tab here..." he said, indicating a small arrow headed bit of leather on the left shoulder strap.  he tugged it and different arms appeared from either side of the backpack, moved swiftly over his head and pulled a surgical face mask over his big mouth and nose, and hooked it over the protruding ears, before sliding smartly away.  "Gromit's got one too, haven't you boy?"  I looked down to see similar arms slipping back into the dog's collar, leaving the pooch masked and grumpy looking.   "And then tucks them away once used."  And another tug reversed the procedure, both man and dog facially uncovered once more.  I didn't know whether to be impressed or laugh at the weirdness of it all.

"Of course it lets me keep my hands nice and clean too.  Ready supply of hand sanitiser here."  And he put one hand to the nozzle in the centre of his chest, which immediately squirted a clear gel out.  He rubbed his chubby, rubbery hands in a cleansing motion.  "And if I want to pick anything up..."  He tugged on a different leather tab and another robotic hand appeared with a metal claw on the end.  By twiddling with a small joystick on the left strap he made the stick extend and pick up a discarded chocolate paper.  "Handy little thing" he said, clearly amused by his own punning attempt.  The dog did another eye roll.  "What do you think of it?" he asked, seeking my approval.  "I've got patent pending on this little beauty."

I managed a few words that tried to convey what a fine achievement his device was, without sounding liker I thought he was totally crazy.  

"We'll all have one of these soon" he said with assured enthusiasm, "My name's Wallace, nice to meet you, must be getting on.  Come on lad, let's get back home.  A nice bit of Wensleydale waiting for us there.  Goodbye."

He gave a shy wave and turned to go.  The dog Gromit turned to follow him, but stopped and looked back at me, sadly shook his head in long suffering resignation."  I felt, rather than heard, him sigh.  Then his shuffling gait took him back to the heels of his master and they walked out of my life.  I wonder what became of them? 

Day 190 - Museum

MUSEUM

Prompt - Museum : Take some time to visit a nearby museum with your journal.  Write about one of the pieces that speaks to you.

Edward never made a sound.  Until he hit the ground. Thumpsquelch. I waited to see if there was any more noise, but nothing came, so I left the room and started to make my way downstairs.  Unseen.  I knew unseen was best.  I stopped when I heard the scream.

Edward had been with us for two months.  It felt like a lifetime.  Edward had changed my world.  Mother, Nurse, the rest of the servants, aunts and uncles who came visiting, everyone wanted to see me, hear me sing, watch me run and play hoop and spin my top.  Everyone was happy to pick up one of my wooden swords and fight to the death, falling down, with loud cries, when I pierced their hearts with my quickness.  Everyone loved me.  Why wouldn't they?

Then mother started to get fatter.  Much fatter.  I was told to leave her to rest.  Nurse would keep me from her, which only made me want to see her more. How could she not want me with her when I wanted to be?

It got worse.  She rarely left her room, I was told to stay out.  She wasn't well and they didn't want me to catch anything.  That put me off going in, I didn't like being ill.  Although it did mean lots of attention so...  But Doctor Harris was coming in every couple of days. so clearly she wasn't well at all, maybe with something so horrid that I wouldn't even know that people were making a fuss over me.  And what would be the point of that?

 But I did as I was told, and Nurse and the servants told me what a good boy I was and how pleased mother would be with me when she was better. Then one day the doctor, and a big nurse woman, arrived in a hurry, rushed up the stairs to mother's room, and everyone looked worried.  There were cries for hot water and towels, and much muttering, though nobody would tell me what was happening.  Nurse kept me occupied in the study for hours, and had my tea brought to me there.  She kept me there until I fell asleep, and when I woke it was morning and I was in my bed.  The house sounded so quiet it wasn't like home at all.  Nobody came to get me up, so I did it myself, put my own clothes on, and went to see where everyone was.  

The first person I saw was Father.  His fave and eyes were dark and he was till in is dressing gown.  This never happened.  He smiled when he saw me, put a finger to his lips to usher silence, and bent down to whisper.

"Would you like to see your mother now?  She's got a surprise for you."

"Is she better now?  Will I not catch anything?"

"Yes, she's much better, but still tired.  But she'll be pleased to see you after so long.  Come on in."  He lifted me up into his arms, something else that never happened, and carried me into the room.

"See who I've brought with me - I think he needs introducing to the new arrival."  He carried me over to Mother, who smiled, waved feebly at me, and looked much paler and less pretty than usual. Nurse was washing down her legs and feet,something I'd never seen her do before.  On the other side of the bed was a wooden boat I hadn't seen before.  It was mounted on a stand which brought it up to my mother's level, and had a strange curved yellow canopy at one end, and a quilt where the deck should have been.  As my father carried me round I could see a round red face, bonneted, asleep under the deck quilt.  Where had that come from?

"Saw hello to Edward, Gavril.  He's your new brother.  Isn't that a wonderful surprise?"

Was it?  Why?  I had never needed a brother before, so why did I have one now?  

"Where is he going?  When's he leaving?" I asked  They seemed the obvious questions.  My father and mother looked at each other.  Eyebrows were raised. 

 Nurse tutted.  I awaited my answers.

"He's not going anywhere, he's staying with us.  He's your family now, and your job will be took after him when he's a bit bigger.  Won't it be lovely to have a little brother to play with?"  Father looked at me, encouraging, expecting.

"No!  I don't want a brother.  Take him back.  I want Mother to be well again."

My mother finally spoke.  "I am well now darling, just a little tired.  Having Edward has made me so much better, and you have to be nice to him.  You can do that, can't you?"

I knew enough not to,say anything, knew that anything I did say would displease her, and I wanted her to be like she was before.  

"Can I go now?"  My parents exchanged the same looks as before, Nurse repeated her tut, and my father put me down.  I ran from the room and thought about what it all meant.  I knew that life had changed, but wasn't sure how.  It didn't look good though.

I didn't like Edward.  He cried whenever I came near.  I was immediately shooshed out of the room f I disturbed him. Mother hardly looked at me, Nurse was too busy to play, the servants all wanted to be near him.  Edward had stolen my life from me.  

He was never left alone.  And then, one day, he was.  I went up to him  He didn't cry.  I touched him.  He giggled, held his arms out.  I pulled him up, he laughed like the water swirling in the sink after the dishes had been washed. I picked him up, he clung to me.  Heavy.  Heavier than anything I'd carried before.  But not too heavy.  

I carried him to the door, peered out.  Nobody.  Voices came from downstairs, I heard my mother say she must go up, my father call her back 'just for a minute'.  The stairs to the attic, the servants' rooms, were a few feet away.  I took him with me.

It was hard going, but I did it, step by step  And still nobody came up.  Got to the top.  Edward gurgles again.  He seemed to be enjoying himself.  More than I was.  Made my way over to the small back room where Bessie and Cassie, the Scullery Maids, slept.  The window in their room was low down, the sill only a short way off the floor.  It opened easily.  I picked Edward up, looked down into his trusting blob of a face, and threw.  Thudsquelch.

Day 189 - Rainbow

 RAINBOW

Prompt - Rainbow : What is at the end of a rainbow?  Or, take a cue from kermit the Frog, and ask yourself, why are there so many songs about rainbows

Why do we chase after rainbows?

What’s to be found at the end?

What are those leprechauns hiding

At the base of a multi-hued bend?

The prism's a wonder to look at

A triumph of nature's own art

Sunshine is making a comeback

The rain has begun to depart

It feels like a time to get out of the house

To emerge from your waterproof shell

But isn't that freshness reward enough?

Why chase after treasure as well?

The rainbow has become a great emblem

One that's displayed with much Pride

For the efforts of doctors and nurses

Working on while their ministers lied

Roy G's always welcome to visit

But his gift's not material wealth

He's the colourful border between rain and sun

A smile-bearing bringer of health

There's a lot has been written of rainbows

Some say they're a mystical sign

But some think the gold will be there for them

Like picking a grape from a vine

Our simple joy in the colours  

Puts a beancounter's nose out of joint

If a rainbow makes you think 'money!'

You're missing the whole fekin point!

Day 188 - I Am

 I AM

Prompt - I Am : Write a motivational poem or journal entry about positive traits that make you who you are.

I am getting old, my body is starting to show some signs of the long term inevitable failure that awaits us all.  And I am more content with life that I ever was when I was younger.

That's down to many factors.  many are circumstantial, and may change over time.  But several are mental, or emotional, and part of me in a way that suggests they will survive to the end of my days.  I do not fear getting older, and am determined to make the best of it.

Perhpas that's the factor to come to the top of my list - optimism, mixed with a realistic acceptance that it is perfectly possible to have 'enough', and not always want for more.  It's know that there have been so many good times in the past few years, and even something like the impact of covid on our lives will not prevent there from being many good times in the future.  Also the fact that, despite the major changes it enforced upon my, and our, lives, I have continued to enjoy life through lockdowns and social distancing, often finding new ways to enjoy myself, and fresh challenges to undertake.  Yet also being happy to be easy on myself.  If the challenges aren't completed within a certain time  that doesn't make me a failure.  Nor does failing to complete something.  If I got enjoyment from the efforts I did mange to put in then that;'s reward in itself.  The most important thing is to enjoy the moment you are in.

I think I've taught myself to be content.  To accept that life goes through different phases, and at the start of each one it's helpful to metaphorically sit down and make myself work out what the new phase may look like, and how I use it to make the best of my life and what's in it.  Because otherwise what's the point?

Of course that's dependent on a few things continuing to go well, primarily good health.  So I'm pleased with myself for doing what I can to keep my body in a decent shape so I can maximise the chances to enjoy the years ahead.  The gout a few years ago turned out to be a positive benefit.  It's stopped me from drinking much alcohol, and increased my already quite high water intake.  Add in a diet that's mostly fruit and veg, with plenty of roughage, a an absence of caffeine or other drugs, and I am giving myself an advantage for a good old age.

And that's what life is about now.  Enjoying the present, trying to ensure I can do more of it in the future.  I don't care how long I live, but I do want to be physically and mentally able enough to make the most of the years I've got.  The latest research suggests that muscle tone is more important than aerobic fitness in ensuring a good old age, so I try to put in my press ups and stomach crunches each day, walk a good distance and do some weights when I can.

For my mental health I keep up my voluntary work, which stretches my brain and gives me the satisfaction of helping others.  I deploy empathy and analytical abilities a lot in that role.  Every day I write, not just in my diary, but in a way that tries to be creative.  And I keep up my culture vulture status, always reading, consuming music and film and TV and theatre and comedy.  With a return to the shared experience variants of all those coming back soon.  I support my rugby team, win or lose.  That too comes back soon as a live event.

Finally, most importantly, I allow myself to be loved, and love in return.  By my wife, by our cat.

Old age is not to be feared, but welcomed.  You have to do it right though.

Day 187 - Longing

 LONGING

Prompt - Longing : Write about something you very much want to do.

Four years had passed and still he missed it.  At this time of year he'd have been checking the latest signing news, having chats about how the squad was shaping up, what our chances would be this time, how it had to be better than last year, didn't it?  Instead of which... nothing.  Nothing to discuss with fellow fans, no cause to be excited that September was approaching.

He longed for that excitement.  Longed to have something to look forward to.  To seeing the usual faces, sitting in his usual seat, the tattiness and chill of the place they affectionately called Freezerfield.  Or The Fridge of Dreams.  Because, even by ice rink standards, Murrayfield was bloody cold.  

But he only knew that from his memories.  Had tried going back once, to watch the Racers, but it didn't feel right.  Nice to see some friends, but the hockey was of such a poor standard, the atmosphere lacking, and he couldn't bring himself to forgive the rink management for the way they'd treated 'his' team.

He longed to see the Caps again.  To watch then skate out into the coloured lights, so a standing ovation.  To watch them line up and skate forward, one by one, to chants and cheers.  To watch them face off, battle for the puck, rush across the ice on narrow blades, sticks twisting in control, the shot from the point, the goalie's starfish.  They'd lose, more often than not, but that too was a part of the experience.  They were a bit shit, but they were his.  Ours.  They were the centre point of his life, and it had felt like a bit of himself had been cut away when it was announced they would no longer have use of the ice.

Four years.  He'd never found anything to replace it, didn't see many people, had begun to hate winter, once his favourite time of year.  It looked as if the Edinburgh Capitals would never be coming back, never skate again, never meet his needs for community and passion and belonging.  Only somebody with a huge amount of money - millions probably - could turn that around.  But who would?  If there were a fan that rich enough they'd have done something by now, wouldn't they?  It could only happen if somebody came by the money all of a sudden.

Today, for the first time ever, he was going to buy a lottery ticket.  Hope only cost a pound.

Day 186 - Old Endings into New Beginnings

 OLD ENDINGS INTO NEW BEGINNINGS

Prompt - Old Endings into New Beginnings : Take an old poem, story or journal entry of yours and use the last line and make it the first line of your writing today

"Nothing.  Nothing at all."  He walked away.  It had been a complete waste of his time coming here.  Another humiliation.

The first time he'd seen her he knew she'd be one of those.  The unforgettable ones.   He'd gone into the shop, a vast warehouse of a place, with no particular idea in mind.  Getting out of the rain more than anything.  Had wandered the aisles, pretending to himself and anyone who might be interested that there were things he really wanted to look at.  Then saw her walk by.

She was medium height, slim, angular, dark hair in a pony tail, dressed in corporate bland.  He followed her instinctively, saw her go to the front of the building and settle in behind a desk and screen in the quietest corner of the store.  A sign in on the front of the desk said COMPLAINTS.  He wished he had one.

The shop became a place to go to.  He'd rush in on his way home from work, go in earlier on his days off, spend a bit of time there on Saturday.  Always checked out the Complaints Desk to see if she was there.  Which she usually was.  Nobody ever seemed to come a talk to her.

He began buying things he didn't need in the hope that one of them would be faulty and he'd have to make a complaint.  They never were.  He thought about complaining that there was something he wanted that they didn't stock, but he could never think of anything.  The weeks and months went by.

He had a half day one Tuesday, went to the shop.  Hung around the aisle that gave him some view of the Complaints Desk.  Of her.  Trying his best to look invisible, to look engrossed in looking at the same items on the shelves, over and over.  He was waiting for someone to complain, so he could casually wander past and hear her voice.  But nobody came, and she sat there, occasionally looking at her screen, typing briefly, and otherwise looking, he thought, a bit bored.  She deserved better.  Maybe he should complain.  He would, it would make her day to have something to do, so she'd smile at him and be grateful.  He went over to the desk.

It didn't work as it had inside his head.  It never did with women.  He thought she'd be peased he came over, but when he told her he'd been watching her he realised how creepy he sounded.  So then he tried to make things better by saying he had a complaint to make.  But he didn't have a complaint, did he?  Not a real one.  So he made himself sound even more stupid by making one up about her time being wasted in a job where she didn't have anything to do and even as he said it he knew he was making even more of a fool of himself.  A manager had come out and at least he learned her name was Sharon.  But the man's calm assurance made him even more flustered and he went on to tie himself up in knots until nothing made any sense any more.

And nothing was what it ended with.  He walked away and knew he wouldn't, couldn't, come back.  

Day 185 - Applause

 APPLAUSE

Prompt - Applause : Write about giving someone a standing ovation

Musela forced a smile out and nodded his head a few times.  It was what they expected.  The tiered rows of smart suits, pressed pastel polos and discreetly floral dresses took to their feet and clapped and cheered and made him the centre of their universes for those seconds of approbative bonhomie.  He was theirs to admire.  But he knew well enough why he was the one chosen to deliver this gig.

Eight years had passed.  But he could be back there in a millisecond.  The right (or wrong?) noise, a sight of camouflage pattern, the smell of moist earth.  Or of sweat.  Or fear.  Or blood.

Back to that hut in that village.  Back to when he was just a boy, the instant before he ceased to be one.  Back to his own land and people, and a life he both missed and hated.  Back to when he was part of a family.

The Hola soldiers came without warning, shifting shadows in the trees mutating into stained fatigues, blades and bullets, deadly serious faces.  Men with only one purpose.  To kill Arubora.  The first shots were fired, the first screams reinforcing their intent.  Some ran, some tried to hide.  Some even tried to fight, but with what?  

His mother was one of those, pride, desperation and love drove her to stand up, to shield her daughters, protect her family.  Two machete blows brought a swift end to her defiance, and her life.  Musela had been in hiding, spying on his sisters, concealed within the pile of sacks and boxes that would be filled with the harvest and taken to market.  Would have been filled.  He watched, didn't want to watch, could do nothing but watch, as his sisters, were thrown to the floor, raped, raped again, and had their throats slit.  He sobbed.  Silently.  Heard the crackling of flames, the crash of buildings, and all the noises of death.  Knew that the flames would be seeking him out soon, that it was a choice between the fire and the men.  He soiled himself.

The men ran out in response to barks from their commanders, questions fired, answers given, and the sound of laughter.  Later, much later, it would be the laughter that would become his worst memory.  But then, in the moment, it was one more piece in the jigsaw of fear he'd become a part of.  

He heard more commands, boots assembling, boots marching, voices fading away behind the spitting and banging of blazing homes.  Lay petrified, frozen by shame and horror, trying to will himself back into the world.  Tried to think.  The fires still burned, and smoke made his eyes water, but his own hut didn't seem to be ablaze.  Outside there were no more shouts or cries, none of the sounds of life he was familiar with.  But that didn't mean they weren't still there, waiting to see if...

He slept, he waited as long as he could wait, but hunger and thirst proved stronger.  He came out into darkness, skulked around the remains.  Of the village, and villagers.  Most huts had burned down, his one of only four left uncharred.  There was nobody around.  Nobody alive that is.

He thought about burying the dead, started, stopped almost immediately, recognising the hopelessness of the task.  His mother would have said he had a duty to himself now.  And he had a story to tell.  He gathered what food he could carry and set off, heading for the school four kilometres away.  But before he arrived the smells and the smoke wips told him what he'd find.  He kept going.  Walked for three days until he gets to the town he's been to with his mother.  There are soldiers there, and he hides.  Before he can decide if they are Hola he is discovered, dragged from the bush, taken into the town.  Shaking, weak and fearful, he tells his story, convinces them he is Arubora.  Like them.  He is safer, but not safe.

Musela is alone, and one of the masses.  One dot in the snaking lines of refugees heading for the nearest border crossing, for the camps on the other side.  Escaping one scene of confusion for another, where despair and hope battle daily.  One of the doctors, a foreign white man, spots his potential, makes him a hospital assistant, praises his quickness of learning, educates the boy in the little spare time he finds.  A year passes, and another, the Hola every more dominant.  There is no going back, only forward.  With the doctor's help he gets a scholarship in Europe, and counselling to help deal with the images in his head, the nightmares, the fear.  The images remain, but fear is supplanted by anger, and a need to share his experiences with the world.  Musela becomes a spokesperson for the Arubora, for the dispossessed everywhere.

So here he is again, another city, another well dressed, well fed crowd..  He knows why they clap.  He is The Black Man they wanted to see - tall, slim, well formed, no visible scars.  They do not want to see his wounds, they come to hear a story, which they will leave behind at the bar.  

Musela holds up his hands, ushers the crowd to be silent, to sit again.  They are not expecting this.  He waits, until all are settled again.  Speaks.

"Your applause is well intended.  But it is not what I came here for.  You know now what has been happening, is still happening, to the Arubora, and others like them around the world.  But knowing does nothing.  Clapping does nothing.  I leave you with one question - what are YOU going to do about it?"  

Musela walks away from the silence.

Day 184 - Chemistry

 CHEMISTRY

Prompt - Chemistry : Choose an element and write a poem or story that uses the word in one of the lines

He'd rebuilt it over nine years.  A work of frustration, patience, pain and love.  He'd kept going, through redundancy, illness and the end of his marriage.  And, he had to admit, maybe his passion of it was a factor in that latter difficulty.  "You love that thing more than you love me" was heard several times.  Perhaps, to his shame, she'd been right.

So now was the moment to find out if this had all been worthwhile.  All the time and money and heartache.  He'd done everything he could for himself.  Now it was with the experts to give it that final cherry on the cake moment.  He'd got it stripped, he'd put it back together a bit at a time, repairing and replacing as he went along and funds allowed, and he'd finally got it all together and working good.  Now he got to see if these guys could make it look good too.

'It' was a 1966 Harley-Davidson FLH Electra-Glide.  A big hefty beast with a rumbling 60bhp 74ci Shovelhead V-twin, cautious drum brakes, a big fragile looking windshield and a fat, comfy seat for cruising on.  He'd picked up a wreck, and, he thought back then, as a bargain (how wrong had that been proved...?), and now it would be one of the finest examples in Europe, if not the world.  

But Harleys weren't just for drifting along on, they were meant to be easy on the eye too.  That was the bit he'd left to the end, got priced up, saved for, and here was the moment approaching when he'd see the final results.  Gafneys had a good reputation, within the Harley community and wider, and he'd seen plenty examples of their successes at the shows he'd haunted over the years, envious of all those roadworthy and stunningly gorgeous looking machines.  Now he could join them.

He walked in nervously and was immediately spotted by Des, the brightwork guru.

"Looking forward to seeing her?"  He could only nod in response, suddenly dry throated and speechless.  Des led the way through to the workshop, the place of alchemy.  And there she was.  "What'd you think?"

She'd gone in dull, black and grey, functional but lacking glamour, more of a old workhorse than the proud steed he wanted.  But now...

The big soft seat in cream leather.  Fenders and tank in two-tone orange and cream, classic but cheerful.  And the rest...shone.  Wherever chromium could be applied there was chromium.  Wherever polish could be applied there was polish.  The result was everything he'd been working towards for so long, and so much more too.  It looked almost too good, like road dirt and bug splatters would be a desecration, like sprinkling a Van Gogh with drops of Dulux.  

He walked up, walked round, not daring to touch, to make a mark on the shining purity.  He saw his reflection move around in a hundred surfaces, marvelled at what she had become.  A grand old lady of the road in all the finery she could muster, still a head turner despite her half century of living.  

Des grinned at his reaction.  He'd seen it all before and it tickled him every time.  He watched the man look up at him, grin, and move towards the bike, swing his leg over and let himself sink into postion, as if he was trying out the best and comfiest armchair he'd ever encountered.  

"Thank you.  Thank you so much."  He settled up the bill, settled himself behind the windshield, and fired her up.  Still as sweet and smooth, just a whole lot prettier.  Moved off to the waves of Des and his pal, and out on to the road.

And set off to dazzle the world.

Day 183 - Gratitude

 GRATITUDE

Prompt - Gratitude : Write a poem or journal entry that is all about things you are thankful for

These times are strange, with covid raging

So much loss, so much changing

But I look back and can't complain

With little lost, and plenty gain

I haven't felt cut off or trapped

But changed my habits to adapt

In this I'm helped by circumstance

My happiness is not just chance

But down to knowing what's being good

And being grateful that I could

Do so much that I can savor

Give each day a distinct flavour

I'm retired so there's no demands

Upon the time I've on my hands

I still get paid, my health is good

We always have got plenty food

I love being in our comfy flat

Full of light with an outlook that

Alters all across the year

We've even had our own roe deer

Getting out the door is key

Fresh air and exercise are free

No time at all if heading north

Before I'm looking on the Forth

At home there's so much to do

The internet ensures there's few

Moments when there's nowt to do

So much music, drama, sport

Comedy to raise a snort

Entertainment's a click away

Something new's there every day

And there's friends to see on Zoom

While I stay safe in the living room

Plenty time to be creative

Writing is so stimulative

I've even been inspired to paint

Although Van Gogh it certainly ain't

In any list of all those things that

I'm grateful for include the cat

I'm grateful for so much in life

Atop that list my lovely wife

Day 182 - Complain

 COMPLAIN

Prompt - Complain : Write about your complaints about something

"Hello sir, what can I do for you?  Do you wish to make a complaint?"

"Hello, yes, I do."

"Can you tell me the nature of your complaint please?"

"I'm not too sure."

"Sorry?  How can you have a complaint about something if you're not sure what it's about?"

"Well it's about you."

"Me!?  What have I done to give you cause for complaint sir?"

"Nothing.  Well, it's not really about you, not a as person, or anything you've done.  It's more what you haven't been doing, if you see what I mean?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't really understand what you mean here.  Something I haven't done?"

"Well, what they make you not do.  Or the lack of anything to do.  Sorry, I'm not explaining myself very well."

"No, I have to agree with you on that.  And it's not possible for me to deal with a complaint if I don't understand what the complaint is.  Perhaps you could explain?"

"I've been watching you."

"I know sir.  You've been stood over there for some time now."

"Yes.  And you haven't done anything all the time I've been watching."

"Oh I have sir.  I've been observing.  And I'm here waiting ready, poised even, to deal with any complaints that customers wish to bring to me."

"But you haven't had anyone come up to you in all the time I've stood there."

"No, and that's good, isn't it, that nobody feels the need to complain."

"Well, yes, I suppose so, but if nobody is complaining what's the point of you being here?"

"To be ready to deal with anyone who wishes to make a complaint, like you are doing now.  You are going to make one, aren't you?"

"Well I'm complaining that you seem to underused, to have such a pointless job.  I'm sure you could do something more worthwhile, more suited to your abilities.  And a lot less boring."

"I feel my abilities are well used here sir, and I am never bored with this job, there's always something interesting happening."

"Is there?  When?  I've not seen you have anything interesting to do all the time I've been here."

"But it's interesting talking to you now sir.  And some of my time has been spent watching you and wondering when you would come over to me."

"You knew I'd come to you?"

"Oh yes sir, a lot of customers are very hesitant about bringing their complaints to me, and wait for a while before approaching.  Of course there are many who much more forthright of course."

"Many?  So you get a lot of complaints?"

"Oh no sir, very few.  And I've never had one specifically about me before.  I've always hoped I did a good job."

"Well you do.  I'm sure you do.  Only it could be better, couldn't it?  You could do more."

"Such as sir?"

"I don't know.  There must be other jobs needing done that would be less dull and more helpful that you just sitting here.  Aren't there?"

"But if I was off doing other jobs what would happen if a customer wanted to complain?"

"But they don't, do they?  You said so."

"Some do.  Like you are now sir."

A small, tightly besuited, man with a moustache appeared from round the partition behind her desk.

"Is everything OK Sharon?"

"Yes Mr Walsh, all under control.  This gentleman wishes to make a complaint, but we are having some difficulty formulating it into a format I can use.  I'm sure we'll get there eventually though."

Walsh addressed the slightly baffled looking complainant.

"I'm sorry you feel you need to complain sir, but we have every confidence in Sharon's ability to deal with it."

"But she's not really."

"Isn't she?", eyebrows popping, "and why do you think that sir?"

"Because I'm complaining about her job, well lack of a real job, and she doesn't seem to get it.  Maybe you'd listen?"

"Oh no sir, I'm sorry, I'm not properly trained to deal with face to face complaints.  That's why we employ Sharon.  She's a professional.  You're in safe hands with her."  He turned to his junior.  "I'll let you get on with it Sharon, you don't need me interfering when you're the best we have at this work."  And he vanished behind the partition again.

"Now sir, do you think we can proceed and get you complaint entered into the system?"

"What happens with it if we do?"

"It goes into the system and gets dealt with."

"Who by?"

"Mr Walsh."  She smiled.  "Although I have to admit he often asks me for my opinion.  That's how much he trusts me you see."

"Often?  I thought you didn't get many complaints?"

"We don't.  But those we do get usually involve me in what happens next me.  I don;'t just sit here all day doing nothing sir."

"And how many complaints have you handled this year?"

She tapped into her keyboard, looked closely at the screen, tapped a bit more and looked up.  "You're the seventh sir."

"Seventh?!  But it's July!"

"Yes it is, isn't it.  That's a pretty good record, don't you think - only one complaint per month on average.  Shows what a good job we're doing."

"Yes, but it means you've had hardly anything to do.  So what's the point?"

"Well the less I have to do, the better we're doing, don't you think?  And the point is to be here for anyone who does want to complain.  Like you.  So do you think we can work on that now?"

"And you like doing this?"

Oh yes sir, it's what I'm trained for.  I'm so lucky to have found a place with a company that employs a full time professional complaints operative.  Not many do you know.  This company appreciated my talents and realsies what an essential part of the machinery I am.  What's to complain about?"

He stood looking at her.  Looked at the partition behind, as if willing an appearance from the enigmatic Walsh.  His shoulders fell.

"Nothing.  Nothing at all."  He walked away.