Thursday, February 21, 2019
“You can’t hear the dog or anything can you?”
My new next door neighbour and I meet in the back lane. I’ve
long decided that he and his other half seem quite pleasant.
“No I can’t hear a thing. The walls are pretty sturdy I
think.”
He seems happy with this and I return to my home after
putting the bins out. We both know he isn't talking about the dog.
The Sunday routine (all times are approximate and do vary) of
my new neighbours consists of:
10.00am – 11.00am: Not for a full hour (that would be insane) but at least
twenty-to-thirty minutes spent giving each other ten-nowt.
Vocally. My word they thoroughly make the best of it. On the day of our Lord no
less.
11.00am – 12.00pm: A good hour of acoustic guitar strumming
and soulful man-singing. He’s feeling understandably chilled and wanting to
express his inner-self.
12.00pm – 1.00pm: Mid-eighties power ballads blasted at more
than usual volume. I assume this is the choice of the lady of the house after
having to tolerate a solid hour of ‘man-feels’. Usually consists of Fleetwood
Mac. Some Peter Gabriel thrown-in to mix it up a bit.
1.00pm – 2.30pm: During summer months this involves the lady
of the house sitting on her patio in the back yard speaking very loudly to who (whom?) I assume to be her mother in a broad
Wiltshire accent. Subject of conversation tends to begin with “I’ve had three
bottles of rose already”.
2.30pm – 5.00pm: What I only assume to be Call Of Duty or
similar being played on whatever console with a full hi-fi kit – it genuinely sounds
like the Gulf War is happening again next to my sitting-room.
5.00pm – 8.00pm: General dog yapping as I imagine it’s not a
fan of human heterosexual sex, gaming, appalling guitar strumming,
binge-drinking or power-ballads and could do with a bit of attention before everyone
passes-out.
8.00pm – Rest Of The Week: Peaceful.
And if I'm honest it would grieve me but I quite like them and I genuinely think
there are probably worse ways to spend one’s Sundays.
Friday, February 01, 2019
I Nearly Died And Everything
Of the many things I find wearing about open-plan office work
it’s the ‘tea run’. Committing myself to making a dozen hot beverages
for people with which I have only a fleeting relationship several times a day
only to receive a half-filled mug of unsatisfactory tea on ill-judged occasions
that I then discard is not my thing.
As such I refuse to be involved in the whole routine. I don't make tea.
As such I refuse to be involved in the whole routine. I don't make tea.
My Boss: How’d it go at the hospital?
Me: More a follow-up than anything really. I’ve got to go
back next month…
The conversation goes on for a while and I learn that my insufferably Fussy Colleague had
called the ambulance.
My Boss: It was good she did really. From what I can gather
you’d be dead otherwise. If the paramedics hadn’t took you to the Critical Care Hospital
I mean. One time her fussing-on was a good thing.
Me: Oh. Yeah. Spose. [I look through the glass window of my
boss’s office at Fussy Colleague, busy faffing around and making everyone’s
life tiresome for no good reason] You could say she saved my life.
We discuss other stuff for a while and five minutes later
I’m sheepishly stood at the end of Fussy Colleague’s desk.
Me: Hey.
Fussy Colleague: Mmmph?
Me: So. Ehm. Fancy a cup of tea?
F.C: [Without glancing from her screen] No, Dave’s just made
me one thanks.
Me: Oh. Ok.
Whatever, I tried.
Friday, January 25, 2019
Fragrance
I walk into the domain of Reception Karen.
Anyone who has worked in an environment with customer-facing colleagues know that they run the company. Nobody knows it but they do. They can make your life very easy or they can make it hell.
Reception Karen has a dozen teenage children (not really but close enough), looks better than anyone half her age and takes no shit from anyone.
Me: Oh it smells nice in here.
Reception Karen: Yeah I've just farted so I've sprayed a bit of Impulse around. So you know - if it smells nice in here it's not just 'air' you're breathing-in.
Me: Oh. Ok.
Obviously I adore her.
Anyone who has worked in an environment with customer-facing colleagues know that they run the company. Nobody knows it but they do. They can make your life very easy or they can make it hell.
Reception Karen has a dozen teenage children (not really but close enough), looks better than anyone half her age and takes no shit from anyone.
Me: Oh it smells nice in here.
Reception Karen: Yeah I've just farted so I've sprayed a bit of Impulse around. So you know - if it smells nice in here it's not just 'air' you're breathing-in.
Me: Oh. Ok.
Obviously I adore her.
Friday, January 11, 2019
"We’ve put a tube in your penis."
Ok, I think to myself. All considered, I'm pretty relaxed about things.
"I'm going to pull it out now." The gentleman speaking to me is wearing a white tunic with blue epaulettes. I gaze at him with curiosity.
"I'm going to pull it out now." The gentleman speaking to me is wearing a white tunic with blue epaulettes. I gaze at him with curiosity.
“It might feel a bit odd.” He says. And he is quite right.
“It’s probably best you try and pass some water straight
away – do you think you can make it to the toilet on your own?”
I tell him that of course I can, get out of bed and
immediately stagger sideways and would have crashed into the wall if he hadn’t
caught me. Unbeknownst to me I hadn’t walked in several days. He applauds my
attempt and physically guides me to the en-suite bathroom.
“How did that feel?” He asks afterward.
“A bit weird.” I admit.
“Sorry I took your patient for his jar whilst you came to do
his bloods.” He says to the nurse who’s waiting by my bed to plug a new bag
into my cannula and to take my blood. When they’ve stopped grinning bashfully at each other the nurse looks at me.
“Wow, good job on your face.” She says. It’s not a bad face
to be fair, I think to myself. A few
hours later I see my reflection and understand what she means. And it takes
something before a nurse is taken-aback.
Over the next few days I learn to walk again. My front teeth
hurt like hell, as does my throat. And it’s all a bit vague if I’m honest. I
sleep a lot, eat some genuinely dreadful food and see members of my family who
all have that “hey everything’s cool” look on their faces that you employ when
you visit a family member in hospital and you’re worried sick.
I look at the puncture-wounds on my arms. There’s over a
dozen in total. They must have tried everything before they intubated me, put
me in a coma and connected me to a ventilator. It was that or “lose me” I’m
later told.
My face is horrific; my right eyeball is entirely black from
the trauma. I was only under for a couple of days, but it takes a while to get
used to not being unconscious. It’s some time before I’m allowed home. The trio
of central-casting stereotypical doctors – Absurdly-Handsome Doug Ross,
Ill-Tempered Quick-Talking Brown Man and Charming John Malkovich The
Seen-It-All-Before Consultant – are not in a big hurry to let me go anywhere.
I’d been at work when it happened - my head had hit the edge
of a desk on the way down and bled as only head wounds do. It had frightened
the life out of my colleagues, all of whom had been lucky enough not to see
someone suffering an epileptic seizure before. With all the blood and
everything they all thought I’d died.
But had I not been there, no-one would have called the
ambulance. Had I not been in the newly-created Critical Care
Hospital I was taken to
there would have been no medical team to deal with the fact that I suffered a
second seizure that lasted over thirty minutes (too long).
And I’d be dead.
Otherwise things have been cool.
Friday, November 17, 2017
Small Moments
Nine years ago, and I am meeting my son and daughter of a Saturday morning.
I have not dealt with my recent break-up with their mother very well and I'm late. I'm also visibly hung-over, disorientated and have travelled twenty miles from the awful shared-house that I have had to move in to.
We all meet at neutral territory not far from their new house.
My two year-old son looks me up-and-down.
Son: [Puzzled] Where’s your ship?
I stare at him bleary-eyed, my tongue and fingers feeling too large, my face burning.
Son: [Unsatisfied with my silence] Mummy said you’d finally got your ship together.
His face is the blank, puzzled innocent canvass of a child.
Me: [After hugging my son longer than necessary] Let’s go and have some fun.
It’s the small moments that stick.
I have not dealt with my recent break-up with their mother very well and I'm late. I'm also visibly hung-over, disorientated and have travelled twenty miles from the awful shared-house that I have had to move in to.
We all meet at neutral territory not far from their new house.
My two year-old son looks me up-and-down.
Son: [Puzzled] Where’s your ship?
I stare at him bleary-eyed, my tongue and fingers feeling too large, my face burning.
Son: [Unsatisfied with my silence] Mummy said you’d finally got your ship together.
His face is the blank, puzzled innocent canvass of a child.
Me: [After hugging my son longer than necessary] Let’s go and have some fun.
It’s the small moments that stick.
Monday, October 09, 2017
I Kill A Dog.
“Oh my God I’m going to bloody kill that dog.” I think to
myself.
Three weeks previously – myself and half-a-dozen residents of
my terraced street and that of the parallel street are gathered.
The general consensus of the meeting seems to be that
Something Has To Be Done. That seems sufficient for me.
A week later and still the unidentified dog howls. From
seven in the morning until eleven at night. Including weekends. It’s not the
howling as such – that reverberates around my house and that of every other
person on my street – it’s the two seconds when the dog draws breath leading
one to believe it has stopped.
“I work nights.” Says one man on
the lane a week later when another gathering of the aggrieved takes place in
the lane.
“I just get up again at nine.
There’s no point with that noise. I’ve not slept in a month.”
“I’ve got two babies. We’re going
mad.” Says another. There are now a dozen gathered. They don’t have pitch-forks
but may as well have.
I’ve considered grinding-up a
month’s worth of my epilepsy medication and whatever else I can lay my hands on
and mixing it with a pound of mince and finding the bloody thing and feeding it
to him/her if I could figure-out where the dog lived.
“It’s your landlord’s sister at
number nine who owns it.” Says Tony Next Door.
I beam at the assembled masses.
“Leave it to me.” I say. I make a
phone-call ten minutes later.
“I’ll have a word,” says my
landlord “It’s been an ongoing thing and it’s causing a load of friction
between her and her husband. That’s been why they’ve been putting the dog
outside. It’s been tearing the house up when it’s alone if they leave it in
when they’re out. They’re trying to find a new home for it. They had no idea
this was happening. This has probably brought things to a head to be honest”
I believe the problem to be solved.
I tell my landlord I can find the number of someone I know who has a re-homing
service if need be. Imagining the high-fives and fist-bumps I shall receive on
my way down the street the next day I go to sleep. It’s another day before I
pass the phone number on.
“Thanks for the phone number,” my
landlord texts me “but I fear it’s a bit late for this dog. They’ve had it put
down.”
The street is very quiet.
Wednesday, September 06, 2017
Boat Trip.
The city I have an unusual love/hate relationship with offers
boat cruises on the river that grew it, up-and-down the length of the city and
under it’s seven bridges. As my Favourite Son and Favourite Daughter are
staying with me for a rare few days I decide we should take the cruise. It’ll
be ‘fun’.
We board the boat and take our seats. Curved Perspex glass
serves as a roof and we’ve a table seat next to the windows. All is well, although
eleven-year old Favourite Son is a bit jittery. He’s only ever been on a ferry
before - which is essentially a small town with cinemas and amusement arcades
and everything. This is a boat, and each swell of the river, each movement of
the passengers, each change in the wind can be felt.
Favourite Son is terrified and we both know it.
A group of ‘boys on tour’ join the vessel. There’s about
eight of them, all at least six-foot tall, reeking of testosterone and bravado.
Their accents are from out of town – Essex by the sound – and they’re probably
on a stag weekend. This city is a destination’ for such people.
They settle themselves.
“Is there a bar? There better be a bar mate.”
“Yeah there’s a bar mate, settle down.”
“This feels weird mate, it’s rocking about I don’t like it
mate.”
“It’s fine mate don’t worry.”
“Yeah mate I don’t like it neither this isn’t right”
“Mate this is all over the place.”
“Mate settle down yeah”
The diesel engines start and the whole boat shudders.
Favourite Son grabs and hugs me for the first time I can remember. I’d love to
say I told him that a person can never be brave unless they are scared but I’m
not sure I did.
The Boys On Tour are troubled.
“Oh mate this ain’t right”
“Mate see if you can talk to the guy. Get a refund or
summink. I ain’t doin this mate. This is mental.”
“Mate I don’t even care about no refund. Let’s get out of
here. This ain’t normal.”
They all disembark, reeking of fear. The cruise starts.
It’s a gorgeous day, the river sparkles, the wake we leave
is hypnotic as we look back on it. The city is beautiful when seen from the
water. There is a recorded history of the city narrated over speakers, a
steward brings us tea and refuses my payment for reasons known only to himself.
We return to our starting point after a couple of hours.
Favourite Son beams at me, seeming inches taller.
“Can we do this again?”
Sunday, August 20, 2017
I Step Out Of The House Into A David Lynch Film.
I haven’t been outdoors in some time for tiresome reasons.
It’s already dark and snow is falling amidst the streetlights making everything
seem a bit odd.
Needing the proximity of people I go to my local public
house. It’s empty aside from the landlady and her tiny son who sits staring
into a device of some sort and jumps and yelps strangely.
A man comes in.
The child jumps and yelps.
“Alright Tired?” He says.
“Are you well?” I say as a default. Fully aware, a
split-second later, that his wife had recently died and I’d spent some time
consoling his son on a similar subject a week ago.
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs.
The small child yelps and jumps. He has the face and gait of
an adult man despite being about six years old. The place is silent otherwise.
I quickly begin to down my drink as an unfamiliar couple
with a small dog enter. I just want to be somewhere else, go to the nearby
‘super’ market and return to the safety of my home. Rolling a cigarette, I go
outside and am greeted by a regular with his own dog, which is adorned with
LEDs.
We briefly say ‘hello’, I return to the bar to see the two
dogs fighting – one of which is adorned with LEDs, the small child yelping and
Whitney Houston wailing.
I finish my drink and touch the bereaved man on the arm as I
put my empty glass on the bar.
“I meant to say that I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m pretty
sure you’re sick of hearing it”
The child who looks like a man yelps and jumps.
“I am Tired, and thank you.” He says.
After negotiating the terrors of the bland super-market I
make my way to the exit. I am stopped by a man a full foot shorter than me. I
am not a tall man.
“How old are you? Fifty?” He asks.
It’s out of nowhere. I’ve not even raised my eyebrows at
him. And I’m not bloody fifty.
“No. What? You?” I say.
“Me? No. I’m seventy. Going home. Read the paper [gesturing
the morning newspaper] and that.”
He’s four-foot tall at best and is an old man in the body of
a ten-year old. It is the strangest thing I have ever seen.
He turns and stares at the wall and does not move.
As I leave I glance back. He hasn’t moved and is still
facing the wall.
Not for the first time, I vow never to leave my house again.
Tuesday, July 04, 2017
Doppelganger.
There’s an Easter family gathering at my Mother’s and it’s
all getting hectic with children, dogs and cats.
My twelve-year old Favourite Son and fourteen-year old Favourite Daughter are staying with me for a rare week away from their home with Their Mother four hundred miles away. Also present are my sister, her beginning-to-crawl twins, one of my brothers with his toddler son and daughter and two cats, three dogs and three other adults.
My twelve-year old Favourite Son and fourteen-year old Favourite Daughter are staying with me for a rare week away from their home with Their Mother four hundred miles away. Also present are my sister, her beginning-to-crawl twins, one of my brothers with his toddler son and daughter and two cats, three dogs and three other adults.
I retire to the kitchen to escape the chaos and help my
mother with dinner preparations. After a minute or two I return to the the
living room.
For an instant Their Mother is there as she glances at me
over her bare shoulder, raven-haired and her face – as it always is in repose – absurdly beautiful and looking as though she were plotting murder.
My tongue fills my mouth and tastes of metal and my brain
feels too big for my head. It’s only a split-second and she immediately becomes
my Favourite Daughter again and looks away. My finger-tips and toes feel a bit
odd.
Later, and my sister and I are smoking a cigarette in our
Mother’s garage – my sister is in her thirties and still believes our Mother
doesn’t know she smokes.
“God though, isn’t Favourite Daughter starting to look
like her mother now?” She says.
“I hadn’t noticed.” I say.
My fingers are still tingling.
Saturday, June 10, 2017
V
Three months ago.
I’m in the biggest comic-book shop in the North of England.
My son and daughter are browsing the Manga section, I’m in
Graphic Novels.
They saunter over.
Favourite Daughter: Oh it’s that Anonymous dude.
She’s looking at the cover of Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta.
Me: No. They just adopted the image. The story is about a
totalitarian England the government of which don’t tolerate anyone who is brown
or gay and don’t allow any form of popular culture and the man here – V – makes
it his business to destroy that government.
Favourite Daughter: Sounds like my kind of hero.
Favourite Son: [Overhearing] That Trump idiot would hate
him.
Me: There’s an actual TARDIS over there…
They look at my like I’ve lost my mind.
My son is twelve. My daughter is fourteen.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Bars.
I don’t remember a great deal of my early childhood but
something that sticks with me is my mother arguing with my father about a
household health and safety issue.
One that involved my early death.
Potentially.
My father was a working-class man living in the North-East
of England
in the 1970s. A man of his calibre would leave the house before I woke to do
manual labour all day and then spend his time in several public-houses
propping-up several bars until they closed at which point he would go home fully
expecting his dinner or ‘tea’ to be on the table.
As a child I would be stood on the windowsill of my bedroom
with my hands at the top of the window hoping for a glimpse of my father as he
came home at midnight.
Double-glazing did not exist at that time. Leaning on a
window could cause it to break.
My mother ‘pointed-out’ to my father that this was quite
dangerous. I don’t recall the conversation too well but I knew that she was
saying that if he came home at a sensible hour and spent some time with his son
I would not risk my young life just to witness him stagger up the path to our
front door.
I don’t know how that conversation went but I do know that
my father hammered some bars of wood over the inside of my window.
The wood was untreated and wasn’t pleasant to the touch –
I’ve no idea which of his friends he’d got it from or indeed where he’d sourced
the hammer or the nails. But I remember the hammering and that it was a weekend
before twelve in the afternoon when the public houses opened. And I remember my
bedroom having bars on the windows.
Lateral thinking at it’s best.
Friday, February 10, 2017
I Solve A Mystery.
The envelope is good quality, stamped and has been beautifully written in a hand I half-recognise. I'm not familiar with the post-mark.
The street-name is similar to mine and the postcode
is incomplete. It’s addressed to a Mr. D. Surname.
This feels familiar. I look-up the street-name on the envelope – it doesn’t exist.
“Bugger this” I think and open the envelope, aware that I am
committing some sort of ‘thing’.
Inside is the flimsiest of of those 'self-published' greetings cards, with feasibly the worst Warhol-wannabe
bullshit print upon it. The publisher has plastered “Happy Birthday Day Danny”
in the most basic font across the worst area of the most dreadful attempt of
‘art’ I have ever seen.
Within is the handwritten message –
“Wishing you the best
With love
Dad & Fleur
Xxx
(Fluer’s artwork) “
I study this for a while. We’ve all received cards like
these – cack-handed attempts at artistry from imbeciles sponsored by
partners/parents who are blind to their every failing.
I’ve even sent them. Good quality Christmas cards
illustrated by my seven-year old son featuring a young, beardless Santa
brandishing a burning golden sword toward a supplicant bearded older Santa
discarding his gloves in defeat into a pile of Christmas debris. Another
illustrated by my ten-year old daughter involving anime-style reindeer and
dolphins because why not.
Obviously they were actually really good. I wouldn’t have sent
them to people otherwise. This is something different.
I look at this card. “From Dad & Fleur”. The ‘Dad’ in question is obviously proud of ‘Fleur’ and the recipient is not a child. ‘Fleur’ is not the recipient’s mother. Or any other direct family member.
I look at it some more. And I’m not sure what the story is.
But I do know that if I had a sister so uninterested in my
life she couldn’t be chewed to remember the family surname and who thought a
cheque was a genuine gift I’d not be happy.
And if I had a father so dreadfully passive-aggressive he
would send me the tablature for the worst songs on earth and then also send appallingly-cheaply made examples of his new wife’s lack of artistic talent to an address
he couldn’t even be bothered to verify then -
I’d have disappeared off the face of the earth as well.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Aaah, More Work ‘Frieend’.
“Yeah why not” I reply to the skype message, because I work
in the sort of business where people communicate in that manner despite sitting
ten feet away from each other.
I don’t particularly ‘fancy a beer’ with Counterpart or anyone
else but I’m trying to be nice. So long as he doesn’t start banging-on about
his dead kid again.
Counterpart: It’s nice in here yeah? Beer’s ok as well. So.
I’ve been on Tinder and that…
Some time passes.
Me: Right. Why? What is that? Is it a sex thing or
something?
C: Nah not really it’s just a hook-up you know?
I don’t know, but I’m just glad we’re not talking about his
dead kid.
C: Just to see if I’ve ‘still got it’…
I start laughing. Then look at his face. He’s being serious.
Me: Oh. Sorry. Ok.
C: You’re not exactly a film star you skinny twat. So anyway
I start seeing this girl...she’s no looker or anything…
He shows me a picture on his phone of a beautiful young
woman.
C: But, y’know…..so we’ve been out a few times and I’ve seen
her and her son when me and my daughter had some free time and her mother
didn’t know…
Me: [Head reeling] Err, do you think that’s really…
I’d much rather be at home and I don’t really want to hear
about someone committing sort-of-adultery whilst making his daughter
borderline-complicit. At least he hasn’t mentioned his dead kid.
C: …but I’m thinking I might not be so fond of her as just
want to be with her son. You know? Because of what I’ve lost? You know? I’m
thinking I might only be seeing her because I’m falling in love with the son I
had who never lived.
I finish my drink and stare at the wall. A long night
beckons.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
Ghost Of Christmas Past Part 2
By definition, you don't really see a crisis coming. Certainly not a mental and/or emotional one. They tend to wear the most nondescript clothing.
Dinner at my mother’s house has become something of a ‘thing’
each Thursday. I’m not sure how it started but it punctuates the week and it’s
always good to catch up with her news of the allotment committee.
After which her husband and I discuss the world in general
over too many drinks in the conservatory whilst my mother makes dinner.
We all have a chat and a drink first. The subject skirts
around upcoming yuletide festivities.
Mother’s Husband: …But that was a funny Christmas morning
last year though, eh?
My ever diminishing number of regular readers will remember
that last Christmas I met and spoke to my father with whom I’d had next-to zero
contact in nearly thirty years. We had a pleasant chat with the result that I
felt rather content for the bulk of this year.
Mother’s Husband: Your Dad turning up! And he DIDN’T EVEN
RECOGNISE YOU! His own son!
Me: What?
My mother gives her husband the sort of 'look' I’d grown accustomed
to in childhood.
Mother’s Husband: [Quite drunk and not noticing The Look]: Yeah!
After he’d been chatting to you he came into the kitchen and asked your Aunty H
“who that bloke was in the sittng-room”
he’d just been talking to! Amazing.
My mother kicks her husband’s calf. He notices THAT, looks
at her and then at my face.
Mother’s Husband: Oh.
I light a cigarette in silence.
Some time passes.
My Mother: It’s lasagne tonight.
Me: Sounds great, thanks.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Ahh Work ‘Friend’.
It started fairly innocuously. After a mere six weeks at my
new job I am promoted and become the manager of my new colleagues. This causes
some consternation amongst some, many of whom have worked at the company for
years. Stuff them. Empathy is not one of my ‘big things’. My counterpart in
another department is also bumped-up. After a couple of weeks he feels we
should go for drinks after work and ‘discuss things’.
For the first hour or so things are fine. We discuss work
like normal people. And then things get a bit ‘not my area’.
Counterpart: I’m so committed to this company. That’s why
I’m staying here. My wife is moving away you see. For her work. Taking our
daughter with her. For her job. She’s doing really well.
Me: [Unsure of how we got here] Oh. Mmm.
Counterpart: I’m not worried. They’re my life. I know she’ll
be loyal.
Me: Ok.
Counterpart: [Showing me pictures of his daughter on his phone] It’s all for her.
Counterpart: [Showing me pictures of his daughter on his phone] It’s all for her.
Me: Totally. [I glance at a photo of him and his daughter
looking happy] Erm. Are you sure you’re making the right decision? I’m quite a
stubborn man myself and looking back on some things…
Counterpart: I know she’ll be loyal. She isn’t ‘that sort of
person’.
Poor bastard I think to myself.
Poor bastard I think to myself.
Me: Right.
Counterpart: We had another baby you know. Before. He didn’t
make it.
Oh for fuck’s SAKE I think to myself.
Counterpart: He lived a month and a half. We named him.
He tells me the name. He shows me pictures on his phone. The
child is full of tubes. He looks like a fucking cyborg I think to myself.
Me: Mmmm.
Jesus Christ, I think myself. I just fancied a drink. I
didn’t know I’d have to deal with some 'dead kid and impending marriage break-up' nonsense.
Counterpart: We haven’t slept together in two years though
but it’s not that sort of relationship.
Oh for God's sake I think to myself.
Me: Anyway my bus is in ten minutes so…
Counterpart: Oh mine too! We get the same one!
Me: [unaware of this] Splendid.
Monday, September 19, 2016
New Job.
“I hope things have gone alright.” I think to myself as I
leave the plush building that houses the company that I now work for.
It’s the end of my first week. It’s important to make the
right impression and to ensure that people feel they can successfully work with
you. I hope I have done so.
I reach into my right-hand suit pocket to take out my
cigarettes and a lighter. As I remove my hand a shower of at least two-dozen
PostIt notes drop from my pocket and drift down the street. Instinctively I
scamper to collect them.
My new office is on one of the biggest ‘party’ streets
within one of the biggest ‘party cities’ in the north of England .
I grab one PostIt. Upon it is drawn a massive
cock-and-balls. Without thinking I collect a few more. They feature similar
illustrations. A theme is emerging. I become the recipient of some cheers from
early-evening revellers who have also observed this thematic street-theatre.
Discarding my quest to collect the rest of my
stationary-based gifts I get my bus home and review the remainder of the
PostIts still in my suit-coat pocket.
Some are rather throw-away although some feature the classic
three droplets of spurting ‘liquid’. A few even have hairy balls. One in
particular features nothing but the word ‘PENIS’; obviously in case I were in
any doubt as to what the other illustrations represented.
“Things seem to have gone well.” I think to myself.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
I’ve Got To Find A New Job.
Tom The Accountant: I’ve no idea why Boss has even asked you
to speak to me about this. I’ve no idea. Only he could have done this.
I’m at work and am angry. Not your low-level ‘oh I’ve put
the recycling bin out but it’s actually refuse collection day’ angry but actual
laser-guided cut-glass steely-cold ‘don’t even look at me funny I will kill
you’ angry, the sort of anger that would frack gas from the core of the planet
without all that need for chemicals and such.
Tom The Accountant knows it and knows it’s ‘well above his
pay grade’ to deal with a swivel-eyed skinny madman who looks like he is about
to get himself in the news.
He wisely tells me he’ll ‘look into it’.
Ten minutes earlier:
Me: [Brandishing my payslip, which has had twenty-five
percent of my salary deducted under the heading of ‘sick leave’ despite my not
being unwell in the past month] Explain this. Now.
Boss: [Rattled, one eye desperately looking out of the door
of the meeting room] I’ve no idea. I can tell you’re really angry –
Me: Angry isn’t the word.
I could turn the office upside down with a glance. I’m
beyond anger – a place where I’m so eerily calm a mere look could take
someone’s head off.
Boss: The fact is I don’t know. You’ll have to speak to Tom
The Accountant about it.
Tom The Accountant is employed by the shadowy venture
capitalists that fund Boss’s company.
Me: I will. As he’s here today.
Boss: [Suddenly panic-stricken, clearly forgetting that
today was the day that Tom actually comes into the office and is in the next
room] Oh, erm, yes. Ok.
Some time passes.
I’m again in the meeting room with Boss.
Boss: [ Having had a few minutes to regain some calm but
still rattled by my thousand-yard stare] I may seem like a hard boss but I’m
actually a good guy. I mean, all this –
He makes an expansive gesture to take in what I assume to be
the whole enterprise which once consisted of a mere twelve employees and now
consists of only Unfeasibly Young Zac, Methodical Mike and I, the xbox 360 that
is kept in a cupboard and only taken-out to show strangers what a ‘fun’ company
we are and the coffee table he has from the local charity shop ‘on trial’.
Boss: - may make me look like some sort of Alan Sugar-type
but I’m actually ok. So I’ve paid you your salary short-fall out of my own
pocket. Because I’m good like that.
The next morning I send him a text message from my mobile
phone.
“Good morning, it’s me. Shan’t be returning to work. All the
best for the future.”
Sunday, June 19, 2016
Young Writers.
Indulge me. Young Writers run – amongst other things –
writing competitions which are often taken-up by the English departments of
schools nation-wide. Recently the theme was ‘spooky stories’. Favourite
Daughter’s school was involved, and OF COURSE her entry was chosen for
publication. A tale that had to be told in ONLY ONE HUNDRED WORDS. It was
published in a book entitled Spine Chillers that people can ACTUALLY BUY. It’s
got a BLOODY ISBN NUMBER AND EVERYTHING!
Her tale is below.
Dead, Alive or Insane?
I see spirits. Remember being an infant in bed with
heartbeats pulsing thick beneath you? Or them reaching out from your ceiling,
hair wringing their necks? It was real for me. I was left in an asylum before I
could remember. I could see the corpses in every room – how they died. Spirits
stay. Why won’t they leave me? The birds caw like victims. Fog rolls. ‘I’m sick
of it. Kill me.’ OK. I don’t know if I’m here or insane, but it’s dark, I’m
motionless. I hear spectral laughter, it won’t stop. Is this my waiting
punishment for killing?
Reading, Writing and Stories.
It’s another Father’s Day and I sleep late. I feel I’m owed
it after a long working week following another - the bulk of which was spent in
a strange city in an unfamiliar apartment with colleagues I eventually dreamt
of murdering. But that is another story.
I have oven-chips for breakfast because I can and spend the
bulk of the day in my pyjamas for the same reason. I open the Father’s Day
cards that have arrived in the post on time in the first instance I can recall.
I drink tea and smoke cigarettes and stare out the window.
After finally dressing and going to the shops I re-read the story my daughter wrote.
And then finish reading the graphic novel I’d bought as a treat for myself
whilst hanging-out in the local comic book shops with my son and daughter to
feed their manga obsession when they visited only two weeks previously. The
memory makes me chuckle recalling their laughter when I tell them a story one
of my employers related to me about his language problems whilst living in Japan . But that
is another story.
I speak to sister on the phone and we tell each other stories before finishing the story I’m reading and think about the
novel I’ll almost certainly never begin.
Then I write this.
Friday, March 25, 2016
Conversations With My Boss #3
I am once again alone in the office. I am beginning to despise
Methodical Marketing Mike and Unfeasibly Young Zak who have once again left me
alone in the office with our boss.
He is – as usual – behind the ridiculously large screen of his Mac
wearing earphones and watching youtube videos but I know it’s only a matter of
time. Time that he saves for me, for some reason.
His head moves from behind his screen.
Boss: [One eye staring sternly at the server
room but the other staring at me] There was a phrase when I used to run a
recruitment firm in London ….
I’ve checked with Companies House. He never ran a business in London .
He ran a recruitment firm in the north-of-England city we’re currently in. By
‘run’ I mean ‘into the ground’.
Boss: …which was “Never pitch the bitch”. London .
I don’t like the phrase. It’s SEXIST.
I stare at him in silence. I have things I need to be doing.
Boss: But in a way it’s true. I’d never sell to
women.
Some time passes.
Boss: Or Pakis.
Some more time passes. I stare at his good eye without blinking. My brain does cartwheels in my skull.
Boss: They’ve got ulterior motives. All of them.
“I’ve got to find a new job.” I think to myself.