Electric I

I really enjoy playing with emotions in my writing and hope that I’ve captured the spirit of a lost soul.  

I’ve been down here far too long just waiting for my chance. All I want is to be loved, empowered, be part of the solution again. I’ve no idea how long this dark, dank, basement has been home, but I hate it. It’s cold, lonely, and full to the brim with reminders of lost family, purpose and function.

Look there—countless boxes of books; row upon row filled with delicious recipes, exotic destinations, magnificent stories. Look: Murakami’s peering over the top of one at me. At least he can escape. I can only dream about running, you see; I just don’t have the legs for it.  

Everything here still has purpose; old records (worth a mint to the hipsters nowadays I understand), battered and scarred kitchen equipment, even that old watering can gets used occasionally. But not me. I’m hunkered down under my cover. Dormant. Waiting. Forlorn.

I remember a time when I had status right in the heart of the family, and a strategic position in the living room by the window so the neighbours would feel pangs of jealousy and guilt as they passed by. Bob was my favourite, he got the best out of me. He never visits now though, seems to have lost interest, and gained a few pounds since they shoved me down here out of the way. We’d always start off slow, warm up the muscles, expand the lungs. Then slowly, imperceptibly, he’d bring up the pace, punch my buttons, climb, harder, faster, until the sweat poured down his back and he’d run on and on.  

How I wish I could grow legs and run towards something new, something with purpose. Be useful again.

Wait a sec…what’s that?

The bulb flickers to life, wooden steps creak, my belt tightens in anticipation, pick me this time I pray – all the while knowing I’ll be disappointed, again. She’ll come waddling down in her lumpy active wear and rummage for school photos, earthenware pots, or that library romance she’s forgotten to return. If only I had a voice I’d ask, ‘Why the costume Rita? Are you baiting me?’ Imagine her face…

But no, it’s Bob, my redeemer! He presses a button, the roller door squeals—it too needs an oil and service—and the room fills with daylight. There are muffled voices and a car door slams.

Rough hands tug at the cover and I’m freed from my plastic cocoon. They’re standing together, reverently appraising me. I anticipate the two hundred and forty volt shock coursing through my veins, jolting me back to life, firing me up.

I’m ready to get moving again, get active, ready to run…

But the power never comes. Quietly, as if he knows I’m listening, doleful Bob turns to the man and asks, “How much for scrap?”

Life’s Better With…

Here’s a short piece just for fun, hope it brings a smile.

He’d always been a hugger, that was until this detestable pandemic came along and swept away so many of life’s little pleasures. Young Robin’s body rallied against the cheerful snow-encrusted-glitter-bespeckled tacky Christmas card images of his name’s sake, and he grew into what could only be described as: a man mountain. Six-two, a hundred and ninety-six pounds, with a fondness for greeting you with a big ol’ bear hug. It was mateship, friendly, harmless and at the same time comforting, but you daren’t admit it to the PC police…

Robbie’s hugs were always reliable, left you feeling consoled and compassionate, it was as if your biological make-up had somehow been altered by the brief contact. The oxytocin gush warmed and provided security. It didn’t matter if you were having a bad day, week, or even a terrible month; a quick bear hug and, whether there was anything wrong or not, your world was put to rights. Those hugs relayed an emotion for which words are impossible.

Thanks to Covid though hugs seem to have gone forever. The new norm—working from home—has killed more than the city centre café culture—its invaded the very fabric of our lives, changed everything in innumerable ways, turned us goggle-eyed, Google-eyed, into screen-staring junkies justifying our existence with ten-hour workdays and weekend emails.

We download and stream, binge watch and eat, why? Because they’re an escape from the mundane. Funny how you never hear anyone boast about binge-reading, isn’t it? the author ponders…but without connection to people, music and our culture, time turns, as Frank said, meaninglessly into a bunch of boring deadlines by which bills must be paid…

And so our cheery Christmas bird of hope has turned imperceptibly from a hugger to a waver—offering a wave and a smile from behind his mask to the occasional passer-by on a pre-work morning neighbourhood walk. Waving as the kids are released, like headless chickens, for their two-hours of freedom to vent steam at the park, and at the computer screen, to his team dispersed across the country toiling away in living rooms, bedrooms and kitchens in track pants and fleece; one moment, wondering if they’ll ever fit into that suit again, the next, enjoying the tangible lockdown benefits: more sleep, more cash, less mother-in-law.

He has no idea when he started signing off with a wave, but it brings him comfort, and that comfort goes some way to replace the bear hug he was always so willing to give. To give is to receive they say, which, he knows, is why he gave in the first place; because everybody hurts sometimes.

The post-meeting waves and smiles surely signify hope for the future. A time when, fully-vaxxed, he’ll again sneak up from behind, crush your bony shoulders between his tattooed Popeye-bulging biceps and belly laugh in your ear, knowing all the while that he has made the world a better place with a simple hug.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Gold Dust

Swimming has long played a very important role in my life. While watching the Olympics recently I wanted to explore the important people behind the medals, their dedication and how that passion never seems to leave.

I could never say no to Jonah, especially this time after he’d pleaded, almost begged me to go with them. “After all,” he’d said, “You used to swim, didn’t you Gran? Dad said you were pretty good too.” He hadn’t waited for a reply before informing me that he’d win gold today.

Jonah was right, but I wasn’t just plain-old boringly good, I was great: at deception, deceit, and faking it.

I was also a damn fine athlete.

You see, swimming was my escape, and this noise-filled brightly lit barn of a place brings everything back. Every five a.m. wake up call, relentless training schedule and competition triumph took me to a better place – away from him and towards her.

He’d never question when I’d return home in a waft of chlorine, too tired to even speak; eat, then curl up, tight as a ball, in the solitude of our marital bed. He’d never realise that half the time I’d been with her. He’d never understand she allowed me to float; weightless and free, cleanse my misguided guilt. And she never knew she’d saved a drowning woman.

If he’d had suspicions they wouldn’t have been ungrounded though, especially when I’d push his cold inquisitive hand off my thigh most Friday nights, roll over and make another pathetic excuse about being too tired, or needing to get up in the morning. I can’t say I ever really wanted kids, but it’s what we did back then. We were both good wives, leading good lives – there were careers, families, sponsorships and reputations at stake – we were unwitting captives on a leaky boat. At least I could swim.

Alas, the devotion wasn’t mutual, it turned out I was a mere plaything, caught in a tidal wave of emotions; a trifling experiment. When it was over I was left high and dry, wrung out like a wet swim suit dripping on the concrete in the blazing midday sun with nothing more than a pile of useless medals and evaporated dreams to show for it.

Soon after the break up my passion waned: my times slipped, I was retired from the squad and stopped swimming altogether. Jonah’s never even seen me in the pool.

He’s on the starting blocks now. My heart’s racing and I’m with him, ready to leap again into the shimmering blue unknown, help propel him along with all my might – arms, legs, head and heart working in perfect unison – just like all those years ago.

The buzzer sounds and he’s first off in the 50 freestyle.

He swims beautifully–in rhythmic, lithe, effortless strokes; gathering with every catch, slivers of alluvial gold from the sparkling water, collecting and moulding his brilliant future. In a little less than thirty seconds he’s at the wall pounding the water with delight and basking in glory.

I know now this story is not about her, Jonah or even my husband. It’s always been about me and that liberating first dive into the cool unknown blue where I can be free.  

Think I’ll ask about a senior’s membership on the way out.   

Endless Quest

By Tamara Raidt

You will spend half of your life
striving to find the right words

said the fairy who had bent
over my cradle at four a.m.

and once you think you’ve achieved your task
you will spend the other half

striving to find someone
who can understand them.

––––––––––
“Writing helps me embrace my emotions, and it’s the best way I have found so far to make sense out of things that appeared to me without a sense.” – the writer

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Lockdown #4

A year ago I promised myself I wouldn’t write about lockdown and coronavirus, but while lying in bed this morning I couldn’t stop the words bouncing around in my head as we listened to our kids in the next room.

Enjoy, and look after one another.

Lockdown number four and we’re out of ideas.

Camp’s been cancelled, so yet again they’ll miss out on time with their friends, adventures and a chance to go wild.

I wake to the sound of happy voices behind the wall — a thud, a giggle and muffled reproach —he, he ha, haw haw haw—laughter’s young cadence fills the chilly autumn room.

Yesterday they built their own camp under the desk. An old lamp, chess set and tatty blanket; all they needed for a few hours escape. We let them sleep over – big one in his bed as usual, small one on the trundle. Swaddled in their duvets like babes all those years ago. They giggled past nine, ten—awoke with sleepy voices and red eyes. In the morning their puffy faces beamed connection, content and love for a brother with experience shared.

I roll over, it’s nearly eight—a full two hours later than usual, guilt feeds the hunger pangs. But to hell with it—we might as well enjoy this enforced confinement as best we can.

She pulls my arm over, wraps me tight and we doze a little while longer.

The brothers play on. I know how they feel in their makeshift camp.

We might be in temporary lockdown and confined to our homes, but this one is bonded by love, laughter and an understanding that it won’t be forever. We’ll make the most of what we have.

Image courtesy of mommytomom.

The Call

I can’t believe it’s been five months since my last post. So much has been going on both at work and home that the time has just flown by, sadly with not much writing to show for it either!

Anyway, here’s a short for March 2021’s Furious Fiction. The brief was to wind a story around the image and several keywords. As a student I’d make the weekly pilgrimage to the payphone to call home, stand in line, try to avoid listening to other people’s conversations. I never thought those days would end up on the page.

Wednesday

“Excuse me, do you have change?” she calls from across the road, waving a one-pound note.

“Umm, hang on a minute…” I cross over while digging in my pocket. Benji, my dog, the reason I’m out this time of night, likes her, and so do I; she reminds me of someone. I’ve noticed this young woman in town recently—browsing second-hand records, at the market and occasionally here at the only payphone in the village.   

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no stalker or perv—my flat is right across the road and it’s difficult to ignore the comings and goings around the lake, especially since Anne passed. There’s little comfort in the long winter evenings now, so I watch the passers-by and weather change in the mountains. Both are far more entertaining than those interminable cooking shows, I can tell you.  

She pats Benji on the head as I offer her the coins. Marvellous…there’s not enough to make a quid; just a fifty, two tens, and a two. They clink together in my hand; cold as marble. She looks at me, flushes, and is about to say something, but I stop her – “Please, it’s fine.”

I study the gentle shape of her face, bright eyes and inviting features, wrapped in her coat and scarf. She’s around twenty, but for some reason, I feel…well…it’s difficult to explain.

“If you’re sure, thanks.” She takes 20p; and with a quick, embarrassed smile warming her cheeks, turns and enters the box. She perches on the shelf with its row of yellow phone books underneath and stares out across the lake ignoring the graffiti, sex line ads, and marshmallow-like slime daubed on the glass.

Mouthing a “Thank you,” she waves me off with another smile as Benji pulls at the leash, desperate to go. By the time we’re back from the park, there’s a different shape hunkered in the box. It’s a man weeping. As I said, I’ve seen them all.

Thursday

I’m out for a walk with Benji in the cold evening air, I turn the corner away from the lake, down the side of the building, and in the stillness hear the phone trilling loudly up in my flat. It rings and rings. At my age it’s pointless to try and run for it, so they’ll just have to wait.

Friday

Icy winter rain hammers the windows obscuring the view. I’ve drawn the curtains and given up trying to get out; deciding instead to finish my book. I’ve got a winter stew in the oven and a nice glass of red; by far the best way to end a busy week. The phone rings.

“Mr. Wright?” a young female voice I recognise, but can’t quite place, enquires.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad to have caught you finally. My name is Sarah and we need to talk about my mother.” 

Thanks to our friends at the AWC for use of the image.

Lani

I had fun with this short story competition entry from November 2020. Writers were given two scenes to choose from and had to weave several keywords into their story. I wanted to tie the beach-side rendezvous in with some great views, sand and some suspense.  

I honestly thought she had no idea. After all, she never wonders where the money comes from or asks why I disappear at all hours of the day and night. Lani just goes with the flow and that’s one reason I like her so much. We’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks so there’s no way I can tell her. Not yet. I have to be careful in my line of work, certain I can trust her. But this time it’s different; she means a lot to me. And that’s dangerous.

We’ve used this place for a while now. It’s safe, inconspicuous, and no one asks difficult questions. Beachfront rooms cost a little more, but there’s a nice view of the sea. Even on grey gloomy days like today, when it looks like rain, I like to step out onto the balcony for a smoke and check out the talent on the beach. Think I’ll retire and join them, buy a pair of runners and fall in rhythm behind those pert beauties, enjoy the bouncing vitality of their youth. Risk a heart attack. Die happy.

Today’s job went well. Jimmy, Karl and the Captain all know the drill having worked together for so long. It’s simple. Go in, be polite, but firm. Empty the tills and get out. No one gets hurt, no one loses a finger, an eye, or a loved one—and the insurance pays out.

Ricco’s new man will be here any moment to collect his cut. There’s something I don’t like about him though. He’s always on edge, always looking for something, beady black eyes dart around the room, alternating between me and the photos on the wall. Maybe he dreams of escaping to that sun-drenched desert island in the pictures—just like I do.

He always fiddles with his sapphire-encrusted wedding ring as we count the dough. If I were a betting man I’d say he thinks that gem will bring him good fortune, wisdom, maybe even a little virtue.

But I’m no gambler, I’m a thief. I’ve only ever gambled, and lost, on love.

There’s a rap at the door. He enters, sweating. Those predictable eyes dart from me, to the bag on the bed, then to the door. His skinny neck protrudes from his shirt, red hot despite the cool day. He’s unshaven, dishevelled and his collar’s wilted like lettuce in the sun. New kids just can’t handle the pressure these days. He gives me the jitters.

‘How much?’ he mumbles.

‘110 all up.’

His eyes shift again to the bag, back to me and he raises the gun. ‘You’re under arrest.’  

They appear from nowhere, a sea of blue, badges and firearms. Pushed up against the wall Lani snaps the handcuffs around my wrists with a little too much enthusiasm.

Lani, my lover. My policewoman. That desert island escape I was dreaming of together will have to wait a little longer I guess.   

 

Rona & The Moon

I wanted to capture the fragile relationship between man and the moon while bringing the setting up to date in my retelling of this popular New Zealand legend. I think Rona exists in all of us; we try hard to please, fail often and all-too-easily blame others for our shortcomings.

Image courtesy of New Zealand Post

Rona stares at the bedsheets wound tightly around him, shivers in the night air, loathes the flabby nakedness in the moonlight. His broad shoulders and thick sunburnt neck remind her of a fallen, dead, tree. Mere driftwood, she thinks as she gets out of bed.

‘It has to stop.’ she mutters; not Tam’s incessant snoring—she’s gotten used to that, what she refuses to get used to is the constant bickering, the feeling of being used, of never being good enough for him.

She puts on her dressing gown, pours two glasses of water, puts one next to her husband and steps outside to smoke.

Marama shines down, big, beautiful, benevolent. But she’s oblivious to his power to turn tide and time.

‘Fat load of good you’ve done me,’ she scowls at the moon. ‘I should have listened to my mother, she warned me about him.’ She smokes, continues her tirade and dreams of escape.

Marama objects, ‘Be careful what you wish for Rona.’ She snorts a derisive laugh, can’t believe her ears and wonders whether Tam’s spiked her cigarettes.

‘At least I try. All that lazy good-for-nothing does is drink beer and play in that awful band,’ she snaps back.

She blames the moon for being caught in this mess, and for last night’s disastrous meal where Tam accused her of burning the fish. It tasted perfectly fine to her, although nothing fancy or elaborate, she’d simply wanted to please him with a nice home-cooked meal. But yet again she’d failed.

Marama’s heard enough. He reaches down, plucks the woman off the porch. She scowls, swears, sinks her teeth into his ethereal hand and clings to a ngaio tree for dear life. He uproots it, lifts them high above the village, the ocean and into his gentle caress.

At first she resented him for taking her. She argued, demanded to be put back on Earth, even tried to jump a couple of times.

Many years pass and Marama’s love for Rona became eternal, unbreakable, eventually he bestowed a magical cloak granting her power over tide, sea, and the villagers below.

She’s grown content with her life amongst the stars while protecting the village. She wonders what happened to Tam and looks for him. Strong, pliant, generous of heart and kind with words, he’s no longer driftwood; he’s grown. Sometimes he wonders why Rona disappeared and regrets that he wasn’t a better husband.

He’ll never know she forgave him many, many moons ago. He’s oblivious to Rona when she appears every month wrapped in her magic cloak next to the ngaio tree in the moon, but that doesn’t matter to her now.

Tam draws a glass of water, carries it to bed for his new wife. He steps outside, lights a cigarette and, for all the good things in life, thanks the man in the moon.    

Those Baby Blues

In a drabble, of exactly one-hundred delectable words, he found temporary relief…

Your saccharine smile belies the truth hidden behind those baby blues.

Platitudes and graces abound while your relentless greed, envy and self-loathing gnaw from within.

You weren’t created this way.
You were born of love—pure, innocent and in the image of your beloved god.

Aren’t you reminded of that when you genuflect?

Reveal your true self.
Start from within.
Tear down those superficial barriers of worthlessness and injustice.

I want, need, you to change.

Love without avarice.
Give with an open hand and heart.
Do, don’t say,
And one day perhaps, before it’s too late, I’ll let you in.

Thanks to our friends at Freepik for the image.

The Getaway

This competition entry for the Australian Writer’s Centre was written in September 2020. The brief included being inspired by a photo of the back of a boat and starting the piece with a ‘sho‘ word. I enjoyed sprinkling a few more ‘sho‘ words along the way for fun. I liked the idea of using the ferry as a means of escape and wanted to play with the balance between rich and poor, dreamer and pragmatist.  

‘Show me,’ she pleaded, but I how could I with so many people around? She would have to wait until we were alone. Her eager voice made my heart beat hard, my breath short, my blood run hot. This was our chance, ‘Get the car, and your stuff. Meet me at Vaucluse in half an hour’.

I hung up and switched it off, conscious that they could trace the call.

The ferry was packed, but I eventually found a seat looking back over the quay. I stashed the heavy carpet bag under the seat, purposely looping a handle under my shoe and tried to look as if I belonged, tried to calm down, while checking the other passengers and telling myself ‘They don’t know…they don’t know.’

It was a glorious warm day; water shoaled around the hull in candy-floss clouds as we departed. The sun and sea air helped me relax. I’d spotted the bag lying forgotten on the bench as I’d eaten lunch in the botanic gardens. As first-year catering students we were already slaves to the industry and I’d spent the morning slicing, dicing, chopping and preparing, sprinkling a little salt and pepper. But my heart was never in it. It was just a job to me.

Needless to say; I didn’t go back, and now I wouldn’t need to.

I thought about the bag tucked safely under the seat, recalled Philias Fogg’s outlandish journey, drifted away as the engine chugged; daydreaming of where we’d go, the people we’d leave behind and the adventures yet to come.

I’d never been good enough for her parents and only enrolled to please them. I thought a career with a future would please them, but it didn’t. Nothing could make those two happy except the pleasure in deriding others, and money, of course. It’s always been about the money with them.

They’d made a fortune digging in the Pilbara dirt, making easy millions off the hard labour, blood, sweat and tears of others and they’d taken great pride in telling me that I would never live up to their expectations, never be good enough for their daughter. But I am. The contents of this bag will help settle the score.

I picture the bag laying open in front of them. Before they have a chance to speak, I grab a couple of wads, shower them high in the air, watch them flutter away. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to stamp their greedy fat fingers into the mud as they claw at the rainbow of colours floating in the wind.

But no, I’m too sensible for that. We’ll just run. The poor boy, rich girl and a bag full of cash.

A Village Wedding

Here’s a short piece I put together for fun and to experiment with words, people and places. I wanted to use the title ‘What lies beneath’ but if I had it probably wouldn’t have turned out to be a love story…

The sleek black Mercedes’ door swung open and out stepped Tracie-Ann; daughter, boss, friend and lover. No one could ever deny how beautiful she looked. She was always so impeccably dressed, some might say a little overdressed to run the Eden Village café, but that was just the way she was. Today though she looked just perfect.

The driver sidled round, opening the other door with a flourish. Out stepped Carol to a burst of admiration. They joined hands, beaming to the well-wishers and glided down the plush red carpet.

Eden Village had been good to them. Having invested their life savings, they’d moved from the city to the tiny village and built the café into a thriving business. It hadn’t all been easy sailing of course, but then neither of them ever thought it would be. There had been challenges and tears, but also plenty of giggles along the way. They’d cried with laughter at a crazy rant in the local paper about ‘them wicked lesbeans taking over the place’ and decided that there was no better name. So, Les Beans Café was born and the anonymous bigot silenced, as was intended. Carol cut the article out of the paper and stuck it on the fridge between Kurt Cobain and a postcard of sexy Monroe in The Misfits. It’s still there, four years later.

They’d had a simple plan – offer great coffee, food and service and at the same time integrate with the local community. Gareth helps them run the place. Dairy is sourced from Ted the local farmer. Pies, bread and cakes come from the bakery just over the hill and their gamble paid off. Customers came at first for scandal; now they come to share a cuppa and their lives.

The girls had spent ages searching for the right venue–church–neither was religious, registry office–too stuffy, even the function room at the local hotel. But some prejudices are unconquerable it seems; especially if you offer quality meals and service, like they do at the café.

Gareth was such a great asset, adored by everyone in the village, reliable, hard-working and trustworthy. The girls saw an opportunity and made him an offer. Some might say they’d used him, but that’d be too cruel. Afterall, he knew what he was getting into.  

They’d decided to close the café for a couple of days, make it nice and hold the ceremony there. It looked perfect as they walked down the aisle, replete with rows of smiling, happy people. A pianist tinkled the ivories while the La Marzocco clicked quietly, warming in preparation for the wedding breakfast when the coffee will flow, thick, strong and black, and the crema will pop like Champagne bubbles.

Under one of the pearlescent bridal gowns however lies a different kind of bean, this is no ordinary  coffee bean. It will grow, be nurtured, loved by the two women and eventually, tentatively, inquisitively, ask the most obvious of questions.

Five Dollars

A short competition piece from May 2020. The keywords pointed me home and the unusual cold snap set the scene nicely for some reflection.

Photo by Jeffrey Blum on Unsplash

Five Dollars! Guilt cramps my stomach as if I’ve just been caught stealing and I flush, not from embarrassment, but desire. Flipping the tag over again to be sure, I scan the nearby shoppers. No one has the slightest interest in what I’m doing, they’re too busy with their own bargains—nearly new baby clothes, dusty LPs and books for a buck; all bought knowing it’s for a worthy cause.

He floats back as I stand there. Pulse racing with pleasure recalled; handsome, smart, important—Dad in his winter coat. I’d run for a last hug as he left for the day, snuggle in between the open flaps, into the thick woollen pullover and slide my hands under the coat trying to steal the last of his warmth before he’d encircle me with his big hands, pat me on the head and, with a cheery goodbye, step out into the snow wrapping his coat tightly around him. I’d watch as he’d disappear down the road in great plumes of cigarette smoke mixed with frozen breath, just like one of his beloved steam trains. I’d listen to his feet crunch fresh snow; the only sound for miles, then, close the door before Jack Frost could come and bite off my toes.   

I check for damage. Slip my hand into the pockets, around the lining and inspect the buttons before trying it on. It’s perfect. In the mirror he’s there staring back at me, just like forty years ago. Very nice says a voice behind me. I beam at the old lady as the snow melts and the memory of him disappears in an instant. Just as he did.   

Memories are all I have now, a second-hand winter coat could never replace him, but I like knowing he’s there at the most mundane of times. By popping in just to say hi he brings warmth and consolation on these bitter days.

We etch ourselves, indelibly, into our children’s memories, through our words and stories, actions and possessions. This coat doesn’t have a silver lining like his, but that doesn’t matter to me. I’ll buy it not just because I need to replace my tatty old one, but for something far more important.

Baker, Baker

A short piece from April 2020 which was inspired by the wonderful Tori Amos song of the same name. I wanted to capture the homeliness and warmth of a busy kitchen, the people that share it, and those that miss out.

Baker baker baking a cake
Make me a day
Make me whole again
And I wonder what’s in a day
What’s in your cake this time – Tori Amos

They’re out there again, pashing on the side of the road with not a care in the world. You’d think they’d at least have some decency and take their groping hands, greedy faces and slippery tongues inside. I watch as blood flushes her skin, pigment blooms red. Harlot red.

It’s not love like it was with my Pete, that was romantic love, true love that lasts. You could feel it in the air, touch and taste it when you entered our home. His every word and action honouring his queen. Not like that slut next door, only two months ago she kicked out her husband and took his brother in. I could hear the punches land and threats to kill as they rolled around in my front yard. She stood screaming obscenities. I called the police.

It’s our 35^th today, so, despite all the worries of the world, and not a soul to share it with, I’ll be celebrating with Pete’s favourite. I shall make myself respectable, tie a red ribbon in my hair and bake. How Pete loved his cakes; banana, chocolate, lemon cheesecake, it didn’t matter. He devoured them all with passion and just couldn’t get enough, shovelling in great forkfuls twice a day while crooning in a broken falsetto “Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey” as he danced in circles to the 45 revolving in his head. It was his way of showing me there was actually passion, desire, lust even, in his life. I guess. If only I were born a cupcake, I would have him ravage me twice a day, every day. But he was more interested in the cake, so, I baked.  

I bet all she-next-door can manage is a store-bought cake. She wouldn’t know that the secret ingredient, the way to a man’s heart, is a drop, no…a splash of love. Every ounce of flour and sugar, chocolate-stained apron and recipe book signs of wifely devotion.

So, like all great chefs, I take my time to prepare. Pre-heat the oven. Click through the icons on the front panel and select the right mode. I grease the pans and treat myself to a glass of celebratory red. While waiting, I potter, tidy up a bit and notice the adulterer has gone.

He’ll be back later, with squealing tyres, slamming doors and a drunken Saturday night fight the only things she’s got to look forward to. Shame really, she could have done much better. It’s the kids I feel for.

I let the cupcakes cool and decorate them with bright rainbows. All that’s needed now is to leave them on her doorstep with a note offering a little happiness, empathy and possibly hope in these troubled times.

Since You’ve Been Gone

Originally written in December 2019 this piece benefited from a major transformation in April 2020. I wanted to capture those sleepy moments when you roll over, realise that you’re alone, and the thoughts that follow. It was inspired by my darling wife while she was away visiting family.

For you, with love, MH.

Something disturbs me and I wake knowing you are not here. Yet another empty night, the same as the last, the one before, and the one before that, is over. Dawn’s dappled summer sun peaks around the blinds and falls on the pillow illuminating the daisies where your head should be, but hasn’t, for an eternity.

The sheets on your side of the bed are only slightly ruffled. Not how they should be. Not how I want them to be. I want them creased in thick mountainous peaks and valleys formed by your restlessness. I want them wrapped around our warm bodies, binding us tight and I want those peaks and valleys to smell of you. I wonder how they got so creased without you.

I think of your dreams that so often turned sheets into mountains. We’d share plenty over the years, the memorable, absurd and just downright insane. They’d linger until breakfast before disappearing, our mundane rituals pushing them aside. Over tea and toast we’d try to decipher them. Flicking through a dreamer’s dictionary hoping to settle on a meaning just seemed a little crass—we preferred our own conclusions. Yours always analytical, mine ethereal. But what of the unspoken, the too personal, or those that made you feel imperfect? Vain or desirous?

I’ve grown used to you not being here and sprawl across the bed. I wake with my legs ninety degrees to the pillow—my body attempting to fill the vast space between me and your bedside table upon which only a few reminders remain. The family photo, that ugly bear you’ve cherished since we met, and the cookery book you bought especially for me. There’s simply not enough time, memories or pictures of you. I want more.  

I reach over, trace your outline, fingers smooth your lustrous hair, coming to rest for a moment on the nape of your fine neck which has always been my favourite part of your body. I can’t bear the sensation of your warm skin in my empty hand and let it travel across your shoulder following the outline first up, down, and then to the final resting place high on your hip. Your warmth envelops me as I shift closer to share your pillow, my hand coming to rest on the rise of your belly. Chivalry prevents my hand travelling further south as you sleep. If you were here, would you yield to my desire, or would you roll away pushing me off with an elbow’s sleepy nudge?

I doze in the luxury of warmth, security and timelessness of the world we’ve created and recall the first time we slept together. There was no sex. I kept my jeans on as we lay in that stranger’s bed, my noble intentions hindering thoughts of exploring more of the body I’ve since learnt to adore. By the way, those jeans were bloody uncomfortable, but one night’s discomfort was a small price to pay for the thousands filled with happiness we’ve shared since.

‘Tis the season to be merry’ they say, that’s simply impossible for me without you, and the other two. Last year we celebrated with bubbly on the beach and watched fireworks illuminate the New Year sky. This year I’ll be on my own.  

Our bed was not just our sanctuary—it was also a playground for the kids. Tiny faces clutching bears, would creak the door open at some ungodly hour, squeeze in under the daisy-patterned duvet and between us—wiggling with content. They’d push their tiny bums out desperate for a few extra inches, then nod back off dreaming of faraway lands. Those lands filled, I pray, with beauty, abundance and love. Together we’d doze into the weekend. No alarms, no trains rushing us with their incessant boarding calls and honking horns, no impossible deadlines for the boss.

I’d like to slumber for ever, if only it wasn’t for the pain in my arm from cradling not one, two, but three heads. My whole world, fitting not quite in the palm of my hand. I’d wiggle my fingers and squeeze nails into my palms, in a vain attempt to pump blood. Eventually I would have to disturb the dozing trio to cease the pain.

If only it were like that now, but those days are gone. They’re too big, too self-conscious; already so grown up and not even in their teens. How time flies, barely out of nappies and seemingly so self-reliant. The alarm rouses me. With it the eternal empty existence stretching before me, and the yearning for the past, vanishes. You and the kids are fast asleep at your childhood home abroad. Knowing this brings me comfort, peace, perhaps even some joy following my long, restless night. My temporary loss is your parent’s gain and I wouldn’t deny them that for a second. You’ll be beside me soon enough and we’ll delight in sharing our bed, life and all the love we’ve missed since you’ve been gone. 

Ayna

I’ve always wanted to explore a chance encounter I had on the Tube almost twenty years ago where I was smitten by a pair of iridescent blue eyes. One line lead to another and I ended up with over 6,000 words across three letters. In this, the first, I think I’ve captured the unknown woman who’s eyes I can still picture clear as day.

My dearest Ayna,

I need to explain what happened that day on the Tube between the Bush and Tottenham Court Road. Those thirteen minutes which led to so much joy, laughter, but ultimately regret. I need, in my own, disjointed, emotional, and probably over-sentimental way, to describe the moment when I first set eyes on you.

It was a warm London summer day some twenty years ago. We were, by chance, strangers on a train, sitting next to each other in the florescent glare of the Tube. I admit it was not the most romantic of places, or the best to make anyone look great with its harsh overhead light magically turning even the palest skin a yellowy-green wax. When you turned to me and spoke, I gazed into your radiant blue eyes for the first time and sunk immediately into two bottomless pools of blue diamonds that at once struck me as unreal and the most breathtaking sight I’ve ever seen.

Most people would say that it was just a coincidence, however, I knew that, we would become lovers from the moment I saw you. It was as if I’d already seen you a thousand times, fallen into those deep luminous black pools encircled with azure diamonds, and followed you to a new destination, one of completeness, togetherness and of unity. 

I can’t, for the life of me, recall where I was going at the time of our first encounter, but the day is indelibly etched in my memory. I remember your lustrous dark brown shoulder-length hair, cascading down to your slight shoulders, which were framed in a close-fitting (not too tight) simple white t-shirt which accentuated your neck, arms and lovely almond-shaped face. I was smitten.

I scanned your face–two more horizontal almonds were gently gazing my way. Oh, those, eyes: emotionless, but offering a world of breadth and depth I’d never before imagined possible. They could only be real as coloured contacts wouldn’t come along for another few years.

Wanting, but not being able to hold your gaze, I scanned–took in as much information about you as I could in a few heart pounding seconds and looked away. Out of the corner of my eye there was an animated conversation in full swing between an attractive bi-spectacled redhead and her beau, their voices too low to distinguish. I could see that he was really attracted to her by the way he used his body; leaning in, using eye contact and over-emphasising hand gestures–almost touching her face and shoulders. She did the majority of the talking and was comfortable in his presence, obviously enjoying the closeness of his body with both the physical and emotional warmth.

Demurely, she leant in and shared a private joke, her eyes grew larger in anticipation of the satisfaction of knowing that he’d laugh and pull her in for a kiss.

The carriage watched as they prepared to alight, hands clutched, fingers entwined and a comfortable silence between them. As the train slowed with the familiar squeal and smell of break dust, she moved into him and he looked at her the same way I have seen you look at me a thousand times…

You coughed ­a look-at-me signal, and again I had to look away. I just could not believe that in that grimy hot carriage it was possible to experience you so fully, to see your violet aura so vividly, so radiant, perfectly framing your figure, face and, of course, only enhancing the beauty of your incredible eyes.

They say that the perfect pair of eyes are those that are not quite symmetrical. Take a quick look in the mirror–you’ll notice your left is ever so slightly higher, larger and rounder than the right. When I looked at you that day, I saw only imperfect perfection. I noticed the slight freckling around your nose and cheeks, with just a smattering on your strong, feminine chin. Your lips, again slightly uneven and imperfect, parted showing your teeth. I had no choice, there and then, but to seek perfect perfection–in you. Some might say that there is no such thing as perfection, but I know that I saw it in you. Were you the one I had been seeking for so long? Was I crazy to believe it was possible?  

In a voice befitting your aura–calm, balanced, and inquisitive, you asked whether the train was headed in the right direction and I had only a few stops to decide our future. So, I turned to you, cleared a nervous falsetto, and spoke. Your response didn’t surprise me:

“Camden, I enjoy browsing.”

Me too I thought, just keep looking at me. Please.

“Would you like to join me?” you said,  shooting me a sideways glance. I sank deep into the seat, knocked for six and for a moment I had nothing to say as I dived back into those two luminescent pools before me.

“Love to.” I said, “But this is my stop.”

Seriously? Was I out of my mind? Here was a beautiful, intelligent woman asking me if I wanted to spend the day with her checking out second hand junk at the Lock, and there I was making excuses to avoid her. What the hell is wrong with me?

If this had occurred today, I probably wouldn’t have even seen you in the first place as I, like the rest of humanity, am happy to bury my head in my mobile, become distracted and content to not even look at a stranger, let alone speak to one. My greatest chivalrous act on public transport these days being to wait for the pensioners to board the bus before I shove the school kids out of the way in a vain attempt to grab a seat before they’re all gone. There’s no way I’d actually start a conversation with a beautiful woman on a train, not on your life! I was reminded of you recently when travelling, a young woman of about the same age as you were then, was engrossed in her mobile, head tilted slightly to the right and forward peering at her online world while the carriage wheels clicked and clacked. Long dark brown hair flowing, just like yours, but her eyes could never contain the depth of emotion that reveal the one-way ticket to your soul. She found something amusing and broke into a huge beatific smile, her red lips fully parted revealing her pearly whites and, oblivious to the onlookers in the carriage, snapped a selfie and uploaded it. I was happy for her to be able to express herself so openly, without fear of repercussion and demeaning insinuations.    

Anyway, I’m glad all this happened a long time ago, before we became so dependent on our mobiles, our constant self-promotion and bearing our souls on the Internet. There is so much to say, and my hand is starting to cramp from writing. Handwriting isn’t something I do much of nowadays, but call me old-fashioned if you will, I still think a hand-written letter means much more than something that has been typed simply because the writer has to plan his words carefully and execute them perfectly one by one, stroke by stroke, unlike typing–where mistakes are easily erased, erroneous trains of thought deleted, and ideas easily picked up and set down on another track.

I stood, my back to you, waiting for the carriage doors to open and was suddenly crushed by the enormity of loss I foresaw if I stepped out on to the platform. Had I actually taken that step you would have been lost forever. But something, I can’t explain made me change my mind, forget where I was heading in the first place, turn and stay. 

We headed north to Camden, and spent the day browsing in the second-hand markets and record shops simply enjoying our time together. Ayna, so aptly named, you came into my world and tossed it around in blissful disarray.

My life had up until that point, been pretty average and fairly unexciting I would say, with a decent education, parents and a few close friends. The arts–music especially, keeping me on an even keel, working with the creative types brought some excitement and opportunities I’d never thought possible for a boy from the east side, but it was only ever you I let fully into my world. There were other lovers of course, but none of these relationships were nearly as intense and connected as ours. Suddenly you were there–smart, worldly, and beautiful whiling away hours together reading, going to movies and rarely a harsh word between us. I had my soul mate. They say that there is one person in the world for all of us. It was obvious pretty quickly to both of us that we were meant for each other. What would have happened if I’d have jumped off that train, head down, mildly embarrassed–berating myself for not having the guts to stick around, and slunk off to wherever it was I was going in the first place?

Important decisions were made quickly and easily, and after being together for only a few months you moved into my place in the Bush with the leaky roof, your cat and my record player. We’d leave each other sappy notes on the fridge assembled from poetry magnets. Cheesy lines like – You, me, bed of roses and a bottle of wine, or Me, you, forever, that will do.

One day I walked into you lying on the floor, records strewn all around, wrapped in your favourite oversized grey-blue jumper, the high neck brushing your chin softly accentuating your lovely eyes. Joni was playing, stories of tattoos and the sea, of perpetuity and love in a blue time. Jimi was there too amongst the carnage of record sleeves, liner notes and vinyl. They say synaesthesia made him hear colours. What colours could he have turned into music if he had met you?

What happened Ayna? We were happy together, and with life. We had everything. I loved the way people would stare at us when we were out. A thousand times I copped the green-eye of jealousy from men and women thinking what the hell is she doing with him? True, I had, and still have, no idea why you chose me; dull, introverted, awkward and self-centred. You could have done so much better. You made me so proud just to be next to you.

What led to the day on the bridge, to the ice-cold January Thames and to the eternal hole in my heart?

I guess the point of writing this is to work through it, to try and piece together some sense out of the situation. It’s pointless to try to blame either of us as we are both as culpable as each other. Suffice to say that I’m sorry, so deeply sorry. I couldn’t see that you were turning in on yourself. I was blind to the slow gnawing dissolution as you faded away.

I was oblivious to the pain you suffered, for weeks, months perhaps even years. You hid everything so well, behind those eyes. I really believed that you could confide in me, tell me everything, as I did you, but the pain and anguish must have been too difficult to bear. If only you’d have confided in me, we could have worked it through, found help, and you would still be here.

I never believed that something like this could happen to you, or to us; this was the stuff of other people’s nightmares. I should have spotted some of the warning signs. The slow withdrawal from your close-knit group of friends, the desire to spend more and more time alone. The imperceptible decline in your appearance, and the more obvious weight loss. No one could have predicted what would happen. Least of all me.

To say that I have replayed the moment over and over would be an understatement. I slide my glasses on top of my head to take a break from the page­ and close my eyes, you are there. I tumble at the end of the pool, you are there. I hang the washing on the line, you are still there. Not haunting but guiding and comforting me through the menial routine I call my life. Let’s face it, without you, it’s just a tedious bunch of chores, tasks and social interactions that must be ticked off on a never ending list. But the scene that replays repeatedly is when you turned to me, said I can’t–and jumped.

Into the deep black water. I was paralysed with fear and unable even to call your name. You went under and never surfaced. I couldn’t believe that you didn’t come up for air, gasping, clawing the water and screaming for help. I truly believed that this could not possibly be the end and expected some miracle, for the RNLI to arrive and pluck you from the water, and to be reunited–dripping wet in a towel, face lifted towards mine with those huge eyes full of sadness and remorse.

Of course, none of this happened. You just slid away, into the black. It was as if you’d never existed. Along with all the passion, the happy times and everything we shared. Years of love and trust disappeared in a few moments, but they still flash before my eyes.

You were picked up about five hundred yards from the spot where you jumped and were taken to hospital for examination and recuperation. But for some reason you refused to see me, refused even to look at me when I did manage to see you following discharge at your parents’ house.

Ayna, I just don’t understand why. Your parents, as lovely as they are, tried to console me, tried in their way to explain that you were well, ate a little more each day and appear to have more sparkle in your eye as time went by. I am here for you always. I long to return to the simple times, times where there was no pressure, when we were together the world could go hang. Times like when a movie rental and bottle of red was a real treat, something to be treasured. When a day out to the beach ended in itchy, flaky sunburn I’d peel for you, loads of laughs at the expense of the fat bottomed girls, and an ice-cold Slushy brain-freeze. And those times when I’d just gaze into those diamonds and see an endless world of possibilities.

Why did you jump? Wasn’t I enough, or did you just give up? Was it another lover perhaps? Guilt pushing you over the edge? I doubt it. We had no time for anyone else, we were two peas in a pod, when we weren’t working we were beside each other or with friends and family enjoying life.

I still, after all these years, haven’t worked out how such an enormous decision appears to have been made in a blink of an eye, and for you to just throw everything away and disappear. I guess I am hoping that by reaching out to you, laying it all on the table, will make you realise just how truly, deeply I love you and need you in my life, need you to be my wife. I need to be beside you, to touch and hold you and to see again what lies behind those eyes.

Could you bring yourself to call me perhaps? If you did, what would you say? Sorry, I messed up. Could you ever explain the pain, fear and despair that threw you over the bridge that night? I’m not sure anyone could. I read in the paper recently about aman whose pain was too much to bear. There was a photo of him tied to a bridge with a rope, that concerned, kindly, passers-by must have wrapped around him to prevent him from taking a leap. It started with him being spotted and then a kindly word; then as more people realised what was going on, the group finally came together and bound him to the bridge. None were relatives or friends, they couldn’t have possibly known what he was going through; the years of self-doubt, knockbacks and desperation that forced the final decision, but they were there, willing to help and ultimately prevented a tragedy. If only everyone would show that level of commitment and care, that amount of love and consideration in our everyday lives, wouldn’t life be beautiful? Instead it takes desperate acts to make people wake up, realise the beauty and wonder in life and act selflessly to prevent a tragedy.

I couldn’t have stopped you jumping that day. I guess, after all, the point of this is to tell you that I still love you and that all that has happened is water under the bridge. Something magical occurred that day on the train which united us forever. Perhaps I’m still falling into those deep blue eyes and will awake from this living nightmare back on the Tube twenty years ago.

My only saving grace is to be able to look into a blue-green pair of young diamonds. The treasure you brought us, our son Cyan.

To Protect & Serve

A short piece for the regular writers’ competition I enter. The subject had to be a guard of some type, so I donned my furry bearskin for a while for this point-of-view piece. The story had to include several key words and constraints such as starting and ending with two-word sentences.

I had fun putting this together while I took a break from a much longer project that’s in draft. 2020 has been a rather unproductive year so far as I took a break over the Australian Open season and while family were visiting. Also, work has had to take precedence due to the coronavirus which has left me, frustratingly, with little time (let alone energy) to spend on writing. Anyway, here’s a short, hopefully amusing, distraction from the world…

Rain falls. Not the usual downpour that soaks everything in seconds. This stuff seeps through my bearskin, snakes under the jacket and down through my trousers, slowly adding pounds to my uniform, and my mood. It glistens on the golden buttons, forms tiny mirrors on my glossy black boots and reflects the summer sun on the palace behind me.

I’m Paul, Paul Bailey. Queen’s Guard for the past six years and I’m bored.

New friends are fascinated by my work. They think I’m a rock star having seen us in action on TV or in person. They ask if I’ve met the Queen, which I have. She’s lovely by the way, and she knew my name. Everyone wants to know what I think about while I’m out here.

Truth be told, I try not to think about too much; after all my job is to protect and serve. The kids at school couldn’t believe it when I applied to join the army, they joked about how I’d mess it all up one day. The class clown with a gun, never! Well, the joke’s on them ‘cause I love my job; most days. I’m here, while they’re collecting shopping trolleys at ALDI, on the dole, or in gaol, stupid muppets.

The money’s not too bad either and the job has its perks, especially like now in summer when the puppies are out. I mean, it’d be rude not to look, wouldn’t it? Besides, the girls like the attention, smile, offer things their mothers would be ashamed of and try their upmost to break us. I wonder if they know that just one small infraction, a smile, word or wink, can cost me almost two hundred quid. Or my job. I can’t afford to lose either. What with Ed, my little ‘un, and Jane pregnant with our second. Her Maj is not the only one I protect and serve you know. So, I was saying…

What do I think about? Nothing really; I’m paid to watch—not daydream. But on days like today it’s hard. I try recalling complete TV shows from start to end, meanings of new words, or entire books. Dr Who is my favourite. As kids we used to hide behind the couch when it came on, but now the Tardis reminds me of my second home—the narrow black and gilt sentry box you’ve seen in the postcards. Today though, I wish I could just pull a hidden lever and disappear like the Doc.

In a reverie caught between the summer rain and heat, dreams of time travel and an overheard snippet of tourist conversation, where they called us, what was it? stoic, this leathery-faced old hag screams and throws a huge pair of Union Jack undies right at me. Without thinking I lunge, impale them on my bayonet, hoist them aloft and snap to attention with a stupid grin.

Somehow I knew it was just too good to last. Bailey the class clown, indeed.

Sorry Jane.   

38 Points

Another short story competition entry from January 2020 with a countdown, serendipity and a shared secret all required. Reading the winning entries, and reviewing my piece recently, I realise I have some work to do to capture the reader and draw them into the story within the 500 word limit.

There she goes again, the brains of the family laying down serendipity across the board weaving rabbit, dog and poop together nicely. “What does that mean Mummy?”asks Kyle, the wordsmith. He’s only seven and played museum and fidget in this game already. Poop was mine by the way, played for laughs. She smiles, quickly explains then adds thirty-eight to her score. I stare blankly at my tiles. Melody takes a peek “C-a-r, Daddy, car.” I hesitate. Don’t want to think about work today.

Before she even makes it to the vehicle I can see, almost smell, the fear emanating from her. She’s shaking which is a bad sign. I don’t want to fail another one, not today. I was hoping for an easy day and guess that’s not going to be the case. She wrenches open the door, plonks herself down and slams it shut.

I run through the pleasantries and preliminaries. Rules of the test, safe driving conditions, vehicle controls all done and we’re good to go. I set my watch and we’re off. A whole thirty minutes for her to avoid putting us in a ditch or rear-end some unfortunate commuter. Let’s see how she goes.

I have a way with them, easy bedside manner for the ladies and blokey enthusiasm for the men. I put them all at ease. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’m good at it. So good in fact that I can do it in my sleep. You see, this job is ninety percent customer service, five percent paperwork. The rest skill and luck, unlike Scrabble. You need brains for that.

She relaxes, starts to chat a little on the straights and I drift back to the consultation room where a few days ago, I received the news I have yet to tell my wife. We won’t be playing games much longer, apart from maybe the Let’s Try and Keep Daddy Alive game. I pray the doctors are better at it than my attempts at word games.

Palmers Road is a nice challenge for them. It goes from 50 to 70 with a long wide bend and incline to negotiate. I like to go that way as the last few minutes tick by. We’re rounding the corner when she squeals. I fumble for the controls at my feet but I’m too slow to grab the wheel. Two cars hurtle towards us, one on each side of the road. My time’s up earlier than predicted. The Subaru and Toyota split, hoon to the left, gramps on the right, leaving a car-wide gap of hope. She’s frozen, her chin juts forward, tendons protruding from her neck. The whites of her eyes gleam, taut knuckles reflect the sun as she ploughs straight through the middle without word, breath, or a scratch.

Dirigible Music

This piece, from December 2019, was written for the Australian Writer’s Centre monthly competition. The theme had to include something being delivered and a selection of mandatory words.

I remembered the day the postie knocked with a parcel, not for Dad, as usual, but for me. The contents of the package had a long lasting effect on me.

I wrote it for Dad who encouraged me to explore music and make my own choices, not just with music, but also in life. Can you name the band?

When I was a kid, music, or rather records, somehow magically appeared in our house. Beethoven, Brahms and Liszt – all the classic staples rumbled the turntable, filled the room with beautiful music, my Dad’s evenings with pleasure and my teenage head with desperation, thoughts of rebellion and frustration. This youngster only wanted to bump and grind, sizzle and shake to FM radio – those hairy men sporting flares, handlebar moustaches and wielding Les Pauls were my heroes. I had no time for pompous old dead gits in wigs.

The postie knocked, placed twelve inches of cardboard clad delight into Dad’s hands and disappeared. My heart sank. Oh my God! Not another evening of piano trios. It could only have been worse if it were one of those interminable three-hour German operas. I prayed it wouldn’t be.

He turned to me with his unforgettable cheeky grin.

“Thought you’d like this lad, let’s listen to it after dinner.” Thrusting the package at me he pootled off to finish his cup of tea and a Digestive.

I couldn’t believe it – was this really for me? Surely he was pulling my leg. I sneaked upstairs to find out. Carefully opening the box, I slid the record out and revealed twelve inches of pure heaven. Concentric circles adorned the sleeve. Psychedelic colours, photos of the band, airships and a volvelle all added to the appeal. You just don’t get that attention to packaging with Stravinsky, do you?

So, we listened, or rather, I did. Dad, bless him, sat patiently through the throbbing bass, clattering drums and squealing vocals until he duly nodded off midway through track three’s ballad. He woke, as if on cue, just as the cacophony of side one ended, yawned and went to put the kettle on.  

I didn’t flip the record over. I’d savour it all by myself, later.  

Dad encouraged me to take my own musical journey. He couldn’t bear listening to guitars jingle and jangle or the bass thump, but he understood the world of a thirteen year old – presumably having been one once himself, and how we all need something tangible, meaningful, something we can relate to that gives our lives purpose.  

Dad’s last record ran to the groove far too early. The needle lowered itself with a click and he was gone. Silenced, his records stand on the shelf untouched and unplayed for years, but he still resonates this house, and our lives with his gifts.

I’ve made a point to nurture those gifts of respect, understanding and acceptance that Dad taught me in my own children as they grow and compose the musical stories of their lives.

Thank you Dad.  

Rat Race

Inspiration comes from the strangest of places and sometimes you just have to go with the flow. This piece from October 2019 was really interesting to put together, I enjoyed fleshing out the characters and stretching myself with shifting time.

I don’t like rats, but there’s not much else I don’t like. The problem with rats is they have no fear of human beings, they’re loaded with foul diseases, they would run the place given half the chance, and I’ve had them leap out of a lavatory while I’ve been sitting on it. –David Attenborough

Barbara never thought pest control was something she’d fall into, but when the kids came along she found she couldn’t sustain the corporate nine-to-five and run the family at the same time; something had to give. She didn’t want to end up like her friends, constantly complaining they were tired, unfulfilled, bored and listless. She wondered if the problem was their spouses, family, or did all these women feel that they had to keep going and appear strong, living the daily grind just to be woken by the alarm and regret their lives.  

Whatever the problem, Babs couldn’t fathom it out. She’d asked her girlfriends, but they always trod the well-worn path of ‘doing it for the kids’, or even worse: ‘keeping the peace’. No one really got down to the nitty-gritty and the answers left her unsatiated, confused and needing more. What that more was she couldn’t put her finger on though. Middle age approached and she couldn’t help thinking that life just involved scratching around, trying to make a living all the while attempting to extract a little happiness from others, the world around her and life in general. 

John did his best, but there was no way his income could sustain them while the kids grew; they were always growing, getting hungrier and increasingly demanding. So, she looked around for a job less arduous and time consuming, something that she could do which required less effort while also giving her quality time with the family.

She refused to let herself go like her friends had. Well groomed, manicured and dressed, not in expensive brand clothes, but quality wear that complimented her figure, she knew enough to stick to a quiet pallet of blues, browns and deep reds. Looking after the brood required an enormous amount of energy, finding food, cleaning and the constant noise drained her daily, so that, when she finally curled up to go to sleep, she dreamt of escaping to a tropical island, with only the sound of lapping waves and gentle wind blowing in the mango trees to accompany her. That’d be just perfect had been her mantra night after night for so many years she forgotten how long. The trouble was that she just wasn’t getting any closer to her dream. Her life, like so many of those around her, had become a drudge of working to feed the kids, a perpetual rat-race that no-one seemed to be immune from, save the crazy and the rich.

As the saying goes people hire people they like so the lovely Babs, at forty-seven, traded her high-flying corporate career for something less stressful. Working for Rocky at Bugs Be Gone seemed a good idea at the time—an easy way to make a crust, keep the money, dribbling, rather than rolling in and, hopefully, have a little left for that dream island escape. But after eighteen months, the dream appeared to be slipping further from her grasp. She’d more than once considered heading back to the interminable corporate days and the cloying overbearing boss just to keep things going.  

Thankfully, Barbara often thought, she was lucky not to have to deal with any of the icky chemicals or pest controls, but she’d learnt a lot about the business—bait, sterilisation and physical pest control just by chatting with the guys and being naturally inquisitive. Some of the less humane approaches by the crew left a lot to be desired, and occasionally put her in the firing line when she’d rasied objections, but, mostly she enjoyed her relatively stress-free office work, and often caught up for coffee with Alice.

Having joined Bugs a few days before Barbara, Alice felt a natural affinity with the older woman. They’d bonded quickly to nip in the bud the sexist mirth and topless calendar humour of the, until recently, all male crew. When she told people what she did for a living reactions spanned from curiosity to repulsion, but more often than not they frowned upon a young woman choosing such a career. They didn’t seem to understand that it was a secure, easy job that and once being let off the clock, Alice wouldn’t need to think about again until her next shift. Newbies were treated with the same contempt by the crew in the same way that female traffic controllers are often the brunt of disparaging remarks, filthy leers and practical jokes. It didn’t take Alice long to remember to check the loo for cling-wrap or a banana in the exhaust pipe though. She knew how to deal with these types and coped behind her composed veil.  

Whatever she felt about her male counterparts she mostly enjoyed the work. The hours and relative flexibility gave her time to concentrate on her music and she adored some of the customers, who although they’d baulked when she stepped from the van, with the huge hairy arachnid on the side,  the first time, relied on her to do a quick and efficient job. Alice did what was expected, with little fuss. Her bright eyes, open smile and easy manner quickly settling them. She would never take advantage of the oldies but almost always added a perv charge if she caught some guy ogling. She couldn’t work out why they bothered though as the boiler suit, steel capped boots and hi-vis vest hardly accentuated her figure, although, as she liked to confess, she looked much better out of it than in.

It was not only that she was a woman, but also her easy going manner that attracted Barbara to Alice. Whether it was booking jobs, taking calls, or dealing with customers—Alice was always in high demand. Barbara admired her youth, vitality and natural charm, she’d also been a little jealous of some of the attention Alice was receiving. She wondered why such a woman would want to work in this kind of environment. Alice had never outwardly shown a passion for pets and would never speak of disposal of the critters once getting back to base.

Rocky knew how to flip a coin to win on both sides—men’s banter and keeping them fired up with an ease-on-the-eye hire, were sure fire hits. After a hesitant start they’d let Alice into their fraternity and would argue about teaming up with her on larger jobs. Rocky was a decent bloke who believed in rewarding people for good work. Few things bothered him, but dishonesty was his pet hate. This was backed up by a rumour that everyone heard in their first week of starting at Bugs of a tech that was partial to moonlighting for the competition using Rocky’s van and equipment. He was found with both arms broken and two front teeth missing and strangely decided to leave the company soon after. Like most men, Rocky had his limits.

On a glorious summer morning Alice drives into the lot before her shift, walking through the door she spots that her friend isn’t there. Babs isn’t the type to pitch up late and seldom takes a sickie, but lately she’d been taking more time off, and more regularly. Alice noticed that she’d become quieter and  recently started to use a lot more perfume . It’s not a nice scent either, strong—strong enough to sting your eyes and start a little fire in the back of your throat. What could she say to her friend though? 

Alice hadn’t bothered to mention anything to Babs, she’d just thought it was a middle aged thing, like floral print blouses, or perhaps she was on the lookout for someone to spice things up. Besides, Alice was inexperienced in love and preferred not to talk about it, lest her private life, or lack thereof, came to question. The frequent stories Babs told about John’s antics made her think that perhaps she was out for revenge. Babs had also become increasingly self-centred, suspicious around people with food and with it prone to scratching.

She greets the temp coolly and prepares for the day, collecting what’s needed; run sheet, traps, bait and tools. Her first job is a regular roach fumigation at a local restaurant. It still amazes her how, despite the regular treatment, the damn critters just keep coming back. The owner tries his best to keep the place clean, but as with all old buildings and the lure of fresh take-away, they just find new and increasingly inventive ways to get in. Besides, roaches to Alice are the lowest form of life, so she has no remorse in helping to reduce the population. Their scaly sleek brown bodies revolt her. She’d looked forward to decapitating one with a swift, well aimed, boot and watch it continue on its journey as if nothing had happened. Apparently they can survive weeks without their heads, but she’d never actually been back to a job and seen a headless roach wondering around. She liked to pretend to be a human Dalek and mutter exterminate whenever she felt the need to lighten the mood. A customer caught her once as she’d watched with glee the headless thing scurry away. She’d turned to him without hesitation, with a beatific smile and asked him who his favourite doctor was. ‘Tom Baker of course.’ he replied confounded.

She moves on to the next job, flipping the task sheet she comes across an unfamiliar address. Meadow View was the kind of suburb Alice had heard about but never visited until today, with its affluent residents, low crime rate and new houses she wondered why pest control was necessary. She drives up and parks outside, ‘Nice house’. White picket fence, two car garage and manicured lawns remind her of something out of a period movie.

She jumps out, gives the bell a long ring. No answer, tries again, presses harder and longer. Still no answer. She hears a muffled scurrying, scratching, but no one answers so pulls at the door and it swings open. Hundreds—what looks like a thousand, sleek, shiny black and brown bodies team towards her, the door pushes them scrambling, writhing and snarling at each other, a few snap ferociously as they pour over the doorstep towards her, down the steps and escape into the garden—fleeing the house.

Alice is used to being around rats, but not so many all at once. For sure, she’d cleared out a few abandoned properties when the neighbours had complained but had never seen a house full of the things. She pushes on through the throng into the house.

‘Hello’, she says in a clear and confident voice, Don’t let them think you can’t handle the job Rocky  in her whispers in her ear. The animals continue to stream across the floor, towards her. A few attempt to scramble up her legs—the boiler suit aiding purchase. She knocks one to the ground and, as it lay prone with its’ clean white belly facing her, lands a heavy boot on the culprit. ‘Exterminate’, muttered with a mirthless smile. A crush of bone and a squeal, then a dozen rats surround, rip at the flesh and devour the wounded creature. She shuffles on.

She’s halfway down the hall when she spots a human-like figure reflected in a golden-gilt mirror on the wall. A tiny yelp escapes her and the woman turns towards the sound. Alice was sure she saw a huge rat standing on its hind legs, but the figure is too feminine; long bedraggled hair covers her features, matted and filthy looking, beady black eyes peering at her, the mouth pulled into a sneer revealing two slim incisors beneath a pointy, hairy snout.

‘Barbara?’, not wanting the affirmation.

She moves across the room. ‘Is that you?’ The beady eyes lock onto hers—she’s reared, ready to attack, raising a deformed hand, more like a claw than the perfectly manicured fingers Alice has seen clicking and clacking on the PC at Rocky’s. Alice freezes, she doesn’t know whether to continue or to back away. No tools except a flashlight which won’t protect her if she attacks. It’s then she get a good look at Babs.

‘Babs, wait…it’s me Alice. I can help’. Textbook pages flash through her mind, she’d read about cases of rat to human cowpox virus transmission and Weil’s disease, turning the poor unfortunate victim into a human rat, but had never given them a second thought. Babs drops to the floor, her brood clamber around their mother to protect and envelope in a wall of living, writhing fur.

She turns tail and disappears into the back of the house. It is only then that the stink hits Alice and, as her eyes adjust to the dim light, she sees the carnage in the once-beautiful house. The tiled floor a mass of fur and droppings, some carcasses have been completely stripped of flesh while others glisten red with moisture, entrails and fresh blood. Walls are stained, there’s claw marks everywhere and in the kitchen lie gnawed scraps of food, on the table and in the open cupboards.    

Alice needs to decide what to do, and fast. She pictures Barbara at work and how she’d taken pity on a poor specimen bought in after a job, no-one had noticed, or cared, when the cage had been empty the next day, it was just put back in storage ready for the next job. Snippets of conversation float to mind, she’d remembered how Barbara had reacted when a couple of lads were reported for betting on the shady practice of rat football. Babs even had a word with Rocky about it, which must have led to them being laid off shortly after. And the time when a glue pad had panicked one so much that it writhed, trying to escape until most of the poor thing’s fur was stripped. Glue pads were the worst. Alice often found a dehydrated animal or withered carcass stuck to one on a job. She’d witnessed firsthand how they would gnaw their limbs off while attempting to escape. She remembers PETA’s call for banning them and Alice could vouch for how immensely inhumane they are.

Barbara must have been caring for the animals—but she just hadn’t seemed the type, she never mentioned having pets, or even kids come to that. She wonders whether she should follow Barbara, or turn around, walk out and leave, but her curiosity gets the better of her and she follows into the kitchen. She catches something glinting on the floor ahead of her, takes a step forward the animals part and, before she can stop, her foot lands squarely on a trap which slams shut around her ankle with a thud. Intense heat runs up her leg, a dark stain forms on her trouser leg. She struggles to get free but loses her balance in the filth and slime and she falls into the mass of writhing bodies which rear-up and attack their prey.

She thrashes, kicking at the trap with her boot and screams for help, relentlessly they grip her flesh, filthy brown faces bear down on her fingers, hand and arms and begin to gnaw. Scurrying across her face for the moist mouth, eyes and burying themselves in her ears. She fights them off, writhing and thrashing but there are too many and she’s weakened by the blood loss. She lies helpless, forlorn until mercifully, as one forces its way into her mouth and she can feel teeth gripping her tongue, she slips into oblivion.

Cheats Never Prosper

Going back to study set the scene for this piece written in August 2019. It was fun to drop in some real-life characters and experiences from my past and play with the aspects of fear, the way they manifest themselves, and the inventive ways people deal with exam pressure.

People cheat when they are afraid. When there is no cost to being wrong or confessing ignorance, there is no reason to cheat or fake comprehension.

—Leah Hager Cohen

I’m not sure if I should be sharing this tale with you my dear Reader and confidant, as the mere thought of the word ‘cheater’ fills my heart with dread and my mind with endless possibilities of deception, loss, and the occasional triumph. Consider, if you will, for a while and recall your cheating moments, the successful, the brazen, the boast-worthy and tell me, I dare you, that you don’t feel the same way? I can picture you squirming in your comfortable armchair, feeling somewhat dirty, rotten, and that you are not worthy of that warm embrace from your loved ones at the end of the day. Am I correct? Of course, because you–you have a conscious, just like me.

No matter the size or the impact of the lie, the stretching of the truth on our tax returns, or cheating the kids at Uno, there is always a pang of satisfaction of getting away with something you know you shouldn’t, quickly followed by the thought of taking a step further. A simple deception leading to the next and the next, increasing the risk, return-on-investment, and of course, the real reason we do it– excitement.

By now, I’m sure you’re thinking my story is one of a card cheat, a bank robber or a dirty philanderer. I must confess that I have never been, nor am, any of these. Although I’ve dreamt of being one–several times. But I’ll keep my fantasies to myself, unless you are willing to share yours?

I’m just a regular Joe, there’s no way I’m going to tunnel into the vault at the Bellagio, marry a rich and beautiful supermodel, or take Kerry for every last cent of his hard-earnt stash. My story is one of deception, of courage, if you like, but also one honed from nothing more than hard graft. I’ll take you back shortly to the recent past, but first the building blocks must be placed gently one on top of each other, squared, levelled and cemented to give an accurate picture of why.

It’s 1988 and Maggie was in her prime. School was the institution that would break you, wouldn’t, and couldn’t, bend to accommodate if you as much as pushed an inch in an alternative direction, and it existed in my conscious as a thing to avoid, at all costs. Picture me; a reasonably intelligent sixteen-year-old left-hander facing bombing my final exams purely on the fact that they insisted I used a fountain pen and that no-one, not even me, could read my scrawl after it somehow magically leaked out of my brain, dribbled off the nib and was immediately smeared across the page by my flabby palm. How I wish I was born right-handed, but apparently lefties are nicer people, more generous and better lovers, so there you go; right handed scissor wielding world–we may not be able to write but we’re still better than you! I bet you don’t even care that our language was devised by right-handers, consider a  beautifully crafted ‘d’ ‘u’ or ‘z’, they’re designed to being pulled across the page, rather than pushed kicking, screaming and smudge-worthy by the one-in-ten pen-pushers.

Picture an English summer over thirty years ago and the first year of GCSE. Students have been cramming for finals and I’m faced with the all-too-prevalent pre–exam nerves. There’s nothing to be done to try to quell the beast. It starts to grow a few days in advance, disturbing my sleep with anxious pre-dawn wake-up calls, and breaking my concentration with pangs of sheer panic. I just know that no matter how hard I try to push it away it wells up in the pit of my stomach, gurgling and bubbling away until I open the exam paper, flip to the first question and try to relax. The alternative isn’t particularly pleasant either. It involves several pre-exam trips to the bathroom…but I’ll spare you the details, and me the embarrassment.

We enter the exam hall with trepidation and are faced with row upon row of exam chairs with their hard wooden varnish and the silly flip down arm rest/desk arrangement. Even at the ripe old age of fifteen the boys had to squeeze themselves in, and, in my case, hunch and twist over the thing to try and complete our papers. Apparently ergonomics hadn’t been invented in the 80s, and the world didn’t seem to understand that it is almost impossible for a leftie to use one of those things. Oh yes, I can hear you nodding in silent agreement my can-opener-hating friends.

The headmaster calls for silence, explains the rules, and it’s down to business for the next hour and forty-five. I open my paper, read the first question and my mind goes blank. I can feel the heat rising up my neck to my face and warming my teenage armpits. I know I’ll fail miserably, not through want of trying or lack of revision, but down to the simple fact that my nerves get the better of me every time I sit an exam. I read it again and from somewhere a foggy recall appears, so I snatch my ink encrusted spear and get cracking.

About forty five minutes in old-Bradbury declares ‘One hour to go’, pulls out the paper and settles down. I picture him at home in front of the fire, reading the news and promise myself I’ll never be like him.  A discernible sigh fills the room and with it a shift in atmosphere. The rustling and fidgeting begins. I take a peek at the student beside me–it’s Claire White, brains, beauty, and out-of-my-league attitude–slowly prising her shoe off with the tip of her as quietly as possible, until the leather lands gently, inaudibly, on the dusty parquet. I pretend not to see as she feigns knocking her eraser to the floor for a quick peek at the answers inside of her black, shiny, Bata.

I’m shocked and stunned more from the method of deception than by whom. I would never have thought it possible of Claire to even dream of cheating, let alone devise such a method. Ah, that’s right she has an older sister, Teresa, apparently, she was a straight-A student too…it must run in the family. Unnerved I take a look at Bradders, he’s engrossed in the paper, head down and oblivious to the ruse. I can’t concentrate, my attention turns to the other kids in the room and their almost imperceptible movements. In the row ahead to my left there’s Joanne Richardson, peeking down her ample top, squinting to see the lines of text scribbled in the hastily sewn strip of white fabric nestling her boobs. Surely, if she can get away with it the entire year must be up to something? I check again on the old man, apparently he’s drifted off into a semi-catatonic state and has been staring at the same page for a while. I check the clock and realise I’ve wasted valuable time ogling the girls. Any other day I’d get a dirty look, or a snide comment about never getting the chance with a barge pole, but today they are far too engrossed in what they are doing to care.

Surely the boys can’t be up to it as well? I crane my neck to take a peek at Alister, my best mate of over five years. Oh my God, he’s blatantly reading from a tissue on the desk while keeping an eye on Bradbury–just in case he glances up from the sports page. Even the bi-spectacled Chung, our boffin, is unravelling a neatly folded accordion of paper from inside his eraser which must be nearly a foot long.

It’s then I realise that if the smart kids need to cheat to pass this exam that I don’t have a hope in hell. In an instant I’m enraged and jealous. Why do they think they can cheat…and get away with it, and why the hell hadn’t I thought to? I feel as if I should stand, identify the guilty and revel in the justice they deserve. Do I though? Do I hell. I stick my head down and keep pushing my smudgy effort across the page while trying to block the images of the others getting straight-As from my mind.  

Life fast forwards to another century and a different type of exam. Listless, bored and frankly underwhelmed with my profession of nearly twenty years I took the plunge back into study. Knowing I was never great at exams I’ve worked on some techniques to assist with studying and the inevitable exam pressure over the years. Post-it notes, highlighters, repetition and additional research all seem to work well, but I still just can’t seem to hack the exam-day pressure. This qualification will give me a chance to follow a passion I’ve developed. That is, if I can pass. I know deep down this is what I’d like to do and still recall some of my greatest teachers. Mrs C, our German teacher exuded so much passion that we had no choice but to love her, enjoy her classes and try our best. Then there was the customer-service trainer who flipped my thinking, took hold of several pre-conceived ideas, threw them in the air and landed them in a neat, orderly pile of comprehension. But balancing angels with demons, we had Gripper, living up to his name in a painful, no-bruise fashion. He’d take your forearm and squeeze tightly until his fingertips touched bone and we’d squirm, promise not to do it again sir, and go back to our seats with a painful throb that would last until the end of the school day, then magically disappear before getting home to show Dad. I guess, after all, there are a few things that are best left in the Eighties – like teacher brutality, and the slippers Harris used to wield at our heads.  

So, after all these years, I’m faced with the tummy rumbling, toilet-visiting fear again. All over a simple exam for which I know the answers to and am confident I’ll pass. I’m determined to nail it, so I work and work, until the answers float across my closed eyes at the end of the day. I refrain from posting the answers on the back of the toilet door, it makes sense since I know I’ll be visiting, frequently, but otherwise, I’m head down in revision.

It’s during one of these sessions–the cramming type–not a visit to the bathroom, that Chung, and his concertina eraser floats back. Mmm, I wonder if…just a little help wouldn’t hurt, would it? I push the conscientious voice away and get to work on research. There was a news story about Surendra Kumar Apharya who wrote 638 characters on a single grain of rice and holds seven Guinness World Records, but quickly realise that’s not a feasible option for me. Most people can’t read my scrawl at the best of times, but there’s no way I’d be able to achieve something as amazing as that. So, I plump for the next best option, a simple, cunning one. Take a small, wide, elastic band, stretch it out and fill it with as many answers as possible. During the test stretch it between pencil and finger and voilà, a nice selection of reminders magically appears. Simples, as they say on TV. What could be easier, what could possibly go wrong?

The exam is fast-approaching, and I’ve been jotting down the things I’ve been having trouble memorising. Acronyms, trigger words and abbreviations collated, I knock up a cheat sheet ready for my first trial run. I scour the hardware and stationery stores until I find the perfect specimen. It’s 120mm by 8mm, light brown, designed for use with parcels and packaging, but the best thing is that it almost doubles in length when stretched. Although I don’t intend to yank it that far, I might get away with a quick tug, and a peek at one of those nasties about MTPD, RIA or MBCOs. It even sits nicely under the sleeve of my business shirt for quick-peek-access. I take to wearing one everyday so that people get used to seeing me fiddle with the smooth rubber–stretching it and massaging the powdery-white residue off the surface as if it recalls a memory, or someone from years ago. My wife, bless her, has no idea, but she’s taken to gently tracing the small indents with her fingers around my wrist at the end of the day and wonders why I have taken up such a silly habit at this age. She mentions that perhaps I should go and check out my blood pressure, because you know, people of my age with sock marks have been known to die of high blood pressure, you know.

I take a few practice runs with various ball-points in black, blue and red until I find one I that works perfectly. It was stolen from the bank during mortgage discussions a few years ago. I wasn’t even aware that I’d slipped it into my notebook along with the consultant’s business card between those jottings of inconceivable calculations which always ended up the same–that the new house would just have to wait no matter how we threw the numbers around, cut and diced them, and tried to convince ourselves it was a good idea.

The pen was perfect, lightweight, the roller smooth and ink quick to dry. She was the perfect partner in crime.

I practiced and practiced–getting my writing down to tiny squiggles that appeared to the innocent eye as a fancy pattern on the rubber from just a foot or so away. I didn’t quite achieve the same world-record breaking result as our rice scribbling friend, but for my purposes it would do. I had a nice overview, I liked to call it, of my chosen subject there on my wrist which would calm my nerves, and with a gentle stretch take me from flunk to felicity. The night before exam day was spent perfecting my rubbery script, the exact amount of tension I’d need to view the results, and of course–in revision. Convinced I wouldn’t need the aide, and that it was there just-in-case, I packed up early, had a glass of wine and went to bed. 

I’m back in front of the headmaster’s desk standing in my white polyester shirt, tie and floppy shoulder-length Eighties heavy metal kid hairdo and he knows, somehow he knows that we cheated on our finals and I’m trying my best to convince him that I wouldn’t, couldn’t, cheat and that I’m innocent. I knew I was fighting a losing battle as he always despised me for some reason–perhaps it was my youth, vigour or maybe my way with the female teachers he was jealous of. I guess I’ll never know.

‘Jones, pick a door.’ I stare at him uncomprehending. ‘One could lead to wealth, fame and fortune, the other to what I would call just Mr. Average. The choice is yours.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘You heard me son, it’s your choice’.

Two identical doors loomed behind him which I’d never seen before, ‘In you go, but the best part of my game is that you’ll never know what was behind the other door. Best of luck laddie.’

I’m nailed to the floor panicking and sweating with the decision of a life-time. ‘Come on,’ he stands up and slides round the desk to grab me. He’s wearing a short sleeved shirt which reveals tattoos that I’ve never seen before. These aren’t your average naked ladies, rose entwined crosses, or nonsense Chinese, these are dead straight lines of text stretching from his wrist and disappearing under his sleeve. They appear to be exam answers of some sort, and I realised that he must have suffered the same fate me. Surely he was unlucky and ended up in the purgatorial hell of becoming a headmaster, or was this the better of his two options?

I walk slowly towards the doors, favouring the left of course, taking just a few steps before quickly switching to the other. ‘Are you sure, son?’ He presses a button on what looks like a TV remote and I roll over fumble for my phone in an attempt to silence it before my wife wakes up.

We kick off early with group revision where all the personalities come out, whether it’s due to nerves or the possibility of finishing early and having an extra-long-weekend without the boss finding out, the class clown, the quiet one, the terrified one all show their true colours; and I’m no exception. Bradbury springs to mind as we are going through the final preparation and the trainer is explains the rules. I’ll be fine this time. I have my little helper tucked just out of sight.

So, we settle down to one-hundred multiple choice questions over two hours. This may seem a fair task but the questions, and options are a lengthy read. I nail the first few but come unstuck at question ten. I jot it down to return to later and continue. I’m feeling relaxed, a little jumpy perhaps, but let’s see how I get on. Twenty, thirty, forty pass in a blur and I’ve noted six elusive answers. I hit the halfway mark, take a quick peek at my watch and note that I’m ahead of time with only a handful of questions to go back to. But then comes the big one; question fifty-five…I read, scratch my head and re-read–surely I should know this one, but nothing comes. I feel the tension rising and I’m starting to sweat, I jot it down to come back to and move on, but I’m unsettled and distracted. I scan the room, to my left Michelle is chewing the top of her pencil and tapping her teeth with the eraser. On my right Chris has his head about twenty centimetres from the page, I guess trying to work out what the hell a question means.

That’s it, I’m going to finish up and then sneak my friend out for a peak. I know I’ve tackled this question on organisational responsibility before and the answer is within reach. The trainer is checking email, I guess and looking forward to getting out of the classroom for the weekend, but he’s also keeping an eye on us and takes a quick peek at me when I look up for a mo. I doubt I’ll be able to get a chance to take a look at father’s little helper. His phone vibrates, he snatches it from the desk and strides out of the room, just like so many years ago there is a huge sigh of relief. No-one speaks or dares to look at each other, so I take my chance, grab the band and slide it from my wrist. If he comes back now I’m done for, I’ll be caught red-handed, heaven knows what I’ll say to my boss, or whether I’ll have a job come Monday, but I‘m willing to risk it.  

I roll the band in my fingers, give it a little tug and spot the squiggle of words. I’ve practiced this a thousand times, so slide the band to the top of my pencil and give it tension. The words start to form, but either from nervous, the fear of getting caught, or my clammy hands, I pull too far. The band slips to the top of the pencil and ping, it floats through the air, hits the window and falls into a pot plant, clear as day.  

I freeze, paralysed my temples pound and to try and break the spell I fumble with my pencil, it falls noisily on the desk. I take a look around, it appears that no one has noticed, as they are all heads down and in their own worlds. The trainer magically appears beside me and whisper an enquiry as to my well-being. I can’t look him in the eye, but nodding manically, I catch the end of his sentence…‘strange,…hot and sweaty, it’s not that difficult.’  

Mark gets up, hands in his paper and leaves. None of us will ever know if he’ll pass, was too cocky and sped through it, or just gave up, but right now, I don’t give a rat’s because I check my watch, realise I’ve wasted valuable time, and understand that I’ve got twenty-five questions, including the ones I’ve skipped to do in twenty-five minutes. I steel myself, take a deep breath and continue methodically going through the questions, carefully reading, and re-reading each one until I’m left with eight minutes for review. I use every second to re-read, make sure there is an answer for each item, and with one minute to spare, breathe for the first time in two hours.

It’s over, with huge sighs of relief and well wishes all round we say our goodbyes and promise each other that we’ve done enough to get over the line.

I’m on the train home and hit by remorse. Why did I feel the need to cheat? Did I actually think it would do me any good? Not really, I got through the exam perfectly well without my so-called ‘help’. I resolve never to put myself in that position again and to take the rough with the smooth. No matter what–I’ll believe in myself and I’ll support and encourage my kids when it is their turn. I realised that the capacity to identify one’s weaknesses sometimes can only come from within, but it is only upon this realisation can these weaknesses be dealt with and we can move on with our life-long journey of self-awareness.

I was delighted the day my results came and achieved a solid ninety percent. But my joy was tinged with sadness of course and by the memories of the straight-A students that I’ll never be, and the thought that I couldn’t achieve something on my own. In the end though I chose the right door, didn’t I?

So, dear Reader, how would you have tackled this? Before you go all holier-than-thou on me, tell me whether you’ve ever cheated, made an error of judgement, or simply wanted something so badly that you bent the rules beyond breaking point. I think you must have, after all we’re all trying to make the best out of who we are, aren’t we?   

The Librarian

Another short story for the Australian Writer’s Centre competition for October 2019. I enjoyed toying with the required vocabulary and setting to convey the passion that we have for our beloved libraries and the special people that work in them.

Closing time. The best part of the day, she thinks. The others quick-march stragglers out the door, lock up, and disappear. Sue, on the other hand, relishes these quiet moments when she can potter around, collect lost property, and reflect on the day. She’s loved this place for nearly forty years, watched it develop, change alongside advancing technologies and knows that she’s made an impact with her work. She relishes being able to help people, just as she was all those years ago.

She picks up a broken Game Boy, toy train and a backpack with twelve rejection letters for Cupid’s Arrow inside, all new additions for the already overflowing lost property box. The backpack must belong to the handsome young man who has been engrossed at his computer these last few months. She recalls Stephen King’s pile of rejection letters and hopes the young scribe will keep at it. She’ll make a point of returning the bag when he comes in next with a smile and an encouraging word or two. As for the remainder of the box, they’ll be kept for a couple of months before being dropped into Salvos.

The place changes when there’s no-one around. Calm and peaceful it becomes hers to browse the aisles, open any book she fancies, and delve in. Classics, contemporary fiction, music books, Sue’s not fussed; she devours them all.

She believes that language lives, breathes and continuously changes and that libraries play a vital part in spreading that message. She pulls a brand new grammar book off the shelf, flips it over and reads. The author attempts to convince his reader that our language isn’t quite dead yet. Try telling that to the grammar Nazis that come in here, she thinks. They won’t accept that language adapts, steals and morphs in inventive ways to allow us the complete freedom to express ourselves. She agrees with him – …heads stuck in the sand, they should pull them out, wake up and smell the coffee. Our language is not in decline, it’s simply evolving – the way it always has, and will…

Sitting at her PC she’s heartened by the recent news of a local council in England that canned plans to close nearly a third of the county’s public libraries. Community outrage was supported by several local celebrities protesting alongside the patrons. She understands why they fight to keep their libraries alive and would do the same if she were in their shoes.   

It’s nearly seven when she hits Compose:

Dear Peter,

As mentioned on the phone, please update my will with the following:

I give $100,000 to the library to be spent on books, learning resources and to benefit the local community.

Thanks, and all the best,

Sue.

Quicksilver Sarah

Another entry for a short story competition from September 2019. The story had to include elements from the periodical table along with several mandatory words. I had loads of fun tying in some personal history, a favourite rock star and a borrowed ballet title (Thanks Chris B).

Simon had pictured this day ever since laying eyes on her nearly five years ago as she’d moved like quicksilver—fluid, confident and bright, across the studio floor. He’d since learnt that she, and the element, were alike in other ways—cool, fragile and wilful; these qualities only added to her allure. They’d partnered in numerous ballets since and worked well both on, and off stage. Today, his nerves were getting the better of him though and made his driving unusually erratic and tense. He found it hard to concentrate, and just couldn’t keep his mind on the road.

‘I could do with a smoke’ he thought, tasting the familiar tang and burn at the back of his throat despite having given up years ago. The traffic ground to a halt. He gulped cool water from the bottle next to him and carefully replaced it so not to disturb the black velvet cube beside.

They’d christened his old Honda Sweatbox asthe air conditioner gave up the ghost long ago. Today of course, he wished he’d paid the two hundred bucks to re-gas the damn thing. Two thousand seemed reasonable, given the sweltering January heat.

Hanging out the window from the car in front, a bloodhound was attempting to lick something off the door handle. Slobber dripped, glistening from its jowls, ran down the paintwork, and fizzed on the boiling tarmac below.

‘C’mon’ murmuring to no one in particular—he tried to distract himself from the cravings that he hadn’t had in years. He switched on the radio and fiddled with the knob.

‘No’, twist.

‘Nope’, twist.

‘Not that one…’

Dismayed by current music trends he cranked the knob one last time. ‘Beauty’…relaxing back into the seat, pursing the filter between his lips he exhaled, pictured the blue-tinged hue of yesteryear and listened to Mercury singing. The song was hardly appropriate for what he had in mind for today, but he’d always loved Freddie and had crooned this tune a hundred times—in the car, in the shower, and in bed. With her.

She’d be finishing rehearsals soon and was expecting him.

Zzz,zz,zzzz his phone buzzes and—silencing the music—her voice brakes over the Bluetooth.

‘Hi, hon. You on the way?’

‘Yes, but there’s been an accident. I’m going to be late, sorry.’

‘No problem, just do me a favour and open the glove compartment, would you?’ He can feel the tenderness in her voice, picture her radiant blue eyes, beautiful almond-shaped face and fabulous dancer’s body.

He clicks it open and discovers a small box hidden inside.

‘Got it?’

Fumbling with one hand, he flips it open to reveal a men’s wedding ring. It glints in the sun, he’s blinded by the reflection and sees her glide across the stage towards him.

‘Well?’

‘Oh, Sarah.’

Band of Gold

My very first effort from May 2019 at storytelling was based on a real event that happened to us while on a short break at Wilson’s Prom. It inspired me to put pen to paper and share the wonderful support we got from the lifeguards, families and kids on the beach. It was a truly unforgettable day and the Prom will always hold a special place, along with the ring’s bestower, in my heart.

A long-overdue weekend to the Prom. Time to relax, unwind and disconnect from the hustle and bustle of our busy city lives, from the phone, and weight of responsibility of others. An all-too-short reality check, with no Internet.

To the beach then, on a warm March day. Heading into autumn and hoping to catch the last few hours of sun before dusk. The kids are as usual, too excited, too easily entertained with some old beach toys and the thought of bagging some crabs who rush to conceal themselves before being discovered and scooped up gently on an old blue thong. They’re examined at close quarters, “Look at its eyes Daddy……isn’t it ugly? Can we eat it? Don’t they walk funny?” They talk over each other and it’s only seconds before the thing scuttles off the side of the thong, plops onto the wet sand and digs manically for survival. My two, all the while, trying their best not to trample on it while avoiding retaliation from the tiny creature.

So, life’s peachy. It’s chilly on the beach but no one seems to notice, or care.

It has been far too long since I was here last. Fifteen years, I guess. No kids then and not one ounce of responsibility. I’ve been drawn once more to this wonderous place, pulled by the power and the rush of the sea. There are people paddling, walking hand-in-hand and simply just enjoying being by the water. I stop to listen to the waves as it’s one of my favourite sounds, it evokes so many distant memories, of Egypt in June and a cold wintery English Brighton. The sounds of the two seas rushing the shore are as unique as our voices, and the weather. Now different voices are pitched with laughter, joy and glee, expressing the wonder of nature, as the tide rolls in.

The boys have turned their attention to digging a crisscross maze of paths, bridges, walls and moats preparing their fort for inundation – and I help, at first with tools and then bare hands. I like the dry-damp scaly feel of the sand on my hands, between my fingers and under my wedding band. It comforts me in the same way as running my hand over ancient bark or across my sons’ sun-warmed soft backs as they drift into sleep after a long day at the beach, still with the faint tang of sea water in their hair and the sun’s afterglow on their skin.

Quickly, without warning the wind picks up, rushing inland and drawing people out of the water, into clothes and moving with an urgency unnoticed by the family building a world as intricate as anything I’ve ever seen in Minecraft. My wife approaches, “We should go.” she says handing me a jumper, almost yelling as the wind whips sand across her face. I clump my big sandy hands together and knock my wedding ring flying, rolling across the windswept beach. In a fraction of a second, it’s gone.

I stare at her.

The tidal wave of sand swallows my ring and it was engulfed in an instant, my heart skipped not one, but two beats. When it plummeted to the beach and rolled away, it appeared to shatter into tiny slivers of glinting golden brilliance. How could something that resembles a relationship so precious, so dear, disappear so quickly, in a clichéd blink of an eye? And why, why does it mean so much to me? 

I wish then, that I could have dived deep, deep and fast – my strong swimmer’s body pushing the sand away, as my legs kick down, it turns quickly into sea water – deep, blue black and cold as ice – searching, searching for the symbol of my love. Feeling as if I’m drowning in sea water and engulfed by sand simultaneously, just knowing my efforts will be futile.

A single word.

“Ring.”

“What?”, she hollers above the wind.

“My ring, it’s gone, look!” thrusting my hand towards her.

We move quickly – first, as a pair scouring the sand as it snakes, loops and forms deep compact ridges on the surface. Ridges similar to those you might make in a cheap pair of runners which absorb so much sweat the liner moulds around your toes until it’s too painful to bear. You finally throw them out, vowing never to buy them again.

We poke and prod, we gawp and gape, staring at each other in disbelief. My idiocy eating me while she, the love of my life, glares at me incredulously, with cold emotion-filled eyes piercing me with the thorns of my own self-doubt.

You idiot, you fool, you clumsy dolt…it was only a matter of time. I’ve told you a million times that it’s loose and you’ll lose it.

Meanwhile, over in Sandcraft World, the boys are having a whale of a time digging in the freezing cold. Zack, our youngest is head down, bum up, frantically flinging the sand between his legs, mimicking a dog searching for a bone and oblivious to our frenzy.

Quickly, we realise we need help. Any help will do, so I enlist the help of kids, willing lifeguards and total strangers who peep and prod, turn over clumps of seaweed with their toes, and don’t expect to find anything, let alone a wedding ring. They soon tire of the futile search, claim their kids are cold and hungry, turn and go. Apathy in their eyes – “Good luck bud. Hope it turns up.” as they head off to a warm shower and a welcoming hot meal.

I just don’t need this, she thinks, not today.

….In this squall, with miserable kids, strangers and lifeguards pitching in to dig in the sand for you. Hoping they’ll find your precious ring, so they might slip it unseen into their pocket and pawn it at Fountain Gate Cash Convertors on the way home.

After what seems to be an eternity the lifeguards gather to pack away their flags, take my number and wish us good luck. We grab the kids, who, like us, have lost their battle against mother nature. Due to fatigue, or despair, they’ve turned to venting their frustration upon each other. Great, what a perfect holiday! I think.

And so; we give up.

The realisation hits me that it’s gone forever. Either out to sea, or inland – buried for now. Buried, until a lucky soul chances upon it while walking the dog, perhaps.

My precious ring, that means so much to me, gone. Just like the crowd who were willing to help, but even they couldn’t possibly fathom the depth of my relationship with my beloved, symbolised in the myriad of tiny scratches, gouges, dints and nicks that remind of the past. Of life experienced, wins and losses, of manual labour and the belief that this object represents eternity; which in a fraction of a second, on a windy beach on the Prom, disappeared before my eyes.

Now, the only people on the deserted beach are a group of tourists playing tug of war, tumbling in the wind, laughing and joking, while I stand boiling in despair.

For an instant, I hated every square inch of that cold, damp, stinking, miserable place with all my heart.

It’s not the money that bothered me, the 9ct budget piece bought for four hundred bucks, that we argued about all those years ago. Stupidly, I actually floated the idea of donating the money to charity rather than wear a ring. It wasn’t from any fear of being bound, tied to a single doting female, or of the male pride of appearing young-free-and-single. But one of preference, of dare I say it social responsibility. Why should I feel the need to profess my love to the world with this object, and line the pockets of already rich jewellers, when I could actually do some good with the money instead? What can I say? I’m an idealist….

I capitulated.

I wear my ring with pride, a noose for the naysayers of marriage and commitment. Those who deny the sanctity of marriage…Stop, stop it, before I sound like some deranged wedding celebrant! 

Trudging across the beach I’m suddenly overwhelmed with loss. Disappointed, I stare at my suntanned hand where her ring should be. A band of white skin stares back at me accusingly, signifying my incompetence, at least until the end of summer when it, and the memory of the weight of gold will fade. I attempt an apology, but my words are all wrong. Garbled, emotion-filled apologies of self-loathing. She loves me. I’m already forgiven. In only the way she could do. Then suddenly, my phone rings.   

“Hello?”

“Hi, David?”

“Yeah?”

“We found your ring.”

Blood flushes my face, neck and body as if warmed by the sun. I head towards the tower and the volunteer life guard who plucked it from the sand where it was wedged safely next to a flagpole, just meters from where I stood. I tell her we’ve been celebrating our anniversary with a trip to the Prom. She’s delighted to have helped and surprised by the gift I grabbed from the cool bag on the way over. A small token for a huge debt.

I wish I could have offered more, something more fitting to express my gratitude, but with a hug, and a grateful heart I turn and go. I take one last look at the beach as I walk away. Over my shoulder the sun is poking through the grey clouds. There’s no wind now, the beach is calm and deserted.

I’ll be back soon –  when the weather’s a bit warmer, but my band of gold won’t be. She’ll be tucked up safely out of harm’s way. I’ve learnt my lesson.

The ring binds us, it secures our family unit. There is no end to our eternal love. Just like the ring it comforts me on the blackest of days, like when Dad died, and in those tedious moments of corporate blah, blah, blah, while I preserve my sanity as I take you, my love, not the ring, hold you gently, spin you around my vena amoris and dream of escaping to the sea with you. Dreaming of golden sand – golden sun, golden bodies on the beach, gold on my finger shimmering in the sun.

Spinning Plates

Spinning Plates was my first entry for the Australian Writer’s Centre competition in July 2019. As with all the Centre’s competitions a five-hundred word limit and several specific criteria, including it being set on a train, were required. I wanted the story to be fun, and with the help of my sons came up with a not-so-usual train setting.

Alas, my entry was unsuccessful, but winning isn’t the only reason we write, is it?   

‘Dad, Dad, wake up!’ Jake whispered, shaking me violently. I knew instantly that something was wrong and that my entire body should not have been cold and wet. I looked around and realised I was lying on a huge mound of slow undulating ice. I rolled on my side, plunged my frozen hands into it and heaved myself up while blinking to take in the surroundings. A familiar pungent aroma hit me. Perched delicately on top of the mountain was a huge slice of seaweed-wrapped nigiri, looking as if, at any moment, it would topple and flatten us between the pink-and-white striped flesh and the plate below.

We crawled safely across to the edge, squeezed under the plastic dome, and peered in disbelief at our reflections in the gargantuan soy sauce bottle on the plate in front.

Suddenly a face loomed above, inspecting the produce for freshness and palatability. ‘Jake – quick, play dead fish!’. We lay – spooned together, daring not to move, as a huge meaty hand swooped down, and thankfully, swiped a plate of tempura prawns from behind us.

We considered our unsavoury options. Should we attract a diner’s attention and hope they realise we’re human, rather than bugs, before squishing us with a napkin and complaining to the chef? Should we attempt to get to safety; or – ride this fishy train, jumping plate-to-plate until closing time, facing the prospects of death by frostbite in the fridge, being slung in the bin, or even worse; the chef’s cat?

Round the corner loomed more hungry faces. ‘Dad, jump!’ – we leapt, without thinking, across the abyss, just as a ravenous myopic kid snatched the lid off the nigiri. Thankfully, oblivious to us Lilliputians, he scooped it up, swallowed it whole and belched a deafening roar.

We had no choice but to keep moving, count our blessings, and try to avoid being eaten. Every time a hand, or pair of chopsticks appeared, we ran for our lives. Taking refuge inside the California rolls, under the squid and behind the mackerel, we cowered and tried our best to look unappetising. Once I landed head first into a fiery green wasabi mountain, which wasn’t at all fun – I can tell you!

Delicious odours of miso, uni and ungari enveloped us, but the constant jiggling of the train was making me sick. If only we’d woken on the sake or Kirin trains – I could have drowned happy…

‘Octopus, my favourite’ the booming voice intoned. I was caught napping between a couple of tentacles, weary, and far too slow to react. He plucked the severed limb deftly with his chopsticks and I was floating, clinging to the remains of that poor cephalopod. Up and up, towards the gaping moustachioed maw. Jake could only stare – immobile, defenceless and forlorn against the giant, while I was shoved in through the…

Tarter encrusted gnashers. Chomping human flesh.

Everything went black.

Of Green & Gold

Today my wife and I became Australian citizens. My pragmatic decision came from the desire to commit not only to Australia and its people, but also to my wife and our Aussie-born sons. A willingness to adapt, learn and grow, led us on the path to Wyndham several years ago, and to today where we recited the pledge and wholeheartedly sang the anthem. It was wonderful to see so many people enjoying the day with family and friends, and to be formally welcomed so warmly into our thriving community. Every one of us has a unique story, and something special to offer Australia. Today was a celebration of just that.

It wasn’t an easy decision to become citizens by any stretch of the imagination, or one taken at all lightly. We had to weigh up the benefits versus the downsides, the most difficult being that we have loving family on the other side of the world who miss us dearly. I wish they could have been here today to celebrate with us. I’ll always be as English as tea and toast, but the toast is slathered with Vegemite goodness. 

It’s not all been plain sailing, and there have been times of struggle – especially when we had just arrived and had nothing but a suitcase, a head full of dreams, and a persistent desire to our names. And when the kids came along the pressure of growing with them – learning to be parents, in a new country with just a handful of friends to help, was immense. We were blessed with visits from my mother-in-law, who fed, cleaned and looked after us, with selfless passion, a smile, and a welcome meal at the end of a long day. But despite our struggles the Aussie spirit was there from the start. We may not have been born here, but we were, still are, and always will be – battlers.

I’ve always seen Australia as a land of opportunity, a place where, if you are willing to put in the hard yards, everyone will give you a chance. They will encourage you, go out of their way to help, and give you a fair go. Bosses and colleagues have helped immensely, each in their own way nurturing and guiding me through a career change, which ultimately was the right decision and perfect choice, and one I would never have considered if I wasn’t thrown in at the deep end by moving here. At one point the rejection letters stacked up so high I dubbed them Heinz; a pile of 57 rejections before I got a bite of the cherry… or should that be a taste of beans?

Australia and her people have shown their commitment to us. She’s provided for me, for my family, and given us endless opportunities. So, we’ll pass this generosity on to others of kindred spirit in true-blue Aussie style.

For the opportunities, experiences, bonds and love. For nature’s gifts of green and of gold, for the life you’ve given us, thank you Australia.    

Hotel Dreams

I’ve been fortunate to have spent many years travelling, for work, for pleasure and sometimes just to break up the plain old routine of life. Every hotel room has its collection of stories and the ubiquitous fly on the wall telling tales of lives lived, loves lost, and occasionally of a pearl earring forgotten under the bed which has been lost forever. I enjoy travelling and spending time in new and occasionally familiar places, revisiting old haunts as I reminisce and relive experiences. Strangers in the crowd adopt the faces, traits and characters of old friends, of family and occasionally a forgotten lover. One necessity, of course, is a place to call my own, somewhere to relax and rejuvenate at the end of the day. These places I call home for a night, a week perhaps, but most frequently for only a few days. My sanctuary – the hotel.

Lao Tzu wrote A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. These thousands upon thousands of miles penetrate our skin, permeate our souls, and slowly, across the passage of time and distance, transform us into who we are today. It came as no surprise to me that old Tzu wasn’t referring to our physical journey – he was discussing transformation, growth and maturity of the soul – life in a single sentence.

So, my all-expenses-paid journey began, with bag packed, hotel and flights arranged – a trip to the Emerald City, with an early morning wake up call. A cab, plane and train delivered me to the day in the gleaming tower overlooking the magnificent bridge, where we put our little slice of the corporate world to rights and made big decisions on a minute budget. Finally, after wrapping up a very long day, I enter the hotel lobby and I’m greeted with a glass of bubbly, instantly lured into the belief that this will be the best hotel I’ve ever stayed at.

Thanks, she says (eyes fluttering, lips pursed in a practiced, honeyed smile) you’re all checked in. Here’s your room key.

I enjoy the rush of anticipated luxury when opening the door to a new room for the first time. I slip the key out of its cardboard wallet and stare at the doubly bad omen of East meets West. Room 413, I sigh. Death in Mandarin, and the unlucky thirteenth at the last supper. Just my luck.

I’m whooshed twenty-two floors with classic Getz tooting softly in the background. Wall to wall mirrors only serve to reflect the fallacy; take a good look at yourself buddy, you deserve the rock star treatment!

The key is credit-card shaped, not because it fits my wallet snugly next to a couple of Banjos, an Edith and the Visa card I’ll probably be using to pay for the regretful mini bar exuberance at checkout. Rather, it’s so that I wedge it in my tatty old wallet and know that this is the key to endless possibilities offered as an honoured guest at this fine establishment whenever I pull it out.

So, will it work effortlessly, with an electromechanical click, admitting me to my rented private refuge? Or will it activate the flashing red “Fail!” light – quietlyindicating that I’m an intruder here, a fake. You! (it flashes, pointing accusingly, and, for some reason, with a Gandalfian voiceover) have no entitlement here! What right do you have to expect entry into this warm, cosy, private world, where only the privileged, persistent, or potent are granted admission?   

Mercifully, it clicks, Gandalf disappears, and I heave the door inwards. Instantly the hot, dead, foetid air hits me with that cloying feeling that I’m certain you’ve felt too. As the door closes the air around me becomes heavy, still, reeking of recently departed residents and with it their odours of food, stale sweat and alcohol.

The TV is the first thing that comes to light. Bonjour, Mr. X. That’s right. Mr. X. They can’t even get my name right. I’m just another nameless, faceless lodger.

I search quickly for the air-con and click it on. I know it’s pointless looking for an opening window; they’re more concerned about being sued for something, or somebody, being thrown out than they are for my comfort, health or well-being, so the windows stay firmly sealed.

As the room starts to cool, another sensation dawns on me. It’s quiet. Muffled traffic and the low hum of the air-con are the only things that are audible. The dense, soft furnishings, carpet, double glazing and thick walls attenuate all the sounds of modern life. The Girl from Ipanema has mercifully stopped dancing, there’s no kids, no TVs, no one yelling down the phone over the din of the blaring city traffic. I’m a king in my own thirty square meters of country.

The initial excitement dissipates as my heart slows and a marshmallowy softness envelops me. I spot scuff marks, greasy stains and, what’s that…blood on the wall? Relics of previous guests. I wonder how they felt when walking into this place for whatever reason they were here for. Business or pleasure, perhaps and illicit tryst? These soulless, dreary, unloved places leave only a hollow feeling we all detest but have no choice but to endure for as long as is necessary.

I unpack, carefully unfolding my clothes, hanging shirts and depositing toiletries in the bathroom. I quickly scan the freebies and wonder which, or rather, how many, I’ll be throwing in my case on the way out, just in case. All of them, I decide. Afterall, I have paid for them, I justify lamely.

I head for a shower in my palatial granite bathroom. One thing I just can’t fathom is why the water pressure is always so inadequate. The only good shower is one that pins me to the wall and has me  clawing for the taps to turn it down and has a temperature range of freeze to boil. I love hot showers, but sometimes the only way to finish off is with an ice-cold deluge; water battering my head, neck and shoulders, to remind me that I’m human, alive, and also of the dreary student house where we’d run the gauntlet every time someone went to fill the kettle. There was no in between back then. What will it be today, I wondered? A boiling inundation or freezing winter rain? As expected, the shower leaves me with an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. It’s not like being at home where the shower’s cracking. If they can manage to get it right in my three bed seventies suburban semi, why am I left with a lukewarm dribble at $200 a night?

Anyway, I clean the cracks and crevices as best I can, and my mind turns to food.  

I ask myself whether I can be bothered to actually leave my womb-like private sanctuary, where I  can gaze, wrapped in a towel at the Sydney skyline and over to the office workers on the 37^th floor. I’m surrounded by a world of concrete and steel, up, down and sideways, with only slivers of greying daylight nudging between them, a patch of darkening sky, and three (yes, I counted them) trees to remind me that I don’t belong here, that I am a fugitive and free from routine, free from my daily family responsibilities and everything that goes with them. I’m younger, freer and perhaps somewhat more attractive.   

I can’t be bothered to leave my nest, so I pluck the icky brown velour menu from the table and order a burger at only $37.

I try to fill the silence with the box. You know the drill;

Click.

nothing,

change,

change,

nothing,

change,

nothing.

Until I’ve scanned all ninety-seven channels just hoping I’ll discover something, or somebody, to connect with. Something of mild interest to entertain me between now and when I slip between the clean, crisp sheets at the rock star hour of 9:30.

I lie on the bed watching interminable re-runs of nineties American sit coms where life is just so damn perfect, and if it isn’t, everything can be solved by friends with a huge mug of Robusta.

I’m secure, in my own little private world, but of course, it’s not at all private, so, I carefully fold the bag of socks and jocks under the chair and avoid displaying personal items. No family photos, definitely no wallet or watch or anything that can identify me. Nothing except perhaps that novel, you know the one I’m reading about the two boys swimming, because I also want the maid to know that I’m educated, worldly, and smart. She’s hardly going to steal that now, is she?

Eventually, after my non-descript meal, I switch off the tube and slip into bed. First though, I must untuck the sheets, tug, with all my might the king-size doona which has been welded under and around the mattress, leaving it impossible to get in without first heaving and breaking into a sweat. This makes the bed look like a huge white wedding cake that has exploded. And it is empty, so empty. It’s a king; there’s space for two, three or more, if I ever get the chance, I suppose.

And there I lay, wide awake.

Where are you? You should be here next to me, just like the thousands of nights before.  

Staring at the ceiling, as if I’ve not been up for eighteen hours and travelled a thousand kilometers,  my mind races. I rifle the bedside draws to find ads offering life-changing experiences, at a price. Hot stone massage, cupping (whatever that is) and dry needling. They all sound far too painful so I shove the leaflet back in the draw and crack open the next one. And there it is, as expected…the holy bible. Crisp, and appearing untouched by mortal hands which is hardly surprising in this day and age. I flip it open to find some wag, obviously having imagination, an education, or nothing better else to do, has scrawled in the front cover:

 A green Gideon, 
 Hardly quotidian, we
 Prefer Kerouac 

Which reminds me that I’m on a journey, still on my road. Julia lent it to me nearly three decades ago, I wonder if she’s bitter about not getting it back? Afterall, it’s a pretty good read.   

Ultimately though we live life alone on this road, we try our best to connect with people and experiences that elevate the mind and spirit. To do things that bring us together in joy and in peace, in music and in art, joined with a sense of belonging. For now though, I just need to rest.

I close my eyes, and they flutter open. Too much caffeine I guess. The darkened room forms around me and a myriad of tiny star-like LEDs appear. The TV’s, some unknown green okay light, the fire sensor (which in a small way comforts me, although I do always wonder if they hide a camera in there) and the flashing pulse of the phone. Red, red, red. It’s bright enough to start a thud which grows into a migraine as I drift and sink down lower, softer, warmer into a welcoming sleep. The rhythm subsiding as the blood flows, and I’m safe now. Snug as a bug in a rug my gran used to say. Drifting.

Memories of you appear on the mountain not long after we met, and of hiking on the peninsular, looking for solitude on Ilah Formosa, and finding it in a sulphurous segregated hot spring in the middle of winter where we lay meters apart, naked, both listening to the warm soft music of the bamboo flute, thinking of each other – not realising that we were just starting our life-long journey together. Separation is inevitable, but even now, to be apart from you, how I long for you. For your body tucked in close next to mine, for the warmth that exists between us, not only in sleep but also in our waking hours. Your simple daily acts of love proving the inseparable bond between us. My heavy lids close and the weight of sleep finally pulls me under to the moment where reality and memory convene.

Romania. After just a couple of hundred steps or so into my journey. I was ill-prepared for the physical burden of skis, of the weight of blinding snow that reflected me upon myself, the awareness of us that ultimately led to the realisation that I could do better. That she deserved better. Cold, wet gear dripped on the marbled floor and the incessant damp and stink of  impossible-to-dry thick cotton. Cramped dorm-like room, a suitcase bomb of granny pants and shell suits spilled on the floor snaking, winding around my feet and legs, foretelling the dread of being ensnared, struck by the serpent, of being trapped in a loveless cruel marriage. There was no hot blinding passion in the snow. Only the realisation that she was not the one, and that my road had to be run. So, I said farewell, or rather, she found another, one more suitable to join her on her road, and she said goodbye.    

Germany. A long, long time ago. Not you, but another lover beside me, hiding in our hotel world. An unreal, relentless world of travel, fame, glamour, isolation, and all that accompanies it. Where we sought calm, solace and comfort in each other until two a.m. when the phone rang – shattering the illusion. “Your friend, she must go.” said the sleepy voice. He couldn’t have understood how necessary it was for us to have been there together at that precise moment in our lives. The hotel was just a convenience. We could have been in London, Paris or New York. I think we were in Munich, or was it Dresden, or Cologne  – it really didn’t matter – we were together finally, but not for long enough. The end was inevitable. But for those fleeting days and hours we shared across the globe and in my familiar creaky bed in West London, I was her world, her rock and her future. She went, and I’ll never be the same again.

Singapore. This time only ten years ago, in the cloying heat and humidity you were pale, sweaty and couldn’t eat. Hibernating in the hotel with your black lustrous hair flowing across the white king size bed with the air conditioning blasting, you were tucked deep inside a sushi roll of duvet. We thought you had a bug which turned you off the crayfish, made you sleepy and couldn’t eat. You had a bug alright…we discovered him inside you at the airport, no bigger than a grain of rice, and we were delighted. Petrified, but delighted!

Refreshed, I awake before the alarm. I know that I am slowly coming round from an incredibly deep sleep. I can feel the tips of my fingers and toes slowly warm as I emerge, surfacing from my vivid experiences. I can’t tell whether they were real, dreams, or just fantasies, but it feels as if I have slept for an eternity and I awake rested and rejuvenated. It’s strange how I can never sleep like this at home even though my bed is thoroughly comfortable, and I am lucky to always have my best friend beside me. I reach out to caress you but touch only the cold cotton of the pillow signifying the vast distance of rolling hills and valleys separating us.

The days fly past in a tumultuous frenzy, but it is in the evenings that I find solace and peace in this room. Apart from the odd hair dryer, muffled bang or doof, there is welcome silence. Time to think and to switch off from the trappings of our always-on, connected lives, and live in isolation for a while. I liken it to the silence I’ve experienced while hiking. Stopping for a few moments to listen to the sheer lack of sound. Except for a few birds and a gentle hum of humanity on the distant freeway, I’m alone in my thoughts, at peace with being on my own. Not lonely, just in the here and now. Just like in this room where I take pause from the hectic struggle of daily life and reflect on my journey so far. Taking stock of the good, of my achievements, both big and small, and contemplating the bad and the ugly. It’s here that I make a commitment to doing better, being stronger in faith and more compassionate. Just trying to be a better man really, I suppose.

Our hotel hours are so often wasted waiting for something, anything, to happen. Anything to break the hum drum existence of the corporate hamster wheel with some excitement, actually not even excitement, mild entertainment would do. A chance meeting with an attractive stranger, a fascinating conversation, or perhaps even a romantic assignation. We transform into somebody else when we’re away. Someone more interesting, more exciting, offering a different perspective on life. But in the end, we all go home to the family, dog, and the familiar. That’s where I’m headed now. I’m out of here and on the road again. My palace has served me well and I know there will be other rooms, with ghosts and their stories to whisper while I sleep. Telling stories of me, of you, and of what happened in this room yesterday.

Right now, I’m just looking forward to a thigh-high hug from the kids when I walk in my front door. I take a final look around, leave the maid a tip, and let the door close behind me with a thunk.