Scarecrow, getting on with it and one for me…

Here’s one for me. I’ll keep it brief.

Two years today I drove back from Scarborough a different person. Yes, two years and I’m still trying to define who that different person is. I can hardly believe it. Of course not finding a proper job has been a disappointment. It’s hard to accept that after so much nobody really wants you. I’ve come close, very close, but no cigar - maybe it’s time to give up smoking. I’ve tried lots of things, hoping to bring back whoever I was or find whoever I am, but none of them have quite worked and I’m running out of ideas. Sometimes it’s like my identity has been stolen, it’s like I have lost my soul, become a shadow. Sometimes it’s like time passes but without me really involved in its passing like a scarecrow in a field; a not quite person passing for a person. I don’t like it. Sometimes (often) I don’t like myself. Sometimes everything seem increasingly pointless, I feel unable to make a difference. Instead, I just get on with it. A plain man, in a plain world, just getting on with it. I stick to my routines, find refuge where I can, take solace in the simple. I Sleep. I Eat. I Drink. All the things us scarecrows do.

It’ll change one day I expect.

There, one for me.

Mr Shouty loses his glasses…

Remember Mr Shouty? That purely fictitious person who bears no resemblance to anybody living or dead. Well, he's back and today he seems to have lost his glasses. Poor Mr Shouty, the whole world is against him...

HAVE YOU SEEN MY GLASSES WOMAN? THEY WERE HERE A MOMENT AGO. WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO? DAMN AND BLAST IT WOMAN, YOU MUST HAVE. THEY WERE RIGHT HERE ON THE TABLE. THINGS JUST DON’T WALK.

Mr Shouty searches the table, flinging the papers that are on it here and there; sending his letters of complaint high up into the air, snatching at them, throwing them - until it looks like he’s standing in a paper snowstorm.

YOU MUST HAVE MOVED THEM. TELL ME WHERE YOU’VE PUT THEM. YOU DON’T KNOW? WELL THINK! I’M SORRY, BUT YOU MUST KNOW WHERE YOU PUT THEM WOMAN. I CAN’T HAVE A THING AROUND HERE WITHOUT YOU MOVING IT. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T SEEN THEM? ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR? THEY WERE DEFINITELY HERE ON THE TABLE. DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID OR SOMETHING? MAYBE YOU TOOK THEM INTO THE LIVING ROOM.

Mr Shouty storms out of the kitchen and into the living room. All Mrs Shouty can hear are drawers being opened and cupboard doors slamming. Something breaks - she hopes it isn’t her china.

BLAAAAAAAAAASSTTTT! NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE WOMAN, I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID WITH MY GLASSES.

Mrs Shouty says that she hasn’t even seen them.

WHAT? WELL YOU MUST HAVE. I’M TELLING YOU THAT I DIDN’T MOVE THEM SO IT MUST BE YOU. NOW WHERE HAVE YOU MOVED THEM TOO… THINK WOMAN, THINK!

Mrs Shouty says that she never touched them.

I’M SORRY! WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T TOUCHED THEM? I’M NOT MAD YOU KNOW, THEY WERE HERE A MOMENT AGO AND I DIDN’T MOVE THEM, SO IT MUST BE YOU. YOU’RE A BIGGER LIAR THAN TOM PEPPER.

Mr Shouty rushes into the bathroom. Mrs Shouty can hear him going through the cupboards, throwing pills and soap and smashing bottles. She looks around. The house is wrecked, papers and broken things are scattered everywhere. Inside the bathroom all goes quiet and Mr Shouty emerges…

I’VE FOUND THEM. YOU MUST HAVE MOVED THEM INTO THE BATHROOM. WHY YOU CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT YOU’RE DOING IS BEYOND ME WOMAN - AND LOOK AT THE MESS YOU’VE MADE. NOW GET IT CLEANED UP, I’VE GOT IMPORTANT LETTERS OF COMPLAINT TO WRITE ON MY COMPUTER.

Mrs Shouty starts picking up the papers. She knows that Mr Shouty’s glasses were on his head all along but she didn’t tell him – it wasn’t worth the argument.

Doctor's appointment...

I can’t complain; I had a good run. But after two years of dodging the Doctor he eventually pulled rank and refused to reissue my medication if I didn’t go for a check. Just a blood pressure thing, I’ve had it for twenty years. Four tablets a day, six monthly checks - the last few times with the nurse rather than the Doc himself. So why all this fuss? After all, it's not like he really wants to see me.

He gave me fair warning; a couple of notes and a signed letter, but still I didn’t go. Well, I’d kind of got out of the habit, besides it’s all a bit of a faff this going to the Doctors business - and you never know what they are going to put you through.

I had to go today though; I’m nearly out of tablets. Not that I remember to take them every day, and when I do I don’t take always take them all. Yeah, I’m really bonkers, dancing with death the way I do.

Anyway off to the docs I toddled this morning for my early appointment. First thing I noticed was that the once quite comfortable waiting room was now laid out in military style. Gone were the coffee tables and magazines, the children’s play area; all replaced with rows of grey chairs back to back like something out of sixties Russia.

I waited to be attended to and when nobody came after five minutes I rang the bell. A voice to my left, which appeared to be coming out of a television set, asked me what I wanted. I told them I had an appointment and the voice told me to touch the screen. A question appeared: ‘Are you male of female?’ I touched the male icon. ‘What month were you born?’ I pressed Mar. ‘What day?’ I entered the correct numerals. ‘Dr MacDonut has been informed you are here’ appeared upon the screen.

I sat on one of the grey military chairs. They certainly weren’t made for comfort and glanced at the posters on the wall. ‘Forgetting where you parked your car is okay. But forgetting what colour it is could mean that you have a problem.’ Nothing to be worried about here then - my car was black… or was it graphite… grey maybe? A buzzer sounded, making me jump. Black, definitely black; glancing up I noticed that above my head a computerised running banner informed me that Dr. D would see me in room 2.

I knocked on the door and entered room 2. There was Dr. D, just the same, no military uniform or Stalin moustache, a couple of years older but looking just the same as the last time I saw him. Then straight in without niceties – yes, same old Dr. D.

“Why have you missed your last two year’s appointments?”

“I’ve been ill.” I replied.

“You’ve put on a lot of weight.”

“Well so would you if you ate loads of rich food and drank as much wine as I do.” I responded.

“What exercise are you doing?”

“I lift myself out of the bath almost daily and I write about sport quite a lot.” I replied.

A short lecture on health followed, then he launched into how the government were robbing him whilst taking thirty percent of his salary as pension contributions and how he found it very hard to pay the school fees.

He said that I should do some exercise, like swimming or swimming or maybe even swimming... He said that I should see the nurse about helping me to lose some weight. (I thought that seeing the nurse won’t stop me eating and drinking, and that’s what is needed if I wanted to lose weight - not that I do.)... He said that  I could go and that he'd see me again in three months as my blood pressure had gone up a little.

I smiled, thanked him for his valuable time and left closing the door quietly behind me - I didn't want him calling me back. Phew! That was a breeze - no urine sample, no blood test, and no need to cough. I wonder how long I can not see him before the next letter arrives?

Doppelganger...

My brother in law had a strange experience last week. Mind you he is Australian, and that might account for it. Joking aside, here in his own words is what happened to him.

Walking to work along City Walk in Canberra this morning I thought I saw my double. A man approaching me from the left, he had a shaved head; that first caught my eye. As he was walking across in front of me I noticed he had a build similar to me and was around my height; OK then, he was fairly short!! Next to become even weirder was that he was wearing black shoes; black trousers and a black/grey shirt. Strange because I was wearing exactly the same clothes. As he was walking away from me it became even stranger, in his right hand he was carrying a black plastic bag from Myer, I too was carrying a black plastic bag from Myer in my right hand. Not a mirror or shop window nearby, I just wish I'd taken a photo to verify the strangeness of it all!

Mmmm…sounds like a Doppelganger to me.

His message reminded me of the time I drove past myself on the way back from Scarborough. There I was on the A64 heading towards York when, on the other side of the road, there was I driving along in a grey Vauxhall Insignia just like the one I was driving. I looked closely at the driver and he looked at me - same grey hair, same dark blue suit, same light blue open necked shirt, same flat expression. I’m sure that I saw myself smile as I passed myself. Then I was gone; disappearing in the rear view mirror of the distance as the two of me drew away from each other.

Doppelganger: a ghostly double of a living person that haunts its living counterpart. I often see him in the mirror.

The neighbourhood thrush...

I’d seen him before in the yew tree at the end of the road. He’s usually too high up for me to get a decent look, but I often hear him singing and it always brings a small flutter off a smile to my lips.

Today though, he was sitting just above me in the lower branches as I passed. I stopped to look. What a magnificent bird, so proud looking, his beak thrust out and his chest puffed. He hopped onto a lower branch and as he did, the light caught his spotted breast. It reminded me of a leopard’s skin with that tawny-gold sheen and deep brown speckledness. It reminded me of a spotted dick pudding, rich sponge and darkest currants. It reminded me of tie I once had – what happened to that I wonder?

I stood looking up for a minute or so and then he began to sing. A small flutter of a smile and a strange compunction to applaud came upon me. Of course I didn’t, what a picture that would have painted – an aging, smiling, man standing on the pavement, looking into the air and clapping. Perhaps they’d have carted me off to the funny farm.

Anyway, I listened for a while and then, noticing me with his shiny black eyes, he flew off startled. Perhaps I looked madder that I thought.

Speaking ill of the dead...

“Death creates a prejudice in favour of the deceased ... I should like to find someone who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know that she is dead! Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me - the truth.”

Hercule Poirot - The ABC Murders

They say that you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I don’t know why. If you were a shit whilst you were alive then just being dead isn’t going to change that. Or do the dead have a special pass, a kind of ‘Get out of truth’ free card?

Of course this speaking ill of the dead thing isn’t about respect at all. It’s superstition. A hangover from times when people believed the deceased would come back to get you if you said a bad thing about them. Well, I haven’t seen Jimmy Saville’s ghost to date, or Mr. Hitler’s (whoops, there I go mentioning him again). What was said at Dr. Shipman’s funeral I wonder? Maybe they said that he was "a committed doctor, one of the very few who still made house calls."

It seems that regardless of how disliked or embarrassing somebody has been in life, no matter what outrages they caused, or what crimes they committed, the minute they shuffle off, popping their clogs on their way to the great beyond, a rosy-tinted nostalgia filter falls into place causing the deceased to be remembered as being better than they really were. For a lot of people, the reason for this is that the dead person isn’t there to defend themselves. Others might feel that it’s best to let the past be past and remember only good things - “Um... Yes, he really liked digging.”

Of course, if you stand to get a lot of money when Uncle Harley passes it’s probably a good idea to mumble nice things about the dearly departed at the funeral. Besides, there might be some anti-negative comment clause written into the will. Well… Uncle Harley was like that – nasty, abusive, mistrusting, penny-pinching, vindictive, cheat of a liar that he was.

Why say that a person had strong convictions when you really mean that they were an argumentative, arrogant, bigot? Should you really describe somebody as having interesting ideas when they were actually as crazy as a loon? Does death wipe away all your personality flaws, covering them with an artificial gloss like an undertaker painting a corpse’s face to hide the decay? Of course most people have many good things to be said about them, so many that it would hardly be worth mentioning that they poisoned cats when they came into their garden.

I hope at my funeral that there’s somebody there who tells the truth about me, and doesn’t wrap me up in a few sugary-coated observations. I say hope, because I don’t think that there will be many there who really know me. In fact I don’t think that there will be many there at all. Perhaps I’ll record my own eulogy and have it played through the sound system.

On being a bully...

First things first… I’m a bully, always have been and always will be.

As a child I was horrible. Well, I can be pretty horrible now given the wrong circumstances and enough pushing. But as a child I was a nasty piece of work. Looking back I realise that I bullied anybody weaker or younger than myself, forcing them to do what I wanted regardless of what they thought of it. I once made my sister stand with a dart board propped against her leg while I threw darts at it. I missed and one of the darts stuck into her leg which, unsurprisingly, made her bleed and cry.

Yes, I was always into malicious mischief, ‘A little sod’ as my Gran often called me. And I was; I played some horrible tricks on my Gran – not impish naughtiness, vindictive, nasty, and trouble-making. Of course there were reasons for this behaviour, which I won’t go into just now, but however you look at it I was plain bad.

Of course these were the days of ‘a good smack’ and the cane was still around. Yes, bullying was rife throughout my childhood, at school and at home. It didn’t take much for one of the bigger boys to set on you, or for you to get a slap for not understanding your homework on a Sunday evening. I once had my hand blistered when it was held against a boiling school radiator for ten minutes by two other boys in gloves (Luke Doyle and Stephen Castle if you are reading this be ashamed). And of course patience was in short supply at home. If a sneer or bellow didn’t get you moving, then a slap around the head would spur you into action.

As I grew older I hid my bullying behind a joke, a jolly jape to make others laugh. But whichever way you looked at it, it was bullying pure and simple. I’d even join in with other bullies sometimes – well, there’s strength in numbers and better to be ‘in’ than ‘out’. At least that’s how it seemed at the time.

In my early twenties I was still bullying. Not physically, but with clever words and actions. By this time I was a big boy myself but I still only picked on people I knew wouldn’t retaliate. They didn’t have to be smaller than me, just more tolerant or weaker or just plain nicer; although I bullied the small as well - just how my two step daughters put up with me at times I’ll never know.

Yes getting my own way was very important to me and sometimes I really didn’t care how I did it, or what I put others through to get it.

I don’t remember having a Damascus moment. But gradually as I got older, gained experience managing people, I began to realise that pushing doesn’t ever get the best results. Oh, it gets you to where you are going to, but there are casualties along the way - far better to travel with people than to drive the train too hard and derail it.

Even so, I’m still a bully inside and sometimes I feel him trying to get out. Occasionally he escapes and I struggle to force him back in. Sometimes though, when the need arises, I let him out on purpose.

They say it takes one to know one and I agree. I can spot a bully at a hundred yards and I’ve spotted plenty in my time. These days, rather than avoid or ignore them like I used to try to do, I always try to stand up to them. Luckily I’ve not yet met a bully holding a knife, but I’ve had some hairy moments. It’s got me into some very hot water at times with bullying bosses, and recently I found myself being poked in the head by a very angry man half my age and twice my strength. I just looked him in the eye until he stopped. He knew I could see the bully in him and he could see the bully in me I think. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not brave and I hate pain just as much as the next person, but bullies make me see red because I know their pathetic games so well. After all I play them too. So now, rather than back down, I’ll play a bully at his own game.

You see the only upside of being a bully is that you know how to bully the bullies back until they stop or just go away. Not a very forgiving, turn the other cheek, attitude I grant you - but I’d rather get burnt fighting fire with fire than let a bully get away with it.

Luna and the snow...

Luna awoke to snow this morning. She’s been out in the snow before, but these flakes were larger and there were more of them. The snowflakes fascinated her as they drifted down making her head dart, her nose twitch. She sat watching for a while, trying to catch each flake with her eyes, snatch a couple with her paws.

Then down she jumped and across to the back door complaining to go out. It’s hard to explain to a white cat that snow isn’t the safest environment for it to be in. She’s become an explorer recently, roaming the gardens of other houses, peeking into windows to watch the yapping dogs and gerbils. Often she crosses the road at the front of the house and a white cat running across a snowy road isn’t a good idea.

Better to stay warm in the house and sleep. Try telling her that though.

Mr. Shouty goes shopping...

Meet Mr Shouty, a character I have dreamt up who will appear occasionally on my blog. Some of you may think you know him, but any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental. Please let me know what you think of him.

Today Mr Shouty goes shopping…

Mr. Shouty and his wife have run out of teabags, so they’ve gone to the supermarket to buy some more.

I’LL get the trolley. SORRY? What do YOU mean I don’t need one? Are YOU STUPID WOMAN? I’M TELLING YOU THAT I DO.

Mr. Shouty takes a coin out of his pocket and tries to put it in the trolley.

Now why won’t it fit? What do YOU mean it’s a ten pence piece? I’M VERY SORRY but I know the difference between a POUND and a TEN PENCE. I’M NOT COMPLETELY STUPID YOU KNOW.

Mr. Shouty tries to ram the ten pence piece into the trolley slot.

They’re ALL the same these pound coins. Fixed so that they won’t fit into the trolleys. What do YOU mean that makes no sense. THEY’RE FIXED WOMAN. FIXED I TELL YOU!

Mr Shouty walks over to a trolley attendant who is collecting empty trolleys.

Can YOU explain to ME why none of these TROLLEYS will take my pound?

The attendant looks at the coin and explains that it’s a ten pence piece.

I’M SORRY YOU’RE WRONG! THAT’S A POUND, PURE AND SIMPLE.

The attendant asks to see the coin and once again calmly explains to Mr Shouty that it’s definitely a ten pence piece. The attendant gives Mr. Shouty the coin back.

WHAT! I’VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE. ARE YOU CALLING ME STUPID? YOU NEED TO START LIVING IN THE REAL WORLD. I’M NOT AN IDIOT YOU KNOW. YOU’VE FIXED THOSE TROLLEYS SO THAT I HAVE TO USE A BASKET. THAT WAY YOU DON’T HAVE TO COLLECT THE TROLLEYS AND DO ANY WORK. I’M REPORTING YOU MY MAN. YOU ARE TAKING MONEY UNDER FALSE PRETENCES. WHO DO YOU THINK PAYS YOUR WAGES? I DO! I’M SORRY, CUSTOMERS PAY YOUR WAGES AND I’M SORRY, I’M A CUSTOMER AND I DEMAND THAT YOU SHOW ME THE RESPECT I DESERVE!

The attendant walks away shaking his head and Mr Shouty looks at the coin in his sweaty, shaking hand.

RIGHT THAT’S IT, THAT’S IT. I USED TO WORK FOR THE POLICE YOU KNOW. I’M SORRY, IT’S TIME THIS STORE WAS TOLD A FEW HOME TRUTHS. I’M NOT HAVING THIS!

Mr Shouty strides into the store, scattering old ladies and children before him.

BRING ME THE MANAGER! BRING ME THE MANAGER! I WANT TO REPORT A THEFT. I’VE BEEN ROBBED BY ONE OF YOUR EMPLOYEES. HE TOOK MY POUND AND GAVE ME BACK A TEN PENCE PIECE. HE’S FIXED THE TROLLEYS SO THAT HE DOESN’T HAVE TO COLLECT THEM AND THEN HE CALLED ME STUPID AT LEAST A DOZEN TIMES. IT’S ALL HIS FAULT. IT’S ALL HIS FAULT I TELL YOU. I’M SORRY, I DEMAND THAT YOU SACK HIM OR I’LL CALL THE POLICE.

The attendant has a word with the store security guard. He approaches Mr Shouty and politely asks him to stop shouting.

SHOUTING? SHOUTING? I’M SORRY, I’M NOT SHOUTING. I’VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE. I’M SORRY, YOU CALL ME STUPID, ACCUSE ME OF LYING, STEAL MY MONEY AND THEN YOU SAY I’M SHOUTING. I’M SORRY, I’LL NEVER SHOP HERE AGAIN. COME ON WOMAN WE’RE LEAVING.

Mr Shouty storms out of the store his wife following behind him like a beaten dog. All she had wanted was a cup of tea.

Corgi tractor...

I guess my Corgi tractor must have looked something like this. I was given it one Christmas by my Auntie Sheila and Uncle Mick. They always gave good presents; a clown on a bicycle that went along a tightrope strung between two dining chairs; a William Tell crossbow brought home from their honeymoon in Torbay.

Of course my tractor led to an argument. Well, it was Christmas and I’d had hardly opened it before I couldn’t find the farmer driver. Perhaps it became lost inside the mass of discarded Christmas wrapping paper then was quickly scooped away and thrown into the beginning-to-rust galvanised dustbin that stood outside our back door. He couldn’t stand a mess, mess made him angry. I loved tractors back then. I’d always ride the tractor on the roundabout at the fair and when we’d visit my great grandfather beg to sit upon his ‘real’ tractor whenever I got the chance.

I’m sure there were once photos to go with these memories - me on my great granddad’s tractor and driving a roundabout tractor at the fair. But it seems that somewhere along the line the big blue photo album crammed full of the past has gone missing. Strange – perhaps that too was lost in some discarded Christmas wrapping paper and thrown away.

At least I have my memories and I can be pretty sure they haven’t been embellished by spin and sugar because as a family we hardly ever talked about past times, it was almost as if they had never happened. With no photographs and no speaking of the past my memories are all I have. It’s a good job that I remember so much and know how to access it - at least it is for me.

A few days after that Christmas, my farmer mysteriously turned up. He’d found it under the sofa he said, so I placed him back on my tractor and drove it around my imaginary farm until one day I lost him for good and never saw him again. Who Knows? Perhaps one day he may fall out of a pocket and I'll get him back again.

Chickens...

Repetition is often used in hypnotherapy to take the subject into a trance like state. By merely repeating the same phrase or instruction you can make your subject relax and at the point of trance suggest outcomes to them which they will then go on to make reality. Of course, you can’t get a subject to do anything that they don’t want to do but it is strange that some people will happily behave like chickens.

Yes, often we do things not because we want to, but because we are worried that not doing them will upset the status quo – therefore we want to do as suggested even though we don’t want too.

Fear of rocking the boat that you are sat in is common. You see this in the workplace all the time; people following instruction they know to be wrong. It’s how dictators get otherwise normal people to do such despicable things, and it’s why so many people stay in unhappy and abusive relationships for as long as they do. It’s about conditioning – being brainwashed if you will. It’s about accepting a lot as the norm when it really isn’t and not having the will to do anything about it. After all you aren’t in control, your keeper is.

One of the simplest ways to brainwash a person is to keep repeating a lie until it becomes a fact in their minds. Of course you need to be in a position of control and power to do this; and you will have needed to lower your subject’s self-esteem over a protracted period of time. Broken their will, to your will.

You see this in many marriages where one partner controls the other simply by telling them that they are wrong and he or she is right. Shouting them down at every opportunity and getting them so confused and compliant that things they know to have happened a certain way no longer seem to have. In many cases the controller also believes the lie they have formed and are unable to differentiate between reality and a reality altered within his or her mind. When challenged they often get angry and they struggle with the two opposing realities – what actually happened and what they have created in their minds. This anger reinforces the false beliefs until the only world that is real to is the one created by their mind and at this point they no longer live in the real world.

Often people experiencing this may exhibit personality changes and thought disorder. Depending on its severity, this may be accompanied by unusual or strange behaviour or moods, as well as difficulty with normal social interaction and sometimes impairment in carrying out daily life activities like holding a reasonable conversation without flying into a rage.

These people are psychotic, which covers a number of disorders including schizophrenia, paranoia and bipolar type 1. It leads to a loss of contact with reality way beyond being a dreamer and into a very scary place where everything and everybody is against you unless they are compliant. 

I guess many of us know at least one individual like this. I know I do - and his poor victims.

Wonderful...

When I named this blog What a Wonderful Life I have to admit that a large part of my tongue was pressed firmly into my cheek. As time went on though, and I began to look around in an attempt to find inspiration, I really did find many things to wonder at. There is much to see if you look. A leaf carefully falling from a tree to the ground, pink clouds on a summer’s evening, the splash of the rain in a puddle. Everyday things that aren’t everyday at all. Real world occurrences that aren’t quite real. Then there are the things found in place where they shouldn’t be found. Like the tiny red satin ballet shoe I found in the road one day and the playing cards scattered in the snow. There are memories, passing moments, good days to remember, dreams - yes there is wonder in life.

Not all wonder is positive though.

Yesterday I was robbed. Oh, not a lot, a few hundred pounds taken by an opportunist thief from the draw of my desk in my shop when I went to the loo. Less than five minutes away from my shop within a shop and the result of a lot of work was stolen. Of course I have nobody to blame but myself. I really should have taken the money with me; and it could have been worse, my trusty laptop was in the same drawer. It was with a real sense of wonder that I looked in the draw where my money had once been. I wondered where it had gone, even looked for it, before realising that that suspicious looking chap with the beard who’d been hanging around for hours had probably taken it. That’s him in the picture, if you see him please let me know. When that realisation hit me I wondered how I could have been so stupid, I wondered how he had the nerve, I wondered what to do about it, I wondered, I wondered, I wondered.

Anyway the police were called, a statement taken, the likelihood of catching the culprit weighed up as zero and back I went to my shopkeeping wondering why I bother. I’m still wondering now.

My Grandfather's clock...

This story is either fiction, fact, or a dream. I don’t know which. Sometimes I believe a thing, live and breathe in the solid fact of it, only to be told by someone I thought that I could trust that it isn’t so. Other things that I’m sure I’ve dreamt turn all too real. Reality is a moveable feast. It all depends upon the light and where you are standing at the time. Fiction, fact or dream? I’ll allow you to decide. After all, I believe that people must have choice.

I awoke in the night to the sound or a clock ticking. Strange, we have no ticking clocks in the house, none that are wound at least. I lay listening to the tick for a while until I found myself back in sleep.

What lies. That grandfather clock was never really going to be mine despite what he said. Not that it should have been his anyway, like everything, he stole it. Money, eggs, ideas, hopes, dreams, innocence – it didn’t seem to matter to him. He took it anyway. Well, it was there for the taking. Besides, he could do what he liked. Who was going to stop him?

For a while the grandfather clock seemed to stand at the bottom of my stairs, slowly tick-tocking the minutes, chiming the hours. But then it was gone. Time to move on. He needed a change… find the money or sell. No warning. No notice. What he really meant was that it was time to run. Time to run again. Yes, a runner; a thief, bully, liar, cheat, and far, far worse. Well, there was a hefty profit in it for him, easy money. Thieves are like that. They take what they want, finding excuses and reasons for their bad behaviour. Take their money and run and run and run. Always the same, always something in it for him – a Ruby, a revenge, thirty pieces of silver. Then run.

The grandfather clock ticks on, passing from grandfather to grandson, generation to generation. But spotting his chance he took it wrapping it up in lies and making liars and thieves of those around him.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I listen to my grandfather clock ticking on like a diseased heart. One day that clock will stop, and so will he.

Black snow...

There was a little snow last night. I opened the front door and there it was, flake on flake, falling on the ground, settling white. Night time snow, sparkling under the street light. The kind of snow that might be gone by morning or might mean waking to a winter wonderland.

These days I think I like the idea of snow more than snow itself. Gone are the days that I’d rush to build a snowman, start a snowball fight, go rushing down the hill on a sledge. I still try, but the cold soon defeats me and my joints aren’t quite what they used to be. I used to build igloos, places where small daughters could play Eskimo. There was a time I’d fearlessly ride the tiniest tin tray down the steepest hill. I’d rough and tumble in a snowball fight, taking a well thrown ball of snow compounded ice in the face, laughing until I fell over.

These days I simply like to watch the snow fall through the window, the roar of a log fire behind me and the twinkling light of candles to make it all nostalgic. What lies. Not white but the blackest black. I pour myself another and then a final glass of wine and then a final final glass. I think, remembering. And then another, and just one more.

The snow was still falling when I stumbled the wooden hill to bed. As I went deep into the covers I remember thinking that I wished the snow would fall and fall, covering the world in a blanket of white, then fall some more, and on and on until every mark that had ever been made were covered in a pristine white. Everything gone; disappeared beneath the suffocating whiteness of a winter’s night and everything made pure.

When I awoke this morning the snow was gone - not my memories though.

Home truths…

After the investigation it seems that Jimmy Saville’s crimes were far worse and even more despicable that first reported. Just how did he get away with it for so long? A lot of very blind eyes must have been turned, strings pulled, favours called in and no doubt, threats made. From national treasure to monster, the worst sex offender this county has ever known, in the turn of a few months.

Of course that isn’t quite true. It was going on for decades and a lot of people knew about Saville; victims, co-abusers, the authorities, friends and colleagues - and surely his family must have known. Yes, judging by the way they ripped out his hideous gravestone memorial under cover of night they must have known something. Not everything perhaps, but something.

What strange things families are? Most have their secrets, things they don’t want anyone else to know - a beater, an abuser, a violent drunk, a liar, a cheat - things that they find too uncomfortable to share. It’s not all simpleton children hidden away in attics and mad twin brothers, shame can be made of much smaller things than that. Shame, that’s what the denial and covering-up is about. Nobody likes to be shamed.

With family secrets everyone in the immediate vicinity usually knows anyway. They know about the deformed monster chained-up in the cellar. They are just too polite, embarrassed, frightened, indifferent, or sick of it to say. It’s just his way … He doesn’t mean any harm… I’m sure that it was a mistake - or worse still… I don’t believe you.

Yes, blood is thicker than water, but mud is thicker than blood and there’s no excuse for doing nothing. In Saville’s case his family did nothing because of the rewards they received. According to his niece, he bribed them into silence. If Saville’s family had outed him for what he was, and not left him to get away with it over and over again, maybe so many innocent people wouldn’t have been hurt.

Turning grey...

There’s a cold snap coming and for a few minutes it looked as if I might have to blog that today. Yes, when in doubt the weather is a reasonably safe subject. Unfortunately when I looked out of the window this morning I was met by a damp greyness much the same as the greyness that has been around for the last few weeks.

Nothing there then… well, nothing other than greyness and nobody really sees greyness after a while.

Chinese artist Liu Bolin isn’t grey. He has himself painted into invisibility with colour, merging like a chameleon into any background he chooses. Look closely and you’ll see him. It’s undoubtedly clever, certainly whimsical and amusing… but art? Now at this point I could blog about what art actually is. But of course that’s far too big a subject to be dealt with in this post. Besides I have a headache. I may come back to it at some other point though – so you have been warned.

Instead Liu made me think about how most of us try to merge into the background. He claims that his art is about how the individual is being absorbed into the fabric of China’s rapidly growing, ever changing backdrop. Okay I get that. I agree that it is hard to keep your individuality. Particularly as these days most people seem to be trying quite hard to become part of their surroundings, whatever those surroundings might be. Celebrity, the media, technology, the fact that there is hardly anywhere on earth where you can’t buy a pizza or grab a coke, probably all contribute to this greying out of our individuality.

For years I put on a suit and tie, cut my hair to an expected length, behaved in an acceptable way, did all the things that I was expected to do within the environment that surrounded me. We all do it. It’s easier to conform than to be different. For most people different is frightening, and fear will often lead to negative reactions. And of course, just how different can most people really be? Particularly as so many things that were once too different to be acceptable now pass without comment.

The world moves on and even those different people become the same eventually. Just look at all the old alternative comedians who are now fast becoming national treasures; the enfant terrible artists who are now the establishment of the art world; the wild rock stars whose outrages are no longer outrageous. Listen to the Sex Pistols; you’ll see what I mean. They sound so ordinary.

Perhaps as the world grows smaller, gets slowly more equal, flattens, and becomes bland and the same, there should be more chance to be different. But in a landscape where we increasingly all live in much the same way, access the same information, are sold and told to want the same things, and expect to live the life that television promises, we become increasingly uniform. Our tendency seems to be to allow ourselves to become sucked into the greyness.

The landscape we live in is changing. As it becomes less wrinkled, dangerous and varied we can step into it and, like a chameleon or Liu Bolin, stand invisible and unnoticed almost anywhere. Maybe, despite the wonderful colour the world has to offer, we are all turning grey.

Finding the marbles…

I keep convincing myself that tonight I’ll sleep better, going to bed tired and warm and then taking myself through all the tricks and techniques I learnt in hypnotherapy class. And, each night, for a while I do. But then the dreams kick in and I can be anywhere; in any situation; with anyone - but usually with people I used to work with back then. Each and every night they appear in my dreams.

But first I need to fall asleep. When the wine doesn’t work I take myself on a journey back through my life. Way, way back. All I have to do is sit in that warm comfortable room within my mind always knowing that I can return to my chair at any time I like. I can return to my chair at any time. Back from the blue door with the gently sloping, dusty corridor stretching into the distance behind it. I can return through the blue door and back into the room at any time that I want or need. Back from the corridor with the doors on each side. Doors slightly offset from left to right, alternating and numbered like a suburban street – 55, 53, 51, 49… 54, 52, 50, 48. The corridor of my life. My corridor. We never forget anything you know. It’s all there on record neatly filed and waiting to be rediscovered - taken out, dusted off, re-experienced. Through that door. Through the door and into that corridor. And I can come back into the room at any time I want or need.

Regression, it holds all the answers to who we are you see; and why we are who we are. I walk slowly down the corridor passing the doors on either side. I’m going down, going back. Memories of every younger me, times past but never gone. Back to the farthest door I can find. 11, 9, 7, 5. I pass through the door to my right. Here I am. Here are we.

I’m crying. It’s my birthday. The cake sits upon the table. Three blue candles in white, plastic fairy-hat holders burn on its icing sugar surface. My mum has iced the cake. I don’t want to blow them out. I want to watch them burn. I’m told to blow them out, make a wish. But I don’t want to. My cousin Gina is here. She’s laughing. I’m crying. I don’t want to blow them out. I see the candles through my tears. I’m being naughty. I’m always naughty. I slap Gina. She cries too. He’s in the room. He’s shouting again. He’s always shouting. Shouting and raging. I’m crying and raging. His shouting makes me cry more. My crying makes him shout more.

He grabs me up. It takes the wind out of me. A limp marionette, he rushes me out and into the hall. I can see the pattern of the deep green carpet and the polished brown-black of the painted cement floor as my head passes above it. I’m struggling, my arms and legs kicking out. I see the white sandals upon my feet as they thrash in the air. He looks at me – cold and harsh. He launches up the stairs. I’m going to my room.

You’re going to your room my boy.

My room - left of the bathroom at the top of the stairs with the big pine chest of drawers - but I don’t make it. As he passes the stairway window, half a dozen steps or so up, he swings me around and my head catches the thick red painted tile of the windowsill. I see the windowsill coming closer, each fleck of paint, the tiny hollows where the red has been repainted and repainted. I hear the bone ‘thunk’ as my head connects just above my eye. I feel the gouge expand as the corner of the windowsill enters the side of my head. The windowsill looks redder.

Numbing blackness.

Light. I’m in a pushchair. He’s stopped shouting. Head down, he pushes. My head feels funny and blood is dripping down my cheek. We are almost at the nursing home. Where are we? It wasn’t until years after that I knew. We go up the steps and in through the door. A dark haired nurse comes towards me. She kneels down and looks at the gouge in my head. She smiles. Her face is very close to mine. She smells nice. She cleans my face with stinging stuff. It hurts.

He fell rushing up the stairs, he says. He tripped and caught his head on the windowsill as he rushed, he says.

I say nothing.

Lucky it wasn’t a little lower. It could have been the eye, she says.

Yes, he says.

I don’t hear the words, but I hear them anyway. We aren’t speaking, but the words are there anyway.

I didn’t trip, I don’t say.

I’m alone. Out of the door, back along the corridor, touching my scar and remembering. I step back into the warm comfortable room and sit in my chair. When I open my eyes I am back in bed. I’m tired. I fall asleep… and dream of the people I used to work with back then.

When in doubt...

Sometimes it’s the small things that make you feel better… as Mae West said: “When in doubt, take a bath.” Well, I’m with her on that - particularly as I was given a couple of packets of Pears soap for Christmas. Pears soap, now that takes me back, makes me feel safe and secure. As a child I’d stand outside the local chemist gazing in at the bars on display in the window. They looked so luxurious, amber bars of deepest orange, translucently fascinating, a solid elixir of forest, coal and magical herbs, like looking at a pirate’s chest of rare and beautiful treasures.

I know, I know, it’s only a bar of soap, but for some reason Pears has always held a special fascination for me. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the oldest continuously existing brand in the world, first registered in 1789. Or perhaps it’s the nostalgia of those old ads; Pre-Raphaelite boys blowing bubbles; dusky, smiling, south sea maidens; puppies and kittens. No, maybe not.

Then perhaps it’s that wonderfully thick oval shape. The shape of a bar of Pears is just right for the bath. So comfortably concave that it fits your hand as if each bar were bespoke just for you…almost undroppable

Of course it could be that for some strange reason I’ve always thought of it as posh… and the smell is like nothing else… and that colour…

Sometimes I find myself gazing into the amber depths half expecting to find a Jurassic wasp or ant captured deep inside its substance.

As a child I don’t remember washing with Pears - my first Pears memory is another Christmas as a teenager - but strangely that freshly laundered, gently spiced aroma and slight tarmac tang immediately takes me back to childhood every time I breathe it in.

Inhale deeply. You can almost smell it can’t you?

A few years ago they changed the formula. It affected the look and smell substantially and causing such uproar on Facebook that they had to change it back, well almost. Like everything in this modern world Pears isn’t as pure or natural as it used to be. I missed all that so will never know how the ‘new’ Pears smelled or looked. Of course, with the advent of hand soap dispensers and shower gels, bars of soap of any kind are becoming increasingly hard to find. The only soap easily obtainable seems to be that horrible Dove stuff, also made by Unilever. I wonder how long it will be before Pears soap goes the way of Corona pop and the Dodo?

Oh well, time for a bath. I wonder if you can still buy Wright’s coal tar soap.

A fool in Wales...

Yes I had a few days in Wales, well, one long day really, each day blending into the next with a greyness that only the dampness of a new year without cold, crisp air can bring. Foggy minded time. Not quite real. A crossing from one year into the next with hardly any fuss at all.

Of course as some of you might have guessed, through my own optimistic stupidity, Christmas didn’t go quite as we wished for despite all the planning, reassurances and last minute effort. We almost made it. But Boxing Day erupted into the farce that always threatens; probably because I should have known better than to try given the unpredictable predictability of the same old same old. To be honest the repetition of it all, the ever-present underlying storm, makes me tired to the bones - too much Jeremy Kyle I guess.

And of course I should have realised given that the lottery balls are weighted, Deal or No Deal is fixed, back then was a different time so seventies paedophilia doesn’t count, and instructions must always be followed. Just what did I expect? After all, Jean Charles de Menezes deserved to be shot by the police; only a guilty man runs from men wearing jeans and T shirts and pointing guns at him on the tube.

Disappointed? Yes, but mainly with myself. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. But fool me over and over and over again…

Anyway, after that, Wales was a welcome break. Not that we did much. A walk on the beach on that one fine afternoon, some long sleeps, a drink or two with friends; but no dark cloud over us other than the ones in the sky above our heads. No storms. Just directionless drifting. No shouting. Just a quiet time. As midnight came and passed I didn’t make any formal resolutions, but a lot of things flashed through my mind and in some cases stuck. I still don’t have a plan for this year, any more than I had a plan for last year. As I’ve learnt to my cost, planning isn’t all it is cracked up to be.

Not the real world...

A happy New Year.

Yes, I know it’s a week late, but I’ve been away in a dim, dull, and dismally grey Wales. A few days away from things, time to take stock. And part of that taking stock was to think about this blog, my blog, the one that I used to write daily which seemed to fizzle out as the end of last year approached. There are a few reasons for that fizzle. For one thing I was busy at the glass face and there was other writing to do. Then there was the nasty taste left by one of my readers who turned into a troll. And then of course I didn’t have much to say, or the will to say it - a kind of writer’s block.

There were plenty of things I could have written about of course; the long build up to Christmas with the decorating of the house; the little Christmas trees along our path; Patrick Moore’s sad demise; my walrus whiskers; that excellent Aldi ad that rather put John Lewis in its place; another end of the world that didn’t happen; Chester’s move to his new and splendid home with his new owners; that terrible, if not completely unpredictable, killing spree in America; my bloody father. I often found myself thinking: ‘that would make a good blog post’ - only to rush on to the next thing.

So, I’ve taken stock of this blog and I found that, whilst I don’t have to write it, if I don’t part of my purpose has gone. There are some things that I need to write about simply to get them out there and others that I’m sure will come along as they occur. I’m pretty sure that the blog will keep going, but I don’t expect it to be a daily thing. I’ve decided to write it as and when I want to write it and I’m thinking of limiting it to 15 minutes writing time each time I do.

You see, my blog is my world in many ways. Not the real world, but my world - a painted sky, a poured candle, and a lump of calcified coral picked from a beach long ago.

Yes, the real world can wait. Watch this space there may be a few surprises.