The Viewers

The afternoon had slipped from the house without saying ‘Goodbye’ - Clement could see it through the frosted glass of the front door, just hanging around, loitering in the street. He sat on the stairs watching the blurred shapes of people passing. Periodically, people would come up the path to the door.

‘We have more visitors,’ Uncle Pieter would say, at the jangling of the bell. Aunt Cecile would appear again from the back parlour, stand at the hall mirror and raise her hand to adjust her hair as necessary.

Uncle Pieter would open the door and greet the visitors, taking hats and coats and laying them across his arm.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he would say. ‘Thank you indeed.’

‘We wanted to pay our respects. Such a lady, such a lady.’

‘Thank you, thank you. Cecile will take you in.’

Aunt Cecile would greet them then, and guide them along the hallway into the gloom of the back parlour. Clement could hear the door opening, the creak of subtle hinges and a silence descend upon the party. The door would close and then after a moment, low, indistinct voices would rumble around the room - a reassuring rumble, like the rumble of the weights in the sash window in Clement's bedroom. After a few minutes the rumble would cease and the hinges of the door would creak again as the party re-emerged. Breath would be released and the visitors would move slightly more quickly towards the front door.

‘So peaceful,’ one would say, as Uncle Pieter returned his coat.

‘As if she had just fallen asleep.’

‘Such a lady. Such a lady.’

And the visitors would wish Uncle Pieter ‘goodbye’ and tell him how sorry they were that Mutti was gone.

‘Oma,’ muttered Clement to himself. ‘She is my Oma.’

Sometimes someone would see him sat there upon the stair, running his fingers around the turns of wood of the bannister. They would see him and grant him a soft, sad smile. Maybe they would turn to Uncle Pieter and ask ‘And how is...?’ but they would never say his name, but simply angle their heads and slip their eyes sideways that Pieter might fathom their enquiry.

‘He... he is calm. He is young.’ Their eyes would drift up towards Clement. ‘Cecile will take him.’

‘Good. Good. Well, if there’s anything...’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

And then the hallway would be empty again, and through the frosted glass Clement would watch the blurred shapes of the visitors move swiftly down the path to the road and away.

The clock in the front parlour counted out eight soft chimes.

Uncle Pieter came through from the back parlour where he had been sitting with Oma and Cecile. There was a practical energy in his movements that Clement knew from when they had gone fishing together, or from last Christmas when he had watched Uncle in Oma’s back yard splitting wood on Christmas morning.

‘There can be no more tonight, surely,’ he said as he swept the heavy woollen curtain across the front door. He turned and winked up at Clement. ‘Are you still there, young man. Time for bed, is it not?’

Clement stood and climbed the stairs. He lay on his bed feeling the ceiling solid against the evening sky. Usually his mind would float through it to distant shores. But not tonight. Oma was gone and tonight the ceiling was fixed and heavy and would not release him. There were cracks across the plaster, and a grey cobweb wrapped around the chain that held the light. Tonight the brown mark that spread from above the window and across the ceiling was just an old water stain, not the cloud palace that Clement always dreamed it to be.

Oma had shown him places in the photograph albums in her study. Places she had seen - desert places, high mountains and dark ravines. Places with exotic names - Samarkand, the Hindu Kush. Cities in the sand. Black and white photographs of Mahouts upon stately elephants, of Bedouin nomads and their caravans of camels, people wrapped in strange clothing with dark brooding faces. Photographs of children with gaps in their teeth and earrings in their ears.

‘You, too, will see these things,’ Oma told him, ‘for you are an explorer of worlds. And this world will open to you just as it has to me.’

He felt her eyes settle upon him and her hand upon his head - the aged hand, the ringed fingers and the gnarled knuckles - gently stroking his hair across his forehead.

‘But you will go further than I,’ she said, ‘for you are stronger and braver and cleverer than I.’

But now Oma was gone. And the young woman who had taken the photographs, who had ridden the camel, had smiled at the children with gaps in their teeth and earrings in their ears, was now lying in a wooden box on the table in the back parlour. And Clement was no longer sure, and did not think he was brave and strong and clever. And now, nothing that Oma had said, would she ever say again.

Chinese Lantern

 It seemed appropriate.

You were going.

You had always loved them so we made one in the afternoon, from tissue paper and fine wire.

At seven, we carried it to the top of Melham Hill.

You said it was like saying a prayer. It would be good luck.

We set the burner alight - just a couple of candle stubs stuck to a jam jar lid. It took a few minutes to heat the pillow of air but then, at last, it slowly began to rise.

“Wish on it,” you said, “Wish on it, quick, before it gets too high.”

“What? Wish? Don’t be daft,” I said.

“Do it! Close your eyes and make a wish.”

You closed your eyes tight. I watched you, your face pale in the gathering dusk. Your eyes flickered beneath your eyelids. You lips were closed still, but I could see them moving, as if you were saying a prayer in your mind.

You were beautiful.

I didn’t need to think. I knew what I wished for and I knew it would not come true. Could not.

Up it went into the still, evening sky.

We watched it climb higher and higher, getting smaller and smaller. A tiny living thing in the darkness.

“How high do you think it’ll go,” I said.

You turned and looked at me, a slight frown on your face.

“All the way, of course,” you said, your voice tinged with mild indignation.

“Yeah, right,” I said, and you hit me on the chest.

“Don’t spoil it,” you said.

“I’m not spoiling it - it’s lovely.”

“Yes, you are,” you said. “It’s a dream, it’s a wish - it goes up and up and up until it comes true.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to spoil it for you. You were going. We didn’t know when you would be back.

“Come on,” I said when we couldn’t see it any more. “Let’s go home.”

You turned in to me and pulled my coat around you.

“I don’t want to go,” you said.

“No,” I said. I could not say anything else.

You pulled on my coat collar and our lips met. Then I kissed your eyes and face. There were tears on your cheek.

The taxi came at six in the morning.

It was misty waiting for the London train. The rails disappeared into the grey. We heard the quiet grinding growing steadily louder and then the train loomed out of the mist. Suddenly you were busy. You kissed me quickly and gathered all your bags together, pulled up the handle on your suitcase.

“I’ll get that,” I said.

We guessed where the door might be when the train stopped. We were nearly right.

There weren’t many other passengers but a few doors opened for people to get off.

I picked up the case and carried it onto the train, but my being on board made you edgy.

“Get off quick,” you said, “or you’ll be coming too.”

It was hard to say anything, so I just hugged you and went back to the door. You chased me back down the carriage and grabbed me again. Kissed me. But the guard was slamming the doors. I had to get off. I ran back along the platform to where you were sitting, but the windows were so dirty we could barely see each other. And there was someone sitting in the window seat.

I ran a little way beside you as the train slowly moved off, trying to keep up with you. But it was soon too fast for me. I stood and let the train slip away, watching the end door as it grew fainter in the mist, getting smaller and smaller.

I walked home.

It was still early and the dew was still wet on the grass. Down the lane the cow parsley was in full bloom. It leaned out into the road, glistening in the sun.

I had not even told you I loved you.

I felt sick.

I stopped at a gateway and looked into a field. The mist had lifted. Cows were grazing. One lifted its head and looked at me but soon lost interest. I watched its tongue wrap around the long grass and tug it up into its mouth. I remembered the tip of your tongue touching my teeth as you kissed me goodbye. The taste of your lip balm.

I came to the path we had taken to climb the hill the night before. I wanted to climb the stile and go up again, to find you there again, for it to be you and me, there, together again. For ever.

I could not. I hit the stile post.

You were gone.

I walked on past the honeysuckle in the hedge that you had stopped to smell. A spider had caught a wasp in its web. The wasp was buzzing still, but the spider had already wound it in silk and held it wrapped in its legs. It could not get away.

I held you in my coat last night. You escaped.

Then as I walked on, there it was, lying in the road - a tangle of wire and sodden shreds of tissue paper. I picked it up in my fingers, felt the coldness of it, the tattiness of it, felt how it was wrong.

“It goes up and up and up until it comes true,” you said.

It had not. It was not magical, it was not a wish - it was a dead thing, a piece of trash. I flung it into the grass beneath the hedge. Then I went and picked it up again. Held it again. I crushed it in my hands. Crushed the wire frame into a small ball in my hands.

And I put it in my pocket.

Until it comes true.

prompt: Ten Chinese Lanterns (I lost nine somewhere along the way)

an unknown hand

After the speeches we all drifted out into the hotel grounds.

The sun was shining and the early daffodils and crocuses made for a beautiful display along the borders by the gravelled car park.

The photographer walked to his Subaru and started to unpack his larger tripod. He looked at the sky.

As the wave of guests grew behind them, the first pioneers started to wander onto the grass. There were one or two quiet shrieks of alarm as stilettos sank into the lawn, still soft after last night’s rain. Little groups congregated in their respective tribes – bride or groom. Elaborate hats caught a little of the breeze. Men gravitated towards one another, cigarettes were lit, connections with the appropriate party were outlined and coincidences smiled at.

In an attempt to fracture the wedding apartheid, I found myself talking with an older gentleman dressed in a immaculately tailored light grey suit with a highly decorated silken waistcoat, a flounced cravat at his neck and silver hair sleeked back across his head. He explained that he was the uncle of the bride, had flown in from Geneva the previous afternoon, was intending to spend a month in the country visiting old acquaintances, galleries, the opera, Oxford Street.

After some moments, I felt a light snag of my trousers just below the knee. Without looking, I reached my hand down to adjust the offending wrinkle, but found instead the hand of a small child taking my own. I assumed it was Charlie, my son, who had been released by his mother to wander between the legs of the guests. But after a moment I realised I was holding the hand of an even smaller unkown girl, encumbered by a large nappy, who was attempting to persuade me through little guttural ejaculations to pick her up. I simultaneously became aware of a sudden hue and cry close by, and the alarmed voice of a woman reached my ears.

"Cassie! Cassie! Cassiopeia! Where are you?"

prompt: an unknown hand

The Edge

‘It may be the Hippodrome, but please, Clara, my darling, no hippo-dramatics here.’

Clara continued to remove her costume, piece by piece, from her trunk and hang each item carefully on the rail.
‘This is the last show before London, my darling, and I really can’t have any of your clumsiness - do you hear me?’
She reached once again into the trunk and with one hand drew out her boa. She played it across her other hand, pulling it over her palm, feeling the soft kiss of the feathers as they passed through the crook of her thumb. She felt her resolve grow stronger as the gaudy feathers aligned. She carefully draped the lithe snakelet over the hat stand that stood by her dressing table.
‘We really can’t have a repeat of Ipswich, can we. Promise me, my darling. You will take extra care tonight, won’t you. Extra care. You will won’t you?’
The lacquered make up box containing all her makeup - sticks of greasepaint, powder, eyelashes, brushes, lotions, and creams - was the last item she lifted from the trunk. She placed it upon the table between herself and the mirror.
At last, Clara turned to him, held his eye and gave him her most pleasant smile.
‘Of course,’ she said.
He studied her for a second, his gaze flickering back and forth from one emerald eye to the other, always seeking the sincerity he craved.
At last he smiled too. She felt him move momentarily towards her, hesitate, then lift his hands to her face. He cupped her cheeks and drew her lips towards his mouth.
She tasted whisky, stale smoke on his breath.  She felt the bristle of his moustache as his lips pressed into hers. She found the tip of his tongue pushing, penetrating, seeking entry between her teeth. She resisted the pressure to open, locked her jaws and hardened her lips.
At last he withdrew from the kiss.
‘You know how precious you are to me, my darling. You know I cannot live without you. Your love is all I long for, all I crave. You know this, my dearest darling, my angel, don’t you.’
She stood motionless, held her breath as she waited for him to release her from this moment. She waited for the freedom that would dissolve the chill that froze her blood.
But before he relinquished her, he pushed his mouth onto hers again. His saliva lubricating the motion of his lips upon hers. Then with sudden flourish he turned away from her towards the door.
‘I must prepare, my dearest dear. Come wake me at the half. I will need a shave. And please, until then, no noise... no noise.’
He turned towards her again a placed a final finger over her lips.
‘So beautiful,’ he said, ‘so beautiful.’

Alone at last, she breathed, wiped her hand across her mouth, and dropped weakly into the chair in front of her mirror.
How she hated him.
How she hated what he had done to her, what he had made her into.
She reached for her makeup box, flung open the lid and reached into the corner. The razor. She felt its coolness in the palm of her hand. She opened the blade and laid it on the table in front of her. There was a comfort in the reflected light from the blade. The familiar blade. She felt a frissance in the skin of her thigh. The gorgeous terror rise in the pit of her stomach. The skin opening a scarlet smile. Past pains released. Blood on her tongue.
But not today.
Now she saw the blade as it rested against the skin of a throat. The artery pulsing beneath the lightest of pressure. She had learned to shave her father after the accident, carefully drawing the blade across the hair of his chin and neck, severing each at the root. Those days, before she had learned the keen bite of the edge, she had often seen the blood seeping into the white lather on her father’s neck. He never complained, never even winced and slowly she had learned the skill of it. The delicacy.
But this man. If she so much as nicked his cheek, he would reprimand her and scold her, call out her clumsiness, abuse her, ridicule her. True, no hand had he ever laid upon her. Not in anger. But afterwards, after the evening performance and sometimes after the matinee, if the crowd had been appreciative and respectful, had rewarded his efforts with their praise, afterwards he would call her into his dressing room and insist she help him.
‘I can do nothing,’ he would say, ‘I am a child, helpless, completely helpless. Come comfort me.’
And she would stand before him and spread cream thickly upon his glistening face, into the folds of flesh around his neck, the sly intimacy of his closed eyelids. Then she would wipe him with balls of cotton wool. His flesh moving in waves beneath her fingers. And he would murmur to her as she worked.
‘You are my angel, my saviour, without you I am nothing, my darling, nothing. Kiss me, my darling, lay your lips upon mine for your kisses are a balm to me, a healing balm.’
And then he would have her open his clothing, guiding her hands to each hook and button of his shirt, pushing the linen open across his belly, pulling it free of the waistband of his trousers. Then the buckle of his belt, buttons. He would stand and draw her hands up again to his breasts and he would gaze into her eyes as his hands descended and his movements would be rhythmic and she would feel his heart beat as he became more frenzied until... until... She could not, would not imagine it. But he would crumple under her hands, his mouth gaping like a landed fish, a shudder stuttering through his body. His head would drop.
‘Leave me,’ he would say, ‘leave me now.’
And she would withdraw in to her room, into her mind and visit places of her childhood dreams again. Summer afternoons. Ice cream sundaes. The gentle touch of Frederick's hand upon her cheek.

A tap.
A light tap.
A tap at the door and she surfaces through sunlit water and back into the fusty dressing room. The theatre boy outside the door.
‘That’s the half, miss.’
She says nothing.
‘Miss? D’you hear, miss, that’s the half.’
She rises. Goes to the door. The lad looks at her, startled to see her in front of him.
‘Yes.’
‘The half, miss, your half hour call.’
‘Yes, yes.’
Was her tone sharp? He looks a little alarmed.
She slips her fingers into the purse at her waist and draws out a coin.
‘Thank you, Alfie, I’ll tell him.’
‘But...’
‘I’ll tell him Alfie. Go.’ She presses the coin into his hand.
‘Thank you, miss, to be sure...’
‘Go.’
She closes the door and turns back to her table. The razor gleams.
She lifts it and tests the edge against the ball of her thumb.

prompt: ecstasy
06.08.2019

Winter Blues

'Yes, yes,' he said, 'I'll get it fixed. Don't you worry about that. Don't you worry. I'll get it fixed before the cold weather comes. I've got a guy does things for me like this. Jim. I'll get him to come over and have a look, ok. He'll fix it. He's good at boilers. I'll get him to come over next week. You here next week? I'll get him to come over and have a look... What day is best for you? He'll have to come and have a look then probably he'll have to order some parts, so it might take a day or two to get them because... these old boilers, well, the merchants don't keep the parts in stock now, you know. You can still get them, like, but you have to order them, you know.

'Ok, so I'll get Jim to come and have a look and then when he's got the parts he'll come back and fix it. You know, it might take a week or two, but it'll be done before the cold weather comes you can be sure of that. I don't want to mess you around. You'll need the heating when the cold weather comes. These old blocks are freezing in the winter - no insulation, see - they didn't think about that when they built them, I suppose. Didn't have the technology, maybe.
'Rightio is there anything else while I'm here?'

'Well, you said that you would fix the window in the bathroom last time you came ...'

'I did, I did! I haven't forgotten, but I need to... I just haven't had time to get to the glass place, you know. But it's on my list. It's top of my list. For next week. I'll get the glass and come over. And fix it. Do you mind me just letting myself in if you're not here?'

'No no that's... '

'I'll come over next week with the glass and I'll... Right, if there's nothing else I've got to get home. Sharon's got line dancing tonight and I said I'd drop her. All right? I'll love you and leave you then, Amanda, and I'll give you a ring when I've spoken to Jim to let you know when he's coming over. All right?

'Yes that's all right, I suppose.'

'Good, good, see you then, then... I must say you've got the place looking nice. Better than the last guy. Still that's a woman for you, isn't it, making things look nice. Men can't be ars... bothered with stuff like that can they, but no, but yes, you, you've got an eye. I can tell. I should take you on, eh? Take you on as a stylist, eh? You could sort them all out, couldn't you? Ok then, bye bye...'

'Bye, Phil...'

She pushed the door closed behind him and turned and leaned against it. She could hear his footsteps on the concrete in the stairwell, the resonating tang of his wedding ring hitting the iron handrail. Then his voice booming and indistinct as he met some other tenant down below. What was he wriggling out of doing for them, she wondered.

She hadn't got it looking nice. She hated it. All she done so far was hang some of her tapestry pieces on the wall. The two garden scenes she done for her degree show, and the framed seascape that Dad had liked so much.

She was desperate to hide the reality of the rooms. The damp plaster, the peeling wallpaper. She knew what she would do if it were her flat but as a tenant, a poor tenant, she was only too aware of the large sum Phil held as her bond. He was a git, she thought. Harmless, but a git nevertheless. He hadn't yet done any of the repairs she had asked him to do since she moved in: the bath tap washer; the leaking cistern on the toilet. Eventually she had given up waiting and borrowed some tools from Marchin and done it herself. Marchin wanted to do it for her but she wouldn't let him.

He had wanted to do a lot for her. She wouldn't let him do any of it. She could feel his Polish machismo in every throbbing sinew of his body. And while she loved that strength, the confidence in his blood, she hated how small she felt against him. She despised the simpering child that she regressed into in his arms. Shrank from every feeling of power she had painstakingly fermented in herself.

So while he became more and more dominating of her she found herself wanting more and more to resist. Their love-making which had been playful, sensitive and passionate in the beginning, became rough and angry, wild and unpredictable. He took to leaving while she slept so she'd wake up alone, wondering where he had gone.

So, when Cameron told her he'd seen Marchin with someone else she had ended it. And he didn't fight for her. It was, she felt afterwards, the typical male tactic of behaving so badly that eventually the woman would end the relationship and then he, as he already had, would take his victimhood and his urges into the bed of another. She'd felt the pattern many times before.

'Fuck him,' she said out loud, pushed herself forcefully from the door and into the kitchen.

'Bastard!'

She put the kettle on and looked out onto the swing park below. Two kids were sitting on the swings, rocking, but not swinging. They were, what, fifteen? Sixteen, maybe... hanging on to childhood securities but too cool to play. She had long hair. He had his hood up. Amanda, even from this distance, could sense the balance of tensions between them.

'Don't do it,' she mumbled to the girl as the kettle switched itself off. 'Don't get taken in by it.'

She made sweet chai tea, dangling and dipping the tea bag on its string. She watched the colour of the water slowly shift in hue until after a few minutes she pulled the bag out, held it over the glass mug with one hand, and ran the fingers of the other down the string to the soaking pillow at the end. She squeezed, and dark droplets fell into the mug like blood into water, clouding and swirling until they disappeared into the brew.

She lifted the cup to her lips and blew.

She looked out again and saw the trees beyond the swing-park had lost their leaves. When had that happened? Last time she looked they had been bedecked in verdant foliage. Now they etched lines against the grey clouds. It was getting dark, too.

The boy and the girl stood up. She studied the chair of the swing, ran her palms across her buttocks, while he hitched up his beltless jeans.

Whatever they had talked about had changed their status. A new stage in their negotiations had been reached because while she stood looking at her fingers on the chain, he stepped up to her and kissed her cheek. She shrieked and pushed him away in mock shock. Amanda thought she could hear her say 'Who said you could do that?'

But Amanda knew that she had said it even if she hadn't used words.

He was brave, though, stood his ground, and evidently had some persuasive comment for the girl. She turned to him and let him take her hands. He pulled her towards him and their faces met.

Then she hit his chest and ran off laughing.

Amanda stood and watched the sky gradually darken. Then, from below, a voice drifted up to her - a woman's voice, singing. A deep sorrowful voice, singing an old song. The notes hung in the air. Maybe it was the black woman who had smiled at her in the stairwell yesterday, now lilting her desperate song out into the early evening.

'... caaaan't help lovin' that maan of mine.'

Ella sings...

Black Bin Bag

'I'll take them on Thursday,' I said, 'if that's ok.'

'Yes, whatever. Thursday's fine.'

'Or do you need me to take them today? I can take them today if you need me to. But they'll have to sit in the boot for a couple of days.'

'No, no, come and get them on Thursday. They're not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere.'

'I could try and get back tomorrow but I can't promise. I'll try. But I can't promise.'

'Thursday's fine.'

He sniffed and started to tie the top of the bin bag closed. Then he opened it again and smoothed the top of the pile flat.

'They're all clean,' he said. 'All clean and ironed.'

'Of course. I know.'

He turned and closed the wardrobe. As usual the door swung open again. He pushed it shut and turned the key in the lock.

'Will you try and get out a little, Dad? You need to get out in the fresh air.'

'I went out yesterday.'

'Did you?'

'Yes, took a turn in the garden. I'm all right. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Well, I do, Dad. Of course I'm concerned. You've lost a bit of weight the last couple of weeks. You look pale. I don't like to see you looking so pale.'

'Yes... well.... Thanks for that.'

'So, of course I'm concerned.'

He turned and went back downstairs. So I followed him down and into the kitchen. He took the kettle from the side and dipped it under the tap. I saw him glance up the garden as he stood waiting for the water to run faster.

'Grass needs a cut.'

'Yes... Well I can do that for you on Thursday, too. If you like.'

'I'll do it.'

'It'd only take a minute.'

'I'll do it.... Must fix this tap washer,' he said. 'Your mother keeps on at...' He realised what he was saying. I saw his jaw set and a look of irritation come over his face.

'Bloody leylandii!' he said. 'They should bloody get that thing chopped down. Look at it. Blocks all the sun out this time of day. Look at that bloody shadow. I'm going to have to tell 'em again. Bloody antisocial. Should be a ban on the bastard things.'

He placed the kettle on its stand and flipped the switch. But the red light didn't come on.

'Oh bloody hell, what's the bloody problem now?'

He picked up the kettle and put it back down.

'Bloody cheap kettle. I said we should get the Russell Hobbs.'

At last the light came on and the growl of the water heating steadily grew.

'What'll you eat tonight, Dad?'

'Oh, I'll be all right. You don't need to concern yourself. I'll find something in the cupboard. You don't need to worry.'

'I can cook you something if you like.'

'No, no, no – I've got something in the cupboard. You get off. You need to get off home. Sylvia will be wondering where you've got to, won't she. You get yourself off home.'

'She knows where I am. I said I was coming round.'

'Well... you get off home. I'll be fine. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Ok. Well, I'll be back on Thursday, then. Ok?'

'Ok. I'll see you Thursday. I'll probably have sorted a little more out by then. You come on Thursday. It'll all be ready for you on Thursday.'

'Have you got enough bin bags, Dad?'

'Oh, yes. I've got plenty. Plenty. I'm going to put some stuff in the big suitcase anyway. They can have that an' all.  I'll not need it anymore.  I'll put the dresses and things in there and her unde...'

He bit the words back. I could see them ricochet around his mind. His hand went to his face as if he could pull the veil of sadness from his nose and mouth. His palm rasped on his unshaven chin. I put my hand on his arm. I couldn't find a word. My own throat was clammed tight.

'Yes, the other stuff... I'll put the other stuff in the bin bags. If they don't want them they can recycle or just chuck 'em. They're no use to me. And her shoes.'

He opened the cup cupboard and took out two mugs. He poured boiling water into them and dropped a tea bag in each. Went to the cutlery drawer and found a teaspoon and dabbed at the teabags in turn, forcing the brown liquid out of them.

'Fifteen pairs of shoes, she's got. Fifteen. I haven't had fifteen pairs in my whole life, but she's got fifteen sat there in the wardrobe. Who needs fifteen pairs of shoes?'

'Imelda Marcos.'

'Eh?'

'Imelda Marcos. In the Philippines. She had thousands of pairs.'

'Did she indeed?'

The tea was thick and brown. He hooked each bag in turn with the teaspoon, squeezing it against the side of its mug before pulling it out and dropping it into the pedal bin. ' Well, I think it's daft.'

'Yes. But Mum liked shoes.'

'She did... she did.' He slowly stirred milk into the tea.

'Not too much for me, Dad.'

'Hm?'

'Milk – not too much milk. I'm intolerant. Lactose.'

'Oh. Right.'

Edinburgh Mug - a true story

So I stop the van on Newington Road in an easy parking space.

Viv jumps out and so do I – I nip round the front of the van to the ticket mahine to buy a ticket.

“Hang on we can only stop an hour,” I say.

“Well that's not enough,” she says. “You don't want to have to find somewhere else in an hour. Let's find a better one now.”

“Oh ok.”

I nip round the back of the van to go back to the driver's side and just as I do I see a guy walking fast past the front of the van. What's more I remember I just heard a click like the van door being shut. But it's not shut properly and when I open it and start to get in I see my coat's been disturbed on the seat. It was neatly piled up and now it's spread all over.

I put two and two together and stick my hand in the inside pocket of my coat. It's gone. My wallet. It's not there.

Viv's still on the pavement starting to get into the van.

“Damn!” I say, “he's nicked it.”

“What? Who? What?” says Viv. She hasn't seen anything.

“My wallet.  That guy who just went past must've nicked.”

“Who!?”

“That guy,” he's just disappearing round the corner of the side street a little way down the road.

“Fuck!” says Viv. She gets back out of the van and starts to run down the road but she can't see him.

“Round the corner,” I say, indicating with my hand. Meanwhile I've started the van and am pulling out into the traffic.

I get to the corner.  It's no entry - a one-way street but I turn into it anyway.  Viv has already gone around and is a little way up. There's the guy just rushing off as I pull the van up again.

But it seems she's not pursuing and as I stop the van she holds out my wallet.

“Fuck!” I say.

She opens the passenger door and hands me the wallet. She's shaking. I'm shaking.

“Fuck!” she says.  "I'm shaking!"

“Fuck, I know right,” I say.  "Me too!"

“Check it's all there,” she says, like she's ready to go after him again if it's not.

I flick through. There's nothing missing.

“Was there money in it?” she says.

“No,” I say. “Fuck!”

“I came up and he was just there standing in the entrance here by that car. I wasn't sure it was him but he was just standing looking at something in his hands and I came up and stared at him and he just said 'Sorry, sorry, sorry!' and chucked it on the ground and ran off.

“Fuck,” I say, “Thank fuck for that!”

“He was more scared than I was.”

“You were amazing! Thank you! God I'm still shaking!”

“Me, too,” she says. “But... oh I don't know.”

“What?”

“I don't know... but I feel bad for him.... I want to give him a fiver.”

"What!?"

Then we sit in the van and work out how things could have gone so much worse!

Observations and Tips in relation to Nutrition during the later years.

Observation 1:

As age increases flexibility of joints decreases.

If joint pain is experienced, a daily supplement of fish oil is recommended.

This may be readily purchased in the form of capsules to avoid unpleasant, fishy flavours (although there is inevitably some aftertaste.)

Fish oil capsules should be taken once or twice a day with food and may also be found beneficial for the memory.

Observation 2:

The importance of a good breakfast cannot be stressed enough. It is the first meal of the day and should not be overlooked.

If working a shift pattern that requires you to start at an unearthly hour in the morning, it is recommended that a sugar-free, slow-release breakfast, such as muesli, is carried to work in a suitable container. This may then be consumed at the appropriate break during the shift. Both complex carbohydrates, such as oats and other grains, and proteins and ‘brown’ fats, such as those contained in nuts, are ideal foods for this purpose. Dried fruit in addition will allow a more instant energy release.

Tip 1:

Place sugar-free, slow-release muesli in a tub such as an empty ice-cream container, to take as mid-shift sustenance.

Tip 2:

Remember to take a fish oil capsule with you when you set off to work.

Place it in a safe place and somewhere where you will come across it easily when preparing to eat your breakfast. Remember fish oil capsules must be taken with food. (See Observation 1 above.)

For example...

Tip 3:

Place fish oil capsule in ice cream container also, so that it is readily available when the muesli is to be consumed.

Tip 4:

On cold mornings, at mid-shift break when ready to consume breakfast, place ice cream tub containing sugar-free, slow-release muesli and milk of your choice (cow, soya or nut) in the microwave (available in the staff kitchen) on low power for one minute to slightly warm contents.

Observation 3:

The flavour of sugar-free, slow-release muesli with milk of your choice (cow, soya or nut) is not improved by the addition of fish oil.

Tip 5:

Remember to REMOVE fish oil capsule from ice-cream container BEFORE placing in microwave.

Dictaphone

I couldn’t keep up with the lectures.

I wondered if a Dictaphone would help.

When I phoned home I said to Dad – Dad, I can’t keep up with the lectures. I think a Dictaphone would help.

He said, I’ve got an old Dictaphone I don’t use, would you like it?

I said, Oh wow! yes, of course, that would be great!

I’ll post it to you, he said.

A few days later it arrived in the post.  It was a small micro cassette Dictaphone with a small microcassette already in the cavity where the microcassettes fit.  There was a note in with the Dictaphone which simply read:  “Press Play. Dad”

I pressed play.

Dad’s voice came out of the tinny speaker.  He told this long rambling joke about a farmer who no longer liked the tractor he had bought for some reason or other and so he was an Ex Tractor Fan, or something.  It wasn’t a very good joke - you could tell what the punch line was going to be very early on. But it was good to hear Dad’s voice.  I listened to it several times.  I love you, he said at the end.

He died ten years later.  A sudden heart attack.  He was unbelievably out there in the blue, floating around with no warning.

A few weeks after the funeral, I moved flats in Hull. Packing boxes, I found the Dictaphone.  The microcassette was still in the cavity where the microcassettes go.  I remembered Dad’s Ex Tractor Fan joke.

The battery had leaked so I replaced it and pressed play but all I could find was a muffled lecture on Shakespeare and the Traditions of Comedy.