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Thursday 28 January 2016

SHORT STORY - SHIRTS


SHIRTS


Kay walked into the kitchen and through to the utility room, as she did every morning, and looked in disbelief at the pile of ironing on the worktop.  “I don’t believe it,” she said to herself, growling with clenched teeth.  “What is it, Mum?” asked Kenny, her son, who had just appeared at the door.  “Oh, it’s nothing.  Actually, it’s very annoying.  I agreed with your Dad that as he gets up and potters about for an hour before going to work that he could iron a couple of his shirts each morning and that would ease the housework I have to do.  But he doesn’t do it.”  Kenny scratched his head: “It doesn’t sound like a big deal to me.”   Kay started to respond but stopped, thinking that any kind of long-winded explanation to a fourteen year old boy about ironing shirts was tantamount to discussing Chinese with the cat – pointless.  But to Kay it was a growing problem causing frustrations and, sometimes, angry exchanges between her and her husband.  Jim did not seem to understand how much a little help would mean to Kay, trying to juggle her role as housewife, whilst doing her part-time job at the bank.
“Look Kay, just chill out about the shirt thing.  I don’t have time,” said Jim when he came home from work.  Kay exploded.  “Chill out, chill out, how dare you say that to me as if I was a skivvy.”  Jim got up off the sofa and stormed out of the room, passing Kenny who was sitting on the stairs with his hands cupped under his chin.  He hated these arguments, but they had become a nightly ritual of shouting, banging doors, stomping feet and then long stretches of silence as his parents refused to speak to each other.
Kay and Jim still slept in the same bed but more often than not it was with their backs to each other.  The love was draining out of their marriage and all because of a few lousy shirts, thought Kay.  She spent most nights lying awake, thinking
about how on earth a relationship can be threatened by trivial things.  Was she making too much of the ironing thing?  Should she back off ?  Shouldn’t she just be content with her life?  She weighed up the pros and cons.  She had to find a way through this silly episode.
One morning, Kay walked downstairs and proceeded to follow her normal kitchen and utility room routine.  She stopped in her tracks when she saw two piles of beautifully ironed and folded piles of shirts on the worktop.  On one of the piles was a note with an X and a raggedy-drawn smiley face.  Kay let out a laugh.  She saw what she saw but she couldn’t believe it. 
Kay played it cool when Jim came home from work.  She didn’t mention the ironed shirts directly but she did give him a lingering hug.  “What’s that for?” he asked.  “Hugging my husband does not need a reason, does it?”  Kay smiled at him.  Jim sniffed the air.  “Hmmm, shepherd’s pie, my all-time favourite.”
Kay, Jim and Kenny all ate together and the conversation was good with everyone talking and behaving like a very happy family.  Kenny looked a little tired, but his Mum put that down to his football activities after school. Kay had the best night’s sleep ever, after thinking about the turning point in what was fast becoming a rough, potentially fatal patch in their marriage.  She should have shown more gratitude about the shirts, she thought, but things seemed to be more relaxed and, anyway, Jim hated fuss.  She was glad they fell asleep facing each other.
In the days that followed, it was like courting  again with flowers, chocolates, meals in nice restaurants, a visit to the cinema, and even shopping together in the same precinct at the same time, with Jim waiting patiently in clothes stores as Kay tried on several outfits.  There were more kisses and cuddles than there had been in months.  Kay was amazed at the change in their lives.  Her colleagues at the bank remarked that she seemed much less drawn and much livelier.  Kay explained that she had learned a valuable lesson in the past week, that trivial things can wreck lives, and that life is too short to argue about shirts.
About a week later, Kay woke up to find a single red rose on Jim’s pillow, with a note saying “I love you”.  He had left for work as usual but these little tokens of appreciation were becoming a feature of their refreshed marriage.  She would find notes on the fridge door, in her underwear drawer and in the latest novel she was reading.  Jim was a changed man, and she loved it.  She walked into the kitchen and was alerted by noise in the utility room.  She went through and saw Kenny folding down the ironing board.  Behind him on the worktop were two neat piles of Jim’s shirts.  “Oh, Mum,” said a startled Kenny.  Kay looked at him, then at the shirts, at the ironing board and then back to Kenny.  “What’s going on?”  Kenny rested the ironing board against the wall and said: “I was a bit late getting up this morning.  I thought I’d have had this lot done before you got up.”  Kay’s jaw dropped.  “You mean, you’ve been ironing the shirts.”  Kenny looked a little sheepish as he nodded.  Kay could feel herself getting angry.  She had been duped.  All this time, she had assumed that Jim had changed his spots and was helping out with the ironing chores.  Kenny could see his mother getting upset.  “Look Mum, I had to do something to stop you two arguing about stuff like this.  It is so upsetting.  I even thought about leaving home to get away from it all.”  Kay let out a gasp and walked over to hug Kenny.  For a few moments they held each other, with Kay saying sorry several times.
When Jim got home from work, Kay had a casserole in the oven, some chilled wine and a bowl of pistachio nuts.  “Let’s sit in the conservatory until dinner is ready,” she said.  “But before we do, let’s raise a glass to our wonderful son for being, well, our wonderful son.”  Jim looked a little perplexed, but clinked his glass against Kay’s and played along with the nice sentiment.
In the conservatory, Jim was working through a handful of nuts as he talked about his day.  “By the way,” he said, “not to make a mountain out of a molehill, but I did notice that my shirt cuff today was very wrinkled.  You must have missed it when you did the ironing.”  Kay held an expressionless face and thought that just over a week ago she could have stabbed him for a comment like that but in her more relaxed outlook on life and knowing what she knew about Kenny’s contribution to the improvement in their lives, she muttered “hmmm” and left it at that.  No point in getting shirty, she thought.


Wednesday 27 January 2016

NEWS SWITCH-OFF: TRIGGER WORDS/PHRASES

Once upon a time I was a news junkie. I couldn't get enough of current affairs and I had a high interest in what was going on in the world. I felt that knowledge of global events was essential in understanding my place on planet Earth. I watched as much news on television as I could, listened to radio bulletins, devoured several newspapers a day and became absorbed in discussion programmes like BBC's Question Time. I loved it all.

But in recent years, and I can't really put my finger one one specific reason, I recoiled from news programmes and tended to skim the headlines to catch the bare minimum to keep me in touch with what was going on. I watched big news stories as they happened up until the point where repetition and commentator blether wore me down. I was suffering from news fatigue.


So, this week on the blog, I will be mentioning trigger words and phrases that force me to switch off the news and avoid buying newspapers. But, no fool me, I will not fall into the trap of assuming that we live in a world of free speech. There will be a lot of asterisks because a word or phrase can attract all kinds of antisocial media shit and it will be up to anyone who gives a damn to guess what those words and phrases are - without any help from me.

TODAY'S TRIGGER WORDS & PHRASES:

1) NHS

2) ****

3) Iain Duncan Smith

4) ********

5) Peter Andre

6) *** *********

7) Katie Hopkins

8) *******

9) Jamie Oliver

10) Any former army general or long-retired politician

Tuesday 26 January 2016

NEWS SWITCH-OFF: TRIGGER WORDS/PHRASES

Extracts from yesterday's blog post......

Once upon a time I was a news junkie. I couldn't get enough of current affairs and I had a high interest in what was going on in the world. I felt that knowledge of global events was essential in understanding my place on planet Earth. I watched as much news on television as I could, listened to radio bulletins, devoured several newspapers a day and became absorbed in discussion programmes like BBC's Question Time. I loved it all.

But in recent years, and I can't really put my finger one one specific reason, I recoiled from news programmes and tended to skim the headlines to catch the bare minimum to keep me in touch with what was going on. I watched big news stories as they happened up until the point where repetition and commentator blether wore me down. I was suffering from news fatigue.


So, this week on the blog, I will be mentioning trigger words and phrases that force me to switch off the news and avoid buying newspapers. But, no fool me, I will not fall into the trap of assuming that we live in a world of free speech. There will be a lot of asterisks because a word or phrase can attract all kinds of antisocial media shit and it will be up to anyone who gives a damn to guess what those words and phrases are - without any help from me.

TODAY'S TRIGGER WORDS & PHRASES:

1) Robert Peston

2) Huw Edwards

3) *******

4) ***********

5) ****

6) Austerity

7) Jeremy Hunt

8) Sugar

9) ****** *******

10) *******



Monday 25 January 2016

ONCE UPON A TIME I WAS A NEWS JUNKIE.....

Once upon a time I was a news junkie. I couldn't get enough of current affairs and I had a high interest in what was going on in the world. I felt that knowledge of global events was essential in understanding my place on planet Earth. I watched as much news on television as I could, listened to radio bulletins, devoured several newspapers a day and became absorbed in discussion programmes like BBC's Question Time. I loved it all.

But in recent years, and I can't really put my finger one one specific reason, I recoiled from news programmes and tended to skim the headlines to catch the bare minimum to keep me in touch with what was going on. I watched big news stories as they happened up until the point where repetition and commentator blether wore me down. I was suffering from news fatigue.

Perhaps my current negative feelings towards news presentation and analysis is to do with rolling bulletins on TV, avalanches of words in print dissecting every story, pugilistic radio phone-ins, fisticuff interviews and a tendency to overfeed viewers, listeners and readers with reports that are designed in some cases to create anguish, fear, adversity, distress, malaise and other afflictions in a bid to suck us in to becoming the kind of cowering sub-species that I mentioned at the beginning - news junkies. There may be a deliberate motive to brainwashing us into becoming lab rats manipulated into thinking and behaving in ways that suit whoever is driving the news bus.

It is a well-proven technique to push people to the edge and then grab hold of them with some kind of reassurance before they tip over into the abyss. The 'and finally' fun story at the end of a stressful news programme is supposed to tell us "there, there, everything will be alright". We are puppets, our strings are being pulled by agenda setters who decide what will be the "important" stories of each day.

We watch recorded reports on television and then watch the same reporter being interviewed live by the studio presenter, allowing us to hear the same stuff twice, just in case we are too moronic to pick the gist up from the original film.  Sometimes viewers, listeners and readers can be summed up in one word - saps.

What makes us buy, believe and even vote the way we do? Who is manipulating and influencing the patterns of our daily lives? Who is probing our desires, needs and drives to find our points of vulnerability? Who is channeling our behaviour as citizens and adjusting our state of mind? Who is marketing the news and messing with our heads?

Politics, media and business merchandise their products to persuade us to make decisions in support of manifestos, agendas and plans. If, as a news junkie, I swamp myself with the cocktail of facts and opinions offered, I will soon hear the sound of the liquification of my cerebral cortex. If I choose to avoid detailed news coverage, I have a fighting chance that I will free myself up to think more independently and intelligently. In that scenario I could be accused of not caring about some of the terrible things that are happening in the world. Accuse away. It is not compulsory to follow the news and, for the time being, I choose not to. Whether or not I care about events is my business.

Every now and then I try to engage in news coverage but on hearing certain references, I reach for the off button.

So, this week on the blog, I will be mentioning trigger words and phrases that force me to switch off the news and avoid buying newspapers. But, no fool me, I will not fall into the trap of assuming that we live in a world of free speech. There will be a lot of asterisks because a word or phrase can attract all kinds of antisocial media shit and it will be up to anyone who gives a damn to guess what those words and phrases are - without any help from me.

First words and phrases tomorrow........


Saturday 23 January 2016

A POEM FOR BURNS NIGHT (25 JANUARY, 2016)

'Twas the month after Christmas and all through the house
,
Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.
The cookies I'd nibbled, the chocolate I'd taste, 
All the festive parties had gone to my waist.
When I got on the scales and saw my new weight
,
I began to regret the amounts on my plate.
I'd remember the marvellous meals we’d prepared,
The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,
The wine and the turkey, the bread and the cheese

And the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."
So - away with the last of the sour cream dip,

Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip,
Every last bit of food that I like must be banished
,
'Til all the additional ounces have vanished.
I won't have the shortbread - not even a lick,
I'll want only to chew on a celery stick.
I won't have hot pancakes, potato bread, or pie,
I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.
I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore - 

But isn't that what January is for?
Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.
I say cheers to you all on your New Year diet.

But before all the calorie counting begins,
There is one last good meal to eat for our sins.
To have you all here is a joy and delight
As we celebrate Burns and eat haggis tonight.

Friday 22 January 2016

BEFORE AMNESIA - DAY 5 OF RANDOM MEMORIES

Day 5 of Before Amnesia - random memories (and the last batch for a while) -

I remember seeing The Three Tenors in concert at Wembley. Placido Domingo was magnificent, Luciano Pavarotti was great and Jose Carreras was okay. Pavarotti like to wave his hankie.

I remember reading Seamus Heaney’s “Seeing Things” book and loving the one about the monks of Clonmacnoise and the crewman who climbed back on a rope out of an oratory up to his ship in the air, “out of the marvellous as he had known it.” I think I know what he meant.

I remember going to see Al Stewart in concert, excited to hear him sing my all-time favourite single Year of the Cat, only to be disappointed when he invited a girl from the audience to sing it with him. I felt horribly short-changed.

I remember passing my driving test in Berkhamsted, Hertfordshire at the third attempt.

I remember too many bad machine coffees.

I remember working in the Yorkshire Dales on the Duke of Devonshire’s estate. One day, as I drove along, a young deer jumped a wall, head-butted the side of my car, wobbled across the road, jumped another wall and sprinted up a hill, leaving the scene of the accident. There was only a trace of a dent.

I remember talking to a man who told me that he never bought dog food. He cooked roadkill instead.

I remember achieving a BA (Hons) degree in social sciences from the Open University, thereby filling an annoying (to me) gap in my education. 

I remember hearing the news that my friend and former flatmate, Paul, had died. He was forty. It is one of the saddest days of my life.

I remember seeing my poems in print for the first time. God, that felt good.

I remember Bill Clinton becoming President of the United States and thinking that he was a good guy. He had charisma and could make a damn good speech.

I remember seeing one of The Chuckle Brothers in a shop and thought he looked miserable. It was his day off, I suppose.

I remember the day of Princess Diana’s funeral and dealing with an angry customer who had driven her new car over a McDonald’s milkshake carton in the car park. The strawberry gunge had splashed onto one of her tyres. The words coming out of my mouth and the words in my head didn’t match.

I remember Smash powdered potato with an ugh.

I remember singing Okie From Muskogee at parties.

I remember when libraries were quiet.

I remember banging our old TV with a shoe to sort out picture problems.

I remember being amazed by our new electric carving knife.

I remember James Garner as Bret Maverick, cool as cool could be, always quoting his father: “My old Pappy used to say…..” Later, he became even cooler as Jim Rockford.

I remember Paris buns and snowballs. No contest. Snowballs won every time.

I remember getting halfway down a stick of rock thinking this has turned from a treat to torture.

I remember Creamola Foam (“foams and fizzes, fizzes and foams”) when crystals and water combined to produce a chemical reaction worthy of a mad scientist.

I remember cutting a raw potato in half, carving out designs in the flesh, dabbing the spuds in paint and creating sheets of patterns in art lessons.

I remember we had grass-throwing fights after the council mower man had cut the field next to our house.

I remember swallowing chewing gum (Beech Nut?) when I was a kid and worrying for hours if I would die.

I remember Mr Rooney trudging down the back gardens from his house to ours carrying a huge bundle of rhubarb, red stalks and enormous green leaves.

I remember believing stories about banshees in Smicker’s field, not far from where we lived.
Sometimes howling winds were not howling winds.

I remember when The Popular (The Pop) shop first opened across the road, Mr McErlean gave out ten bob notes to the first handful of shoppers. I think he more than hinted that the money should be spent in the shop. No fool he!

I remember loving “thrupney” bits and sixpences, once my favourite coins.

I remember Michael Holliday singing The Runaway Train and the censored word that was replaced by a drumbeat: “The fireman said he rang the bell, the engineer said "You did like h***!" Innocent days.

I remember what a great shot Richard Greene was as he hit the centre of the tree trunk every time at the start of Robin Hood on TV, and always with a twangy shudder sound effect.

I remember Miss Adrienne in TV’s Romper Room and her Do Bee and Don’t Bee advice for us youngsters.

I remember a boiled egg, beaten with butter and served in a cup.

I remember a bunch of shamrock on my lapel or jumper on St. Patrick’s Day.

I remember when you bought Daz washing powder you got a free plastic daffodil.

I remember winning two singles in a Spotlight magazine competition – Tears of A Clown, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles and Give Me Just a Little More Time, The Chairmen of the Board.

I remember getting a few guest columns published in the old Sunday News, Belfast under the pseudonym Gerard Patrick. There was one about airport taxi drivers and another about graffiti.

I remember people who didn’t want to say “fuck” settling for “frig”, a halfway curse.

I remember my happy, wee Granda wallpapering our house. I think I stirred the paste bucket a few times but big sister Mary was his most enthusiastic helper.

I remember The Weekly News had a column called “Wee Stories from The Police Courts”.

I remember champ with plenty of butter.

I remember digging in to the cornflakes box to find the wee toy before anybody else.

I remember short-sighted kids wearing round National Health glasses, pink for girls and blue for boys.

I remember first books featuring Dick and Dora, Nip the dog and Fluff the cat. The latter sound like cruelty crimes now.

I remember proper barbers before hairdressers and stylists were invented.

I remember Reginald Bosanquet reading the news.

I remember Spangles and Fruit Polos.

I remember W. D. Flackes doing political news on TV and counting how many times he licked his lips during a report.

I remember loving the humour of John Pepper, Billy Simpson and Rowel Friers in the Belfast Telegraph.

I remember playing outside until it was dark and not worrying about anything.

I remember liking chasies but not liking skipping.

I remember a warm balaclava in the winter before they were hijacked by, you know, them ‘uns.

I remember the words of singer/songwriter Harry Chapin: ‘Sometimes words can serve me well and sometimes words can go to hell…..’


I remember lots of things but I wonder if how much I remember outweighs how much I have forgotten.