David Hadley's Blog, page 136

When Time Turned

[image error]

Then time turned. We were not expecting it. People expect one thing to follow another as they always have done. When they don’t, we are thrown into confusion and uncertainty.

She should have walked away, left me there, and gone back to the old life that was waiting for her.

She had family: husband and children and all the entangled relationships that entails; a web of responsibility that flowed from her, but also entangled her in its sticky bonds. It was that web she’d untangled herself from when she fell into my arms at that party.

I left the hall, the disco playing songs that I’d never heard of, feeling really drunk for the first time in my young life. ‘Sixteen is old enough for your first pint,’ my father had said, not knowing – or, at least, not admitting he knew – I’d been drinking in pubs for several months before that. Back in those days, it was up to the landlord to decide if he liked the look of you, not some law made by distant politicians, which decided these things. Consequently, there was hardly any of the binge drinking mayhem that my kids have to wade through these days if they want to go anywhere for an evening out.

Anyway, that first pint was not the last one that night.

She was outside, having a secret smoke – everyone thought she’d quit – not that it was a big deal in those days, everyone – more or less – smoked, even us kids. Deidre and her husband, Sam, had been friends with my parents for as long as I could remember, and going back long before I was born. She had been ‘Auntie Deidre’ up until I decided in a typically childish manner that as she was not a real auntie, not any relation at all, I was too old for such affectations.

Lately, though, I’d noticed a change in her manner towards me. She stood close, insisted on kissing me when ever we met and – on a couple of occasions at parties and so forth - she’d made a point of sitting on my lap… and she knew exactly where to sit, turning to smile at me in a rather knowing way as she ‘just making myself comfortable’ squirmed into my already keenly-stiffening erection.

She saw me coming and glanced down at the cigarette in her hand, its end bright with her lipstick. ‘It’s a fair cop,’ she said when she saw the look on my face.

I shrugged and she handed me the cigarette. I took a drag.

‘You look so much like your dad did when he was your age. I fancied him so much.’ She tottered forward and stumbled against me, obviously drunker than I was. I made to hand her the cigarette back, and then – somehow – we were kissing… and that was how it began.

It didn’t end until much later, but that and all that lay between that first kiss and that much later was another story.

Social Media and Conformity

[image error]

Well, we all knew. Even though most of us pretended not to notice the way she would always appear with the smoked mackerel fillets on, or about, her person at just the right time.

Of course, even in these days of upfront attitudes where even the slightest digression from the mores of what is regarded as politically correct is to call down the wrath of all forms of social media upon ourselves, she was not one to ever consider hiding her predilection for smoked mackerel behind some more socially-acceptable and fashionable attitude such as having no truck with bigots who would deny people the right to choose their own footwear, or support some football team that has no international stars on its books and a complete lack of merchandising deals with top brand names.

Of course, back in earlier times having some mackerel fillets to call your own was regarded as the sign of a gentleman and/or woman of good breeding. For example, it was regarded as the height of bad manners to be seen out strolling down the promenade of a Victorian seaside resort without having one's valet nearby ceremoniously disporting a brace of mackerel fillets on a silver platter. Nor would any gentleman ever consider attempting to engage a lady of the night in a pecuniary transaction in return for her negotiable virtue without first offering her a bowler hat full of herring before attempting to complete the transaction.

No person of good breeding would even venture into the vicinity of royalty – especially Queen Victoria herself – without a hat-box filled to the very brim with kippers, unless he wished to be dispatched without further ado to the far-flung corners of the Empire to sever out the remaining years of his life in shame at falling into such disrepute.

But, today, even the finest establishments will look upon you askance should you venture through their portals with so much as a plaice or Dover sole. Such is how times have changed and – some would say – not for the better.

War of the Worlds

[image error]

This was the problem. This was the reason why we were all huddled together, hiding as the rampaging hordes ravaged our once so fine... quite good... actually rather mediocre land. Once we would have stood and fought, once we were mighty warriors prepared to fight and die to keep this land ours, now though there was the promise of something quite good on the telly later and the weather forecast had predicted rain.

On the whole, then, we thought it much better to stay indoors for a while.

After all, what is a mere invasion?

The Romans, the Vikings, the Normans, after a while they all settled down for a nice quiet night in, rather than all that rapine and pillage that tends to put people's backs up and create a fair few unpleasant looks in the Post Office queue.

Beyond that too, the aliens did seem rather nice – once you got use to the tentacles – and - when you think about it – how much actual difference is there between a firm handshake and an in-depth anal probing?

Mere cultural differences, that's all.

After all, if the Royal family can marry off a spare prince to... well, what we are told is an alien princess - albeit with a rather more scaly spine-ridge than some of his previous girlfriends - if the tabloids are to be believed - then why should we be too concerned?

Of course, there are some who say the Royal Family are already intergalactic all-conquering space-lizards, which – if true – just means that there will be less chance of a punch-up at the wedding reception than is usually the case at weddings in this country. This means, all in all and on the whole, that maybe this alien invasion will not turn out so bad after all.

Not only that, if the rumour that the aliens feed on intelligent humanoid brains does turn out to be true, they'll all be dying of malnutrition in a couple of months anyway.

The Art Collector

[image error]

Of all the worlds I slip through to find new art works for my collection, this one: the one they call Earth, has produced some of the more interesting pieces.

Often, when I walk through my halls, alone or with guests there to admire my collection, I am struck by how these primitive cultures seem to be able to capture so much… vitality, seem far more alive, then we who like to believe we are civilised.

Still, as the centuries slip by, and I get older, Earth too has changed, even started to move towards some sense, some idea, of what it would be like to leave the primitive behind.

This… maturing… of the Earth planet has meant a change in the kind of pieces I now gather for my collection. As the planet Earth stumbles – often blindly – away from the primitive, there has come a certain new quality in the pieces I collect.

My latest piece, who was called Jacqueline Bennett when she lived on the Earth, seems to have some extra quality about her, compared to, say, a piece I collected about a millennium before, back when the art works hardly had names at all, just sounds the tribe gave to tell one another apart.

The newer pieces have something about them, though, that means they are not without charm or even beauty. They are more self-conscious, more aware of themselves as works of art; I think that could be the difference. They take much more care of their bodies these days. The groom and clean and exercise themselves, so for those of us with the fine aesthetic sense to appreciate them as the works of art they – so obviously – aspire to be, they have become quite impressive works. Consequently, so many people come to examine and appreciate my collection that I feel the hunting down and capture of these pieces is more than worthwhile, and - even at my advanced age – I still think there are more out there left to collect.

Tennis Made Interesting

[image error]

Well, it was not that she’d ever doubted her prowess with the tennis racquet at all… ever. It was more of a matter of taking her to one side and explaining to her – with the aid of a brace of hastily-drawn diagrams – that she was not using the aforementioned item of sporting equipment as originally intended by the manufacturer and certainly not abiding by the rules of the Lawn Tennis Association, even though her opponents, in the matches they took part in, never seemed to complain - even after she’d untied them and removed the gag. If anything, they all seemed rather refreshed and re-invigorated by the whole experience.

This does – to what remains of my mind – go someway towards proving what I’ve always held to be true – that there are more ways of buttering a marsupial than are dreamed of in your philosophy Horatio, and therefore I would humbly suggest that you do not – in future – attempt to instruct me in the correct uses for a banjo and a well-greased wallaby.

After all, no-one else in the Post Office queue had the temerity to complain, or to question why the wallaby was dressed in clerical vestments so early on a weekend morning.

As for asking why I hid her tennis racquet in the alley behind the hardware shop… well, I have my reasons.

Getting your Goat

[image error]

Well, there you go… or maybe you don’t….

After all, I am not privy to your travel arrangements… and I – for one – firmly believe that what you do when you get there is entirely your own business and providing the goat doesn’t complain, what business is it of anyone else’s… apart from the various goat welfare charities, of course?

Still, I suppose – in this day and age – it is always nice to have a hobby to take one away from the stresses and strains of our ordinary tedious daily grind.

Although, I’m not sure the goat would agree….

However, and I feel this is a rather salient point, if it wasn’t for your… er… shall we say ‘romantic attachment’ then the goat would not be where she is today and would, no doubt, be stuck outside in some isolated field somewhere in all weathers, rather than residing in comfort and luxury in a penthouse suite at one of the capital’s most exclusive hotels. But then, as the official ruminant consort of one of the richest, most influential and litigious of this country’s cadre of super-wealthy oligarchs, it is the only truly fitting place of residence for her.

And – as I said – even before your team of top lawyers arrived, bearing writs – it is all entirely your own business and no concern of anyone else’s what you and your special goat do with and to each other.

Cooking up a Storm

It was, as many media commentators subsequently attested, all rather splendid. Although, there was some carping later about the amount of vegetables, especially the leeks, damaged and wasted during the proceedings, most of us involved in the event were more than satisfied, despite the higher than usual incidence of later-reported bad backs, or the tendency to snigger whenever anyone brought a parsnip into the near vicinity of any of us during the following few days.

Still, it brought a smile to her face and that is always good.

Unless... of course, it is one of her dangerous smiles.

In which case it is best to be in – at least – distant foreign climes until her storms pass.

Anyway, the incident itself was not all that unusual, despite having to don the storm-proof coats and sou'westers as well as the more traditional wellies. Some of us further back in the queue as well as those in the audience had to hang on to the rigging for a while during some of her more tempestuous moments, especially during some of the more frantic activity with the wooden spoon and the loss of two serving wenches in the maelstrom.

Still, though, as she always says, once satiated, there is nothing better than home-made soup.

The World's Greatest Crime-Fighting Superhero

[image error]

So, even though you keep your helicopter in the darkest corner of your tool-shed and feel it only the cabbage of the gods as a light pre-flight supper, you are not quite that civic-minded as your assumed and self-proclaimed super-hero status would suggest: is it… Staying-in-to-Watch-the-Telly Man?

It may be one of the finest superhero costumes ever to grace this world but not many would know that, would they, Staying-in-to-Watch-the-Telly Man?

After all, you costume itself is in pristine condition, except for a few takeaway stains and some shiny worn patches from where you have been sitting, assiduously watching the telly in it. As for your artificially-intelligent crime fighting helicopter, it still sits forlornly in the back of your tool-shed, nibbling on its cabbage storks and dreaming its cyborg dreams of fighting crime, if only... if only... there wasn't something good on the telly tonight… yet again.

However, though, the streets tonight will be safe, clear and deserted of all the criminal elements, who once stalked those very streets to bring fear, disaster and mayhem to the ordinary people of the great metropolis, because all the criminals now live in mortal fear of Staying-in-to-Watch-the-Telly Man, his fearsome crime-fighting abilities and his deadly, cabbage-eating, robot helicopter. So, instead of rampaging through the city on a crime-spree, the criminals of that great heaving metropolis now all stay in and watch the telly instead.

Holiday of a Lifetime

There were some things about it that didn’t seem right. It did look like a normal hotel; that was true. But there were some odd things. At first, it just seemed as odd as any new place we’d never been before. But rather than fading away back to the normal, the ordinary, things started getting stranger.

The hotel itself was old. It was a coaching inn, dating back to about the 1700s. It was the typical white and black of the era with exposed beams in the roofs, heavy wooden panels on the walls and uneven floors and ceilings that undulated as though caught as a frozen sea.

The inn itself was in one of those small out of the way villages that find themselves – through happenstance and the vagaries of landscape - as a place people will go for holidays.

Now Cathy and I were older, without a herd of screaming children in tow, we no longer had to make the annual pilgrimage to the seashore. Cathy has never been that fond of flying – not since that summer of 1978 anyway, for what I suppose are obvious enough reasons. She says still has occasional nightmares about the flaming plane skidding along the runway in the dark and the rain.

Anyway, I think I first noticed something was not right about the hotel when we were ambling back to our room from a rather pleasant - and very filling - long dinner on the first evening. There were pictures along the wall, climbing up the wall alongside the rickety and creaky staircase. Some were drawings and paintings, as well as some from seemingly all stages of the history of photography.

What struck me, though, were the faces of many of those who stood in awkward poses outside the hotel for the formal photographs, and those caught by the painter or sketch artists. Many of those people in the pictures looked the same in each picture, not just as in a family likeness, but the same as though someone had inserted themselves into the historical pieces at a later date. It reminded me of something: some film, or book where someone had done something of that nature, inserting themselves into old photographs of significant events for some reason I was not sure of.

Then, as I noticed this, I also noticed that the stairs and the corridors of the hotel seemed to shift and alter with staircases not ended where you’d expect and corridors leading away from where you wanted to go, instead of towards it. I put all this confusion down to it being a strange place and the unfamiliar wine - and other alcohol - with the meal.

But, as I said, these confusions did not ease as the holiday progressed, they became worse – then it stopped being a holiday altogether and became something very different.

Asking Your Opinion

It was not quite the new dawn of all our hopes, more along the lines of yet another dull drizzly start to one more day of the daily grind, with the remote possibility of a brief escape up the steepening slopes of tedium towards the summit of the mundane where all the dreary landscape of an ordinary grey life would be spread out at our feet for several yards until it too was subsumed into the murky mists of mediocrity that wrapped around us like suffocating blankets.

On the whole though, we thought, it could be worse.

Then came the sound of ominous thunder through the gloom, a dread sound like thousands of takeaway menus falling through the letterbox at once. Not quite as terrifying as the prospect of a local by-election achieving national significance, but still a time to be wary of stepping out of the door, lest we be accosted by those who haunt the streets, lanes and byways of this drear land searching – mostly in vain – for that most holy of holies in our nation's slow struggle through the sloughs of despond.

Soon the streets and market places were full of rumours and quick talk, strangers regarded with suspicion and fear. Everyone went about their business as quickly as they could and hurried home to huddle in fear at the sound of footsteps on the garden path and the doom-laden tolling of the doorbell.

Those made of sterner stuff huddled together, pretending to be out, even going as far as turning the TV off, or - for those less brave - muting it for a while, until the intruder gave up and turned away, searching for more victims.

Some, though, would overcoming their fear and clutching their most holy TV schedules to their hearts to ward off the evil would with trembling fingers and thumping hearts open their doors, only to be confronted by that horror of horrors:

'Hello, I represent a company that would like your opinion on several current topics of interest.'

Some of us – even now – still awake in the heart of the night hearing those screams that once echoed all around us until the dread beasts slaked their thirst for opinion and moved on, no doubt in search of some new unsullied place where fresh unexpressed opinions awaited, ready to be plucked from innocent minds.