David Hadley's Blog, page 144

Going Mental

Well, you know… or perhaps you don’t…. I haven’t checked.

That is the problem with venturing into other people’s minds, you don’t know what you are going to find there - especially in the minds of those with… er… unusual interests…

...such as yours....

I know… I know everything….

Yes, even that….

There is no point you trying to deny it… as you were just about to.

Anyway, I can see how someone – especially someone like you – could find llamas attractive, although, not in that way, especially not with that purple lingerie, the wellies and the badminton racquet.

Especially considering what you intend to do to the llama with the badminton racquet: something that I know for a fact is illegal in several countries, especially those in South America where the llama is a revered animal.

As minds go though, yours is - I must admit – one of the more interesting I’ve read of late, even taking into account your interest – or, should I say, obsession – with lingerie-clad camelids.

Still, the wellies could turn out to be useful should you wish to pursue your interest in the erotic possibilities of a dalliance with a willing llama of your acquaintance should she get sudden cold hooves when she sees you in all your naked glory.

Cheese Amnesty

 

On the whole, though, it was more of a cheese-based inquiry than would otherwise be the case. After all, we all know about the increasing number of murders committed by wielders of some of the more obscure local cheeses, compared with the more usual supermarket cheddars and similar mass-produced dairy products.

The use of Stilton has long been recognised as a rather British form of regicide, with - of course – Richard of York’s final despairing cry of ‘My Kingdom for a Krackawheat’ when faced with the overwhelming number of Stilton rounds massed against him by Henry VI on the field at the battle of Wakefield.

Still, the use of Wensleydale by the Parliamentarian side to rid the country of Charles I is familiar, despite the poor quality of contemporary history teaching, to most school-age worker units, even though many of them will have little or no idea just what sort of computer game character a Wensleydale is and just when the Roundheads won X-Factor.

However, since the last cheese amnesty saw a record number of unlicensed wedges of Sage Derby handed in to police stations all across the country as well as some rather lethal Gorgonzola successfully defused by the Anti-Cheese Terrorism Squad in Bilston only last week, there are some encouraging signs that cheese-related mayhem may – at last – be on the wane since the successful capture by the Metropolitan Police of the leaders of one of the capital’s most notorious importers of illegal Brie.

Sunday Poem: A Trick of Light and Shade

A Trick of Light and Shade

The world is lost as we become anonymous
just some more blurred and faceless faces, the very edge
of yet another photograph. A mere disturbance

of light and chemicals that burns so easily
with only dust of our ashes left behind, all blown
and lost on the wind’s indifference. Or faded, sad

and left forgotten in the brittle yellowed pages
of just one more unopened photograph album
left hiding deep inside its jacket of dust and time

up high on a shelf where nobody will ever notice,
or hidden deep in a forgotten box left lost
in the furthest corner of the attic of

discarded memory and never once recalled,
or found again, as years all fall down one by one
to far too many decades of forgetfulness.

The Open Doors to the Folded Worlds

The door to her world opens and I slip through as she sleeps dreaming of a tumultuous war between the possible and the impossible that brings about a chance for her to escape this narrow world that holds her prisoner. As she sleeps, I move carefully towards her bed, lean over and whisper in her ear of all that could be once this broken world lets her go and she leaves her chains behind to follow me through the door into other possibilities.

Even though this world that holds her prisoner has nothing for her but servitude and tedium, still she does not rise from her dream to float with me towards the waiting door. Still she feels the weight of her world holding her down, holding her back. Even though she dreams of the stranger who comes to her every night to make promises about strange far worlds that she can only dream about, she still refuses to take his hand and let him lead her away.

She knows there is something wrong, she knows that all she ever hears from him are stories, promises that will never come true and she knows too, that once he has led her through that doorway he will leave her, lost and alone, in some far world of which she knows nothing, while he goes off searching through all the open doors to the folded worlds to find another sleeping woman, just to whisper his promises in her ear.

The One with the Trampoline

Still, it is not as though she gave us any choice. After all, she was the one with the trampoline. However, we did have the economy-sized vat of Multi-Purpose lubricating oil, so – after some rather fraught negotiations, including a long-term commitment to weeding the patio at an unspecified later date – a suitable compromise was reached. Unfortunately for the connoisseurs of such activity who habitually frequent such … er… places such as... whatever this is, she totally vetoed any use of the video camera at any time during the proceedings, up to and including the full immersion of her next-door neighbour and her rather impressive gravity-defying… er… personality.

Still, as weekend neighbourhood barbecues go, it was not the ordeal most of them become with the rather hectic use of the trampoline by some naked and heavily-lubricated (on the inside as well as the outside) attendees, making any conversation about house prices more than a little difficult, except - of course - for the gaggle of ladies over by the water feature who made disparaging comments about many of the gentlemen present who were doing their utmost despite the chill of the evening.

Unfortunately, by the end of the proceedings it seemed that most of the sausages were still left untouched on the barbecue… for some unexplained reason.

Wildlife and Charity

It is not that often, these days, that one gets accosted by a young lady or gentleman wishing to ascertain one's charitable relationship with the many socially-deprived writing implements, such as pencils. However, fascinating as the subject may appear, especially to the cognoscenti, that is not exclusively the subject of today's missive.

It would also help if you could avoid catching the eye of the bull walrus over there on the chaise lounge, as it is nearly his feeding time and the mackerel are still in the freezer – not that he cares too much about them being frozen, it seems they remind him of home, but he doesn't like being interrupted whilst watching Attenborough's latest opus, at least not until the credits roll.

That is – as I'm sure you know – one of the problems in setting up one's own house as a wildlife sanctuary, especially when there is the constant threat of a territorial battles over the airing cupboard by the leopard and the timber wolf and the way the penguins keep hogging the bathroom, much to the consternation of the guillemots nesting precariously on the top corner of the shower curtain rail.

However, all the problems do pale into insignificance on those awkward social occasions, for example when the aforesaid charity worker turns up on your doorstep, insisting that it is one's moral duty to provide financial support for all the unwanted pencils currently suffering hardship in sub-Saharan Africa. It is at such times that having the tiger take up residence in the hallway really proves its worth...

...apart from the bloodstains, of course.

An Evening's Entertainment

There we were, poised and ready. Although, pedants amongst you may question the use of the bowler hats by the ladies' team. However, those of us over here, next to the mantelpiece comprising the men's team did have the shin pads, so it was not as unusual as all that.

However, the Scrabble(tm) board itself was ready in the middle of the room, the referee was yet to signal the match could begin as some of the women were not yet fully-armed.

Some – according to recent media reports, yet to boil over into full-on media hysteria - have questioned the increasing violence in these get-togethers, especially the rioting that resulted recently in Guildford when a dinner party attempted to annexe next-door's patio, using a previously-purchased attack helicopter, and with supporting mortar fire from behind the garden shed.

There was also the case in Tewkesbury where the local chess club set up a twelve-mile exclusion zone around the church hall they used as a meeting place, setting up razor wire and guard towers to prevent an attack by the Evesham volunteer Bridge club paratroops who were attempting to – as they called it - 'liberate' the Chess club's tea urn and recipe for chocolate-chip cup cakes.

Still, at least, as the Prime Minister said in a recent TV interview, despite these problems, we have not returned to the dark days of the late 1970s when the country was ravaged and brought to the edge of collapse by the outbreak of the Bingo wars in the North-East. We do hope – as the PM – said that we do not see a return to those dark days, at least not in our lifetimes.

Of Monsters and Men

Of course, there are many ladies who often find themselves beguiled by such sights as a fully-kilted Scotsman tossing his caber while his sporran oscillates gently in the Highland breezes.

As is now well-known it was a certain Highland lass called Morag who was the first to see what latter became known as the Loch Ness Monster when when one of those strong Highland breezes temporarily displaced Craig McHaggiss's kilt as he bent over to take a firm grip on his caber. Morag later said she had devoted the rest of her long life to watching Scotsmen tossing their cabers, but never again did she ever see anything to match Craig McHaggiss's Loch Ness monster.

Far away too, in the frozen Himalayas, where one would think the climate would mitigate against such a phenomena, the ladies in that area have legends of the Yeti – often mistranslated as the abominable snowman, but a more accurate translation would be the very well-hung snowman. Often described by the wide-eyed woman as being much, much bigger than a normal human male, whilst adding wistful that it - far from being abominable – knows just how to treat a lady.

The more modest age that was the backdrop to the wider exploration of the American colonies too, meant that a certain man-beast found there was rather coyly referred to as Big-Foot, while the women in the know would wink at each other and add 'you know what they say about men with big feet' whist holding their hands a fair distance apart. They also described the beast as being 'very shaggy', without specifying just which meaning of shag they had in mind.

All in all then, there is far more to these more beast than man legends than some men are willing to admit, at least whilst the ladies are sitting there with those rather smug smiles on their faces.

Natural Exuberance

Even then it was not unknown for her to languidly drape herself across a piano in a state of almost complete undress. This of course, as it was an upright piano, did require a certain natural sense of balance, as well as some forethought as to the all-important placement of the elbows, especially amongst the plenitude of half-empty pint glasses that gathered upon that surface as the evening progressed.

However, it was a far more preferable way of disporting herself in such a crowded room than her earlier idea of bounding around the – rather-limited – dance floor fully-naked on a pogo-stick. Although connoisseurs of the pogo-stick did all agree that her natural exuberance did lend a certain quality to the proceedings which made it something of an eye-catching spectacle, sometimes even an eye-watering spectacle should you be caught unawares by one of her gyrating limbs as she reached heights that made the spectators look up in wonder at her dexterity, especially when she began playing the banjo at the same time.

However, unfortunately, her attempt to break the world record for eating tuna and mayonnaise sandwiches whilst riding a pogo-stick when naked, ended in severe disappointment when, on her twenty-seventh sandwich, disaster struck and her sandwich preparation teams back in the pits ran out of butter, forcing her to attempt a rather dry twenty-eighth sandwich, which despite the liberal application of mayonnaise, ended in catastrophe when a swarm of feral cats attracted by the pungency of the tuna attacked her and forced her to dismount the pogo-stick with some alacrity and seek sanctuary in the commentators' booth – which is when we first met.

Then, dear reader, I married her.

Free Kindle Novella: Have a Go

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Have a Go

Free for the next five days – here (UK) or here (US)

[Novella – 17, 500 words approx]

The day John Russell became a Have a Go Hero, for accidentally foiling an armed bank robbery, was the day his life changed forever, and all he’d wanted was a nice cup of tea.

Extract:

[…]

An hour or so after John had fallen asleep, the door opened slowly and quietly. Two figures, a woman and a man, crept into John’s room. Both were dressed in white coats with stethoscopes around their necks and both glanced back over their shoulders to check the corridor behind them as they crept into John’s room.

Once they were safely in the room, with the door shut, they both let out the breath they’d been holding, stood up straight and brushed down their white coats. They checked each other out and nodded their approval to one another as they tried to give the impression of professional confidence.

The woman tuned to the man, leaning close as she whispered. ‘If we do this right, it might just be my ticket back to the front page. Instead of wasting my time on this inside page filler stuff, I’ll be back where I belong – with all the celebrity scoops – real journalism.’ Still watching his face, she reached out towards the photographer’s crotch, watching carefully as his eyes widened in increasing pain and alarm as she squeezed. ‘So, don’t bugger this up for me - all right?’

The photographer shook his head frantically.

The reporter tilted her head and squeezed again, even harder. The photographer whimpered in pain again. Then – when he could open his eyes once more – he saw that the reporter regarded his head shaking as the wrong response.

He nodded frantically instead.

The reporter smiled at him. The photographer attempted a weak smile in return, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to rearrange his trousers.

The reporter let him go. ‘I’m so glad we understand each other,’ she said. ‘I think we might make a great team…. Come on, let’s get on with it.’

The reporter sidled up to John’s bed and coughed.

Nothing happened.

She coughed again. John began to stir. He opened one eye and looked up at her.

‘Hello… er… Mister… er….’ The journalist hastily grabbed John’s chart from the bottom of his bed. ‘Er… yes. Mr Russell. I’m doctor… doctor… Harumph and this is my associate, doctor… A-hem hem.’

John opened both eyes, turned on his light and made a feeble attempt to sit up. ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your… er…?’

‘Yes, well. I see from your chart that the… your… er….’

‘Temperature?’ The photographer offered.

‘Yes, thank you, Doctor a-hem hem…. It says here…’ She tapped the chart ‘that your FA over blood index pressure is verging on the acute. I’d better just….’

She began to mess about with John’s wrist, looking for - but failing to find - his pulse. ‘So… tell me Mr Russell, can I call you John? Tell me, John, how long have you been married?’

‘Eight years, but we were living together since we left university. Acute blood index pressure? Is that serious? It sounds serious.’

‘No, it’s just… er… routine. Tell me, was that woman, you were in the bank with, your wife?’

‘Debbie? No, she’s a friend. From school days, as it happens….’ John turned to look at her. ‘Anyway, what’s that got to do with my blood whatsit index thing?’

‘There are sound medical….’

‘Clinical!’ The photographer said, nudging the reporter.

The reporter glared at the photographer. ‘There are sound medi… clinical reasons for every question we ask you, Mr Russell. So, if you could just co-operate? It is in your own interest.’

‘Oh, yes. Right…. Sorry. But I was warned about some tabloid reporters prowling around.’

‘Really? How strange. Anyway, it… er… my colleague here would like to take a few photographs… of your… your injuries… for….’

‘For our records,’ the photographer interjected.

‘….For insurance company purposes.’ the journalist said, glaring at the photographer for interrupting her and making a squeezing motion with her hand. The photographer gulped and took a step away from her and began preparing his camera.

‘So… this… Debbie. Just how good friends are you?’ the reporter asked.

John stared at her. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your busin….’ He glanced from reporter to cameraman and back again. ‘Hang on, are you really doctors?’ John struggled to sit up and take a close look at the female doctor. ‘Hey, I thought you looked familiar. You were that reporter in that court case a few months ago – you broke into someone’s hospital room… some soap star! I saw you on the news!’ He fumbled for his alarm button and pressed it, while putting his other hand between him and the photographer, blocking the camera.

‘Come on, Suzy. Let’s go! We’ve been rumbled!’ the photographer said, turning to go.

The reporter and the photographer ran for the door.

Just before she left the room the journalist looked back at John, pointing her voice recorder towards him. ‘So, John… Mr Russell. How long have you been shagging this Debbie woman? Does your wife know?’

From the corridor outside, the photographer grabbed for the journalist’s arm, trying to pull her from the room. ‘Come on Suzy! Scarper! That nurse is coming and she’s armed!’

The journalist turned back and peered around the door. ‘Armed?’

‘Yes! She has a bedpan… and it looks like she’s going to use it!’

The journalist shrugged her arm free from the panicking journalist and turned towards John once more, shouting from the doorway. ‘So, John, how doe sit feel to be a Have a Go Hero?’

‘A what?’ John said wincing as his head throbbed in pain.

The reporter stared at John, about to ask the question again when a loud metallic clang came from outside the room.

‘Ow! Shit,’ the photographer yelled from the corridor. ‘Leave me alone! I’m going… I’m going.’

The reporter glanced around the room in panic. She ran to the window and forced it open, then jumped out.

There was a soft thud from outside and a long, low moan.

Nurse Lloyd strode into the room carrying a dented bedpan. She noticed the open window and smiled broadly. Laughing, she walked over to close it.

‘What’s so funny?’ John said. ‘I was having my privacy invaded.’

The nurse hung the clipboard back on the foot of John’s bed. ‘Just below this window is where they leave the bins full of stuff for the incinerator. She just landed in a bin full of used nappies from the children’s ward.’

John smiled in satisfaction as Nurse Lloyd straightened his pillow and sheets and helped him lie back down. ‘Somehow, that seems like an apt fate for a tabloid journalist,’ he said.

Nurse Lloyd nodded. ‘Anyway, settle down now. I’ve alerted security, so there should be no more interruptions or intrusions.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No trouble at all. Good night.’

‘Good night, and thank you, again.’

Nurse Lloyd picked up the battered bedpan and then turned down the light before leaving and closing the door behind her as John tried to get comfortable enough to go back to sleep.

[….]

Have a Go: A novella - by David Hadley:

Available here (UK) and here (US) for the Kindle FREE now, for the next five days.