David Hadley's Blog, page 146

Take it like a Man

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Well, it is not always that clear who is to blame, but then once you marry her it becomes quite clear that it is all your fault – whatever it is.

This is quite logical really, quite sensible and goes a long way towards why philosophers have often been single men and – consequently – never realised that it is their fault that the world is contracted thus.

However, if you are wise you never mention these things again and just accept the fact that this is the way the world is, because if it wasn’t then that too would – somehow – be your fault as well and there would be nothing you could do about that either.

Hence the old expression: take it like a man.

Because that is what you are and it is – therefore – your fault and you have no alternative but to take it, or at least leave it at the back of the shed and hope she doesn’t – on her infrequent forays hence – notice that you have not done whatever it was that you promised you would do with the item that has suddenly become evil in her sight and therefore needs to be cast out to the dankest, darkest regions of the local tip – or recycling point, as those with bright official tabards now insist upon calling it.

Still, anything for a quiet life, that’s what I always say… only not when she is within earshot.

Monday Poem: Symmetry

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Symmetry

The placement of these things
is quite significant and precise:
a measure from here to there.

A feeling of exact symmetry,
as though this becomes
a balance, a fulcrum of forces

invisible but still quite tangible
going about their own purposes
for which we are merely instruments

and not actors in our own right.
We have rites but no rights,
we have hope of influence.

But our puny limitations
and tentative responses
are no match for the forces

that can unleash so many
unendurable horrors down
upon our unprotected heads.

Outside Her world

Within the enclosing moments, she turned and became, changing from the slow tentative writhings as though possessed by some need beyond what this ordinary world contains. She whispered my name as though it was some incantation to a new god she had discovered. Holding my head in the palms of her hands, her body writhed up to meet my kissing lips.

I could be that god, I thought in those few seconds I paused to let her press her need against my outstretched tongue. I have the power to twist her life away from the ordinary; to make her writhe and undulate in this desperate need to be taken to that world far beyond the ordinariness of this room in this tired world.

I could take her there, use my body: my tongue, my lips, my hands, my cock, to take her there, transport her beyond the edges of this world, but I was not a god, not omnipotent, not omnipresent.

I could take her there, but I would stay here on the edge, in the doorway; on the outside, denied entrance to that world of wonder that she came in while I stayed here, on the outside… only watching as she took hold of that world in her clenching hands and wrapped her legs tight around it as she made it her own.

Needing a Good Home

Well, it happens… I suppose….

But I don’t know, really, how it happened.

It wasn’t anything I really expected, not even in some of my more… er… imaginative dreams, and I do tend to have some odd dreams. My dreams are so odd I’ve stopped telling other people about them. There were too many times when, if they didn’t quite back away suddenly remembering an urgent appointment elsewhere, I have seen that look come into people’s eyes as I tell them just what the penguin was doing with the pogo-stick and why the vicar was fleeing in panic, his vestments on fire.

Anyway, as I said… not even in my wildest of dreams….

Although, it is a national symbol and all that. There is a red one on the national flag, after all.

But, I’m not even Welsh though.

The old man, white beard, wild wind-swept hair, who came over the brow of the hill as I sat cradling the cold, trembling, mite in my arms, did tell me though that when one of them adopts a human, you are theirs, and it is yours, for as long as you both live.

‘It is…’ he said, staring off towards where the horizon would be if it wasn’t in Wales and therefore shrouded in mist and rain. ‘… a pact that cannot be broken.’

Just then the baby dragon I was holding looked up at me, with its eyes the amber of deep flame, coughed up a tar ball and set fire to my sleeve.

The white-bearded old man looked down at the tiny dragon in my arms and smiled. ‘You’ll get used to that,’ he said. ‘I’d recommend getting some burn cream.’ With that, he strode off into the mists, leaving me with my new charge slowly furling and unfurling its delicate wings as it lay contented in my arms.

Social Media

Anyway, there she was holding on to the violin with all the determination of a semi-professional toad annoyer. Still – as you probably know – there is a lot of it about these days.

I blame the social media for it: why, I don’t know, but it seems to be the thing to do these days.

Of course, being an old git I can remember when it was all the fault of the permissive generation and even recall something being blamed on rock ‘n’ roll. So there you go, unless you don’t which means you’ll probably have to stay here, in which case, you might as well make yourself comfortable.

If you move the violin… and the toad… there will be plenty of room for your picnic basket over there… so, please make yourself at home. However, if you could refrain from any overly personal habits until you actually are back at your own home, it would go someway towards reassuring the llama that you have no untoward designs upon its person. Even though its person does seem to rather enjoy creating her own rather elaborate designs all over the areas of her body she can reach with a felt-tipped pen and a protractor.

Still, it stops the toad getting overly annoyed by her antics with the violin which, I suppose, we all ought to be grateful for.

Highland Terrors

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Back then, of course, people were more in touch with the natural, the wild and the untamed. Even so, there were not many in those wild, Scottish Highlands who would walk out alone at night in case they were attacked by wild haggis or the even-more deadly bagpipe, a land mammal not too unrelated to that denizen of the deep, the squid.

Haggises, or to give them their more common Highland name: the wee savage bastids – are a sort of short-legged killing machine, famous for scaring the Highland terriers back to the lowlands and for the kilt to become the sure sign of the naïve tourist, rather than the traditional dress many pretend it to be, created just to see the look on a man’s face when he realises the danger of – and to – his predicament when a horde of haggises sweep down into the glen teeth bared and savagely-clawed legs pumping. Hence, the invention of the sporran as a device for distracting the rampaging haggis’s attention from a man’s vulnerable parts as he unsheathes his claymore and prepares to battle to the death, or at least until opening time.

The bagpipe was a much stealthier predator, often lying in wait in the branches of trees - where it was camouflaged - to lie in wait for its prey to pass underneath. Then it would drop down, emitting its unearthly wailing as in entangled the poor unfortunate in its deadly crushing pipes and squeezed the life out of them.

These days though, with the increasing tourism of the region, it is said – with the usual Scottish gift for accuracy – that you are now more likely to be killed by a low flying golf ball than be attacked by a rampaging horde of haggises or killed in a wild bagpipe attack.

A Strange World

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Of course, it does tend to happen a lot while you are not looking. That is the way it is with the unforeseen… or, for that matter, the not seen. There are as we all know forces that lie outside of what conventional physics claim – how else would we explain the sudden coming into being of so many price-comparison websites in what would otherwise be a rational universe?



In the past, people made up religions and political theories to explain all the strangeness. However, since almost by definition, you have to be pretty odd yourself to want to invent a religion or political programme, this rather increased the amount of irrational oddity in the universe, rather than explaining it. This is a bit like making a ‘Reality’ TV programme about the making of a ‘Reality’ TV programme – it just increases the amount of idiocy in the world.



We are all idiots, babe – that goes without saying, even though his Holiness - the Great Bobness himself - went ahead and said it anyway.



Still, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded of these things.



Anyway, the point – if there is a point – is that we are all more than capable of being idiots by ourselves; we do not need religions or political theories, systems and programmes to do it for us. That is just overkill – often quite literally.

Apart From the Lemon

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Still, anyway, it was not really that unusual – apart from the lemon, obviously – but then she was the sort of woman who knew things, especially about lemons. Lemons, and – of course – the best way to hold a jar of marmalade without causing unnecessary distress to any passers-by, but then these days we all know a little too much about marmalade to be entirely comfortable holding it in mixed company, let alone out on the public thoroughfare.

Still, you might wonder about the lemons… truth be told, so do I….

So do I….

There are times when I wake up at night, thinking of the way she held those lemons, so tight, so firm. Eroticism is a funny thing, especially when you consider the marmalade as well, but she was that kind of woman. It was easy to see she knew about the uses a couple can find for marmalade when the toast of their love is still hot. The way she spread her marmalade on her toast, well, I would have… I did… give everything I had just to see her do that each morning.

As for the lemons, well, the things she could do with a home-made lemon meringue, a spoon and her tongue… well, I would have crawled naked through vats of Marmite, just for one more spoonful of her lemon meringue.

But, of course all good things come to an end.

One day, there were no more lemons and the marmalade jar was gone from the cupboard.

She left me a slice of toast, but what use is a slice of toast when the woman who once buttered your toast has gone?

The Shape in the Shadows

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Sometimes, though, Mayla got the idea that she was not alone. There was something out there: watching, waiting, licking its lips. She could almost feel its hot, meaty breath on her as she walked the paths around the settlement, searching for berries, fruit, herbs and those special plants the wise woman, Belonda, had taught her to recognise.

There were times when she could almost she the shape of something, there, in the shifting shadows of the forest; some shape that could break free of the concealing darkness and take her in its claws, rip her apart with strong jaws made for killing.

Mayla hurried home, glancing back over her shoulder, knowing that she would not, could not, outrun the beast that waited, that stalked her, but still she had to look back, even as she left the forest behind and strode back down the path to the village, smelling the smoke of its cooking fires, hearing the voices of the children playing and the murmur of a village going about its life.

Even then, though, she did not feel safe until she was inside the stockade, through the gates, and had seen at least one familiar face. Still she had to take one more look back, over her shoulder, to see the shadows between the trees of the forest and how they shifted and writhed, impatiently waiting for her to return to them.

Putting your Finger on It

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Well, there it is….

Not, I’ll admit, the most impressive specimen of its type you’re likely to see, I must admit, but considering the cold weather, it is probably the best one you’ll be getting your hands on, providing you warm them up first.

You will, however, have to be very careful, after all - as someone of your experience and worldliness must know - the Double Entendre is a very shy creature, not seen as often as it used to be out in the wild. There was a time when the Double Entendre used to run wild and free across this great… er… avera… mediocre… country of ours.

Back in those days there wasn’t a place where the wild Double Entendre could not be found, in both rural and urban settings, with almost every place where people gathered, both private and public, having at least a pair of domesticated Double Entendres about the place for the amusement of the people gathered there, especially when one of them ran up the inside leg of one of the ladies and its cheeky little head popped up whenever there was a lull in the conversation.

Of course, every comedian in the land had a specially trained herd of Double Entendres they would bring out during their performances, much to the amusement of the audience who waited with great anticipation for the sight of the comedian whipping out his Double Entendre for the first time that evening.

These days though, the Double Entendre is seen as rather unfashionable and rather old hat, especially when someone catches sight of its old hat. Still, though, times change and maybe one day the Double Entendre will again be as fashionable as it once was.