David Hadley's Blog, page 169

The Path to her Heart

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I knew the way to her heart. I had walked down similar paths with many other women before I met her. I knew what I would find, which turnings to take and which shortcuts would lead me to that secret heart of her she tried to keep safe from explorers like me.

A long time before, and many women ago, one woman had shown me her secret map. In those long summer afternoons we spent together while her husband sailed the distant seas, Kim would take me by the hand and lead me to her bed. There she showed me all the routes, and the journeys I could take to get to her, or to any woman’s heart.

That summer I learnt those routes off by heart, and when autumn arrived and Kim’s husband came home from the seas with tales of journeys of his own to tell her, I took off on a journey of my own, searching for more of those routes to take me deep into the hearts of women.

I found so many of them, so many women, waiting at the ends of paths and roads never taken. So many women living lonely lives in towers overlooking those roads that no-one every ventured down. So many women waiting for an adventurer, an explorer, like me to take those routes to the door of their hearts, where I only had to knock to get a warm welcome and a hand to take mine and lead me deep inside the secret corridors of their souls.

Monday Poem: Like a New Wishing Moment

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Like a New Wishing Moment

Some unformulated extravagance
like a new wishing moment
taken on the air, like a bird
flashing down over a clear river

reflecting sunshine and blue sky
empty of all but a few clouds,
light and insubstantial as wishes,
as we make promises we know

will never be kept, at least
not in a world like this, when all
moments seem so transitory
and permanence is something akin

to a lie, or a story told to calm
the night-time fears of small children
or tales of gods and heroes told
around ancient camp-fire to keep

the dark night and its crawling shadows
far beyond the edges of the moment.
I could make that gesture
form that extravagance into something

that you will keep forever close
to remind you of these precious moments
when you wake to wonder
where they could all have gone,

like that bird that one day flew
down along a slow summer river,
when it seemed such times could never end.

Something for the Weekend: Free Short Story – The Wife’s Best Friend

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Available FREE this weekend for the Kindle.

The Wife's Best Friend

‘Baffy… drum paddle…. hen tambourine.’

‘What?’ Frank said, shoving Jane across the bed so he could squeeze back in.

Jane sighed and opened her eyes. ‘I said: Be careful walking about, Dawn stayed over last night when we got back late.’ She closed her eyes again.

‘I know.’

Jane half-opened one eye. ‘How? You were fast asleep.’

‘I just met her. I went for a pi... to the toilet, then I needed a drink. She was in the kitchen drinking coffee.’

‘Oh, right.’ Jane closed the half-open eye.

‘I was stark bollock naked.’

‘What?’ Both Jane’s eyes were now wide open.

‘Well, how was I to know she would be here, sitting fully-dressed in our kitchen at this time in the morning, drinking coffee?’

‘Did she see… er… y’know… your… well, y’know?’

‘Yes…. Yes, she did.’

‘Oh, bollocks.’

‘Yes, those too… probably.’

‘You weren’t… y’know?’

‘What?’

Jane reached down. ‘Like this? Up and alert.’

‘No… no…. Relaxed and at ease.’

‘You didn’t do that thing…?’

‘What thing?’

‘That thing where you just seem to start playing with it, sort of absent-mindedly.’

‘No….er…. Well, I don’t think so.’ Frank said. ‘I may have scratched it… before I knew she was there, obviously.’

‘I didn’t hear any screams.’

‘No, I think I handled it rather well… er, not the ideal turn of phrase… I mean I obviously handled it well by definitely not handling it at all in her presence… if you see what I mean.’

Jane sighed and got out of bed.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t hard when she saw it. I mean it was when you got back in bed.’

‘Well,’ Frank said. ‘You know the effect you have on me.’

‘Do I…? Really?’ Jane preened as she fastened the belt of her dressing gown. ‘That’s all down to me is it?’

‘yes, of course. Apart from those times… y’know… when I’m over-tired or ill… or something.’

‘Hmmm.’

*

In the kitchen Dawn was sitting at the table, absently playing with a teaspoon.

‘Morning,’ Jane said, walking to the sink to fill the kettle.

‘Morning, how’s the head?’ Dawn said

‘Not too bad.’ Jane sat down opposite Dawn. ‘I want to apologise for earlier… for Frank. He didn’t know you were here.’

‘Oh, no problem.’ Dawn said. ‘After all, you get used to them, don’t you?’

‘Er… yes, I suppose so.’

‘I mean, after you’ve been doing it for a while, you get to recognise people with the same interests, don’t you think?’

‘Er….’

‘Why didn’t you ever tell me about it, though? I thought we were friends?’

Jane stared for a moment. ‘Not much to tell, it is just a normal o….’

‘Exactly,’ Dawn said. ‘I wish you’d mentioned it before, though. I’m one too!’

Jane couldn’t help it; she stared down at Dawn’s crotch before she could stop herself. She looked back up at Dawn’s face; she didn’t look like a transvestite.

‘You… you mean you are a m….’

‘A naturist… nudist… Yes, yes I am.’ Dawn beamed. ‘What a co-incidence, eh?’

‘’Er….’ Jane nodded quickly. ‘Yes, er… isn’t it?’

[….]

[Continues - free for the weekend - here (UK) or here (US)]

Royalty and Poking Sticks

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Of all the indignities the flesh is heir to, being poked in the upper thigh by a minor member of the British Royal Family with a stick especially fashioned for the purpose is – of course – one of the most bewildering for those not familiar with some of the strange customs and institutions that have – over the centuries – built up around that family.

As everyone knows on the day of their birth every member of the royal family, no matter how distantly related to the current ruling monarch, is presented with their own ceremonial Commoner Upper-Thigh Poking Stick (except for the Duchess of Argyll, of course, for the obvious royal protocol reasons).

Then from as early an age as possible – which for some royals can often mean the late teens – they are taught the duties and responsibilities that lie behind the use of the thigh-poking stick and the protocol about when and – most importantly – where it is necessary for them to poke commoners in the upper thigh with the stick.

The tradition itself dates back to medieval times when one of the royal ancestors – historians mostly tend to agree it was Edward II – found himself almost within touching distance of some commoner or other and did not want to besmirch the royal body by actually coming into contact with this unsavoury person. Legend had it that some quick-thinking courtier found a small branch that had fallen from a nearby tree and ceremoniously handed it to the king in order that he could poke the commoner in the thigh as recognition for whatever service it was that the commoner had performed for his – or as some historians argue, her - majesty.

Consequently, as royal protocol invariably demands the tradition of poking commoners on the thigh with a stick has continued right up to the present day without anyone really knowing why, except that it is a ‘tradition’ and therefore inviolable.

The Full English

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It was only to be expected really. After all, she had approached the kipper fillet from downwind – as all the text books suggest – so she wasn’t expecting me to be there, just behind the azalea with the pump-action porridge gun loaded and ready to fire.

However, she had, by then got her hands on several individual containers of marmalade and was beginning to outflank the full English breakfast. I had to act fast, bringing up all my reserves of toast (wholemeal and white), just in case she instigated a cavalry charge against the scrambled eggs.

Breakfast can be a fraught business at the best of times. I’ve known normally brave men go to pieces when faced with a shortage of coffee and women and children fleeing in terror in the face of an onslaught of kedgeree at dawn.

Still, though, when the enemy see the full English breakfast staring back at them on the plate, they begin to feel the first taste of fear, often their weak continental croissants will fall to pieces, crumbling uselessly on their side plates once the full power of those sausages, bacon and – in heavy warfare – the black pudding begin their work in earnest, even though the enemy throw all their cereals against it.

So, much throughout the long and noble story of British breakfasts has depended on that thin red line of ketchup keeping the horror of feeble continental breakfasts from our shores, and long may it continue.

Between the Shapes of this World

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I once thought I could take these shapes of the world and carve words out of them that would stand here for all to see and perhaps understand. I thought I knew the secret of turning things so they could say what I saw, tell what I knew. I thought this world was malleable, that I could be one of those who shaped it into something not seen before.

I wandered between the shapes of this world, finding those places that could be carved and stood there with my tools waiting for the solidity to speak to me; waiting for it to tell me what it needed to become. I had all these words waiting that I could use to shape, to form, to create.

The words and the world, though, do not fit each other. The words slip off the edges of the world. The world is too hard for the words; they break and crumble at my feet while the shapes of the world stand there, oblivious.

All I can do is heap the words up in these piles, hoping that the wind will not blow them away, that the storms will not wash them away; that they will still be here when I turn to them, looking for something to say.

First They Came for the Fish

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Still, though, you do have to wonder where they get them from, don’t you?

You don’t?

Right….

Perhaps it is just me, then.

Although, when that knock comes on your door in the early hours of the morning, don’t say you weren’t warned.

First they came for the fish… and all that.

You may think those penguins look cute in the nature programmes on TV and at the zoo, but their day is drawing ever closer.

That is why there are so many of them in those formerly-secret Antarctic bases of theirs.

One day you’ll go to the zoo, and all the zebras, lions, antelopes and everything in the children’s petting enclosure will be gone. There will be penguins everywhere: ranks upon ranks of them, just standing… watching your every move.

Then, another day, you will go to the supermarket biscuit aisle, wanting some kind of ordinary digestive, or Rich Tea, and there will be nothing but Penguin biscuits as far as the eye can see.

Not only that, all the meat, pizzas, frozen vegetables and the essential ready meals that keep this great nation alive and malfunctioning will be gone. All replaced by fish, with only the occasional kipper or fish finger to break the monotony.

There will be gangs of penguins on every High Street hanging out, waiting for the fish and chip shops to open. There will be penguins everywhere and it will all be too, too late….

So don’t ever say you weren’t warned.

Monday Poem: Pulling the Darkness Out

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Pulling the Darkness Out

I saw the night creep away to hide
cowering in shadows and dark places
where the sun will not find it
and pull the darkness out of it
and tear our secrets from within its folds.

It curls up to hide out the day
taking all our secrets with it
that we whispered in the dark
knowing the day could not come
and steal away those things

we want to keep hidden from the light
and the way you coiled around me
as though you wanted me kept deep
in the darkest shadow of your heart.

Something for the Weekend – Free Kindle EBook

[image error]   Free: Sex, Pies and Sticky Tape

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(15th –17th June 2012)

Available here free for the Kindle:

UK

US

Some comments on David Hadley’s writing:
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In Close Proximity

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Even if you are one of the many people of this fair isle who know, understand and appreciate the correct way to place a banana next to a social worker without falling foul of any sexual harassment, diversity or Correct Use Of The Banana legislation, then you may not be aware, no matter how diligent you are, that the EU's latest ruling on similar activities to this has now outlawed eating jam sandwiches in the close proximity to any local council worker, no matter what the date.

This is, of course, in direct contravention of the age-old British tradition of eating jam sandwiches in the close vicinity of a council worker – depending on what part of the country you live in – on Whitsun Monday, Easter Good Friday, Midsummer Day or National All-Praise Tesco Day on the third Friday of June.

This is a tradition which dates back into the mists of time, possibly going back to before there was even such a career option as a council worker, or even sliced bread, maybe even as far back into the mists of time as the birth of Cliff Richard, which archaeologists now place somewhere in the early Cro-Magnon period.

This tradition is recorded as taking place in Victorian workhouses and many of the facilities for the poor and unfortunate that existed before then: such as poor houses and monasteries and other similar places. No-one is entirely sure why this tradition began, although there has – of course – been plenty of speculation, especially about the religious significance of strawberry jam.

Although, of course, like many of these traditions, such as Easter, Christmas, Halloween and so forth, the practice long pre-dates the introduction of Christianity in these islands, as was an existing tradition appropriated by the Christian religionists for their own ends, especially the age-old one involving strawberry jam and the virgins – which was ultimately banned by the Catholic Church in 1267.

However, in Europe from the middle-ages onward the use of strawberry jam in religious ceremonies was almost unheard of, except – of course – for that things the nuns did to one-another in the privacy of their cells which – allegedly -involved some very nasty habits indeed, much to the disgust of the church officials who - no matter how they tried – could not catch any of the nuns involved actually indulging in such acts. However, it was the use of the strawberry jam in such acts of sexual depravity that led to the phrase ‘caught red-handed.’

These acts, though, died out as civil, secular law slowly replaced religious law as the Middle-Ages gave way to the Renaissance and beyond.

Consequently, under the Code Napoleon, use of strawberry jam to cause distress to a government official going about his lawful business was made a crime punishable by the enforced public wearing of a beret by the convicted criminal. Such was the dread of been seen out in public wearing a beret that soon such unwarranted use of strawberry jam throughout most of Europe became rare and virtually unknown.

When the UK joined the Common Market, as it was known then, there was shock and horror expressed throughout the rest of the community when they discovered that the British still continued with what the rest of Europe regarded as a barbaric act, which the other countries insisted that the UK abandon.

However, Margaret Thatcher managed to negotiate an opt-out for the UK, when she in an infamous sound-bite, declared ‘The lady is for eating strawberry jam sandwiches, no matter who she is sitting next to!’

Unfortunately, recent EU treaty changes have now meant that the opt-out is no longer valid and therefore – if the UK wants to remain a member of the EU - it must end the practice of eating jam sandwiches in the close proximity to any local – and/or national government worker by 2015 at the latest or face legal action by the EU up to and including sanctions against British strawberries.