David Hadley's Blog, page 84

Almost Drowned

You and I have named this world. We came together inside this one small room to begin something neither of us has ever known before. We turned away from lives that no longer breathed for us. We found each other wandering alone down roads that no longer headed towards any destination we could desire.

We found each other across a crowded room, two shipwrecked souls drowning in a sea of strangers. We swam together and held on to each other as the storms raged around us, until time and tide cast us away onto some new shore.

This room is our desert island, far from the lives we used to know. Here, within these walls we have created a world for ourselves. A life cast adrift from what goes on outside the locked door.

We both know that this is a life away from life. We know we have to return, set sail back into the world that lies beyond this room. One day we must go back to our other lives, now made less real by this new sharper reality.

Both of us though, cling to each other as though this room, this bed, contains all that is now precious to us. Neither of us wants to let go, walk away from this island we have found and return to those stormy seas of a life that will only ever drown us.

 

Unexplained Terpsichorean Exuberance

Still, a certain amount of terpsichorean exuberance is justifiable at certain times in life. However, maybe this was not one of those times, especially not to those waiting in the queue at the roadworks for the temporary traffic lights to change.

Sometimes though, dancing is the only option, at least to a certain sort of person.

She was – apparently – that certain sort of person.

For most people, dancing is something only undertaken in youth, and then only on particular occasions. There are even – to denote the significance of the undertaking – special places set aside for the committing of a dance. In days gone by, these would be ballrooms. Later they would become discos. These days – so we are reliably informed – they are just called clubs. Luckily, once you are past a certain age and, in particular, if you are male, there is little necessity for one to commit an act of public dancing. The only exception to this rule is, of course, at the wedding receptions of one’s own children. An occasion where a certain amount of celebration could lead to a spontaneous outbreak of fatherly dancing, at least until the bill arrives.

However, for those of us waiting in the queue at the traffic lights there was little about her to indicate she had even been to a wedding in the immediate past.

Still, these days there is the ever-present danger of hidden-camera shows, student pranks, flash mobs, charity events and PR stunts. As well as all those other similar events that can make the daily grind significantly more irritating than usual. So none of us stuck there were too worried about this sudden and seemingly spontaneous outbreak of dancing for no easily-apparent reason. Nor were we worried about what exactly was the tune she was dancing to. After all, modern ear-bud technology has reached such an unobtrusive state these days. So even people apparently talking or singing to themselves as they make their way down the street are no longer the objects of interest and curiosity they once were in days gone by.

Although, those of us with our car windows wound down while we waited, in the rather un-British heat of late summer, for those lights to change didn’t think that much of her artistic interpretation. Nor did we appreciate the somewhat over-exuberance of her hand gestures as she gyrated and pirouetted around the stationary vehicles in the queue.

Of course, some of us were worried that her sudden outbreak of dancing would not be over by the time the traffic lights changed. Consequently, those of us in the queue behind her now abandoned car were concerned we’d have further inconvenience and delay from her performance, entertaining as it was.

Anyway, only moments before the light changed, her dance stopped as suddenly as it started and she strode back to her car.

As she passed my open window, I heard her mutter to herself. ‘I hate bloody wasps.’

I saw her get in her car and wind the side window back up. Then, as the lights changed, she drove off.

 

The UK’s Leading Lifestyle Guru

Pencilcase Furryslippers is probably the UK’s leading lifestyle guru. She made herself world-famous by her daring use of the cardigan at some of London’s leading nightspot during her early twenties. Furthermore, it is often Furryslippers who is credited with creating the wave of fashionable night time hot chocolate consumption that swept through the hip and happening coffeehouses at the turn of the decade.

She was also one of the first women in the capital’s trendiest areas to engage in public displays of full-frontal knitting. This act caused shock and outrage amongst those who saw themselves as the leading trendies, hipsters and fashionistas of the period.

However, it soon became clear that Furryslippers herself was quite serious about her involvement in the – then largely underground – knitting scene. At first, this blatant display of explicit knitting outraged the nation’s media. The media also expressed grave concern over the way Furryslippers, her acolytes and hangers-on proudly displayed the resulting knitwear itself, often in broad daylight.

However, as time went on, people got over their shock and horror of such blatant displays of knitwear. Even the sight – on occasion – Furryslippers herself knitting in public gradually elicited less and less public outrage. It became apparent that the metropolitan elite and their media were out of touch with the general population of the UK.

Many ordinary people when polled said they thought there was nothing wrong with public knitwear displays, or even knitting in public. Pressure from their user-base also forced several social networks – including Facebook – to reverse their previous bans on blatant knitwear exposure, and even explicit knitting-action photos, from appearing on their site.

As behind the times and public opinion as usual, there were several questions asked in both Houses of Parliament about the spread of knitwear through the British Isles. As well as concern over what could be done to combat it.

There was a change of attitude going on in British society at the time, including a campaign, led by Furryslippers herself, to make the use of knitwear between consenting adults legal.

Over the decades, tales often appeared in the tabloids about teenagers caught in possession of knitting needles and dealing in yarn. Now though these stories became more sympathetic rather than hostile. Even the traditionally hostile Daily Mail called for knitting and the possession of knitwear to be legalised. It even produced an editorial stating that there was no evidence that knitting caused cancer or had any measurable detrimental effect on house prices.

Now, thanks mainly to the tireless campaigning by Furryslippers and her supporters, Britain is no longer a country hostile to knitwear. In fact, several TV channels are thinking of introducing programmes teaching people how to knit safely, which is rather fortuitous as winter is coming.

 

The Theory Of Magic

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Why not?’

Molcur sighed. This one was going to be trouble. ‘Magic doesn’t work like that.’

‘Why not?’ The student glared at him as though it was Molcur’s own fault. Judging by his life so far, Molcur thought she could have a point.

He shrugged and wiped the sweat off his brow with the end of his beard. ‘Magic is complicated.’ He sat down on one of the stools, automatically checking it for frogs before he sat. Once he’d accidentally sat on one of a student’s first spells. What made it worse was that the frog that time had manifested itself inside out to begin with. It took weeks to get the stains out of his robe. ‘Well,’ he said, casting his eye around the laboratory.

‘Well, it should work however we want it to… shouldn’t it?’ The student, said.

Poppy, that was her name, Molcur remembered now, not a good name for a magician, even a female one.

There were some old wizards and magicians who said that women, girls, could not be wizards and magicians, they had the wrong sort of brain for it, they said. Molcur had been teaching magic to boys such a long time, since… since the Incident, anyway and he had yet to find any two that had the same sort of brain. In his experience, girls and boys, men and women weren’t that different, certainly not in brainpower anyway. Women usually had more sense, but that was about it. Sometimes, he knew – especially after The Incident – stupidity had its own rewards.

Poppy stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why doesn’t magic work the way we want? After all, we make it, create it… don’t we?’

‘Ah, no.’ Molcur settled himself down. He was going to enjoy this. He liked talking about the theoretical stuff, or as he called it, ‘talking bollocks’. It was much better than all the sweaty, tense, stick-waving, mumbling and inside-out frogs and confused junior royalty you often got with the practical stuff.

He looked up at Poppy, standing expectantly in front of him. He realised this time maybe he’d met a very different mind this time. She looked like someone who would not fall for his usual half-concocted bullshit, no matter how eloquent. This one would only accept the truth.

This, Molcur thought, is going to be a bit of a bugger. He had absolutely no idea what the truth was.

 

A Drive In The Country

Well, of course.

Or, rather – off course.

It is not that obvious, even in these says of satnavs and Google maps, but she did say it was there, and who are we to doubt her?

After all, she had been there before.

So she said.

Still, even after all these years, none of us would ever dare suggest she could be mistaken. After all, I am the husband and therefore being the one in the wrong is my job.

Yes, it is one of those equal marriages, one where she is always right and equally I am always wrong.

Even in those cases when it is both I and the rest of the world that is wrong. After all, if she had been in charge back when the big bang finally got its act together and started creating this universe, she would have made sure it came up to her standards.

Or there would have been trouble.

Personally, I wouldn’t have given any odds on the universe coming out of that particular encounter as the winner either.

After all, what are mere laws of nature compared to a woman who knows she is right?

So, we kept on looking.

After all, even in the twisty narrow lanes of the English countryside there are only so many places you can hide a village. At the time, it seemed like we’d looked in all of them.

Except maybe….

No. Not there either.

There does come a time in the sequence of perambulations when all narrow country lanes all look the same. All signs too – such that there are – all seem to point to places you’ve already been. However, this time I was fairly confident that we had indeed exhausted all possibilities.

For once, she agreed with me.

Which was worrying.

The novelty of it stunned me into inaction for a while.

But then she got that gleam in her eye.

Which was more worrying.

‘If we can’t find it,’ she said. ‘We can always go somewhere else.’

It was then I knew I had fallen into her cunning trap.

Her smile was the smile of victory, of a plan coming to fruition, of a stratagem gaining the prize.

I knew then I was defeated and that surrender was the only honourable option open to me.

I restarted the engine and pointed the car homeward.

‘On the way back we can stop off at that DIY place, get the stuff you need for those jobs you promised to do.’ She smiled sweetly, but it was a smile of victory.

 

Musical Nudity: A Warning From History

Quite possibly, it was down to the weather. Being British, she didn’t really know what to do when the rain stopped and the sun came out. Although, perhaps someone with a little more experience of sunnier climes would not have taken off so many clothes at once. Then, of course, if we accept the notion of causality, the lorry would not have crashed into the lamppost.

However, many more who witnessed the incident were more intrigued – or in some cases – perturbed by what she was about to do with the courgette and the accordion.

After all, I’m sure that many of us here will be more than familiar with the dangers of the accordioning, especially with an accordion operated by the underdressed. In particular, the danger of an errant nipple getting too closely involved with the accordion’s bellows mechanism, especially during the somewhat more up-tempo numbers. It is something that has brought a tear to the eye of many an observer, as well as the player of that particular instrument.

As, for that matter, is the danger of playing the spoons, especially when in a crowd of the undressed. After all, the percussive effects of some expertly-wielded spoons is somewhat of a shock to the system when played upon the undressed protuberances of the unsuspecting. In addition, as the spoons are metal, they are often quite cold to the touch, especially in the regions not normally exposed to the elements. That is of particular concern in the UK, of course, as the elements here generally tend towards the cold or damp, or often – except for the annual day of summer – both.

As for the bagpipes, playing them whilst naked is – quite obviously – not recommended. After all, that was why the sporran was invented.

Other instruments to avoid whilst nude are, of course, the wind instruments, especially the trombone, which can be somewhat anti-social, especially in a crowd. It can sometimes upset any nearby plates of cucumber sandwiches wherever the underdressed gather to socialise.

You should also be careful where you rattle your tambourine, especially in mixed company.

However, a lady well-versed in double-tonguing an instrument is always welcome in polite society when in the natural undressed state as well as – of course – any lady who knows how to bow her cello.

Although, any naked man who wishes to practice on his horn in a naturist gathering should first check that he is not going to inconvenience any others nearby, especially when he reaches the crescendo of his repertoire.

Potential nudists should also be aware that tinkling their triangles is often frowned upon when in mixed company, too.

 

Origami Toaddeath

Origami Toaddeath is probably the UK’s current leading small businesswoman. She is – of course – most famous for the Toaddeath chain of handbag and coffee shops that now have a presence on all the UK’s High Streets, except Luton, of course, for obvious reasons.

Many thought, when she began with her first Toaddeath Handbag Cafe, ironically in Luton itself, that it would if it succeeded at all, be little more than a gimmicky fad like the last decade’s short-lived Stone-Age themed pubs. This was a concept based on the premise that when people have a certain amount to drink they revert to a less-civilised form of behaviour. Although, none of the project’s backers realised at the time that even the Stone-age would be a far too civilised time for Britain’s serious drinkers to emulate. However, a plan to introduce educational-troubled amoeba themed bars was scuppered after protests by the UK’s more vocal amoeba and single-cell based communities, especially its Luton branch, which has a long history of political activism.

However, despite these difficulties, Toaddeath herself was certain that a handbag cafe would be a success amongst the demographic she was looking to serve. She reasoned that there are a certain number, and a not insignificant number, of women, who like nothing better than buying handbags. This is a demographical fact. However, Toaddeath saw that those retailers ignored the other main aspect of the handbag buying routine. In particular, the part of the retail ritual where the woman and her friends, or – on rare occasions – their husbands or partners who can’t create an urgent appointment elsewhere, go off to a cafe to discuss the recently-bought items over a cup of coffee.

Counter-intuitively to some, the more expensive the handbag, then the more expensive the drinks and cakes bought will be. This is because the woman, when debating the merits of the recent purchases, eventually realise how much they have spent on what is – at heart – just a container for other stuff.

To the surprise of everyone – except, of course Toaddeath herself, the Toaddeath Handbag Cafes were a phenomenal success. The massive growth in her business enabled Toaddeath to move away from Luton and the burgeoning single-celled protest campaign groups that were making that whole area a no-go area for retail enterprise.

Within 18 months, Toaddeath had Handbag Cafes the length and breadth of the country. She had even tentatively started exploring the possibility of opening cafes in Wales and – daringly – Tewkesbury.

Some thought Toaddeath would rest on her laurels and enjoy her success. However, she – only yesterday – announced plans for a chain of brand new Toaddeath Shoe Shop Wine Bars, where women can buy shoes, then go immediately into the adjoined wine bar for several glasses of wine with their friends as they celebrate and examine their purchases.

This time, the world expects Origami Toaddeath to have nothing but success.

Socialising With The Like-Minded

Of course, it wasn’t too unusual, not considering what usually happens around here. However, the local Ladies Knitting, Erotica and Wine Appreciation Club were having one of their chocolate-tasting evenings at the time, up in the church hall. So the occasional naked hunk fleeing up the High Street is only to be expected.

After all, some of us have been married to those ladies (fortunately only one at a time) so we do know what they are like, even if mostly only in the singular.

However, of late, they have taken to hunting in a pack. Hence, the semi-regular sight of the naked fleeing hunks from the ladies’ increasingly chaotic get-togethers.

Of course, things used to be much quieter in this place. At least until the Ladies Knitting, Erotica and Wine Appreciation club began their reading club and got hold of that book.

Yes, that one.

Although, why the memoirs of a politician, in a failed and discredited government, should give the ladies of this town such an erotic frisson is somewhat of a mystery. A mystery that has been discussed at great length wherever the partners, boyfriends and husbands gather for shelter whenever the ladies are on the rampage.

A few of the braver souls amongst us have risked reading the book. The main reactions were the lack of any detailed football league history and a woeful lack of Special Forces undercover action. Most were left mystified by how such a less than riveting tome should get the ladies all worked up, unless it was some existential realisation that dullness waits us all, unless we take action against it.

Of course, the Ladies Knitting, Erotica and Wine Appreciation Club have read several other books more traditionally considered as erotica. However, they all claim that such books are poorly written, unrealistic, unimaginative and as arousing as a damp lettuce sandwich or – for that matter – a mediocre politician’s memoirs. So it can’t be those books that are driving the Ladies Knitting, Erotica and Wine Appreciation Club into such frenzies. At least not when they hire a male stripping team to come and help them model and display their latest knitwear creations to the rest of the club.

Just why such fashion shows require so much wine consumption is another of the matters we often discuss late into the night. At least while we shelter in the pub waiting for the all-clear to sound. We listen in terror as the screams of the last fleeing nude hunk fade into the distance as the Ladies Knitting, Erotica and Wine Appreciation club hunting party return to their lair with their captured prey.

Still, I suppose it is better for the ladies to have some sort of social life instead of just sitting at home in front of the telly night after night.

 

Illicit Use Of The Meringue Nest

Anyway, she said it was compatible, and – after all – who am I to argue? Even after that mistake with the meringue nests. However, I did point out to her that – at the time – UK legislation specifically outlawed the erotic use of meringue nests. This came about mainly because of the notorious and unforgettable great Cudworth meringue orgy of 1967. It was a national scandal at the time, which almost brought down the then government under Harold Wilson. A government already reeling from the tabloid revelations about the cabinet minister, the call girls and a corrupt undercover vice squad officer caught with an illicit lemon meringue near the Scottish border.

Historically, of course, mainly because of the legacy of the sporran, Scottish law – as distinct from British law – has always had a wider tolerance of meringue-based sexual deviance. Far more than the rest of the British Isles. Which is strange considering the much stricter Scottish religious heritage. However, there have always been rumours of meringue tolerance even in certain strict Calvinist sects. This is especially true in the remote Highlands – where the church regarded what a married couple got up to with their meringue nests as something not even worth denouncing from the pulpit. Which is unusual since they did tend to denounce everything else they could think of, and a fair few other things no-one else without a fascination with sin would even contemplate, not until after several drams anyway.

However, things have changed since signing up the European Human Rights convention. It has become increasingly clear that the English, and to a lesser extent the Welsh, outlawing of illicit sexual practises with the use of a meringue nest – is no longer compatible with European law. This is especially the case with the use of the meringue nest in an intimate situation between consenting adults.

For those with a love of meringue in a sexual situation, this has come as a great relief – in more ways than one. The recent ruling by the European Court has declared the ban on sexual meringue use between consenting adults in England and Wales as a breach of fundamental human rights.

Obviously, the Welsh practice of using a sheep – consenting or otherwise – as well as what many regard as inappropriate use of the leek in a meringue-based setting is still outlawed. This remains so, despite a last-minute appeal by the Ffestiniog Meringue and Leek Society. This society, including their paramilitary wing, have said that until that particular law is changed they will continue their campaign of leek and meringue-based terror. Only last week this resulted in the Army having to defuse a homemade meringue bomb in the border town of Hay on Wye.

Still, anyway, she still has that meringue in her hand and that look in her eye. So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and do my husbandly duty.

 

The Desert Of Her Dreams

There are dreams buried under these rocks and stones. The desert is dry, bare, desolate. But there was life here once, I can feel it. Of the many landscapes I come across, this must be one of the most desolate I have ever seen, but I do not feel lost or despondent. There could be life here again, I am sure of it.

All is not lost.

I can make flowers bloom again here. I can turn this dull, dusty landscape green again. The parched, cracked riverbed could one day feel the healing waters flow, filling it cracks and making this world breathe again.

I saw the two of them out there on the street, talking. She stood so close to him as though the mere presence of him somehow gave her sustenance. She held his hand in both of hers, a silent plea on her lips.

In so many of my long years, I have seen scenes like this. I should have carried on down that street, gone about my own business. But the look on her face as she walked away, leaving him watching behind her, somehow made me pause.

I turned and followed her, knowing I shouldn’t, glancing back to see him enter the cafe and the other woman waiting there for him.

The crying woman though walked off down the street. I’d heard him call her Allie.

I followed her home.

She did not see me, but then of course they never do, unless I want them to.

Eventually, worn out with crying, I felt her fall asleep.

Not long after, I found my way into her dreams and found this parched landscape, this desert devoid of all hope. It was an empty future, stretching out in front of Allie as though she was lost and didn’t know which way to go.

I set off across the desert, trusting my instinct, going deeper into her mind, her memories, until I found what I was looking for.

There, a long, long way from the desert of her dreams, I found a small oasis of hope. It was a place where the water still ran clean and pure, while the songbirds sat silently in the trees. I could feel the beasts of her nightmares watching me as I bent down to the cool waters of that oasis with my cupped hands.

Then, standing over her as she slept, I let that cool water of hope, of long lost dreams, and the possibilities to come, drip between my fingers. Letting it wash her face clean of the tears of the day just gone.

Back at that oasis, I heard the songbirds begin to sing again.