David Hadley's Blog, page 94

Out of Reach

What shapes the morning? We emerge out of the darkness into a dawn taking shapes from the shadows to build a world around us. We wait here, hidden under sheets, waiting for tomorrow to turn into today and now. What was too far out of reach ever to touch comes creeping in through these curtains to become another day, as the time we had becomes yesterday and slips far out of reach into the past.

We only ever have now and now always slips away, out of reach into the past, beyond our reaching fingers. Time moves away from us as it moves towards us. Always evading capture and letting each moment evade our hands as we reach out. Only wanting to take and hold a precious moment, making it last forever.

All we have are memories. A remembrance of the way your hand reached and your fingers touched. A fleeting instance that was gone before I could give it a name and reach out to grasp it, knowing only that it will never come again.

All we have is the hope and the promise of more times to come like this. Even though we know they will never be the same. We know that luck and happenstance could tear it all apart before we have a chance for another time like this. Leaving this times gone and too far out of reach to ever hold again.

 

A New Religion

Still, I suppose she had the banjo, so it was not a wasted journey. Despite all the trouble we had finding the place, it was – as these things go – rather a quiet affair. That is the trouble, of course, with inventing a new religion. In its early days it does tend to be a somewhat solitary affair.

The wife, before she became the Keeper of the Ceremonial Banjo, had suggested setting up a group on some social media site or other. But that sort of thing tends to attract the weirdos. It is section of the population that is usually a fertile hunting ground for those wishing to set up new religions, revitalise old ones or start revolutionary – or even reactionary – political movements. However, that is not really the market sector we are looking for.

We are – ideally – looking for the more aspirational, the ambitious, the fashionable, the cool. As the old religions grow more and more distant and out of touch, the wife and I believe there is a gap in the market for a more modern, up to date religion. One the middle-aged and – especially – the young of today can feel unembarrassed about joining, even – perhaps – going as far as wearing the religion’s official Ceremonial T-shirt, or even the official baseball cap. Not just only at our ceremonies, including the Saturday night barbecue which is the central part of our devotions. In some respects it similar, in a way, to Sunday worship for the Christians, Saturday for the Jewish and the Muslim Friday.

Of course, those old religions did do some cunning marketing by holding their most religious days and ceremonies at the weekend, but we feel they have missed out on the party atmosphere a bit. So our religion tends to concentrate more on the food, drink and dancing than those old religions.

Hence, of course, the use of the banjo as an item of sacrifice. After all, who doesn’t enjoy setting fire to things? Which is – I suppose – why the barbecue itself remains popular. This despite most of the people attending, as well as the hosts, having kitchen filled with expensive cooking technology that makes the open fire of a barbecue look superfluous, if not somewhat ridiculous.

Anyway, such are the ways of religion and it wouldn’t be a proper religion without a bit of mystery. Especially that part of the Holy Barbecue where the wife disappears into the bushes at the bottom of the temple garden with the doubters. Having them return to our flock as full converts only a few minutes later, does – I think – show my wife’s dedication to the cause. Although, the wife does say the damp grass is starting to affect her joints, especially her knees. But, as I often point out a religion – no matter how new, exciting and revolutionary, still needs a bit of martyrdom.

 

Wearing the Wellies

Well, it all makes sense now, doesn’t it?

After all, there must be a reason for it, mustn’t there? Because we all know things… especially things like that, do not happen without a reason. For most of us, wearing wellies and a bikini is not a normal daily fashion choice and so she must have had a reason.

Just why there was a hedgehog in the bathtub too, is not something that should be let pass without at least some form of investigation.

After all, we all, these days, know quite a bit about investigations. Most of the TV schedules these days are taken over by reality, talent and consumer lifestyle shows. So, on the odd occasions we do find some drama, it is more often than not, based around some form of criminal investigation, usually murder. After all, there is nothing that says ‘good all-round family entertainment’ like a brutally-killed corpse leaking blood all over a murder scene.

So why was she wearing the wellies and a bikini? And just what was the hedgehog doing in the bathtub?

Alas, such mysteries do tend to create more attempted solutions and explanations as time goes by. After all, there were reports of UFOs in the region just before this particular incident came to the attention of the authorities. Also, there was talk in the local area of a radiation leak, foreign spies and religious fundamentalists. There was also a rumour of canvasing political activists in the area, as well as talk about a Satanic sect engaged in unsavoury rituals using local virgins, or failing that – as any virgins haven’t been seen in the area since the early 1950s – hedgehogs.

Of course, if any one in the local area with a vendetta against a woman living alone accuses that woman of being a witch, it is only sensible to take the precaution of putting your wellies and bikini on. If only just in case the local historical society take their reenactment duties too seriously, as is their wont. For example, by trying to reintroduce the ducking stool back into the local justice system. And if anyone suggest that the hedgehog she took in over the winter months to prevent it starving is – somehow – her witch’s familiar, then it would be a sensible precaution to dampen it down to prevent any local zealot from attempting to burn it at the stake.

However, all this is – at the moment – mere speculation. Meanwhile, we await a full investigation by the local police, once all diversity criteria have been satisfied and a Health and safety check undertaken. Only then will we be confident that this mystery has at last been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. Apart from the conspiracy theorists, of course, who are still trying to tie in the reported UFO activity that night with the suspicious deaths of the inventor of the bikini, at least three US presidents and the somewhat unexpected result of the 1975 FA cup final.

But that is conspiracy theorists for you.

 

Show Trial

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By then she had it well in hand, so we will leave them to it. Give them some well-deserved privacy while they go about what must remain their private business. That is until the video is released onto the Internet. Then we can all safely download it into a password-protected folder before leaping on our social media site of choice. There to add our strident denunciation to the swelling chorus of those who like nothing better than an existential justification by denouncement.

After all, what better way is there to silence those disturbing voices we all have inside ourselves than by denouncing others? Especially those who dare to do what we only allow ourselves to dream about in the privacy of our own mindspace. After all, no decent person would ever contemplate such things. Especially not with a watermelon and a brace of well-oiled politicians from the political party your mother always warned you against, would they?

As for that thing with the well-hosed firemen and daytime weather presenter – surely that is illegal?

If it is not illegal, then it ought to be.

Someone – especially you – ought to be out there now bravely setting up a Arsebook page to denounce such practises and the people who engage in them. Perhaps if not the death penalty, then at least a long prison term – with hard labour – for those that dare do such things. This would go some way towards erasing those thoughts, notions, ideas that creep into your mind in the small hours of the morning when the comfort of social media seems too far away. A time when those you call your friends are probably wrestling with their own similar demons of the imagination and possibility.

After all, no member of the clergy would ever do such a thing with a Brussels sprout… would they? Especially not in the presence of a oiled and naked unbeliever like you… would they?

It is time such filth was banned. So join the campaign against… well, whatever it is…. Go on social media this instant and make your voice heard and make this outrage stop… now.

 

The Card Sharp

Of course, it would not be that easy. After all she was the one holding all the aces… as well as a large calibre machine-gun. Which, of course, made all of us examine our hands with a more than usually critical eye.

She had dealt the cards herself, in a somewhat unconventional manner, face up and taking all the best cards for herself. One or two of us had given looks to our fellow players, each look suggesting that one of us should raise the matter of the rules to her. However, her reputation for having both an unerringly accurate aim and a somewhat over-zealous trigger finger did make most of us prepared to keep our own council over what really constitutes cheating in a card game.

The one player who did dare to question her dealing method was soon dragged away. Then, when the blood was – more or less – mopped from his seat, a suitable replacement was volunteered from the crowd of onlookers standing at a safe distance on the other side of the sandbags.

The fact that the enemy troops were dug in somewhere on that other side of the sandbags was a risk our audience was prepared to take. They were all more than prepared to have the enemy behind them, rather than face in her direction without some protection. Especially if – as now seemed increasingly unlikely – the cards went against her.

There was also the problem of the wagering system she had devised for this her own special variation on a card game. This meant her large-calibre machine-gun always pointed at the player until he had wagered all his available money on the next hand of cards. The aforementioned trigger finger tightened slowly until the player emptied their every note and coin into the pot. Only then would she turn and smile towards the next player, the gun pointing and the trigger finger tensing.

Soon the entire company had run out of money. So we all sat there wondering what she would suggest next and hoping someone else would be foolish enough to volunteer for it.

Then the order came to go over the top and all of us sighed in relief knowing there was only one form of certain death on that battlefield and that running headlong into the enemy lines was not it.

 

The Ending Of Everything

There was, Neil supposed, always a feeling that humanity was close to some catastrophe. There is something in having imagination, foresight and knowledge. Ally this with the awareness of life’s fragility and it does make any self-aware species not only aware of its own individual mortality, but of how tentative the grasp of all of its kind is on their world.

Neil was half-expecting it, like many others, although when it came on that ordinary Tuesday morning, he was as much surprised as anyone.

The UK is not known for large earthquakes, so when the land around him began to tear, rip apart, Neil panicked. He tried grabbing on to whatever seemed solid, permanent, in a world that was slipping, sliding, tearing, roaring, apart.

For some reason the phrase ‘shaken to its foundations’ rattled around Neil’s head as he wrapped himself around a concrete bollard and watched his new car disappear into the widening maw. A hungry mouth opening wider and wider, taking everything that fell into it.

Neil, saw a woman tumble past him as the world turned on its side. He reached out as she grabbed for him, her scream silent in the roar of a world tearing apart around them. Their fingertips brushed and then she was gone.

The widening mouth came closer. Neil felt his left foot hanging over the lip. Not wanting to look down, he pulled his legs up, wrapping himself as tight as he could around the bollard as though it was something precious he was protecting with his life, rather than the other way around.

Neil closed his eyes as he babbled and whimpered, knowing only that he did not want to die, but knowing he had no choice as the abyss rumbled closer.

‘This is it,’ he called through the encroaching noise and shuddering vibration. ‘This is the end.’

 

Taking A Day Off

‘But it should be easy,’ she said.

‘Well….’ I shrugged.

‘I mean there is you, there is me… and there is all this blank page.’ She stroked the margins of the blank page, before turning to look into my eyes. ‘We could do anything.’

‘Like what?’

‘You’re the writer, you’re the one with the imagination.’

‘And?’

‘You could, I’m sure, come up with all sorts of scenarios.’

‘But it is my day off.’

‘It… what do you mean?’

‘It is my day off.’

‘So, what are you saying?’

‘It is my day off. I have one day off a week from writing. The last thing I want to do is start thinking up scenes and situations. I want a break from that.’ I turned away from the page. It looked like a nice day out there. Not as nice as yesterday when I had a second draft to edit, but it still would be nice to go out where there were no words and no characters demanding….

‘Are you ignoring me?’ she said.

‘No.’ I turned back to the page. ‘It is just that, as I said, it is my day off.’

‘Well, you could, at least describe some furniture or something. I could do with a sit down.’ She sauntered towards me. ‘Or a lie down. Couldn’t you, you know…?’

‘Couldn’t I what?’

‘Well, just a paragraph, a few sentences of description… for me. It doesn’t have to be much: a room, a bed, perhaps a window I could gaze through…. longingly.’ She turned to face where the window would have been if there was a description of it. She turned back to me, touching my arm. ‘Waiting for my secret lover to come to me.’

‘I…. I… just a bed and a few other things?’

She nodded. ‘Please.’

‘Nothing too detailed?’

She nodded again, slower this time. ‘But comfortable, cosy… sexy.’

I swallowed. ‘Right.’ I paused, fingers over the keyboard. ‘Sexy… how?’

‘I’m sure you know.’ Her fingers brushed my cheek. ‘After all, I have been in some of those other stories… haven’t I? The ones you write under that pen-name and you don’t let your wife see?’

‘I swallowed. ‘Er… was that you…?’

‘Yes.’ She took a quick step away from me. ‘You don’t remember me? This description, what I can do with my tongue.’

‘Yes! Yes, of course, I remember.’ And I did. I could remember those stories, the rooms they took place in and all that she and I… she and the male protagonist got up to in those secret erotic stories I’d written a few years ago….

I remembered about the tricks with her tongue too….

She looked at me and licked her lips with that tongue.

I glanced outside. It was clouding over. I looked back at her… at Louise. ‘Maybe….’ I said. ‘Maybe I could give my day off a miss, just this once.’

She smiled, the tip of that tongue just protruding between her lips.

I gulped. ‘A bed you say?’

 

A Nice Cup of Tea and the Olympics

Now the Commonwealth Games are all over, attention shifts to the next Olympics in 2016.

Surreptitious ‘Dunk’ Digestive is undoubtedly the UK’s leading Olympic-level tea drinker, despite his poor showing in the London Olympics 200-yard Earl Grey finals. However, his coach, the legendary All-Luton Champion, Stain ‘The Teabag’ Tanninlevel has promised that his boy will be ready for the next Olympics in Rio. Digestive had already set a world record time of 23.786 in the 400 metres Breakfast Tea European championship finals in Berlin, despite some stiff opposition from the Austrian Hans Halloverher, undoubtedly his greatest rival – barring injury – in the next Olympics.

Of course, Olympic level Tea Drinking is a very much different event to our normal day-to-day competitive tea drinking. The specially-designed teacups used by the professional athletes are far from the ordinary mug most of us drink our daily tea from, even when competing at a local level. The computer-designed Olympic cups, developed at the All-England Tea Research Facility at Millwall, are largely credited with shaving nearly a hundredth of a second off Digestive’s time at Berlin. The special cup also gives him much better grip on the handle when cornering. It’s all-weather design too means the weather will not adversely affect the tea-drinkers performance, even during the heaviest of downpours. After all, we all remember the great tragedy of the 1968 Olympics. There, Fred Cuppa had to drink the equivalent of seven cups, during his 1500 meters final, due to the freakish thunderstorm which lasted for most of the event. This despite his official saucer-holder’s cunning use of the umbrella down the final back straight.

Anyway, since that event and its tragic aftermath when Cuppa was forced to queue at the wholly-inadequate competitor’s toilets for three hours – with its inevitable tragic consequences – the rules have now been changed. However, with the introduction of full-strength builder’s tea into the competition as a demonstration event at the next Olympics, Digestive and his team-mates in the British Tea squad should bring home at least seven medals. Not only that, the British synchronised biscuit-dunking squad also looks full of promise. Especially in the freestyle Rich Tea event as well as the Hobnob dressage.

All in all, then, it looks like another golden age for British Olympic sport is on the horizon and we can only wish the competitors the best of luck for the future.

 

Free Kindle Novella: Have a Go

 

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.

Not A Celebrity

It was never going to be easy, not with those knees, but Modicum Pikestaff vowed that one day he would be famous. However, as he didn’t lack any discernible talent becoming a celebrity would be a challenge. Being an adept impersonator of native British trees, with a rather spectacular interpretation of an early-budding larch, he was already far too talented to appear on any of the talent shows on UK TV. Not only that, having even a modicum of talent meant he was refused membership of the world celebrity circus.

Consequently, Pikestaff was put on the world media’s Not a Celebrity warning list. This list prevents any of the world’s media and press showbiz and gossip columnists mentioning, or the paparazzi photographing, anyone who is even suspected of having any discernible talent or other useful or notable reason for being famous. Thus preventing them ever accidentally appearing in the world’s gossip columns. That is, except for politicians, who – while of course having no talents whatsoever – are allowed to appear in such columns and photographs. Mostly as a warning to other celebrities about what could happen if they let themselves go, or make utter arses of themselves. Especially so when the celebrities attempt to do anything other than gurn for the cameras, fall out of their dresses or attempt to beat up cameramen.

Still, though, as a natural tree-impersonator, Pikestaff was – of course – in great demand as an actor. In particular in the high-budget film industry where to have the acting ability of a tree stump is one of the most prized assets of a film star.

However, the shallow vacuous world of the star actor, especially one ignored by the celebrity columnists and paparazzi, was not one that Pikestaff desired. So he was condemned to make a good living on the busy tree-impersonator circuit. He started out in the local nature and wildlife nightclubs alongside stoat charmers, exotic bird dancers, bramble and nettle conjurers and – of course – stand-up badgers.

For a while, Pikestaff did consider doing a comedy tree-impersonation set, but that did mean he would lose his famous weeping willow impersonation from his repertoire. His manager, Cubby Hole, thought that an hour or more of silver birch jokes was something that the club audiences were not ready for… yet.

However, with his new show Oak Trees of the Rich and Famous, Pikestaff hopes to break into new ground as he takes his show – for the first time – into the stadiums of the world. Maybe now he will break through and onto that most-coveted celebrity status list this time, even despite his obvious talents.