R.S. Barrington's Blog: Lights Out, page 2
October 29, 2013
FIRST THOUGHTS TO REFLEKTOR ON
I have to state that I am a massive fan of everything James Murphy. His produced work, his musical talent and his hugely successful LCD Soundsystem. I was devastated to hear the news that they were to split up. But I had been luckily enough to see them live on several occasions, touring worldwide with the ever popular Arcade Fire.
When the news came through that Murphy would be producing the new Arcade Fire album I had no doubts that it was going to be great. Come the hour and I have now got h...
October 12, 2013
MOLESKIN SCRIBBLES
Before I confine my latest travelling moleskin to the back of a deep drawer, I thought you might be interested in what was inside it. Tell me if I’m wrong!
The sun it risesand west it goes
The wind it blows and blows and blows
The rain it fallsand feeds the ground
The grass it grows and grows and grows
The waves they crashand crush the coast
The moon it glows and glows and glows
_______________________________________
As I stop and listenI hear a bird, a cry
The ocean laughter andthe sand at my feet
Th...
August 13, 2013
QUOTE UNQUOTE
COULD ONE
HANG AROUND
BEFORE THE
INVENTION OF
THE WHEEL?
June 12, 2013
AT LAST SOMEONE RECOGNISES OUR GREED
We are constantly reading about global warming and fed numbers that sound like a London bankers bonus.Numbers that most of us just see as big!
But a study has emergedwarning that Chinas’ major cities are outsourcing their CO2 emissions to the poorer reigons, bare in mind we have been outsourcing our pollution to China for decades.
In the past, reports linking global warming with China, have thrown figures around like “2 billion tonnes of coal”, “one third of the worlds CO2 emissions” and we are...
April 25, 2013
BLOW YOUR OWN TRUMPET
In the world of publishing and self-promotion, every one needs a break. I gave myself just that and entered my first book ‘The Waiting Room’ into the Self Published book awards hosted by Chapter One Promotions. Along with sending the books, you are required to add a self addressed postcard to be returned on receipt of your books being delivered. I did just that and rather cheeky too, here is mine:
April 22, 2013
IF IT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ROYALTY
Working as a seasonnaire, with the snow capped mountains as your play ground; it is easy to lose respect for the countless peaks and valleys that we call home.
February half term is one of the busiest times on the piste, as schools close across Europe, families escape to the fresh mountain air for their annual migration to the slopes.
As this is the case, we picked up snow shoes and hiked away from the crowds. As Duchess Kate Middleton was pictured walking in the Alps earlier this year, if it’s...
March 27, 2013
CHAPTER TWO
‘It is different to Shrove Tuesday Pancakes as we don’t have Lemon with these ones, we have fudge sauce and ice cream!’ Oliver proudly tells his friends.
Bursting in through his bedroom door that has a hand drawn picture of a guitar and some curly haired creature on it, Oliver throws his school bag onto his bed and kicks his shoes off. I follow more casually and sit down next to the discarded school bag onto Oliver’s second hand lumpy mattress. The door has half closed from when it swung open wildly in Oliver’s wake. He is struggling to remove his school shirt without undoing the top buttons. Blinded as he tries to pull the tight shirt up and over his forehead he trips on his toys and falls, half onto the bright green bean bag and half onto his grandfather’s toy soldiers. Handed down to me when I was six years old, and given to Oliver on his sixth birthday, two years ago in two days time.
Successfully removing his school shirt without popping the buttons, buttons that Oliver’s mothers Sarah has sewn on countless times. The shirt a little too small for Oliver, he is growing up fast. We get no hand downs from my family anymore, times are tight for everyone. With the conception of eBay everything is now sold for cash rather than passed down to family. But we can’t complain as the mattress I am sat on was given to us by my older brother. He was given it long before Oliver was born, and the wardrobe that is held straight by a screw and nail in the wall was given to Oliver on his fourth birthday by Sarah’s sister.
The dressing gown that lies wedged behind the bedroom door was the last hand down we were given from my brother. Its softness has long been washed out and it feels like being wrapped in woodchip wall paper when you put on. Oliver doesn’t know any better. Accepting what is given him and grateful for any personal gift.
Oliver now walks to the cork notice board that has drawings and cards pinned to it. Nailed central to the board is a jet fighter calendar with crosses marked up to today. He takes the marker that hangs below the calendar and methodically puts a cross through today’s date and stands back to see his work, before dropping the marker which bangs effortlessly against the wall below.
With his back to me he puts his hand upon his head and sighs, “two more sleeps,” he says whilst turning around with a wry smile and letting his arms drop moodily to his sides. With his naked chest and school trousers on, Oliver walks to the far side of his large room to look through the boxes of clothes that act as his chest of drawers. Searching for his favourite tee shirt he throws what little clothes he has into the adjacent box and looks dejected over at me.
“I think your mother has it.” Oliver doesn’t hear the end of the sentence. He is through the door, opening it quickly it bounces closed off his fallen dressing gown, searching for his mother. She was ironing in the kitchen as I followed Oliver into his bedroom.
I had plans with Oliver to build a little fort for his friends who would be joining us for the weekend. I had placed the random selection of chairs from the dining room into the bedroom that afternoon, ready for Oliver to organise how he wants his friends to sleep. I had borrowed extra blankets from our neighbour to make sure the children would have a plentiful canopy and stay warm in the fort.
I walk over to the boxes that act as Oliver’s chest of Drawers and do what I do every time I enter his bedroom: I tidy his clothes away. The smell of roast chicken comes in through the open window. The window I painted almost 8 years ago whilst Oliver slept in his cot. I know the smell is not coming from our kitchen. I stand up and close the window although it’s warm in the room.
I look around the large room, which sits lonely at the back of the house. Everything that Oliver asked for was there: chairs, blankets, torches, marsh mellows, extra pillows, some for sleeping some for fighting, just as he had demanded. Oliver’s parents will be sleeping without pillows this weekend.
I hear crying and Oliver’s raised voice from the kitchen. His favourite tee shirt, I already know, has not yet been cleaned or ironed for his party this weekend. I know it will be, and he knows it will be, as his mother promised, but for a young boy about to be 8 years old, he forgets the effort we have gone through to get this much done. He knows his mother will be up all night cleaning his favourite tee shirt for him, ironing it and have it ready for him to wear when his friends, Karl, Richard and little Tom arrive at 10am the following day, but for now he has to show off.
I walk across his bedroom, knowing I’ll have to be the one to assure Oliver his favourite tee shirt will be ready tomorrow. Opening the now almost closed bedroom door I pull the loose door handle and leave my seven years olds ‘for two more sleeps,’ room.
March 11, 2013
MOTHER AWAY FROM MOTHER
Meet the second half of our employers, Eliza.
It isn’t easy to write about Eliza in the same way as it is her husband and illusive business partner Johnny. I shall start at the beginning.
After applying for this job we found on the website Gumtree, in early October last year, a phone interview was conducted with matter of fact details of the position and what we could expect to find here at Chalet Eterlou. We were offered the job the next day and made plans to arrive in Tignes les Brevieres lat...
March 6, 2013
THE LESSER SPOTTED SKIER
Emerging tired and grumpy from his hibernating hire car the lesser spotted skier reaches for the sky with both hands, stretching and cracking his back he yawns and scratches his belly before turning to his uncontrollable screaming infants.
Carrying more luggage than he packed, loaded with ski gear and with an arm outstretched the lesser spotted skier has learnt not to argue after emerging from his den.
Greeted by those providing for his family for his annual expedition to the slopes leaves the...
February 18, 2013
TEN CHAPTERS
I push the door open and it swings gently on oiled hinges. The eggshell paint is still looking fresh and the ‘Oliver’s Room’ hand painted sign is pinned to the top panel. The carpet is soft and warm under my naked feet. It’s dark in the room as the curtains are closed to allow Oliver to sleep in the sunny afternoon. I enter quietly into the nursery carrying Oliver’s bottle of milk, walking towards the window that looks out over the flower bed, I slowly open the curtains and pull the blackout blind.
On tip toes I walk up to the side of his cot. I notice again he has fidgeted during his sleep so that his toes are hanging over the ill fitting mattress. His tiny toes. Tomorrow is Oliver’s first birthday. Nothing plastic. That is what we have told his few friends who will be joining us tomorrow, bringing presents, nothing plastic. At this age we chose Oliver’s friends for him. Cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents and neighbours will all share the cake that holds one candle.
As for now, Oliver sleeps soundly, his hands out stretched in either direction, a faint silent smile on his small round face. I kneel by his bed and look down at my son. The mattress was a gift whilst Sarah was in hospital, from her sister, and the cot was my brothers, used as a first bed for his three children. I decorated the room the same week as Sarah went into hospital. We knew our little baby was going to be a boy. We are both old now, we wanted to know, we know this will be our only child. But it didn’t matter. Oliver was going to be Olivia if he was born a she.
The amateurish dinosaur transfers on the wall above the cot have already begun to peel, one year on. The colour on the wall is fading, the shelves holding the countless cuddly toys are still holding. The only thing in the room that looks as if I did it yesterday. The price of the furnishings starts to show. I look up to notice one transfer has come away completely, Sarah must have taken it from the cot, the final resting place for our amateurish diplodocus.
I reach down to gently rub Oliver’s belly. The zip on the bright orange one piece he is wearing is broken. It closes just over half way so that I can get my hand in to rub Oliver’s chest without opening the zip. I stay kneeled down and continue to stare, to rub his belly, gently. The smile on his face grows and his mouth opens a little, I can see his gums. I continue to rub him and gently rock him forward and back, his mouth opens more and I can see his eyes smiling, trying to open, but not ready to surrender the sleep that has them locked in a dream.
The room was painted pale blue, colours left over from my oldest brother’s refit of his 4 bedroom house. His winding stairwell and hallway were painted in eggshell pale blue, allowing the light from the recently added skylight to bounce around the walls.
The coat is thin on the walls in Oliver’s nursery. I had to water the paint down to make sure I had enough to complete the job. The room is the largest in the house. The back bedroom, along a corridor that has no natural light, a large room that could happily house two, or three children. Oliver is the only one we will be having. Sarah was perhaps too old to have this one.
Oliver lets out a little gurgle laugh as I rub his belly one more time. He is awake now, smiling with his mouth and eyes. I reach for his left hand but hold my arm just above his chest. He reaches for my hand but I pull it away quickly. He smiles at this and throws his feet in the air in delight. I repeat the action and again he smiles and, clasping his hands together, he sucks the back of his left hand. I do it a third time and let him grab hold of my arm. This doesn’t gain as much attention as not capturing my arm so Oliver’s interest wanes. He looks over his head at the end of the bed. His favourite teddy bear is sat at that end and I reach for it. Placing it on the rail of the cot I make the teddy bear dance, holding onto the arms and swaying it this way and back again to the tune of a lullaby that Sarah sings to Oliver when he goes to bed. This makes him clasp his hands once more and suck the back of his left hand. I place the teddy on Oliver’s belly and continue the dance as he reaches for it and holds it tight.
I stand up and reach down into the borrowed cot. I pick up both Oliver and Teddy, holding them tight and rocking them gently. I had put the bottle of milk on the floor, I bend down with both Oliver and teddy and make a whirling noise as I do it to make it into a game for Oliver who turns one tomorrow. I notice he is smiling at this so I do it again, making the same noise, as I come up this second time I bang my head on the cot. Oliver thinks this is part of the game and smiles his gurgle laugh. I bite my tongue and try to smile back at my son, who is almost one year old.
With baby, teddy and milk bottle I leave the room and make my way to where Sarah is preparing the birthday cake in the kitchen. As I close the bedroom door softly with my foot, unknown to anyone, I scrape the paint from the door edge and the flakes land gently on the soft carpet.
Lights Out
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