Nav Logan's Blog, page 3
January 8, 2016
Safety First
Exiled to the garden shed, I sit there glumly.
Safety first, affix safety goggles. I consider using gardening gloves, but that might be going too far. Anyway, you should never handle heavy machinery in gloves, the risk of the tool slipping out of your hands and going flying off- no. I need a firm grip on the garden shears.
Propping my feet up, I take a deep breath and start the initial cut.
Ping!
A sharp sting on my left cheek. Good job I was wearing goggles. Could have taken an eye out with that toe nail clipping.
One down!
Safety first, affix safety goggles. I consider using gardening gloves, but that might be going too far. Anyway, you should never handle heavy machinery in gloves, the risk of the tool slipping out of your hands and going flying off- no. I need a firm grip on the garden shears.
Propping my feet up, I take a deep breath and start the initial cut.
Ping!
A sharp sting on my left cheek. Good job I was wearing goggles. Could have taken an eye out with that toe nail clipping.
One down!
January 5, 2016
Personal Ad
Single sophisticated white male, seeking long term relationship with another similar white male, no time wasters please. Recently lost my life partner and only just getting over the loss.
Enjoys a sporty lifestyle, but equally happy to snuggle up in some comfy slippers and watch a movie together on a winter’s evening.
I’m past my prime but I keep myself in good shape. Looking for a partner with similar outlook on life. Good sense of humour a must.
No long term relationships considered.
Will respond to all genuine responses so don’t hesitate.
Please rescue me from this single sock drawer.
Enjoys a sporty lifestyle, but equally happy to snuggle up in some comfy slippers and watch a movie together on a winter’s evening.
I’m past my prime but I keep myself in good shape. Looking for a partner with similar outlook on life. Good sense of humour a must.
No long term relationships considered.
Will respond to all genuine responses so don’t hesitate.
Please rescue me from this single sock drawer.
January 3, 2016
Burkatex Brides
Burkatex Brides I
“Look at them,” he said, “Walking around here in their bloody burkas as if they own the place. It shouldn’t be allowed.”
I looked up from my pint to watch the three black-clothed individuals passing the window of the pub. “Erm…” I begin.
“I mean to say,” he continues, having only paused in his rant to down a mouthful of bitter, “why can’t they dress like normal people?”
“Erm, Jack…” I start.
“You don’t see us trying to force our religion down our neighbour’s throats….”
I remember being woken by Jehovah’s Witnesses, but know it’s a waste of time arguing.
s II
A few minutes later, he nearly spits out his pint in disgust. “Look! More of them! Jesus H, they must have opened a mosque nearby!”
Crunching on my salt and vinegar crisps, I peer out of the window.
This time, the two pedestrians are male, bearded and wearing long brown robes. They are smiling and chatting amiable. A few people stop and stare at them as they walk down the street, but they pay no heed.
A few feet behind them is a young lady in metal bikini.
“They’re not muslims, Jack” I explain. “They’re going to the fantasy convention.”
“Look at them,” he said, “Walking around here in their bloody burkas as if they own the place. It shouldn’t be allowed.”
I looked up from my pint to watch the three black-clothed individuals passing the window of the pub. “Erm…” I begin.
“I mean to say,” he continues, having only paused in his rant to down a mouthful of bitter, “why can’t they dress like normal people?”
“Erm, Jack…” I start.
“You don’t see us trying to force our religion down our neighbour’s throats….”
I remember being woken by Jehovah’s Witnesses, but know it’s a waste of time arguing.
s II
A few minutes later, he nearly spits out his pint in disgust. “Look! More of them! Jesus H, they must have opened a mosque nearby!”
Crunching on my salt and vinegar crisps, I peer out of the window.
This time, the two pedestrians are male, bearded and wearing long brown robes. They are smiling and chatting amiable. A few people stop and stare at them as they walk down the street, but they pay no heed.
A few feet behind them is a young lady in metal bikini.
“They’re not muslims, Jack” I explain. “They’re going to the fantasy convention.”
December 27, 2015
Midnight in the Madhouse
Twas the night before Christmas and all through the madhouse, the creatures were stirring. Outside, in the cold darkness, the full moon was peeking through the trees, bloated and glowing brightly.
Midnight was fast approaching as I hurried down the corridors, candlestick in hand, checking each door was firmly bolted in place as I did my rounds.
The patients were growing restless. The Wolfman began to howl, feeling the moon madness boiling up in his blood, setting his brain alight. I heard him snarling as I tiptoed passed his cell, hoping not to set him off.
His howling always upset the more placid patients; got them going, and it was the quiet ones that you had to watch out for…
Like the Darkness.
He was a shifty character if ever there was one, but for most of the time he sat there, almost catatonic, and did nothing, said nothing, didn’t respond in any way to the other inmates. Every so often, though, the Darkness would stir, and trouble would not be far behind.
Reaching his door, I twisted the knob.
To my surprise, the door swung open. Inside, the room was as dark as the inside of a nun’s habit. He detested the daylight, and always had the blinds firmly shut.
“Mr Fenwyche…?” I whispered, peering into the depths. I never referred to the inmates by their pseudonyms. That was against hospital protocol. “Are you in here, Jack?”
There was no response, so switched on the light.
The room was empty.
The Darkness had escaped.
This wasn’t good.
There was always difficult questions to be asked when the dead bodies were eventually found, and a lot of paperwork to be completed.
I considered hitting the panic button and waking the daytime staff, but most of them were probably still down at the local pub and wouldn’t be home for hours.
That only left the caretaker, and it was never a wise move to disturb him. Rumour had it that he had once been a resident, but he’d been here so long, no one was really sure anymore.
No, I would have to handle the situation myself, and hope for the best. With any luck, the Darkness had just popped down to the kitchen for a midnight snack, and I could lead him back to his room before anything nasty occurred, or at least, clean up the mess and bury the bodies before the day shift recovered from their hangovers.
I headed down to the day room on slippered feet, trying not jump at every shadow. Mr Fenwyche wouldn’t kill me, I kept mumbling to myself. I was his friend.
I could only hope that I was right about that.
The day room was dark, with only the sparse Christmas decorations twinkling on the big tree to light up the gloom. I was about to continue my search elsewhere, when I noticed a twinkle of candlelit reflecting off something silver in the shadows beside the ancient fireplace.
“Jack?” I asked, approaching tentatively. “Is that you?”
As I drew nearer, I could make out a darker shadow lurking in the darkness. I’d found Mr Fenwyche. It was then that I spotted the carving knife in his hand, the shiny blade reflecting off my candle.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Waiting,” he replied eventually.
“It’s the middle of the night, Jack. You know the rules. You can’t open your presents until after breakfast. We do it together.”
He remained silent.
“Let’s nip down to the kitchen, and I can rustle us up some mince pies. I think there are some left from the staff party.”
He didn’t budge, which was a testament of his single-minded willpower. Something was clearly bothering him if he wasn’t tempted by the Cook’s treats. She had a magical touch. She could even make Brussel sprouts seem palatable.
With a sigh, I asked, “What’re you waiting for, Jack?”
“Midnight.”
“Why? What’s going to happen then?” I asked.
“I’m going to kill Santa!”
“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. People tend to get upset when you do that sort of thing. Remember the flack we got when you killed the Tooth Fairy. It took forever to find a replacement, and we were nearly shut down. I really think you’d be better off nipping down to the kitchen for a mince pie instead. How’s about I make us both a cup of cocoa to go with it?”
He remained where he was, but I could sense him wavering, so I added, “We might even find where Cook has hidden the marshmallows’…”
He sighed. “Okay then!”
Carefully, I took the razor sharp blade from Mr Fenwyche’s hands, “I’d better put this back where it belongs or there’ll be all hell to pay tomorrow. You know how Cook gets about her cutlery.”
Together, we headed off to the kitchen in search of a midnight treat.
Another disaster averted. It was always a challenge working the night shift in an author’s head.
Moments later, soot sprinkled down the chimney …
Midnight was fast approaching as I hurried down the corridors, candlestick in hand, checking each door was firmly bolted in place as I did my rounds.
The patients were growing restless. The Wolfman began to howl, feeling the moon madness boiling up in his blood, setting his brain alight. I heard him snarling as I tiptoed passed his cell, hoping not to set him off.
His howling always upset the more placid patients; got them going, and it was the quiet ones that you had to watch out for…
Like the Darkness.
He was a shifty character if ever there was one, but for most of the time he sat there, almost catatonic, and did nothing, said nothing, didn’t respond in any way to the other inmates. Every so often, though, the Darkness would stir, and trouble would not be far behind.
Reaching his door, I twisted the knob.
To my surprise, the door swung open. Inside, the room was as dark as the inside of a nun’s habit. He detested the daylight, and always had the blinds firmly shut.
“Mr Fenwyche…?” I whispered, peering into the depths. I never referred to the inmates by their pseudonyms. That was against hospital protocol. “Are you in here, Jack?”
There was no response, so switched on the light.
The room was empty.
The Darkness had escaped.
This wasn’t good.
There was always difficult questions to be asked when the dead bodies were eventually found, and a lot of paperwork to be completed.
I considered hitting the panic button and waking the daytime staff, but most of them were probably still down at the local pub and wouldn’t be home for hours.
That only left the caretaker, and it was never a wise move to disturb him. Rumour had it that he had once been a resident, but he’d been here so long, no one was really sure anymore.
No, I would have to handle the situation myself, and hope for the best. With any luck, the Darkness had just popped down to the kitchen for a midnight snack, and I could lead him back to his room before anything nasty occurred, or at least, clean up the mess and bury the bodies before the day shift recovered from their hangovers.
I headed down to the day room on slippered feet, trying not jump at every shadow. Mr Fenwyche wouldn’t kill me, I kept mumbling to myself. I was his friend.
I could only hope that I was right about that.
The day room was dark, with only the sparse Christmas decorations twinkling on the big tree to light up the gloom. I was about to continue my search elsewhere, when I noticed a twinkle of candlelit reflecting off something silver in the shadows beside the ancient fireplace.
“Jack?” I asked, approaching tentatively. “Is that you?”
As I drew nearer, I could make out a darker shadow lurking in the darkness. I’d found Mr Fenwyche. It was then that I spotted the carving knife in his hand, the shiny blade reflecting off my candle.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Waiting,” he replied eventually.
“It’s the middle of the night, Jack. You know the rules. You can’t open your presents until after breakfast. We do it together.”
He remained silent.
“Let’s nip down to the kitchen, and I can rustle us up some mince pies. I think there are some left from the staff party.”
He didn’t budge, which was a testament of his single-minded willpower. Something was clearly bothering him if he wasn’t tempted by the Cook’s treats. She had a magical touch. She could even make Brussel sprouts seem palatable.
With a sigh, I asked, “What’re you waiting for, Jack?”
“Midnight.”
“Why? What’s going to happen then?” I asked.
“I’m going to kill Santa!”
“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. People tend to get upset when you do that sort of thing. Remember the flack we got when you killed the Tooth Fairy. It took forever to find a replacement, and we were nearly shut down. I really think you’d be better off nipping down to the kitchen for a mince pie instead. How’s about I make us both a cup of cocoa to go with it?”
He remained where he was, but I could sense him wavering, so I added, “We might even find where Cook has hidden the marshmallows’…”
He sighed. “Okay then!”
Carefully, I took the razor sharp blade from Mr Fenwyche’s hands, “I’d better put this back where it belongs or there’ll be all hell to pay tomorrow. You know how Cook gets about her cutlery.”
Together, we headed off to the kitchen in search of a midnight treat.
Another disaster averted. It was always a challenge working the night shift in an author’s head.
Moments later, soot sprinkled down the chimney …
December 21, 2015
Brussel Sprouts
I remember as a child, my mother lecturing me about the starving black babies in Africa and how much they would appreciate the vegetables that I was nudging reluctantly around my plate. I would have willingly offered up my Brussel Sprouts to them. I hated them.
Now, here I was, giving the same lecture, and like before, it was falling on deaf ears.
He dug around in his bowl, finding a choice morsel here and there, and spilling the rest onto the floor.
“There are poor babies in Africa …” I ranted.
The parrot chewed on a sunflower seed, oblivious.
Now, here I was, giving the same lecture, and like before, it was falling on deaf ears.
He dug around in his bowl, finding a choice morsel here and there, and spilling the rest onto the floor.
“There are poor babies in Africa …” I ranted.
The parrot chewed on a sunflower seed, oblivious.
December 15, 2015
A Fairytale in New York
It was love at first sight, or was it lust?
Their eyes met across the crowded subway, and a connection was made: call it what you will.
He stayed on the subway until they were finally alone.
She waited for him to cross the train and speak to her.
Encouraged by her soft smile, he eventually approached. His first day in New York and he had already found the love of his life.
“How’s she cutting?” he asked, in his soft Irish accent.
Her smile deepened, showing her carnivorous incisors. She relished the sweet innocence she found within his blood.
Their eyes met across the crowded subway, and a connection was made: call it what you will.
He stayed on the subway until they were finally alone.
She waited for him to cross the train and speak to her.
Encouraged by her soft smile, he eventually approached. His first day in New York and he had already found the love of his life.
“How’s she cutting?” he asked, in his soft Irish accent.
Her smile deepened, showing her carnivorous incisors. She relished the sweet innocence she found within his blood.
Trevor’s Coming Out
This started life as a drabble, but I was having way too much fun with it...
“I’m opening the chest,” declares Jenny. She is playing Arberon, the female Cleric of the Order of Saint Beryll the Pure.
“Inside the chest you see a suit of chainmail armour. It glitters in the bottom of the chest in the torchlight,” advises the DM with a knowing smile.
“I’ll cast Detect Magic on it,” Tony announces, rolling his dice. He’s playing Sylvanian, a High Elf magic-user.
“Oh, it’s magic alright,” confirms the DM. “It’s clearly of Elven craftsmanship and it has been designed to fit a female warrior. The chainmail suit comes in two pieces; a ... well, a sort of skimpy codpiece, and a tiny section for the upper bodice.”
Comprehension dawns quickly to the only female in the room. Jenny rolls her eyes in disgust. “Men!” she mutters. “I’m not wearing a chainmail bikini, you pervy bastards! Forget it!”
“I’ll wear it,” pipes up Trevor, who’s was playing Barbie Thunderthighs; the buxom female Barbarian.
“Right Trevor...” The DM begins.
“Barbie,” corrects Trevor, keen to remain in character.
“Oops sorry … Barbie. You slip into the shimmering armour. It caresses your tanned skin like the richest silks and fits you like it a glove. Your voluptuous breasts are elegantly secured within the *cough* chainmail shirt, while your curvaceous hips are wonderfully displayed by the skimpy ‘codpiece’. The loins of the barbarian god: Crom, stir at the fine figure of womanhood he sees before him.”
“Oh, for feck sake,” grumbles Jenny. “Get a bleedin’ room, will ya?!”
“Oooh,” Trevor gushes, ignoring Jenny’s barbed comment. “Anyone fancy sparing with me. I’ll need to check out this armour before we bump into some real foes?”
“We’re in the middle of a campaign, Trevor!” Jenny points out. “We’re supposed to be rushing to the Haunted Woods. We need to be there before nightfall or we’ll likely be attacked by roving Orcs.”
“I’ll give it a go,” offers Peter, A.K.A Grimloch the Dwarf Fighter.
*****
“Grimloch swings his axe, but at the critical moment his eyes are blinded by the light reflecting off your armour, Barbie,” explained the DM. “Or is it the scintillating sway of your ample breasts? That figure-hugging outfit must have stirred his pebble-like loins, despite the fact that he’s a stumpy little Dwarf.”
“Hey! Hang on a minute!” objects Grimloch. “Let’s not get Dwarfist here, shall we? There’s no call for that!”
Jenny makes retching noises in the background.
She’s pointedly ignored by the other players, all of whom are male. They’re having way too much fun at the moment.
“Mark that down as +3 Elven armour, Trevor,” instructs the DM.
Jenny slips back into character and Arberon the cleric slaps Barbie firmly in the plump derriere.
“Ouch! What did you do that for?” Trevor complains on behalf of his character.
“Doesn’t look like much in the way of armour to me, Trevor.” Jenny declares. “I hardly even took a swing.”
“Better make that +3 Elven armour against male opponents, Trevor,” amends the DM. “It looks like it doesn’t have any special attributes when it comes to female opponents.”
“Surely that depends on the female,” snickers Tony cheekily.
“Ewww, gross!” squeals Jenny. “You wish!”
“I bet your mate Celia would give Barbie one,” adds Tony, slipping fully out of character. “She’s a raving dyke.”
“She is not!” objects Jenny vehemently.
“Of course she is. She’s always wearing that hoodie with the female symbol on it. Everyone knows that means she’s a lesser!”
“You are such a loser, Tony!” sneers Jenny. “Just because she laughed when you asked her to that dance, doesn’t mean that she’s a … a …”
“Carpet-Muncher,” prompts the DM, also slipping out of character.
Jenny flushes with a mixture of embarrassment and anger reddening her cheeks. “Celia’s a feminist, not a lesbian, you cretins.”
“Same thing,” Tony affirms with all the confidence of a natural bigot.
“No, you’re wrong, Tony,” Trevor corrected. He too had slipped out of character - at least a little. “Feminism is a political thing, whereas muff-snorkelling is purely for sexual gratification. We girls need to stick up for each other in this male dominated society we are forced to survive in. We’ve been downtrodden for far too long!”
Trevor’s cheeks are flushed with righteous indignation as he finishes his speech.
The room has gone deathly silent. Even the gerbil in the corner is looking embarrassed. Time for a few runs on the treadmill, it thinks, and leave this to the idiots with only two legs. It promptly starts to make a racket in the corner, burning off a few calories.
The DM finally breaks the silence. “Erm … Trev?”
“Sorry, I was still sort of in-character,” Trevor blusters. “That’d be what Barbie would say…”
“Oh, yeah!” agrees the DM.
“Of course!” Tony adds hastily, “We knew that, didn’t we!”
“I can’t see Barbie attending any feminist meetings,” Jenny sneers, still more than a little miffed by the way her night has gone downhill, “At least not in that bikini. She’d be lynched.”
“Well, if you’ve all quite finished, perhaps you should set off again for the Haunted Woods?” suggests the DM, eager to change the subject.
“You started it!” objects Jenny, though she too is eager to get back into the game.
“I did not!” protests the DM.
“Oh really!” argues Jenny. “I suppose someone else came up with the idea of making a set of chainmail swimwear and hiding it in that treasure chest. I mean, let’s face it; you wouldn’t want to go swimming in it, would you? Even if it is elven made. You’d sink like a brick.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admits the DM, his fantasies suddenly shattered. “Anyway … So you set off again down the path, heading for the Haunted Woods …”
“I’m opening the chest,” declares Jenny. She is playing Arberon, the female Cleric of the Order of Saint Beryll the Pure.
“Inside the chest you see a suit of chainmail armour. It glitters in the bottom of the chest in the torchlight,” advises the DM with a knowing smile.
“I’ll cast Detect Magic on it,” Tony announces, rolling his dice. He’s playing Sylvanian, a High Elf magic-user.
“Oh, it’s magic alright,” confirms the DM. “It’s clearly of Elven craftsmanship and it has been designed to fit a female warrior. The chainmail suit comes in two pieces; a ... well, a sort of skimpy codpiece, and a tiny section for the upper bodice.”
Comprehension dawns quickly to the only female in the room. Jenny rolls her eyes in disgust. “Men!” she mutters. “I’m not wearing a chainmail bikini, you pervy bastards! Forget it!”
“I’ll wear it,” pipes up Trevor, who’s was playing Barbie Thunderthighs; the buxom female Barbarian.
“Right Trevor...” The DM begins.
“Barbie,” corrects Trevor, keen to remain in character.
“Oops sorry … Barbie. You slip into the shimmering armour. It caresses your tanned skin like the richest silks and fits you like it a glove. Your voluptuous breasts are elegantly secured within the *cough* chainmail shirt, while your curvaceous hips are wonderfully displayed by the skimpy ‘codpiece’. The loins of the barbarian god: Crom, stir at the fine figure of womanhood he sees before him.”
“Oh, for feck sake,” grumbles Jenny. “Get a bleedin’ room, will ya?!”
“Oooh,” Trevor gushes, ignoring Jenny’s barbed comment. “Anyone fancy sparing with me. I’ll need to check out this armour before we bump into some real foes?”
“We’re in the middle of a campaign, Trevor!” Jenny points out. “We’re supposed to be rushing to the Haunted Woods. We need to be there before nightfall or we’ll likely be attacked by roving Orcs.”
“I’ll give it a go,” offers Peter, A.K.A Grimloch the Dwarf Fighter.
*****
“Grimloch swings his axe, but at the critical moment his eyes are blinded by the light reflecting off your armour, Barbie,” explained the DM. “Or is it the scintillating sway of your ample breasts? That figure-hugging outfit must have stirred his pebble-like loins, despite the fact that he’s a stumpy little Dwarf.”
“Hey! Hang on a minute!” objects Grimloch. “Let’s not get Dwarfist here, shall we? There’s no call for that!”
Jenny makes retching noises in the background.
She’s pointedly ignored by the other players, all of whom are male. They’re having way too much fun at the moment.
“Mark that down as +3 Elven armour, Trevor,” instructs the DM.
Jenny slips back into character and Arberon the cleric slaps Barbie firmly in the plump derriere.
“Ouch! What did you do that for?” Trevor complains on behalf of his character.
“Doesn’t look like much in the way of armour to me, Trevor.” Jenny declares. “I hardly even took a swing.”
“Better make that +3 Elven armour against male opponents, Trevor,” amends the DM. “It looks like it doesn’t have any special attributes when it comes to female opponents.”
“Surely that depends on the female,” snickers Tony cheekily.
“Ewww, gross!” squeals Jenny. “You wish!”
“I bet your mate Celia would give Barbie one,” adds Tony, slipping fully out of character. “She’s a raving dyke.”
“She is not!” objects Jenny vehemently.
“Of course she is. She’s always wearing that hoodie with the female symbol on it. Everyone knows that means she’s a lesser!”
“You are such a loser, Tony!” sneers Jenny. “Just because she laughed when you asked her to that dance, doesn’t mean that she’s a … a …”
“Carpet-Muncher,” prompts the DM, also slipping out of character.
Jenny flushes with a mixture of embarrassment and anger reddening her cheeks. “Celia’s a feminist, not a lesbian, you cretins.”
“Same thing,” Tony affirms with all the confidence of a natural bigot.
“No, you’re wrong, Tony,” Trevor corrected. He too had slipped out of character - at least a little. “Feminism is a political thing, whereas muff-snorkelling is purely for sexual gratification. We girls need to stick up for each other in this male dominated society we are forced to survive in. We’ve been downtrodden for far too long!”
Trevor’s cheeks are flushed with righteous indignation as he finishes his speech.
The room has gone deathly silent. Even the gerbil in the corner is looking embarrassed. Time for a few runs on the treadmill, it thinks, and leave this to the idiots with only two legs. It promptly starts to make a racket in the corner, burning off a few calories.
The DM finally breaks the silence. “Erm … Trev?”
“Sorry, I was still sort of in-character,” Trevor blusters. “That’d be what Barbie would say…”
“Oh, yeah!” agrees the DM.
“Of course!” Tony adds hastily, “We knew that, didn’t we!”
“I can’t see Barbie attending any feminist meetings,” Jenny sneers, still more than a little miffed by the way her night has gone downhill, “At least not in that bikini. She’d be lynched.”
“Well, if you’ve all quite finished, perhaps you should set off again for the Haunted Woods?” suggests the DM, eager to change the subject.
“You started it!” objects Jenny, though she too is eager to get back into the game.
“I did not!” protests the DM.
“Oh really!” argues Jenny. “I suppose someone else came up with the idea of making a set of chainmail swimwear and hiding it in that treasure chest. I mean, let’s face it; you wouldn’t want to go swimming in it, would you? Even if it is elven made. You’d sink like a brick.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admits the DM, his fantasies suddenly shattered. “Anyway … So you set off again down the path, heading for the Haunted Woods …”
December 14, 2015
Zen and the Art of Navigation
Maybe it’s a throwback to our primordial roots, which go out with club in hand and drag home the dinner instinct, but let us face facts here, Men don’t ask directions.
Why is this, I am sure you ask? Especially if you are a woman.
Personally, I believe it is a deep rooted sense of adventure. You can never take the boy out of the man, no matter his age. He is only ever two excuses away from kicking a ball around or getting stuck in and building a really cool go-kart.
Of course, I may be generalising. Having spent a large part of my adult life as a traveller, in one form or another, the urge to explore has never really left me.
A road closure is not a setback in my mind; it’s an opportunity, a sign from the gods.
If I get stuck behind a tractor trailer, my first instinct is to assess the plot of the land ahead, and seek an alternative route to my destination. I wonder where that lane goes. Will it come back to the main road ahead of the tractor? It’s worth a try.
Some would say, (not naming their gender) that such thoughts are frivolous and we are going to be late if we start to take random detours. Ironically, it is usually the same person that caused you to be late in the first place, as they couldn’t find their hairbrush, ties. That’s not to mention the fact that we had to turn around and go back home as they had forgotten their mobile phone.
No.
A wise man doesn’t mention those critical facts. He just enjoys the journey. The final destination is irrelevant. We will get there when we get there and not a moment sooner.
So men do not feel obliged to ask for directions. That would be cheating. That’d be like looking at the back pages of a crossword puzzle book when you can’t find the answer to Five Down. Instead, we explore.
Our co-pilot can gnash their teeth with frustration, but we will persevere, safe in the knowledge that we will get there eventually. It may take a few detours to find the right one, but we will, in the end.
We will arrive at our destination as happy men, content in a job well done, even if the co-pilot glares at us and the sat-nav sounds irate.
Speaking of sat-navs, I love them but I still ignore them. In reality, I use mine more to keep me within the speed limits than for any directional assistance. I would be a rich man if I got a penny for every time it said, “Recalculating route.”
I admit I talk back to mine. “No, I’m not speeding,” “I’m not going that way,” “Yeah, whatever! Bite me.”
One day, my co-pilot is going to point out that I’m speeding, and I, in a moment of rashness, am going to say, “Yeah, whatever. Bite me!” forgetting that it’s my wife speaking and not the sat-nav. She’ll probably have the phrase engraved on my tombstone, and do the whole grieving widow bit well, or at the very least I’ll be in the dog house all week.
So ladies, I beg you, embrace the adventurer within your man. Let him have his moment of glory when he finds the shortcut that even the sat-nav didn’t know existed. It is a small victory, but an important one. Whether you notice it or not, be sure that he will often happily let you bask in the limelight. He will always be there to support you, and will happily turn the car around ten minutes into the journey so that you can search for your phone. The fact that you carry around a huge bag, and he wears only a jacket, and yet he can remember where everything is and have it to hand, is of no consequence. He accepts these little idiosyncrasies as all being a part of the wonderful person he married, even if he doesn’t understand them.
Let him have his hunter-gatherer moment. Plan ahead. Leave five minutes earlier so that there is plenty of time to explore the world around you. Consider it a Zen moment. You are meant to take that overgrown lane. It will lead you to your future self.
Why is this, I am sure you ask? Especially if you are a woman.
Personally, I believe it is a deep rooted sense of adventure. You can never take the boy out of the man, no matter his age. He is only ever two excuses away from kicking a ball around or getting stuck in and building a really cool go-kart.
Of course, I may be generalising. Having spent a large part of my adult life as a traveller, in one form or another, the urge to explore has never really left me.
A road closure is not a setback in my mind; it’s an opportunity, a sign from the gods.
If I get stuck behind a tractor trailer, my first instinct is to assess the plot of the land ahead, and seek an alternative route to my destination. I wonder where that lane goes. Will it come back to the main road ahead of the tractor? It’s worth a try.
Some would say, (not naming their gender) that such thoughts are frivolous and we are going to be late if we start to take random detours. Ironically, it is usually the same person that caused you to be late in the first place, as they couldn’t find their hairbrush, ties. That’s not to mention the fact that we had to turn around and go back home as they had forgotten their mobile phone.
No.
A wise man doesn’t mention those critical facts. He just enjoys the journey. The final destination is irrelevant. We will get there when we get there and not a moment sooner.
So men do not feel obliged to ask for directions. That would be cheating. That’d be like looking at the back pages of a crossword puzzle book when you can’t find the answer to Five Down. Instead, we explore.
Our co-pilot can gnash their teeth with frustration, but we will persevere, safe in the knowledge that we will get there eventually. It may take a few detours to find the right one, but we will, in the end.
We will arrive at our destination as happy men, content in a job well done, even if the co-pilot glares at us and the sat-nav sounds irate.
Speaking of sat-navs, I love them but I still ignore them. In reality, I use mine more to keep me within the speed limits than for any directional assistance. I would be a rich man if I got a penny for every time it said, “Recalculating route.”
I admit I talk back to mine. “No, I’m not speeding,” “I’m not going that way,” “Yeah, whatever! Bite me.”
One day, my co-pilot is going to point out that I’m speeding, and I, in a moment of rashness, am going to say, “Yeah, whatever. Bite me!” forgetting that it’s my wife speaking and not the sat-nav. She’ll probably have the phrase engraved on my tombstone, and do the whole grieving widow bit well, or at the very least I’ll be in the dog house all week.
So ladies, I beg you, embrace the adventurer within your man. Let him have his moment of glory when he finds the shortcut that even the sat-nav didn’t know existed. It is a small victory, but an important one. Whether you notice it or not, be sure that he will often happily let you bask in the limelight. He will always be there to support you, and will happily turn the car around ten minutes into the journey so that you can search for your phone. The fact that you carry around a huge bag, and he wears only a jacket, and yet he can remember where everything is and have it to hand, is of no consequence. He accepts these little idiosyncrasies as all being a part of the wonderful person he married, even if he doesn’t understand them.
Let him have his hunter-gatherer moment. Plan ahead. Leave five minutes earlier so that there is plenty of time to explore the world around you. Consider it a Zen moment. You are meant to take that overgrown lane. It will lead you to your future self.
Christmas in the Tenements
I stir with a fresh tingly feeling coursing through my body, suddenly wide awake. I sense that today is going to be something special. Then I remember: Today is Christmas.
The house seems brighter than normal, like the sun shining in through the curtains does in high summer, and not the gloomy dullness of an Irish winter.
The air even smells crisper, denying the usual mustiness of the Georgian house. Rising from my bed, I can hear noise outside in the street, and also from within the house. There appears to be a carnival atmosphere to the sounds I hear; gay laughter, idle chatter, the soft pitter-patter of children running around downstairs … That is strange, for I live alone.
A flashback came to me of the night before; the drunken party at Seamy’s gaff. Did I bring the party home with me? No, I couldn’t have. I vaguely remember leaving there in the early hours of the morning. The party was still in full swing.
Staggering down the street, I had fumbled drunkenly with the keys before putting them in the ignition and heading home … alone, definitely alone.
Rising from the bed, I tiptoe to the door and peer into the hall.
Two boys are sitting on the wooden stairs, engrossed in a game of cards. They turn to look at me briefly but remain silent, quickly dismissing me, and continuing with their game.
They both look scruffy and undernourished, half-starved in fact.
I wonder what they are doing there, and I’m just about to interrupt their game to ask them when a woman steps out of the nearest bedroom. She is carrying some white bed linen, though the bloodstain on the sheets stood out starkly against the well-bleached cloth.
The woman was once beautiful, though her face has started to show the strain of harsh living. Worry lines mar her complexion. She, like the boys on the stairs, is shabbily dressed. Her cream blouse is as blood-stained as the bed-sheets, and her black cotton skirt is rumpled. It suggests that she had slept in it.
Strange, you don’t often see long skirts like that these days. They went out in the sixties.
The woman stops, looking surprised to see me there. Recovering quickly, she speaks. “Yous must be a new tenant. I ain’t seen ya before, have I luvvy?”
Her accent is pure inner-city Dublin. If you could bottle it, you’d make a fortune, selling it to the yanks. You could almost imagine her selling oranges at a market stall on Grafton Street – “Five fur a pow-end!”
I’m a little taken aback by the question as I’ve owned the house for almost ten years now. I’d bought it before the latest property boom.
All I can say in response is “Erm no …not really.”
“Listen … I can’t stop,” she replies, brushing past me. “This stain will never come out if I don’t soak it soon. Mrs B. in number eight has lost her wee child … again. It’s hard on her at this time of year … That sort of loss never goes away.”
“I’m sorry for her loss,” I reply; a ritual that comes without conscious thought, no matter the sense of loss. Greif comes as easy as talking about the weather.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” she says, a tone of resignation in her voice. “My name’s Rosie, by the way, Rosie Byrne.”
“Cain,” I reply. “Cain Murphy, pleased to meet you.”
Just then, I hear the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs. Turning, I blink in surprise. Climbing up the stairs at a ponderous pace is a filthy-looking character straight out of Oliver Twist. His donkey jacket is steaming slightly in the crispness of the hall. On his shoulder, he is carrying a grey sack of coal.
His face is hard to make out under the deeply ingrained layer of coal dust, but I can vaguely make out a thick bushy moustache. That and his clear blue eyes.
Realisation hits me.
Rosie’s skirt, the boys’ short grey trousers and ragged pullovers, the coalman; even down to the greasy flat cap. My friends must have planned some sort of re-enactment; the idiots.
Still, it was a nice thought. The coalman, however, was a step too far. I’d only put in a new Axminster carpet last year, and it had cost a fortune.
I try to play along, despite my concerns. I start to applaud. “Oh, he’s too much! You almost had me fooled there, just for a minute...”
Rosie gives me a strange look.
Playing along with the joke, I look around for the hidden cameras. The light was dimmer, here in the hallway, with lots of shadowy places within the old Georgian house to hide a camera. I probe the darkness but only end up straining my eyes. Eventually, I give up and reach for the light switch.
I pause.
The white plastic switch I had bought when I redecorated is no longer there. In its place is a black Bakelite one. I touch it, hesitantly, suspecting a mirage. It feels almost warm to the touch. Hesitantly, I flick the switch and nearly jump out of my skin as the bulb lights up the hall.
Impossible.
My expensive carpet has been replaced by bare floorboards, as worn and grimy as the actors in this strange play.
My friends had gone to a lot of trouble to make this whole façade appear real. I could even smell the overpowering stench of stale sweat coming off the coalman. Clearly he was one of those method actors. He mustn’t have bathed for weeks.
I close my eyes for a moment, hoping that I’m dreaming. This whole thing felt like a hallucination.
“Are you feeling all right, dearie?” Rosie asked, dropping her sheets and reaching for my arm. “You’ve gone all pale.”
“’E must be a newcomer,” declared the coalman, who by now had reached the landing. Dropping his coal bag, he looked me up and down with a critical eye. It was as if he were digesting the crumpled t-shirt and Pennies sweatpants I’d slept in. “Best fetch ‘im a cup’a’tae, Rosie luv, before he keels over on us.”
Taking my arm, he guided me back into my bedroom and over to the chair by the window. It was then that I noticed that my bedroom furniture had changed too.
“Sit ya’self down there, sonny, and catch ya breath. Rosie’ll have ya roight as rain in no time, you’ll see. She used to be a nurse, ya know, a good one too!”
“Why did she stop?” I asked, feeling a little light-headed. The day had started out so well, but was rapidly going downhill.
“It was Consumption that got her in the end, poor lass … In her prime too.”
“Consumption?” I asked.
“Aye, consumption. The lads out there … it was the mumps that did for them… on the same day, too. Best mates they were. They were both born ‘ere, lived here their whole lives .... Best mates they remain...”
I felt detached, numb.
“Mr Barton, downstairs in Number Three, he was shot during the Rising. A hero that one, but you’d never know it to look at him. It was a nasty way to go that, shot in the belly. That sort of pain never really goes away, but he never complains…”
I stopped listening to him. A flashback of the night before came to me then:
Bright lights, the squeal of tyres …, and a lamppost rushing towards my car.
Rosie reappeared at this point, a steaming cup of strong tea in her hands. She’d even gone to the trouble of finding a saucer for the china cup, though it didn’t match and was chipped on one side. “Ah musher, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she joked.
I was later to learn that this joke never got old amongst the dead who dwelt in the house. I’d been living there for almost a decade and I’d never noticed the ghosts, until I became one of them.
The house seems brighter than normal, like the sun shining in through the curtains does in high summer, and not the gloomy dullness of an Irish winter.
The air even smells crisper, denying the usual mustiness of the Georgian house. Rising from my bed, I can hear noise outside in the street, and also from within the house. There appears to be a carnival atmosphere to the sounds I hear; gay laughter, idle chatter, the soft pitter-patter of children running around downstairs … That is strange, for I live alone.
A flashback came to me of the night before; the drunken party at Seamy’s gaff. Did I bring the party home with me? No, I couldn’t have. I vaguely remember leaving there in the early hours of the morning. The party was still in full swing.
Staggering down the street, I had fumbled drunkenly with the keys before putting them in the ignition and heading home … alone, definitely alone.
Rising from the bed, I tiptoe to the door and peer into the hall.
Two boys are sitting on the wooden stairs, engrossed in a game of cards. They turn to look at me briefly but remain silent, quickly dismissing me, and continuing with their game.
They both look scruffy and undernourished, half-starved in fact.
I wonder what they are doing there, and I’m just about to interrupt their game to ask them when a woman steps out of the nearest bedroom. She is carrying some white bed linen, though the bloodstain on the sheets stood out starkly against the well-bleached cloth.
The woman was once beautiful, though her face has started to show the strain of harsh living. Worry lines mar her complexion. She, like the boys on the stairs, is shabbily dressed. Her cream blouse is as blood-stained as the bed-sheets, and her black cotton skirt is rumpled. It suggests that she had slept in it.
Strange, you don’t often see long skirts like that these days. They went out in the sixties.
The woman stops, looking surprised to see me there. Recovering quickly, she speaks. “Yous must be a new tenant. I ain’t seen ya before, have I luvvy?”
Her accent is pure inner-city Dublin. If you could bottle it, you’d make a fortune, selling it to the yanks. You could almost imagine her selling oranges at a market stall on Grafton Street – “Five fur a pow-end!”
I’m a little taken aback by the question as I’ve owned the house for almost ten years now. I’d bought it before the latest property boom.
All I can say in response is “Erm no …not really.”
“Listen … I can’t stop,” she replies, brushing past me. “This stain will never come out if I don’t soak it soon. Mrs B. in number eight has lost her wee child … again. It’s hard on her at this time of year … That sort of loss never goes away.”
“I’m sorry for her loss,” I reply; a ritual that comes without conscious thought, no matter the sense of loss. Greif comes as easy as talking about the weather.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” she says, a tone of resignation in her voice. “My name’s Rosie, by the way, Rosie Byrne.”
“Cain,” I reply. “Cain Murphy, pleased to meet you.”
Just then, I hear the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs. Turning, I blink in surprise. Climbing up the stairs at a ponderous pace is a filthy-looking character straight out of Oliver Twist. His donkey jacket is steaming slightly in the crispness of the hall. On his shoulder, he is carrying a grey sack of coal.
His face is hard to make out under the deeply ingrained layer of coal dust, but I can vaguely make out a thick bushy moustache. That and his clear blue eyes.
Realisation hits me.
Rosie’s skirt, the boys’ short grey trousers and ragged pullovers, the coalman; even down to the greasy flat cap. My friends must have planned some sort of re-enactment; the idiots.
Still, it was a nice thought. The coalman, however, was a step too far. I’d only put in a new Axminster carpet last year, and it had cost a fortune.
I try to play along, despite my concerns. I start to applaud. “Oh, he’s too much! You almost had me fooled there, just for a minute...”
Rosie gives me a strange look.
Playing along with the joke, I look around for the hidden cameras. The light was dimmer, here in the hallway, with lots of shadowy places within the old Georgian house to hide a camera. I probe the darkness but only end up straining my eyes. Eventually, I give up and reach for the light switch.
I pause.
The white plastic switch I had bought when I redecorated is no longer there. In its place is a black Bakelite one. I touch it, hesitantly, suspecting a mirage. It feels almost warm to the touch. Hesitantly, I flick the switch and nearly jump out of my skin as the bulb lights up the hall.
Impossible.
My expensive carpet has been replaced by bare floorboards, as worn and grimy as the actors in this strange play.
My friends had gone to a lot of trouble to make this whole façade appear real. I could even smell the overpowering stench of stale sweat coming off the coalman. Clearly he was one of those method actors. He mustn’t have bathed for weeks.
I close my eyes for a moment, hoping that I’m dreaming. This whole thing felt like a hallucination.
“Are you feeling all right, dearie?” Rosie asked, dropping her sheets and reaching for my arm. “You’ve gone all pale.”
“’E must be a newcomer,” declared the coalman, who by now had reached the landing. Dropping his coal bag, he looked me up and down with a critical eye. It was as if he were digesting the crumpled t-shirt and Pennies sweatpants I’d slept in. “Best fetch ‘im a cup’a’tae, Rosie luv, before he keels over on us.”
Taking my arm, he guided me back into my bedroom and over to the chair by the window. It was then that I noticed that my bedroom furniture had changed too.
“Sit ya’self down there, sonny, and catch ya breath. Rosie’ll have ya roight as rain in no time, you’ll see. She used to be a nurse, ya know, a good one too!”
“Why did she stop?” I asked, feeling a little light-headed. The day had started out so well, but was rapidly going downhill.
“It was Consumption that got her in the end, poor lass … In her prime too.”
“Consumption?” I asked.
“Aye, consumption. The lads out there … it was the mumps that did for them… on the same day, too. Best mates they were. They were both born ‘ere, lived here their whole lives .... Best mates they remain...”
I felt detached, numb.
“Mr Barton, downstairs in Number Three, he was shot during the Rising. A hero that one, but you’d never know it to look at him. It was a nasty way to go that, shot in the belly. That sort of pain never really goes away, but he never complains…”
I stopped listening to him. A flashback of the night before came to me then:
Bright lights, the squeal of tyres …, and a lamppost rushing towards my car.
Rosie reappeared at this point, a steaming cup of strong tea in her hands. She’d even gone to the trouble of finding a saucer for the china cup, though it didn’t match and was chipped on one side. “Ah musher, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she joked.
I was later to learn that this joke never got old amongst the dead who dwelt in the house. I’d been living there for almost a decade and I’d never noticed the ghosts, until I became one of them.
Footfungi’s Apprenticeship
Winter is a busy time for the house imps, what with hiding scarfs, mittens and such, but they still looked forward to endless hours of mischief. Truth be told, they loved their work.
As silent as church mice, they slunk around the house looking for the dusty boxes that held last year’s decorations.
“I’ve found them, Jack,” squealed young Footfungi.
Jack O’Lantern frowned at his eager apprentice, “Howld ya whisht young’un!”
“Sorry, I forgot!” apologised Footfungi, but he could hardly contain his excitement. They’d found the mother lode; Christmas lights!
They had been working perfectly when they’d been packed away.
As silent as church mice, they slunk around the house looking for the dusty boxes that held last year’s decorations.
“I’ve found them, Jack,” squealed young Footfungi.
Jack O’Lantern frowned at his eager apprentice, “Howld ya whisht young’un!”
“Sorry, I forgot!” apologised Footfungi, but he could hardly contain his excitement. They’d found the mother lode; Christmas lights!
They had been working perfectly when they’d been packed away.
