Starter for Ten – w/c 24-2-20
Starter for Ten is a daily writing exercise where the aim is simply to write for a full 10 minutes. No editing or revision is allowed after the 10 minutes is up and blank pages are not allowed – if all else fails type out song lyrics. The aim is to try new things, experiment with voices and styles and be bold!
Suckage often occurs. Wednesday’s is best this week…
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MONDAY
W: What is your problem?
M: I was waiting to pull into that space. You already had a
space, so move back.
W: Why should I? There was no one in the space so I pulled
into it. I can see now you were looking at moving into that space, but I did
first.
M: It was mine.
W: If it was yours then I would have crashed into you, you
arsehole.
M: Lovely attitude you’ve got. Do you talk to your husband
like that?
W: Did you talk to your ex-wife like that?
M: Jokes on you, I’m not divorced.
W: Good things come to those who wait.
M: Listen, just give me that space back.
W: Why?
M: Because it’s the one that I was waiting to pull into!
W: There’s loads of space.
M: Yeah, but I want to go there.
W: As we’ve already established, you clearly didn’t have the
space in the first place, otherwise I’d currently be parked on top of your head
– which is an attractive thought right at the moment.
M: Oh so you’re threatening me now? Did you hear that mate?
S: What’s that?
M: Did you hear what she said about driving into my face?
W: I didn’t say that – I pointed out that it wasn’t “your
space” because I was in it first.
M: That’s not the point!
B: Mum! Dad! Why can’t you just enjoy the dodgems like any other normal people?
TUESDAY
There’s a bad energy in the room. Jokes that would usually
land are falling flat. He’s hoping that it’s something to do with this fucking
mouth ulcer. Every time his tongue probes a certain point on his inside lip it
stings and his attention is momentarily distracted. He’s changed his delivery
ever-so minutely and it’s enough to screw his timing.
But he’s experienced, he’s been doing stand-up a long time
and he knows enough to sell the lines with physical movements. His arm
movements become bigger and his hands start to push the punchlines; after
twenty minutes his face muscles are exhausted because he’s pantomiming the fuck
out of the evening.
“I’m not one of those self-hating Jews,” he says and he
realises that the word “Jews” is the perfect storm for this ulcer – the pursing
of the lips for the J and the little thrust of the tongue for the S antagonise
it perfectly and he winces. He notices a lady react to the wince and pushes
quickly on. “My mother does that for me.”
A small laugh – maybe a 5. That line is usually a solid 7
out of 10 laugh and it allows him to build from it, this section is going to be
tough. Mentally he computes how well this section would deliver if he had to
prune the word Jews out of it. Somehow even thinking the word makes his lip
wince – he bails.
“But enough about Je-ow the adherents of the Hebrew faith, let’s talk about…”
WEDNESDAY
The mouse
crashed through a pile of leaf mould, scattering fragments in the air and
skittered on the wet gravel. He turned hard right and ploughed again through
the deep piles of oak leaves that sat on the road. The cat sprang and landed on
the pile, padding at the various movements with his claws, thrusting into where
he hoped the mouse would be. A noise over on the right alerted the cat that he
had miscalculated and he tore through the leaves, swiping clusters of them to
one side in the hope of revealing the small, damp creature. It would make no more
than a mouthful, but this was about more than hunger now – it was about
humiliation. The cat felt it and longed to inflict it.
The cat
approached the trunk of the tree and swished at the remaining leaves. The mouse
scuttled quickly around the edge of the trunk, a fraction too slow to stop the
cat from driving the claws of its right paw through the bed of its tail. It peeped
with anxiety and pain and the cat reveled in the moment. The chase was
beautiful but the kill was art – first a wound to ensure that any subsequent
chase would be very one-sided. Then a parody of the morning’s back and forth,
to rehearse for the next and to celebrate the kill. Then a small meal – it’s
body and innards, leaving the spine and skull for the birds.
He drove
his claw in further and the mouse peeped again and shook. It shivered
and looked up just in time to see the bulldog tiptoeing up behind the cat, with
the largest metal skillet the mouse had ever seen, raised over its head.
THURSDAY
There’s something really satisfying about pouring sugar into
a container. Opening the folds of a large packet of sugar and tipping it into
the caddy that will be its home. In part this is because the sugar is, at this
stage, pristine white and is yet to accumulate the mysterious brown flecks that
characterise the look of latter-stage sugar caddy sugar. You can kid yourself
that this time you’ll keep to the rules, it will be dry teaspoons only that
will be used. But really, who can be bothered to get a spoon to fish out the
tea bag from the cup and another spoon to get the sugar. That’s where
the brown flecks come from, crystallised drops of tea.
The other thing that’s nice about tipping the sugar into the
caddy is the aesthetic of it. It whooshes out and builds into a peak in the
centre which a quick nudge on the caddy will flatten. The grains of sugar
behave according to some laws of fluids, in the same way that you get waves in
banks of sand. Enough atoms of sugar are pushed into the atmosphere to sweeten
the very air. The echoing caddy soon takes on a deeper sound as the weight of
material builds. The entire bag fits in and means that you won’t have to fold
the bag over and keep yet another scrag end of a bag in the cupboard with the
odds and sods of flours and powders.
The lid sits snug on the container, a rubber seal keeping the contents pristine – a new hope that this time it will be better and that the area around the kettle will not attract chaos. This time it will all work out.
FRIDAY
Afternoon tea? A four tier platter of sandwiches, cakes, petits fours, a glass of champagne, a vole and a pot of perfectly-brewed tea. All served by a waiter who is so smart he could be off to a wedding and he’s wearing white gloves.
Yes that sounds lovely. I’m wondering though if you’d accept some feedback?
It’s the vole, isn’t it.
It is the vole, yes.
It’s an outlier, isn’t it.
I’m not sure I’d even describe it as an outlier, I’d simply say it’s an irrelevance. You’ve done really well with the rest of the offer – the good, the drinks, the service. I’m just not sure what a woodland creature adds to the ensemble.
On the first week you said that we needed a USP. I looked it up when I got home and it means Unique. A Unique Selling Point.
That’s right.
None of the other hotels do a vole with their afternoon tea.
Right.
It’s unique.
Right.
I googled it, there is no other hotel anywhere in the world that offers voles. The niche is entirely empty.
Right. Let’s for the moment establish that the vole provides the U in this situation.
It’s Unique.
Right. What I think you might want to ponder on is whether this same element brings the S.
The Selling.
Yes.
Oh.
That’s right. If I compared offerings between your hotel and the one next door would the vole raise an eyebrow? Certainly. Would it get me through the doors? No.
Oh.
How far have you gone with the marketing?
Not far. Barely anywhere.
That’s good.
Just a banner.
OK, well that can be removed.
And a thing in the paper.
Which paper?
All of them.
Anythi-
A skywriter. I’ve renamed the business to The Voletel.
Anyt-
And I’ve ordered fifteen thousand voles. And employed a vole handler.
Why?
I thought people might want to choose their vole from a bucket of live ones. Like lobsters.
