Small Joys

by Elvin James Mensah

Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession, friendship is never anything but sharing. —Elie Wiesel, The Gates of the Forest

I had never thought much about birds before I met Muddy. Any interest that I had in them, and the various species that inhabited Britain, was because of him. There were a lot of things I hadn’t considered before I met him. I’d often thought of life as something to be bargained with, to be battled with. It was an entity to which you repeatedly justified your existence, to which you made your case for why it deserved to be embellished with happiness and love and friendship. There was something almost mythical about people for whom it hadn’t been this way, people who were simply entitled to happiness by virtue of being alive. Muddy often made me feel as if I deserved to be one of these people. His enthusiasm for his own life made mine feel better by association. It was an enthusiasm that seeped into quotidian things like swimming, various kinds of rock music, karaoke, and, yeah, birds. The first time I saw him was on a warm afternoon in July. I’d just returned home to Dartford from university, and I had no intention of going back. I stood in the woods by my flat, staring at a small X-Acto knife cradled in my palm. I thought I’d submerged myself somewhere that felt thickly wooded enough that nobody would see me. It was so quiet. From the trees to the dirt to the wildflowers, it felt as if the woods were closing in on themselves. The quiet hadn’t brought with it any peace; in fact, it had amplified my ominous thoughts. I pressed my eyes shut and begged life for something it had...

quotidian /kwōˈtidēən/ I. adjective — [attrib.] 1. of or occurring every day; daily • the car sped noisily off through the quotidian traffic. 2. ordinary or everyday, especially when mundane • his story is an achingly human one, mired in quotidian details. 3. [Medicine] denoting the malignant form of malaria. – origin Middle English: via Old French from Latin quotidianus, earlier cotidianus, from cotidie ‘daily.’

I had never thought much about birds before I met Muddy. Any interest that I had in them, and the various species that inhabited Britain, was because of him. There were a lot of things I hadn’t considered before I met him. I’d often thought of life as something to be bargained with, to be battled with. It was an entity to which you repeatedly justified your existence, to which you made your case for why it deserved to be embellished with happiness and love and friendship. There was something almost mythical about people for whom it hadn’t been this way, people who were simply entitled to happiness by virtue of being alive. Muddy often made me feel as if I deserved to be one of these people. His enthusiasm for his own life made mine feel better by association. It was an enthusiasm that seeped into quotidian things like swimming, various kinds of rock music, karaoke, and, yeah, birds. The first time I saw him was on a warm afternoon in July. I’d just returned home to Dartford from university, and I had no intention of going back. I stood in the woods by my flat, staring at a small X-Acto knife cradled in my palm. I thought I’d submerged myself somewhere that felt thickly wooded enough that nobody would see me. It was so quiet. From the trees to the dirt to the wildflowers, it felt as if the woods were closing in on themselves. The quiet hadn’t brought with it any peace; in fact, it had amplified my ominous thoughts. I pressed my eyes shut and begged life for something it had...

quotidian /kwōˈtidēən/ I. adjective — [attrib.] 1. of or occurring every day; daily • the car sped noisily off through the quotidian traffic. 2. ordinary or everyday, especially when mundane • his story is an achingly human one, mired in quotidian details. 3. [Medicine] denoting the malignant form of malaria. – origin Middle English: via Old French from Latin quotidianus, earlier cotidianus, from cotidie ‘daily.’ Mancunian is the associated adjective and demonym of Manchester, a city in North West England. It may refer to: Anything from or related to the city of Manchester or the county of Greater Manchester, in particular: The people of Manchester (see also List of people from Manchester) The Manchester dialect of English The Mancunion, a student newspaper published by University of Manchester Students' Union. Buses created primarily to the specifications of Manchester Corporation's transport department: The Crossley Mancunian front-engine double-decker chassis of the 1930s The rear-engine Mancunian double-decker bus bodywork on Leyland and Daimler chassis of the 1960s The Mancunian Way is a two mile long grade separated elevated motorway in Manchester, England. It is officially made up of the A57(M) and A635(M) motorways, although the latter does not appear on road signs for practical reasons.[1] It is also part of two other roads: the A57 to the west, which runs east–west through Greater Manchester linking the M602 and M67 motorways, and a short section of non-motorway A635 to the east. Part of this non-motorway section collapsed on 14 August 2015 due to a sinkhole.[2] Mancunians is Manchester's rugby league and sports club fielding several rugby and handball teams across the city at various age groups. The club is a Sports Club Community Mutual (Co-operative) and carries out development work across the city of Manchester. Mancunians Shield Club information Full name Mancunians Rugby League and Handball Club Colours Scarlet, gold and white Founded 2 April 2009; 16 years ago Website www.wearemancunians.com Current details Ground(s) The Hough End Centre Competition North West Men's League The club submitted an expression of interest to the Rugby Football League to join Championship 1 in 2009 and are working with the Rugby Football League to develop their application further. History edit Mancunians RL was formed on 2 April 2009 and joined the RL Merit League. In their inaugural season they were able to field two full teams on several occasions due to the sheer numbers of players interested in the club. The club were RL Merit Club of the year in 2009. The club joined the Rugby League Conference in 2010 and were crowned regional champions at the first attempt and were promoted to the North West Premier division of the Rugby League Conference for 2011. Mancunians RL announced a partnership between Manchester College, the Rugby Football League and Manchester City Council, to fund a full-time community coach to begin to increase participation in rugby league in Manchester. Manchester College began offering a rugby league academy in 2012, giving young people in Manchester the opportunity to study rugby league on a full-time basis and secure coaching and sports science qualifications, whilst also representing the college and the city at rugby league. Mancunians Handball was launched in 2012, with the club running several Handball after school clubs across the city. The club was reconstituted to a community benefit society (cooperative) in May 2012 in line with other successful sports clubs including FC Barcelona, FC United of Manchester, Rochdale Hornets, Bramley Buffaloes and Hunslet Hawks. In 2013 Mancunians launched a rugby league coaching scholarship in partnership Manchester Metropolitan University. On 12 November 2013, Mancunians held Manchester's largest ever schools rugby league tournament at Parrs Wood High School. Over 100 schools pupils took pay with several Australian Kangaroos mentoring the sides and presenting the winning side Wright Robinson college with the Mancunians Year 10 rugby league tournament trophy. On 15 November 2013 Mancunians launched a 13- to 16-year-old Rugby League Academy at Parrs Wood High School, Didsbury. In March 2015 the club announced their 20:20 Vision to have 1,000 participants across Manchester involved in the club by the year 2020. In November 2015 they began to offer wheelchair rugby for adults and children. In January 2016 Mancunians announced that they had expanded their geographical footprint to encompass five areas of Manchester due to demand from partner schools and community groups and would be creating new leagues in the sports that they offer.

NVQ

NVM abbreviation ‹informal› short for never mind: • NVM, I'll continue blogging anyway • oh well, NVM. National Vocational Qualifications (NVQs) are practical work-based awards in England, Wales, and Northern Ireland that are achieved through training and assessment. The regulatory framework supporting NVQs was withdrawn in 2015 and replaced by the Regulated Qualifications Framework (RQF), although the term "NVQ" may be used in RQF qualifications if they "are based on recognised occupational standards, work-based and/or simulated work-based assessment, and where they confer occupational competence".[1] As the NVQ is based on a student's practical skills, it is completed in the workplace. The NVQ was assessed by building up a portfolio of evidence based on the student's professional experience. At the end of the NVQ, the student undergoes final practical assessments, during which an NVQ assessor will observe and ask questions. To achieve an NVQ, candidates have to prove that they have the ability (competence) to carry out their job to the required standard. NVQs are based upon meeting National Occupational Standards, which describe the "competencies" expected in any given job role. NVQs are not graded "pass" or "fail". Instead, an NVQ is graded either "Competent" (which is seen as passing the NVQ) or, if further work must be completed, "Not Yet Competent" (which is regarded as failing the NVQ). Typically, candidates work towards an NVQ that reflects their role in a paid or voluntary position. For example, someone working in an administrative office role may take an NVQ in Business and Administration. There are five levels of NVQ, ranging from Level 1, which focuses on basic work activities, to Level 5 for senior management. Although NVQs such as NVQ Level 3 can be roughly translated as being at the same level as a GCE Advanced Level or BTEC Level 3 Extended Diploma, in terms of depth and vigor of study, the NVQ cannot be compared with other academic qualifications at the same level, i.e. GCE Advanced Levels and the BTEC Level 3 Extended Diploma (an A* at A-Level is equivalent to a D* at BTEC Level 3). For this reason, the NVQ Level 3 does not attract UCAS points and cannot be used for university admission. In Scotland, the approximately equivalent qualification is the Scottish Vocational Qualification. They are the responsibility of the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Apprenticeships and Skills in the Department for Education.[2] Levels edit NVQs are competence-based qualifications. The five levels of NVQ are defined as having the following competencies:[3] Level 1 – Competence, which involves the application of knowledge and skills in the performance of a range of varied work activities most of which may be routine and predictable. Level 2 – Competence, which involves the application of knowledge and skills in a significant range of varied work activities, performed in a variety of contexts. Some of the activities are complex or non-routine, and there is some individual responsibility or autonomy. Collaboration with others, perhaps through membership of a work group or team, may often be a requirement. Level 3 – Competence, which involves the application of knowledge and skills in a broad range of varied work activities performed in a wide variety of contexts and most of which are complex and non-routine. There is considerable responsibility and autonomy, and control or guidance of others is often required. Level 4 – Competence, which involves the application of knowledge and skills in a broad range of complex, technical, or professional work activities performed in a wide variety of contexts and with a substantial degree of personal responsibility and autonomy. Responsibility for the work of others and the allocation of resources is often present. Level 5 – Competence, which involves the application of skills and a significant range of fundamental principles and complex techniques across a wide and often unpredictable variety of contexts. Very substantial personal autonomy and often a significant responsibility for the work of others and for the allocation of substantial resources feature strongly, as do personal accountabilities for analysis and diagnosis, design, planning, execution and evaluation.

My dad wasn’t a violent man. In fact, a lot of my childhood could be characterized by him not touching me at all. I often felt like a houseplant he’d never really wanted, something a friend had given him in the early eighties that he’d taken in only because he’d owed them something.

I’d never thought heartbreak allowed for much nuance, that one iteration of it was more violent or superior to another. But familial heartbreak really was different, I’d realized. It was nothing like I imagined the romantic kind was, where it was the vulnerability that did you in, that made you susceptible to emotional terrorism. You didn’t have to be vulnerable for familial pain to ruin you; its power to do so transcended walls you’d built, or the emotional distance you’d put forth because you’d begun to suspect that sometimes love wasn’t all that unconditional. I didn’t have anyone without my dad; he’d raised me entirely on his own, so this kind of heartbreak really meant steeling yourself and allowing your heart to withstand all that vitriol. Because no retaliation on your part, no outburst, could disguise the fact that the one person in the world who was obligated to love you simply didn’t, at least not as you were. It was like being braced inside a rusty bear trap, your skin gashed, veins of blood pooling into little floods around your foot. And the only person that could help you was standing there, considering your life, assessing if it was a life worth saving.

In my teenage years, I’d developed a habit of talking to myself. I’d ask myself a question and then answer it. I’d known I was only doing this because I was convinced that I’d never have any friends, so I had this idea of being one to myself. I could be honest and loyal and supportive. I could listen to myself and make myself laugh. But when life grew cold, I couldn’t exactly be honest. I’d had to tell myself lies to function: everything would be okay, so I would be too. But in the good days—and there had been good days—my own company had been my most treasured possession. How satisfying, I had thought, how reassuring, to know you could save your own life from loneliness. I’d built a foundation on which I could stand. I could reap the fruits that life bore when it was aware that you had someone in your corner, someone who loved you. But in the bad days, I’d felt compelled to believe how pathetic this all was. I would feel the loneliness as if it were an ulcer on my soul.

I’d wanted to spend the evening updating my blog with a new album review; I was going to go into Muddy’s room and take something from his collection. But reflecting on his concern for me had made me feel warmer, less self-deprecating. I put on The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, skipping all the way down to the cover of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,” and lay back on my bed, looking at the ceiling, smiling, thinking: I am worthy of concern. Perhaps my dignity wasn’t being pried from me, it was actually being returned. There was a dignity in being cared for, in being fussed over, in being loved. I let the song’s jaunty composition inhabit me and I closed my eyes, nodding my head in agreement with the lyrics: Muddy often had felt too good to be true, I often couldn’t take my eyes off of him, it often felt like heaven when he held me, love had indeed arrived, I was thankful he was alive and I loved him. By the end of the song my head felt so clear, and my heart so heavy with joy. I played it again.

After Finlay had driven me home that evening, I stood in the bathroom watching my reflection; the glass was all peppered with water spots and paste marks. The flat was so silent that it amplified the sound of the tap dripping, of my breathing, of the hum of the heater. Whenever the anger I felt from having seen Muddy in that state began to wane, I’d blink and see him lying there, all beaten and bloodied, and the anger would flare up again. I scanned my face carefully, attempting to understand once and for all what it was about me that dispensed so much misfortune; why did the people who associated with me seem to suffer? Was it something I could physically remove? Did I have to pray it away? I really had been a weed: strangling the healthy plants that surrounded me. It wasn’t enough to simply wish happiness upon my friends, perhaps I needed to go away; maybe, at the end of the day, happiness and I were simply incompatible. I couldn’t be trusted to be there for Muddy the way he had been for me. The longer I stood there, the more I felt my world being punted off its axis, the more I felt these new things that I’d welcomed into my life, to make it better, slip out of place, sliding down their shelves and shattering to pieces; I was never meant to have these things, I realized: friends and optimism and therapy, none of it. There was a reason for my loneliness and, in the end, no matter how far I veered away from this place, life always brought me back; it might’ve looked diffe...

“Harles, can I ask you something, pal?” I nodded. “Bit of a weird one, this. But when did you first know you were a queer?” I laughed. “A queer?” “Oh, sorry, mate,” he said, “you don’t like that? I meant gay.” “No, it’s fine,” I said. “I was ten, maybe? It wasn’t anything particularly earth-shattering. I remember I liked our neighbor’s son; I used to get really excited when I’d see him from my bedroom window. Sometimes he’d be in the garden with his friends having a drink or he’d be trimming hedges. One summer, when I got older, I saw him sunbathing shirtless with his girlfriend and I think I just had to admit that I was a bit different.” He fell silent, seeming to consider this. “So, why do you ask?” He looked at me but still didn’t say anything. “Is it because those guys called you a faggot?” He nodded and then went quiet yet again. Eventually, he said: “So that gaydar thing you lot are supposed to have…that legit?” “Of course,” I said. “Signal can be a bit shit sometimes, but it’s usually foolproof.” “Go on, then.” “What?” “Use it on me.” “You think you’re gay?” “I dunno,” he said. “Not really. I’m not sure.” “Well, I guess the first thing to establish is if you’ve ever been sexually attracted to another guy?” “I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, obviously you see a good-looking bloke, and you’re like: yeah, that’s a good-looking bloke. But I’ve never thought: yeah, that’s a good-looking bloke, let me go over and slip him one real quick. D’ya know what I mean?” “Yeah,”...

“Muddy?” I said as he was about to get up. “Yeah, pal?” “Can I kiss you?” He looked at me blankly at first, tilting his head a little, every painful second slipping by as he said nothing, the knots in my stomach tightening. But then he smiled. “You wanna kiss me, do you?” he said. “Ah, come here, pal.” The knots unraveled. He threw an arm around me and pulled me close to him, cupping a hand on my face and pressing his lips onto mine. I could feel him inhaling, could feel the air sweeping across my upper lip in a gentle wave, could feel his stubble bristle against my chin, could feel this bright rush of energy pulsing through me. I could’ve almost collapsed beneath the weight of the relief, of the warmth, of the intensity, of the vast sensation of simply being wanted by someone like this. I breathed in so deeply and let him inhabit me, and it was as if we were secreted in the woods again. I put my hand on his chest then and felt his heart beating. When we pulled ourselves apart, he smiled at me and said in a low voice: “How was that, then?” The only thing I could do was smile back. “That bad, huh?” he joked. “I haven’t actually ever been told I’m a good kisser, so apologies if I’m—” “Muddy, it was fine.” “Fine?” “Yeah.” “Bollocks.” He puckered his lips at me. “Come on, let’s go again, pal. Fuckin’ fine. You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?” I laughed. “It was more than fine.” “Happy days, then,” he said, patting me on the back and looking back across the distance. “Happy days.”

Now, back in the garden, we heard some rustling in the branches over the fence; we both got up. Muddy stood next to me holding the bits of cheese. He put his hands over mine and poured the cheese into my palms; his were starting to tremble in excitement as he let go. “Is the robin still there?” I asked. “Yeah, pal,” he said, “robin’s still chillin’ up there. Give it time, mate. And if it don’t come down, it’s all right, we can try again tomorrow. It’s a gradual process. Just don’t bail on me like Finn did.” We smiled at each other. I looked up, and I could see the little robin too; I wasn’t confident that it would fly down because it had gone so quiet. All my life I’d known happiness to be this evasive thing, something I’d had to pounce on and hold still even as it evaporated through my fingers. These moments of disappointment, of sadness, of emptiness, had permeated my life, and I’d felt resigned to them. Life, with all its facets, terrified me. Happiness was scary because the loss of it was scary. Loneliness was scary also, but so was losing that familiarity it gave me, that awful sense of home I’d made in it. I’d always felt like a weed growing among flowers, competing for light and water: too neglected to be picked, but somehow too weak to be a threat to anything. But, in the end, these flowers had given me something, they’d arranged themselves around me, and made me feel as if I were one of their own. And now I could see the potential for longevity in these spells of ...