On Tea and Writing (and biscuits)

A piece of whimsy (based on factual events) that I wrote and read at Firstsite Gallery, along with others, on Friday 3rd November 2017, as part of a readings evening to raise money for EducAid.

The scene: A day of writing at the family house, whilst I am waiting in for a delivery. There are two things present in the house that I do not have in  my flat; a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and a telly...

Arrive at the house

Get licked all over

By a very

excited Staffie.

Play with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make myself a cuppa

With biscuits for dunking

Get my writing stuff out

All over the table.

Write a few words down

Oh, what’s that one I’m looking for?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Scroll through the Sky menu.

Watch George Gently,

And American Pickers,

And Hercule Poirot,

And Wheeler Dealers,

(converting a vintage Chevy

a ’54 stepside).

Answer the door

Sign for the parcel

Play with the Staffie

(Who was woken by the delivery)

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

Eat a pack of kit kat snacks

Think about my cholesterol.

Write a few more words down

Is this a poem

Or a piece of flash fiction?

Have a little nap

Because writing is tiring

(that’s my excuse).

Get woken by the Staffie

Let her in the garden

Play ball with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

Why is it so hard

to say what I want to?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Start thinking about swords

That poem about Excalibur

I still haven’t written.

Try to remember

the name of Frodo’s sword

in Lord of the Rings

(that turns blue when Orcs are near).

Go on google

It’s called Sting

And it’s only a dagger,

Then go on you tube

And listen to some Police songs.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

After a while

Get stuck with the story.

Read through what I’ve written

Think about my writing

Wish that I was better.

Have a pity-party

Indulge in some pointless

Self-recrimination.

Realise I’m being stared at

By a playful Staffie.

Give her some attention

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Realise I’m hungry.

Make myself a sandwich

And another cuppa.

I’ve eaten all the biscuits

so no more for dunking.

Make the Staffies dinner

Hope that she’ll stop pestering

While I eat my sarnie

And drink my cuppa

There’s not a hope in hell

Of that happening

She’s a multi-tasker

Where food is concerned.

Where has the time gone?

The day has flown by

I’ve managed to do some writing

Which will need an edit

And then another one

But that’s for another day

It’s bloody never ending

Why did I choose writing?

Pack all my things up

Then do the washing up

Hide the empty biscuit wrapper

In the bottom of the bin.

Hope no one notices.

Try to say goodbye

To the lovely Staffie

Who just wants to play

So we get her ball

I chase her round the room

Then she chases me.

Put the kettle on again

Make another cuppa.

Sit on the sofa

While she curls up on my lap

And starts snoring.

Get my book out

I’ll be here for a while now

Anyway there’s no hurry

Before I know it

I’m snoring too.

Writing days are lovely

With a sleepy Staffie

If I’m very lucky

There’ll be another soon.

And I can do more writing

And drink more tea

With biscuits for dunking.

Walking and Thinking and Making Connections Between Then and Now

On my way back to my flat after a visit to the Coop, I walk past a little antique shop that opened recently and pause to look in the window. A treasure trove unfolds before my eyes. It used to be a second hand book shop many years ago, before I lived here, and I visited often. I lived a few miles away then.

I particularly remember one occasion, (the first time I was signed off work with depression, in my late twenties) buying a complete set of D H Lawrence short stories, the first one I read being Ticket's Please, and it just blew my mind. I had recently joined a reading group and this was instrumental in opening my heart to the absolute joy and wonder of literature. I also bought the complete Sherlock Holmes short stories and some poetry.

Very recently I bought a silver Parker pen and propelling pencil set, (in a brown plastic case and made in England) from the shop who's window now has me entranced. I bought it because it is very similar to the one that mum and dad gave me as a reward for passing my 11plus. It was either late 1971 or early 1972. 

I remember at the time dad was wearing his red waistcoat. I loved that waistcoat. It was a dark red and it was felt-like to touch. I wonder what happened to it?

I seem to recall he had a silver pocket watch at one point, but can’t be certain of that. I guess he was trying to cultivate a certain look, similar I suppose to the look I cultivate now. It definitely made an impression on me. He always made an impression.  

I also roll up my shirtsleeves like he used to, just one or two turns, and I have a tattoo like he does, of a small swallow on my left forearm.

I had it done while I was still at secondary school and he was in prison, perhaps as a way of holding on to the man I had already lost, that we all had lost, who if truth be told was lost himself, although I was far too young and hurt to realise that then, and have to constantly remind myself of it now.

He has been married now for longer than he was married to my mum, and has never been in prison again. His current wife has the same name as the Pyrenean mountain dog we used to have as children. She is a fine woman as far as I know her, which isn’t very well truth be told. I haven’t seen either of them for, what, thirty or so years now (apart I think from a brief half hour when they were visiting my sister about ten years ago). I stopped seeing him, intentionally, after a particularly painful weekend visit when our children were babies, over half my lifetime ago.

He is an old man now, and I am getting older. I hold no grudge and bear him no malice or ill will. He wasn’t the best father. I’m not sure I was the best son. As an adult I have had no relationship with either of my parents, having lost mum to cancer in 1979. She was 58. I was 18. Her and dad were already divorced and he had moved on. I am 55 now.

I was a child back then, with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’m not certain I’m a man now, I just get on with life. Sometimes the depression rises and sometimes it’s quiet. It’s been a faithful companion, that’s for sure.

I return to the flat with my memories and essential provisions, tea and biscuits, and I sit and write. Me and the words I try to form into meaningful sentences, my relationship with literature deepening, growing. I am still learning.

I pause to sip my tea, an image still vivid. I think I will buy a red waistcoat.

This Just In

Meanwhile in more local news, from the East Grinstead Echo....

A lifetimes repressed anger boiled over in the local supermarket today when octogenarian and recent UKIP convert, Rita 'Randy' Ransom tutted loudly at a foreign vegetable and shuffled off in a huff, muttering 'Bring back Buy British' under her breath.

The supermarket's recently appointed Non gender specific or race or age implied everyone's equal and we don't want to offend anyone spokesperson (no offence to animals) Dave English said they were 'Very disappointed with Rita, and that this sort of thing was happening more frequently'.

They have invited Rita and her wheelie shopping basket to attend one of their 'All vegetables are the same colour under the soil' presentations, where there will be free Fairtrade tea and sugar, and gluten and milk free biscuits (from their popular BLAND range).

Store employee of the week, and last month's runner up in the most frequently requested vegetable handler category, Caroline Carbuncle, would like to inform shoppers that the Californian Kumquats are particularly moist this week and to wish everyone a nice day.