The Thermal Underwear of Youth

(posted on behalf of Annette McLeod)

I don’t remember when it started – it seems to have been some time ago.

I’ve shared it with no one. It’s not a secret that I think ridiculous, I don’t, it’s more to do with the lack of opportunity.

Sharing something like this could result in people thinking I’m a bit odd and its not a subject I feel I can just blurt out in the middle of surface conversations.

I haven’t even told Stan. It’s personal to me, like I imagine things are personal to him, even after 38 years of married life. I see it really as keeping the boat afloat, you know allowing it to list this way and that on strange tides without a big storm blowing up and capsizing it.

No, I think I’m right to stay "mum" on this one.

Not that I’ve ever been a mum – we’ve never had children and never had tests or asked why.
Have you seen those people on television telling the world about longing for a baby and not being able to have one. I’ve had to wonder if there’s something missing in me because I’ve never felt like that. I can’t say we’ve ever discussed it between us – a bit like a page missing in a book, but not spoiling the story.

Don’t get me wrong, I would have enjoyed children. I’m pretty good at taking care of things and creating a solid home. We’ve never been short of money, had decent holidays, always had a nice car each, and I’ve never worked so we would have been well placed to bring up children.

Still my women’s institute and meals on wheels keep me involved.

Today I did "my secret thing". I never know when the mood will take me but when it does, I act. I blame the wooden floors we’ve had put down; they make it so easy to move furniture. I call it my artistic hobby because its as regular as a hobby and it involves painting, which I consider artistic.

At the back of the wardrobe is my favourite place but I have been known, on warm days to do it behind the shed in broad daylight.

The colours are bold and the pieces are in big blocks. Somehow being hidden gives me a sense of privacy and freedom. So I slosh away in broad strokes, arcing lines that curve and circle each other, bleeding into each other sometimes where runs cascade and overlap. I call this freefall or escape. Sometimes the bleeds create new striking colours and patterns and I’ve even painted fine lines between the runs symbolising varying pathways and connections.

It makes no sense, has no real structure but when I’m there in full flow as it were, I love it. I sing a bit and talk out loud to myself and recently I’ve taken a ladder upstairs so that I can reach higher and get longer runs and work on a bigger piece of wall.

I’ve started calling into B&Q and paint warehouses buying up tester pots of odourless emulsion then driving home like an excited child rushing to catch traffic lights. I almost abandon my car on the drive, rush through the door, throw my coat across the back of the chair, kick off my shoes and race upstairs pulling at my clothes as I go. The bags of goodies land on the bed, as I strip off and then, with exquisite slowness, I unravel my set of red thermal underwear and begin to ease into the soft finely woven fabric.

Don’t ask me why but wearing those close fitted leggings and top with long tube like sleeves adds to my sense of being an artist. Its like adding my second skin that allows me to become someone else. There’s something luxurious about something so soft, weightless, yet giving such comfort and warmth. I feel theatrical, dramatic even. I stand in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors and mimic mimes that I remember from childhood. I can feel the warm pipes under the wooden floor and I slide my bare feet from side to side throwing my arms wide, balancing on one leg and trying to do the tree of life pose. I stretch, glide around and pirouette. I walk in exaggerated strides like a prima Donna ballerina to the right hand side of the wardrobe and in one movement pull it forward. I then navigate the gap and push the left hand side so that I have enough space to manoeuvre. I turn and I stare and stare at the wall, all the time peeling the plastic strips from the new tester pots.

I place them in a neat line and retrieve the dust sheets from inside the wardrobe. I lay these carefully along the floor and up to the edge of the skirting board. Once in place, I sit down and begin to take the lids from the new pots. Today I had saffron, ochre, burnished gold, Egyptian sand, deep turquoise and an azure blue. It’s utterly thrilling to look into these pots – I almost slaver over them.

To suspend the moment of brush touching paint and paint touching wall I walk the length of our bedroom, opening the small windows to ventilate the room, and flick on the CD player. As the music starts I glide with arms outstretched and slip slide across the room, circling, rising and falling in time with the music. Some Honky Tonk Woman I think, they don’t all live in gin bars in Memphis Mick! I laugh out loud and say you’re nearly in the zone girl and then I laugh again. As I catch my reflection in the mirror I see a happy woman, stretching and releasing her energy. I smile.

To paint I say out loud, stop prancing about. With more exaggerated strides and a shimmy thrown in, I reach the back of the wardrobe and I stare.

Its good I say out loud, all of it, its good. I laugh and reach for the first pot.

Burnished gold, it looks every bit as fabulously rich as I had imagined. I take my smallest brush and carefully etch the edge of the red block. The shape comes alive, the red takes on a warmer hue and I feel like a master craftsman creating something significant.

I put down my pot and brush and step back. Its even more beautiful than I thought possible and I find myself stroking the soft fabric of my thermal top.

I don’t understand why I am so comforted or at such peace. Everything is perfect, in harmony, soft edged yet brilliant too. As I stare I begin to weep. I don’t try to stop the tears which run untamed off my chin and on to my top where they get absorbed and warmed in the fine weave. I sit on the floor facing the wall and my second skin stretches and eases itself into position. It’s a moment of being totally at one with myself, my body, my world.

Then I notice something I’ve never seen before. In the distance of the painting the landscape is undefined, flat, neutral, open somehow, waiting for colour to be added.

The foreground is dominated by two columns that stand apart but are equal in size, shape and even structure. The colours that radiate from them are very much opposites.

The one on the left is predominantly dark, flecked with odd flashes of colour, brooding almost with strange angles shooting off here and there, in a randomness that almost breaks up the column but at the same time defines it.

The other is bright solid red, shot through with ripples and runs of yellow, peach, vanilla, now etched in burnished gold. Its stands comfortably next to the darkly oppressive column and adds relief and light with an almost edible feel to it.

Between the two columns is some cross over colour almost like fireworks have ricocheted between the two and pock marked both with small gashes. This is where I stand, masked in my red thermals, sucked into the picture.

I saw it then as I stared at the reflection in the mirror across the room. It was a complicated scene where some of it worked beautifully together and other areas didn’t blend. There was little chaos but much detail.

There was struggle somehow in some of the scenes but what emerged and stood out were the columns with a slight distance between them.

I began to move the wardrobe over to the other side of our room, to expose the wall. Tonight I would show Stan. Tonight under my normal clothes I would wear my thermal underwear.

I wonder whether I should go out and buy him a set of black thermal underwear! Its not a bad thought and I laugh and laugh at the innocence of youth.

"Family Life at Six Cobble Street."

(posted on behalf of Jackie Hutchinson)

Ethel Ludlow and Dorothy Craven, the only two sisters surviving children from the Bradshaw family, enjoy a close relationship, particularly since the elder sibling, Dorothy was widowed two years ago.

Their arms full of clothes from the washing line, the two women were so engaged in conversation, they hadn’t noticed Neville come sauntering along the flags stones of the street.
‘Ow do.’ Neville nodded to his sister-in-law as he stepped over the front doorstep after a hard day’s graft down the pit.

‘Put back boiler on, Ethel.’ Neville calls from the back kitchen to the two women who were still gossiping on the doorstep. ‘I could do wi’ a bath-I’m reight filthy.’

‘Ta ra, Dot, luv. I’ll see yer on Friday.’ Ethel closes the door before returning to the sitting room.
‘What’s happenin’ on Friday?’ Bands of coal dust was emphasized on his forearms where Neville’s shirtsleeves are rolled up to.

‘Er…me an’ Dot are goin’ t’ dancin’ hall down at t’ Palatine.’ His wife bends down to stoke the coal fire to heat the water. Flickering flames start to curl up the fire back.

Neville, his mouth dropping like an astonished fish, replies. ‘We can’t afford f’ yer to go gallivantin’ t’ dancin’ halls, when me job’s on line.’

Ethel got to her feet and wiping her grimy hands on her cotton apron. Looking directly at her husband, she spits, ‘ Yer’ve always got enough money for yer Woodbines, ‘aven’t yer? Be sharp an’ go an’ ‘ave yer bath.

Ethel’s cutting remark fell onto a fuming Neville as she scurried out to the backyard for the tin bath.

The early morning light struggles to filter through the yellowing nets forlornly draped at the sash window in the living room.

Ethel Ludlow was feeling as dismal as the damp, November weather, as she stands peering through the glass.

‘Lord, are we goin’ t’ be last ones thrown on scrap ‘eap.’

Amidst the sea of unsettling dust, muck and debris, lies row upon row of razed terrace back-to-back dwellings; families’ homes along with cherished memories were flattened to a disheartening pile of rubble.

A repressive blanket of gloom and despondency spread across the working class community of Black Edge; residents dispersed, longing to seek solace and warmth away from this alien area.
This bleak atmosphere permeated throughout the Ludlows’ abode.

Neville’s downcast eyes fell into his bowl of broth. ‘They’re layin’ fellas off down a’ pit. Lord knows ‘ow I’m goin’ get another job at my time o’ life.’

‘Oh, heck, Neville, what we goin’ do? The woman, her drawn face etched with worry, looks across the table to her husband opposite: ‘If they’re layin’ yer off over at Brewster’s then what’s left for us ‘round ‘ere?

The couple continues to muddle along under the black cloud of uncertainty regarding their home and livelihood. Living on a knife-edge of possible homelessness was driving the husband and wife to intolerable levels of anxiety.

Neville places his Jack bit and his billycan on the windowsill. Ice-cold water trickles out from the rusty tap in the Belfast sink. Neville rubs a bar of coal tar soap into his dirt-engrained hands. ‘Wheer yer been?’

Ethel hangs her bulky coat up on the hook by the side of the backdoor.

‘I know yer ‘avin’ a tough time o’ it at work, Neville, but don’t lay int’ me!’ Ethel ties her floral apron round her waist. ’A fella our Dot knows down at Whitters reckons they’re takinin’ on blokes to work on new-.‘

Neville throws his open palms up into the air impatiently. ‘What do I know ‘bout machinery!’
‘Look, Neville, we need some money comin’ or what we gonna feed our selves on?’ Her desperate blue eyes was searching her husband’s for answers. ‘I’m gonna go down to Council in mornin’ an’ get our name on housin’ list. There’s a notice in All Saints’ School askin’ for a cleaner.’

‘No wife’s o’ mine is goin’ out to work. I’m t’ wage earner in this house!’

‘Yer pride won’t put bread n’ butter on t’ table, will it! If yer get laid off, me bringin’ a wage ‘ome as a cleaner will be better than nothin.’

The simmering atmosphere between the bickering couple was almost as hot as the steam iron Ethel was using to press her husband’s shirts on the wooden ironing board.

Both of them slept on an uncomfortable bed of emotional fraught feelings. The air was thick with tension as each bade the other a silent goodbye the following morning. Neville made his way to work. Ethel, scanning the monochrome skies over the rooftops and chimneystacks of adjoining terraced rows, started on her daily chores.

Ethel was miles away on a solitary journey with only her thoughts for company. She was so engrossed in whitening her doorstep with donkey stone, the plump woman wasn’t aware of a figure approaching her house.

‘Mrs. Ludlow?’ A policeman stopped on the pavement.

‘Yeah?’ Ethel looks up from where she is kneeling.

‘Would you mind if we go inside.’ The portly built man removes his helmet.

On the flags outside Ethel’s neighbours, youngsters are playing with their spinning tops. She catches their curious gazes looking up at the visiting policeman.

‘Arthur, Winnie..go off wi’ yer. Yer’ve no business ‘ere.’

Ethel led the way into the darkly furnished sitting room. ‘What’s all this ‘bout?’ The confused housewife asks, as she turns down the sound on the wireless.

‘Do you have a relative by the name of…’Constable Atkins flips open his pocket notebook. ’Ah, yes…Mrs. Craven. Mrs. Dorothy Craven? I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been a terrible accident down at Witters weaving mill.’

‘Why, what’s ‘appened? Our Dot?’ Ethel started sinking into a blank mist of bewilderment.
During the ensuing conversation between the two adults, it transpires that Ethel’s sister got caught in some machinery whilst she was retrieving some bobbins of cotton.

Ethel’s normally ruddy complexion drained to the pasty colour of the wallpaper in her hallway.
The Constable’s faltering voice in offering his sympathies fell on stony silence as Ethel slumped in a heap of melancholy apathy in her armchair.

He discreetly let himself out of the terrace house.

Time had been aimlessly drifting along. The dying afternoon light cast gloomy shadows from the outside street lamp, highlighting a film of dust on the dark wooden furniture in the cramped room.

Ethel remained curled up in her chair, when Neville breezed in through the front door. A sharp chill of winter air brings Ethel to her senses.

‘Eh…its freezin’ in ‘ere. Why ‘ave yer let fire go out?’ Neville trudges through into the sitting room from the hallway.

‘Our Dot ‘as been found dead at Witters.’ The cold temperature of the dismal room echoed the wretched expression on his wife’s tear stained face. Ethel was oblivious to the struggling plumes of smoke in the fire grate.

Reality had began to sink in. ’Lord, what am I goin’ do wi’ out our Dot.’ Her weather worn hands cupping her face.

‘I’m famished, Ethel. ‘Ave yer not started cookin’ me tea?’ Neville glances across to the cold stove in the adjoining back kitchen.

Ethel’s sad eyes fell on her worn and shaking hands. The sombre emptiness engulfed her. Her bottom lip trembled.

Neville’s impatient chatter drifted off in the background, leaving his wife in a sea of isolating silence. Over the following days, his heavy footsteps followed by slamming of doors emphasized her loneliness. Ethel’s emotional shutters came down as she fondly reminiscences about her cherished sister.

Ethel sat browsing through several black and white photographs of her family on the sideboard; a dog-eared print showing a laughing Dorothy, transported Ethel to their early courting days. A faint smile emerged on her drawn face.

The painful weeks developed into agonizing months. Heated conversations turned into fraught arguments between the couple creating vehement knocks of objection, from disturbed neighbours on the adjoining walls.

Life was never the same for the Ludlows; Ethel’s emotions floated along in a dismal cloud of depression; whilst a disgruntled Neville ambled off to work under the shadow of possible redundancy. Years of hard graft down at the pits are etched on his wrinkled face. His cold, steel grey eyes tell of great pain and worry.

‘Life’s not worth livin’ wi’out our Dot.’

‘I think yer should go t’ Doctor’s.’ Neville retrieves his pipe from the tiled fireplace.

‘What’s he goin’ to do? Pills aren’t goin’ bring ‘er back!

Neville throwing his arms up in frustration, replies. ‘Its not easy for me either, yer know. An’ besides, they’re not goin’ t’ keep yer cleanin’ job open f’ long.’

One Friday at the beginning of 1959, a woman’s body was found floating, facedown in the Top Lock, a lake surrounded by derelict and overgrown scrubland at the top of the Black Edge Estate.

Overcome with grief, Ethel Ludlow couldn’t cope with the intense pain of losing her sister; she longed to join her and be close to her again.

Sestina: "Romance in Rhodes"

(posted on behalf of Jackie Hutchinson)

Sipping a glass of wine, Sherrie remarks. "Why don’t we take a holiday in Rhodes?’
Thumbing through holiday brochures. "I’ve never been to that Greek isle
before." Weeks later, "I’ve brought you your favorite drink-Martini on the rocks."
Jeremy joins his girlfriend on the hotel loungers. "Let’s have a dip in the pool."
Sherrie gazes across at her tanned fiancée. "Its wonderful, gazing out at the crystal
blue waters of the ocean. Smiling seductively, she purrs, "you’re my rough diamond."

Relaxing under the hot July sun, the couple marvels at the twinkling diamonds
of the glistening rays on the sea. "I’m so glad we came to Rhodes-
its magical..to feel the Greek sun on your back.." Jeremy fastens a crystal
bracelet round her slender wrist. "I can’t wait to walk you down the aisle."
Jeremy gently strokes Sherrie’s tanned stomach. "I’ll race you to the swimming pool"
"That’s safer than in the sea, it can be dangerous if you get too close to those rocks."

Flirtatiously fluttering her eyelashes, Sherrie sighs, "I want huge a sparkly rock
on my finger, when we get married. Yes-real diamonds!"
Jeremy shakes his head in disbelief. "I’m going inside for a game of pool."
Later, the couple jump in their hire car. "Sherrie, we are lost-there are so many roads
leading from the centre of the isle."
The shimmering facet of the sapphire blue bracelet catches the iridescent crystal
sea

Sherrie rests her head on Jeremy’s chest "I’m a lucky lady...I do love my crystal
bracelet". Holding the jewellery up to the sun. "Something encrusted in rocks
would be fantastic." Sherrie’s eyes rest on the olive groves looking out across the isle.
"You can’t have it both ways, especially if you want a ring set in diamonds."
The woman soaks up the heady Greek sun. "It’s a lovely place to visit is Rhodes,
especially when, we can spend all day relaxing by this huge pool."

Jeremy towel dries his wet arms. "That guy I met in the bar? I’m not playing pool
with him anymore!" Lying under the parasol, Jeremy’s eyes scan across the crystal
aquamarine ocean. "Don’t drive in that state of mind-you won’t be safe on the roads."
"Don’t worry, my love. I’m not going to crash the car into those rocks."
The affection Sherrie felt for her fiancée was far greater than the diamond
wedding ring she was dreaming of or that her beloved would walk her down the aisle.

Sherrie puts on her sandals. "I’ll come with you-there’s a lot of this isle
we haven’t seen yet." The couple leisurely strolls alongside the edge of the pool.
Jeremy brakes at this hillside tavern. "What do you want to drink…Diamond
White cider?" Sherrie breathes, "What a view… the sea is crystal
clear. "Steady love. Don’t go too close to that cliff edge-those jagged rocks
could come loose." Aren’t you glad we decided to come to Rhodes?"

"Jeremy, I have enjoyed holidaying on this isle-that beautiful ocean of crystal
is captivating." From the poolside, Sherrie admires the majestic rocks
on the hills. She’s thankful she’s got her diamond, without straying onto dusty roads.

THE TRADER (with apologies to Will)

To buy or not to buy, isn’t the question.
When to sell’s the thing. Whether to grant
Call options in pursuit of quick returns,
And take the risk of losing all to some
Gross outrageous profit warning, or
To take the modest gains that patience merits
And miss that fleeting smile of fortune
Which leads to wealth beyond the span of greed.
To trade; to deal, forever weighing the odds.
To sleep no more, since markets never close.
Mammon’s alchemist; slick transmuter of
Base coal to corn then gold and back again.
No soiled hands or tell-tale stains, just
Nuggets of pure unsullied commission.
The profitable grind of a weary life.
So when we’ve shuffled off the trading floor
What dreams; what horrors may come to haunt us.
To gamble; perchance to lose; there’s the rub,
For from that lusting whore of fortune,
Who knows what opportunities might fall.
There’s the respect that comes from high success,
While envy weaves its green and toxic spell
And sly sloth resents your hard-earned wealth.
For who would wayward market forces bear,
Sweat under the gaze of an angry boss,
Take the spurns of moral indignation
And the jibes of another’s wounded pride;
When with the click of a mouse he could end it,
And leave the glutton’s pit to younger men.
But that the dread of life without the buzz,
Consigned forever to that other world,
That sunny foreign vineyard from which
No trader returns; makes us pause and think.
And thus we choose to bear the ills we have
Than opt for a life of simple, stressless ease.
Thus does experience make cowards of us all
And the resolution born of winning
Seeps pale away with every losing trade
And enterprises of great pith and moment
Turn awry as fear calcifies the will
And lose the name of action.

Overall Flash Fiction

I hope this does what it says on the tin

During a parliamentary debate today the central heating broke down forcing MPs to don extra layers of clothes. Mr Cameron put on two pairs of overalls while Mr Brown put on three, giving the Prime Minister an overall majority of one.

The End.

Shank

Monologue by person dressed in an overall.

Don’t ever be taken in by appearances. Don’t! It’s a big mistake. It could cost you.

Take a look at me, for instance. At first, you might think that I’m a labourer. A hard-working man, grafting with his hands. I’m not a labourer. Though I do keep my hands occupied. But I don’t have a job. Still less, would I ever have tools. They’re not allowed.

I’m not allowed any other clothes besides these overalls, either. Except for flip-flops. A ridiculous combination. Don’t blame me. I didn’t choose it.

If you look closer at these overalls, you may notice there is something not quite right about them. That’s partly what I mean about appearances. You need to look closer than your first impression.

Can you see what it is? This kind of overalls is sometimes called a "bib and brace" overall. Well, no sleeves, and they’ve got the bib. But have a look at the braces. See? Denim overalls, but no denim brace. That would be too strong. So we have these stupid elastic straps instead.

You can’t strangle yourself with a piece of elastic. At least, not easily. You can’t strangle anyone else either. They’d just struggle and get away. It would be hard to pull the elastic really tight and, anyway, this stuff’s so thin it would easily snap.

We’re not allowed anything like that in here. I’ve been here quite a long time. Never mind why. To be honest, I don’t understand why. I didn’t do anything wrong. At least, anything I see as wrong. Sometimes people just judge you with their opinions. Their opinions, your appearances – it’s all dodgy. Don’t.

They think I’m safe here now. Or rather, that they’re safe. I can’t get out, that I can’t hurt anyone. I’d never hurt anyone, honest. Not unless I had to. Sometimes you don’t have a choice in these things.

They don’t let you have anything you could tie something with, so no braces and no sleeves. Nothing you could hit with, so no shoes. Nothing you could cut or stab or lever with. They don’t let you have anything you could do anything with. Nothing. So you have to take, or, if you are lucky, find something.

I found a coin. It wasn’t… I don’t know how much it was for, but that didn’t matter to me. It had a far greater value than currency. There’s a stone step in the entrance way to the compound – they let us out there to exercise and leave the doors open on fine days so we get some fresh air and a bit of movement. There’s no way out of that compound, though. They’ve built it too well. As far as I can tell yet at any rate. Maybe I’m missing something. I don’t usually miss much. I’ve a lot of time to look at things. Anyway, the step. When nobody was watching, I’d rub the coin on the stone. I had to get it sharp. And to change its shape. Round was no good. I needed a sharp thing with a flat edge. One of the other inmates told me about that. Took me ages, to get the shape.

That inmate taught me something else. There’s an office attached to the ward. The door’s open in the day, so the orderly can see out from his desk. Come out and intervene if anyone kicks off. That happens quite a bit in a place like this. When the staff were busy, I used my coin to start undoing the screws in the hinges of the door. It was finger-breaking work at first. Took a lot of time to loosen those screws. But that’s OK – I’ve got a lot of time.

There’s another door out of the office to an adjoining office connecting to another ward. But it’s not used, ever. They’ve put filing cabinets in front of it. That was another mistake of theirs.

We go to our beds at night and the lights are put out and there’s no orderly at night. The office door is locked. But I got most of the screws out of the hinges. One night, it was really quiet, I just pushed the door hard on its hinge side, wiggled it, moved it around, and the door suddenly fell inwards, off its hinges. It didn’t take me by surprise. I’d been ready, and caught it before it fell. Got in the office. Moved the filing cabinets out of the way. The other door wasn’t even locked. Another mistake. Not that getting into the other office was really what I was after. Searched this office, trying to find stationery supplies that might be useful, but even they weren’t quite that stupid. Apart from the adhesive tape and some pencils. But the other door was interesting. There was a kind of carpet tack strip in the threshold of the door. There wasn’t any carpet, of course – the floor is covered in lino-like tiles. But the strip was there, held down with more screws.

Had to keep going back, night after night. Forcing the door back into place before lights on. But I got that metal strip, eventually. And, as the door was never used, no-one knew. I broke off what I needed, hid the rest. Not that it matters if they find it. I’ve got what I need.

Did the same thing with the strip as I did with the coin. Rubbed it on the stone. Always made it look casual, like the boredom of the place was driving me into delirium. Like you sometimes see with animals in zoos. I remember once seeing a tiger in a cage, just pacing, back and forth, back and forth. So I was just messing around, moving my hand, back and forth. Appearances. They didn’t know, under my palm, was the metal strip.

That metal strip is now sharp, a blade. Bound it with the tape into a bundle of the pencils, to make a handle. Now I’ve got my own shank, my own knife. I can prise things open, lift snecks, undo screws, force windows. And cut. Slice, hack, puncture, stab. I’m sure the tiger would approve.

They think they’re safe. They think I’m safe.

We're getting out tonight. Me and my knife.

So much for appearances.

The end.

Seven Deadly Sins

Whilst contemplating, down the pub,
My New Year’s resolution,
All in a flash it came to me,
I hit on the solution

I’m tired of trying to be good
They say that Who dares wins!
So this year I resolved to try
The seven deadly sins

I thought that to begin with,
I’d try a spot of LUST
I saw the barmaid’s low cut top
And peeked in at her bust

My face was stinging as I left,
And slowly wandered home.
Perhaps lust is a deadly sin
That’s better left alone

So GLUTTONY, I can’t go wrong,
I shouldn’t need to worry.
I stopped off at the chippy and
Had fish, chips, peas and curry.

I’ve never had such problems with
My ‘iron’ constitution,
But now I had some doubts about
This New Years resolution

Maybe GREED’s more up my street;
That surely can’t go wrong.
I’ll sit at home and count my cash,
But that didn’t take long!

I thought I’d have a day of SLOTH
And so I pulled a sickie.
I tried hard to ignore the phone,
Let’s face it…it’s quite tricky.

I didn’t do the washing up,
I didn’t feed the cat;
Eventually I just got bored,
So that’s enough of that.

I got myself worked up with WRATH,
Aggressive and demanding.
I took a jumper back to Marks;
They were quite understanding

Ah ENVY; do not covet now
Thy neighbours wife or ass.
But his wife’s ass is something else!
She’s quite a shapely lass.

I think he saw me eye her up,
He gave me quite an earful.
In fact he was extremely rude,
I’ll have to be more careful.

I’ve had it with these deadly sins,
Though heaven knows I’ve tried.
I’m not cut out for being bad,
At least I have my PRIDE!

© Dave Carr

Real Christmas

(featured originally on Nickyjpoolewritings.blogspot.com)

It was hard. Really hard. Darryl had lost his job in the summer. The redundancy had come right out of the blue.

"We’ll be alright," he said to Stacy. "Don’t worry. I’ll soon get something else."

The summer ended and the new school year approached. Stacy said: "Can we get the kids new uniforms for this year? They’re growing up, Jason and Beatrice."

"Can’t they get a bit wear out of the clothes they’ve got?"

"It’s not fair, Dad. The other kids will make fun of us," said Jason.

"And I don’t fit this any more," said Beatrice. Darryl could not help but feel a tiny wave of pride wash over him has he saw his little girl was already nearly on the threshold of becoming a young woman. That he could not dress her in the finest of fine clothes bit into him like a whip.

"It’s true," said Stacy, "it’s not a case of wear – their things just don’t fit – they’re growing kids."

It ate into the few savings Darryl had left to see the two youngsters properly kitted out for the forthcoming term. Maybe somewhere would have vacancies as the winter came on. He had worked for five years in the same company in the strategic planning department. He had to look forward, and have faith in the future.

Christmas approached, and what little cash he had left dwindled almost to nothing on essentials. It looked like Christmas was going to be bleak indeed. No fancy food, no decorations, not even any presents. Stacy knew the situation they were in all too well. What were they going to do? She and Darryl could get by, they’d had many a happy Christmas in the past, before this famine of lean times had befallen them. But, for the children, the thought of the disappointment on their faces was almost too much to bear.

Darryl led Stacy, Jason and Beatrice into the living room. "Keep your eyes closed!" he commanded, as he directed each one of them into position. "Tight closed… right – open them… now!"

Jason and Beatrice and Stacy all looked, and blinked in amazement. There was a tree, decorations, lights, cards… Selection boxes of chocolates and great big packages underneath – a great Lego ‘Dinosaur’ construction kit for Jason, a new hi-fi for Beatrice and a collection of CDs. Other, little parcels, small objects of desire. On the table, the food was stacked high, cakes and biscuits, liqueur chocolates, cooked meats and paté, a cheese board complete with a ripe Stilton, nibbles of every description. There were stacks of Christmas crackers, and not cheap ones either. Nuts, fruit, bottles of red wine, cans of beer, even a bottle of champagne. And, in the centre of the display, a huge turkey. On side plates, trimmings like roast potatoes in goose-fat, honey-glazed parsnips, pork and apricot stuffing. In fact, everything for a perfect family Christmas.

Stacy was open-mouthed. "How could you possibly have afforded all this?" she gasped, her voice choked with joy.

"I was in strategic planning," he said. "And I was good at my job. And I mean, good!"

"But where did you get all the money? It must be a miracle"

"It cost next to nothing – they were virtually giving it away down the shops. Happy Christmas!"

It didn’t matter that it was January 3rd, that it was past New Year. All the shops were selling off their excess Christmas stock as fast as they could unload it, at rock-bottom prices. Darryl had banked on this. He had planned ahead. It was a miracle that he knew would happen, as it did, every year.

As the children set about tearing the wrapping off presents and pulling crackers to gales of laughter, Darryl said, "And I got you this – that cashmere sweater you wanted. Even that was half price!"

Stacy found it more difficult than ever to speak. "But I’ve got you nothing to give you!" she said, caught out by Darryl’s surprise master plan.

"Yes, you have," said Darryl, quietly. "I’ve got you."

It was their miracle, even if some of it was cut-price. It was their very own, special, January 3rd Christmas.

And, with it, hope for the future.

The end.