“It’s a bit of a strange house,” he observed. “Hmm, yes,” I agreed, “it looks detached from the outside.” “I didn’t expect a boundary fence on the right.” Eh? “It was on the left.” “No, it wasn’t. Definitely the right.” It was clear in my mind: the presenter had opened the bifold doors and the camera had panned outside to the rectangle of grass, overdue a cut by two weeks, bright sunshine flooding its right half, the rest lying in the shadow of a wooden fence. I confess, my “The left!” was a little astonished and more than a little exasperated so, when he picked up the remote control to rewind the programme and prove his point, I wasn’t a million miles away from feeling smug. But what was this on the television? An overcast image of the garden and back of the house, the fence on the right? Taken from the other end of the garden. Shown after the shot of the luminous green blades of grass that had stuck so firmly in my mind. ____________________________________ He: talking about the fact that a detached house doesn’t have a boundary fence down the middle of the garden. She: distracted by what she sees as an error. He: annoyed she’s questioning his memory. She: sure she’s right. He: sure he’s right. They: laughing. He: ego intact. She: ego intact; I mean, who the hell describes the position of fixed features from the back of a house? Photo by Ochir-Erdene Oyunmedeg on Unsplash
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The bag is unassuming, with its old-fashioned, end-of-roll fabric and cheap, plastic handles. She remembers nana giving it to her; remembers giving the gentle woman a false smile and ungrateful gratitude, using it because she should, using it because it did, after all, serve a purpose.
It lives in a cupboard these days, only coming out when a new arrival is announced. Once upon a time, it was home to stripy, batwing jumpers and chic cotton tops for her and intricate Arran sweaters for him. It played witness to quick fingers and a quick mind calculating pattern and counting stitches without faltering, picking up a dropped loop with expertise, if they dared occur. The fingers aren’t as fast these days. Neither is the mind. The bag, though, the bag remembers them all. It nips at her mind so it all comes flooding back. The newborn sets for nieces and nephew, then daughter, then son. And the next generation: her own and others. The needles would fly, the ball of wool struggling to keep up, her eyes dipping from the television only at the tricky bits, just in case. Those tiny jumpers, hats and cardigans were made in the presence of The Breakfast Club and Hill Street Blues, the Cold War, the tearing down of the Berlin Wall, and shots fired at the Hilton Hotel in Washington DC, then Cheers and ER, the Gulf War, President Mandela and Harry Potter. Each stitch is embedded with a sense of place and time because it was all playing out right in front of them. The rows of colour swelled and switched from knit to purl as surely as the rapid repartee in The West Wing. She could laugh, frown, cry and gasp while those needles worked their magic. And the bag saw it all; was stuffed each evening with the transformed wool and the slim metal wands. Now, there has to be silence. The 217 casted-on stitches are counted a hundred times despite the lack of distraction, each restart accompanied by an exasperated sigh and regret. The pattern, the forty-seven rows of stocking stitch and lacy diamonds, stumbles backwards as often as it meanders forwards. There is love here, though, as there was in the past. Is it stronger, since the gift is for her first grandchild: a gift for her daughter and her daughter’s unborn son? And the struggle to make the wool flow, to make it twist and turn into something worth keeping, worth using, worth not shoving to the back of a cupboard with a false smile and ungrateful gratitude - does this add to the value? To her, yes. Oh, yes. But she’ll take a too-bright smile and a platitude because, someday, her gift will become as precious as the saggy bag that’s seen it all. A gift beyond measure; a gift with a story and a treasure trove of memories. Priceless. Cassie cursed as she took her latest batch of sweet rolls out of the oven. Upending the hot tray onto the stone worktop, she waved the flat metal back and forwards to dispel the thick, acrid smoke. It thinned as the tray encouraged its exit through the strategically open window and Cassie sucked in fresh air, wiping her running eyes dry with relief. She turned to look with disgust at the blackened lumps of impossibly undercooked dough on the counter. A baker she would never be. Correction, she thought, imagining Mr Chalk's voice in her head. She would never be a good baker.
"Not unless you keep practising," came a familiar voice. "Hi, Bella," she replied, sweeping the inedible rolls into the bin. "I really don't understand why you keep at it." "What else can I be?" Cassie asked, turning to give her best friend, and the only person in the world who knew what she was, a welcome hug. "Mama needs the help and your papa swore blind there's loads of evidence that gifts are flexible in the beginning." Bella could see the bitter disappointment that was slowly crushing the hope in her friend's heart and decided not to mention how long it had been since papa had told the class that fact. Six years, it had been. Six years of daily bakes that always turned out badly. Light, Cassie must have ruined tens of thousands of cakes, buns and rolls by now. The lanky Baker's daughter grabbed her bag and the pair set off for school, grabbing their usual breakfast from Cassie's mama's stall on the way out. They munched the fruity twirls as they weaved their way through the market, the explosion of berries, spices and sugar in their mouths taking their mind off Cassie's woes and the session of double History they were doomed to sit through when the school bell rang. Bella giggled as they passed a couple haggling furiously over a crimson silk scarf, their voices clearly audible above the hubbub of morning trade. Cassie didn't ask what was making her best friend chuckle; she didn't like the reminder that her mental guards were still work in progress. Suddenly, Bella stopped dead and cautiously shifted her gaze to a stationary giant of a man standing in the shadows, the overhang and his dark cloak making him almost invisible to the eye. Only the hint of a brilliant green aura made him stand out to Cassie, but apparently his thoughts were just as vibrant if Bella had heard them over everything else that flooded her mind. "What?" she hissed quietly, noting her friend's wide eyes and pale cheeks. There was no reply. "What?" she repeated, digging her elbow into Bella's side. "Ow!" "Sorry," Cassie muttered, realising her aim had been as awry as this morning's baking efforts. Bella swung around to face her, the pale cheeks having taken on a rosy glow. Uh oh! she thought, knowing that look. She was rewarded by a sharp slap on the arm. The problem of having a Mind Reader as a friend... she thought very clearly and deliberately. Bella grinned, but she wasn't to be distracted. "The guy by the ironmongers. You see him?" "Yeah." "Don't look at him!" Cassie averted her eyes only to find herself being hauled across the square, the small bundle of ginger energy who was forever leading her into trouble nearly yanking her arm out of its socket. What the light? she thought as the pressure on her wrist had her tumbling behind the back end of two horses. "Shush!" "I said it inside, Bella." "Oh, sorry," her friend apologised with a rueful smile. "It's hard to tell, sometimes." "Why the light are we hiding?" Cassie whispered. "He's a Diviner." The ability to Divine people's gifts meant a death sentence for an Aura Shaper, even one as young and untrained as Cassie. She felt her knees begin to quiver and her heart race. She sat back with a thump, tears and panic in her eyes then leaned forward to risk a look between the gelding's legs. Was he looking this way? Oh light, sweet light, don't let him catch me, she prayed. Whether or not the light answered her, she would never know, but the display of striking black and white, patterned cushions caught her eye in the same moment she saw the giant take his first steps in her direction. Bake! she thought desperately, aiming her gift straight at the soft, round rolls of fabric. Bake! Bake! Bake! Thick, black smoke poured upwards. Then flames. Huge flames. Ten feet in the air, engulfing the display, scattering dozens of screaming stallholders and customers. And the big man with the shining green aura and dark cloak. Bella was looking at her in disbelief, her mouth open in awe. "I guess you're not such a bad baker, after all!" The holiday over, Julie slumped into the cramped, narrow seat with relief. Only five hours to home and only two days until the little buggers went back to school. An extremely dishy air steward passed her a generously filled glass of cheap champagne. No words were exchanged. He'd taken one look at the mob of ginger-haired terrorists climbing all over their bedraggled father and understood her need. She felt her eyes well up in gratitude. Uh oh! She sprang to her feet like Usain Bolt leaving the blocks, ignoring the bewildered steward and the ‘fasten your seat belt’ signs. She needed peace. She needed stillness. She needed to feel her boobs. She leaned her head against the locked door and closed her eyes, breathing deeply to control her emotions. Calm for perhaps the first time in two weeks, she moved in front of the mirror and took another deep breath, this time for courage. Lifting her top, she took in the tan lines and the All Inclusive extra pounds that pushed her cleavage over the top of her bra. Just this morning, she’d promised them, her boobs and her bra, all the extra trips to the gym they needed to make friends again. Now, she unhooked the too tight fastening and sat on the loo with a thump. “Is everything all right in there, madam?” she heard from outside. “Do you need assistance?” She opened her mouth to answer. All that came forth was slightly hysterical laughter. A giggling fit was hardly a call to arms, but it was all that it took. The dishy steward, his mouth agape and his cheeks crimson, backed out in a hurry at the sight of the frazzled mum from 22C sitting on the loo, her hands cupping her bare breasts, tears streaming down her face while hyena-like chuckles fought with gasps of terror to fill the tiny cubicle. The door closed quietly behind him. “The Captain needs you to return to your seat, madam,” a new, female voice instructed her firmly from behind the plastic barrier. The steward had gathered reinforcements. Moments later, it was Sean. “Julie, what the hell? Are you okay?” he whispered harshly, his anger at being abandoned with the boys colouring his concern. Thinking of the boys was enough to stop the laughter. Dashing away her tears, she straightened her clothing and marched out of the toilet. “Call of nature,” she told the scrum of stewards. She ignored the smirks and muttered homilies and, holding her head high, made her way back to 22C. Jamie, Jonathan and Louis started clamouring for her as soon as the first whiff of her familiar scent hit their nostrils. Behind them, Ty was, by some miracle, asleep, finally worn out by his inventive plotting. He looked perfectly angelic, the tousle-haired demon. Beside him, Oliver was reading quietly, Captain Underpants for once proving more enticing than teasing his twin. Sean was standing over them, their exuberant, exhausting brood, his tired, much beloved face looking at her with a mixture of confusion and impatience. He wasn’t the only one to be pissed off, judging by the stares coming from her fellow passengers. She smiled beatifically at them as if the delay was none of her fault, a gift rather than an inconvenience, and saw anger turn to puzzlement and suspicion to shrugs of acceptance. The plane began to trundle down the tarmac the second she fastened her seatbelt. Sean risked the wrath of the crew and leaned across the aisle. “You okay?” he mouthed over the noise of the engines. Even the Spanish bronze left his face as his brain processed her answer. Then his mouth twitched into a dazzling white smile and his blue eyes twinkled at her. “Perhaps, this time, it’ll be a girl?” Image by Anke Sundermeier from Pixabay
She wakes unrefreshed, tinged with grief, regret and resignation. Another day looms. Her legs are aching, the left ankle already on fire despite its supposed rest. Her shoulders refuse to budge, but she perseveres, forcing them to comply. Inch by inch, she rolls and drops her feet to the soft, thick carpet then pushes herself to sitting, her crumbling frame throbbing with the effort. She rests for a while, catching her breath, trying not to hear the silence that screams in her ears. Eighty years ago, she’d have jumped out of bed. Dashing around the room, searching through discarded clothing for a presentable ensemble of school uniform, wondering whether Barbara had finally managed to pluck up the courage to talk to William on her way home, arguing with Ellen and Jack about whose turn it was in the bathroom, her stomach rumbling at the smell of sizzling bacon, mother shouting a final warning to hurry up… Life had been filled with noise. Enforced quiet was common enough at school, teachers punishing those who dared whisper in class, but her mind had never been still. She’d passed notes, she’d daydreamed, she’d doodled, sometimes she’d even done a little work. Her mind was abuzz, her days full, her life blossoming with the promise of success and passion. True silence had been rare. Even in the quiet moments before her first kiss, as eyes met in expectation and heads inched closer together, her heart had been beating so loudly, so quickly, she’d thought it might burst… Noise. Always noise. She shakes off the memory and shuffles through to the bathroom. She avoids the mirror: she needs no additional reminder of her frailty. The sagging wings long abandoned by toned triceps, the leathery sacks that have to be lifted to wash beneath, the empty rolls of skin that loll over a pudendum long neglected by razor or tongue… These are more than enough. The washcloth moves slowly, the pleasant scent of orange blossom a strange companion to the grumbling arthritic hands and shoulders that fight her every command. Agony spasms up her back, slicing through her introspection. She drops the cloth and stands perfectly still, leaning on the basin, her eyes closed, the breathing the midwife taught her nearly seventy years ago coming to her rescue. The quick gasps and soft, slow exhalations are the only sounds. The rhythm eases as the pain recedes and she smiles, remembering how it had felt to wake in the morning to his gentle breath caressing the silence. She’d loved those moments. Sliding onto her side to look at him: her husband, her Gordon. The whisper quiet of his chest rising and falling against the crisp, cotton sheets. The intoxicating smell of him. The crinkle of his eyes and twitch of his lips as he’d felt her hand slowly creep under the blankets to touch him. The way she’d laughed when he’d suddenly sprung on top of her and his lips had devoured her neck and body… Sex had been noisy. It had been wonderful. It had been life itself. And created life. They’d craved a child. When he came, he arrived with never-ending demands. The next had been the same: loved beyond life itself, but chaotic and difficult, taking them in directions they’d never planned or desired. Every second of the day had been filled with noise. Silence, when it came, was followed within milliseconds by the sleep of exhaustion. Clothes. She needs clothes. She shuffles back through to the bedroom. The chair is carefully positioned next to the chest of drawers so she can reach everything. Simon understands the risk of falls. He’s taken pains to ensure the tiny apartment is sensibly laid out so he doesn’t get inconvenient calls to come and rescue his mother. Much too busy to visit, he and his wife send expensive flowers every month, filling the apartment with the intense fragrance of indifference. It would soon be white lilies. They’d cancel the direct debit and not look back. Valerie comes every Sunday. She arrives like a whirlwind, bringing groceries, freshly ironed laundry and news of distant children and grandchildren, telling her mother off for not using her walking frame, swapping dusty books for the latest she’s borrowed from the library, whether or not they’re needed or wanted. She hardly pauses for breath and replies are unwelcome interruptions. She vanishes as quickly as she descends, her overwhelmed audience having contributed barely a word. She doesn’t resent Simon’s absence or Valerie’s hasty duty calls. Instead, she’s ashamed she hadn’t been a better mother, that she hadn’t understood it’s not enough to love one’s child, one has to nurture it, spend time with it, make it blossom with confidence, humour and a resilience that will make it invincible in the real world. Instead of this, instead of relishing motherhood, she’d resented the intrusion. She’d resented the lack of ringlets and genius. She’d resented the diminishment of her life. God, what a fool she’d been. Of course, there had been moments when all seemed right. Pushing a swing and listening to Valerie’s giggles of delight. Clapping as Simon proudly pressed in the final piece of a jigsaw. The wide-eyed gasps of joy when Father Christmas brought them bikes. Laughter-filled family picnics and Easter egg hunts in the park. Splashing in the waves at Westward Ho! Clambering over crumbling castles in the hot sun of Rhodes… There should have been more. There could have been more. Instead, she’d learned to cherish the silence. Monday mornings had been the best. Gordon had slipped out of bed without waking her and the children had tiptoed themselves out to the school bus. When she’d woken, it was with a sense that this was her time. She’d wrapped herself in the silence, wallowing in her weekly reward for what she’d felt was her sacrifice. The only noise had been the kettle boiling, the latest tune on the radio, the sound of her feet dancing on the kitchen floor, her arms flung wide in rebellion against motherhood. Twenty years before, silence had come in boring and blessedly short-lived interludes, crashing into a life too full to be still. Then, as a mother and wife, silence had been a reprieve, a chance to breathe, a chance to remember she was more. She grunts as she manhandles the buttonless top over a head that won’t bend forward with arms that won’t lift above frozen shoulders. It’s the same battle every morning. Two hours it takes, to wash and dress. It’s little wonder she does nothing else all day. Books she can hardly hold, unintended naps that made her lose her place and forget the latest twist in the plot, television she can’t hear or see properly, mushy supermarket ready meals picked at and discarded, a silent telephone, an unrung doorbell… This is her life. Alone. Lonely. Pathetic. Gordon would be horrified if he could see it. He'd been her world, Gordon. He’d been her everything. Together, early retirement had promised excitement, happiness, contentment. And it had been, for a while. The move to the apartment had released the money for long-anticipated trips to Rome and Venice; extravagant dinner parties that went on long into the night; lying under the stars in Yosemite; watching the sun come up over the Taj Mahal; meandering through the heavenly perfume of Keukenhof, the spring sunshine turning its tulip fields into a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour… Silence then had meant moments of wonder and awe. It had been everything they’d dreamed of and more. They’d given it up when the children had needed their help. Gordon had known it was the right thing to do and she’d trusted him as always. After all, they didn’t need adventure and luxury as long as they had each other. And, as they’d aged and he’d become unsteady on his feet, silence had become companionable, restful even. He’d listen to music through his headphones as she read. He’d flick through a magazine as she finished knitting something for one of the grandchildren, the click click of her needles their only accompaniment. It was enough. He’d left her gradually, his brain riddled with holes. Towards the end, he would cry over and over for her, insisting only his darling Annie could make him better, infuriated by the ever-present, unfamiliar, old woman’s attempts to calm him. She learned not to try, to simply be. But every day, her heart was broken afresh as she longed for him to know his Annie, just for a moment. Every day, she sat by his side, stroking his hand, quietly singing old songs as she fed him his favourite chocolates, holding a toddler’s spill-proof cup for him to sip at his drug-infused orange juice, moving his fading body to prevent pressure sores, changing his nappies… And she’d learned to welcome his cries and even his anger because silence would mean he had gone. For, no matter how little of him remained, he was still her Gordon. Without him, life was empty. Is empty. Endless days of nothing. Endless days of pain and loneliness. Endless days of silence. Simon thinks she should be in a home. It is a strange word for somewhere so removed from home. For surely home means family? Surely home means memories? Surely home is where her Gordon was, albeit for too short a time? She’ll probably give in. She always does. Without Gordon at her side, she is merely a solitary ghost, marching to a beat that is dragging her too slowly from this life. No one notices her slip away. There is no witness, no loved one by her bedside, no friends to mourn. She’s outlived them all. Silence takes her and she is at peace at last. When her soul awakes, he’s there, lying on his side, looking at her with laughing eyes and loving smile. “Shall we try again?” he asks her, slipping a hand inside the blankets. She giggles into the silence and instead of regret and grief, she is burning with hope. Image by Goran Horvat from Pixabay
It had all the right markers, met all the required measures, but something was off. From a distance, the orb appeared solid grey as if made of shady granite. The only texture came from a subtle ripple in its drab coat and the probe could detect no noise other than the distress signal and no scent other than the dust of death. The patches of dark green sludge were a surprise once we’d made it through the outer layers of the atmosphere. They moved sluggishly as if gel stirred by a sullen child with better things to do. Liquid clogged with debris? we wondered. All else was grey. Endless grey. It disintegrated into glass and steel and stone as we zoomed in on it. Every inch of the globe was covered in cities of grey that reached into the pollution-riddled sky in their search for light and clean air. All were empty. We went around and around that once-blue planet, looking for any sign of life. We found one interesting artefact to take home: a series of placards chained to the railings of a grand white house now covered in the same deadly dust of greed and denial. ‘STOP CLIMATE CHANGE!’ the placards proclaimed in capital letters. Beside them, shouting equally loudly was ‘MAKE AMERICA GREATER.’ The latter had got their wish, it seemed. Image by Jonny Lindner from Pixabay
It didn’t hurt, I remember that. It was the shock of it, the plummet to earth and the sight and sound of my hopes of a much-desired accolade sliding away across the faded tarmac. Straight to her. That’s what brought on the quickly suppressed tears.
She’d pounced on it, her coveted ringlets bouncing prettily beneath pageant-worthy bows, her triumphant ‘Yes!’ ringing in my ears. She’d looked straight at me and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile; the twist of her lips and the sneer in her eyes made that very clear. She gloated at my clumsiness, laughing at how everyone crowded around her, calling her name and not mine. It was my first lesson in the vagaries of human loyalty: that it takes so little for it to swing in another’s direction, for us to abandon one and race to another. But I wasn’t the only one to understand the nastiness that lay behind the periwinkle blue eyes and butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-it, rosebud mouth. A chunky, slightly grubby hand appeared in my peripheral vision: Jack, the new boy. Boisterous, fun and brave, he’d invented the game we played and immediately become king of our Lilliputian kingdom. My eyes met hers as he pulled me to my feet and didn’t let go. He’d seen her look and picked his side. The horizontal slash of her mouth and frowning brow were stark against the simpering laughter and excited hurrahs that surrounded her. She knew. She might have won the ball, but I’d won the prize. LONDON, 1938 Spellbound, he watched in wonder as she raised the dagger and plunged it into her heaving chest. He’d felt her every emotion despite her silence. Her youthful excitement, her joy, her agony, her sorrow and now, finally, her resolution. Tears streamed down his face as red silk bloomed under her hands and she dragged herself to lie with her lover, to defy the world with the last of her strength, to be together with him in death. A tsunami of applause, shouts and stamping feet washed over him and exploded onto the stage. “Brava!” cried the woman sitting next to him. “Brava! Brava!” “Come,” she said to him as the applause dwindled. “I’ll take you backstage.” He followed blindly as his wealthy patron led him through a maze of damp, dingy corridors. His mind was lost in awe. His fingers itched to draw, to put paint on canvas. The exquisite lines she’d made, her hands, that face, those feet, the leaps, the spins, the beauty of her smile. Juliet… His Juliet. He awoke when they reached the crowded, smoky green room with its clinking champagne glasses and upper class voices. He abandoned his hostess without a second’s thought. He didn’t hear the angry retorts of those he shoved out of the way. He shrugged off the grabbing hands that urged him to slow, to wait his turn and, at last, there she was. A tiny figure. Almost childlike. Animated with a spirit that infused the air; that captured his heart and made him fall at her feet. The hubbub around her faded into the background. His whole being was tuned to her and her only. From his knees, he took her perfumed hand in his and raised it before him as if presenting an offering to God. His eyes locked onto hers. His imploring, hers a little amused and a little charmed. “I have to paint you. Please, my Juliet, let me paint you.” They were lovers before the first oil had dried. A life-size image of Juliet watched on as the thin sheets twisted around their two gleaming, writhing bodies, her ears deaf to their moans of delight. The weeks passed. They laughed and loved with a passion they had believed only to be found in art. They fought with equal fervour. His moods, her need to leave him to give herself to others in dance, his need for another poisonous high, her husband… They screamed at each other, surrounded by a thousand shards of the glass and pottery sacrificed to their rage. In a rare moment of calm, floating on a cloud of opium, he asked her to be with him forever. “We’re moths drawn to an inferno. It’s madness,” she’d replied. “But, oh how brightly we would burn,” he’d whispered. She made her decision a week later. The fight surpassed all before. “I can’t live without you,” he’d pleaded at the end. “I choose him,” she’d screamed. “I choose sanity.” He waited two days for her to come back. She waited three days to go back. She found him in bed, the needle still in his arm, rigour having frozen it in place. Four easels arranged in a semi-circle around him held his silent witnesses: her as Juliet; her, laughing, naked and en pointe in arabesque, her outstretched arm and supporting leg sparing her modesty; her peeling off a tutu, a single breast showing, a smile of expectation on her face; her, glowing, glorying in the aftermath of their lovemaking. The last was still tacky to the touch. Completed from memory in a frenzy of loss. His best work ever. Perfect. Image by Vladislav83 from Pixabay
She is momentarily held hostage by loss and self pity. A tear rolls from beneath dark glasses. Lips clench against unwelcome sobs and a gloved hand angrily wipes the salty drop away. She closes her eyes against the harsh, jerk-inducing lighting, girding herself to make no scene in this place of greater pain than hers. The tears come afresh as her brain insists on comparison… How has it come to this? Ten years ago, a crowd roared as she proudly marched below the Great Britain placard, her movements as crisp as her freshly starched dobok, her mind as firm as the knot that holds the black belt on her waist. She’d stood alone in the centre of the arena, ready to perform, her feet apart, her shoulders back, her head held high, her face strong, focused, determined. Her soaring kicks had come fast and hard, her punches and blocks enough to break flesh and bone, the choreography engrained from thousands of hours of all-consuming practice. She is sure-footed, graceful, never-wavering. The ugly destroyer that squats inside her nervous system will not beat her. She will not let it. The inevitable decline has, at times, been so slow as to appear a plateau. At other times, it has taken a sudden, plummeting lurch, shattering hope and determination, destroying denial. But she has always rebounded, more disabled, yes, but sure of heart and mind. No matter what it takes from her, no matter how her world shrinks around her, she will not be beaten. Is this what it takes then? A walk from the car to the hospital? The frequent stops to rest and breathe… just breathe… getting longer and longer as the stumbling, shuffling advance between rests gets shorter and slower each time she pins her shoulders back and forces her legs to take one more step? Until all she can do is find a wall and give in? Now, as she leans there, invisible to passersby enveloped by their own monsters, her knees are shaking, her body jolting with each blast of neurological overactivity, the soles of her feet screaming, her breath rasping, her hands clutching her walking stick, the only thing keeping her upright. The sense of loss is overwhelming. But it must not win. It cannot win. Her saviour is a story. This is it. This link will take you to a video taken by a fellow GB competitor, Chan Sau, in one of the training halls of the taekwondo club I used to belong to. I don't pretend to ever have been as good as this guy (he had, after all, taken a gold medal at the world championships several years before), but it will give you an idea of the sort of thing I used to do. There are no sound effects: his kicks and strikes really are that powerful.
Are you old enough to remember them from your working life? Are you young enough to be having one right now? Sitting at your computer, your fingers flashing on the keypad, but achieving nothing? Looking busy to passers by, but hitting none of your targets? Reading sort-of-justifiable-to-colleagues/boss/self stuff on the internet, clicking aimlessly, tidying your desk, sorting out your stationery, doing just about anything to just pass the time until you can stop and put the entire miserable day behind you?
I've written a short story for a competition this week. Tick. I've written several new chapters of the latest Shaper instalment. Tick. I've scheduled trial adverts for Kat on amazon. Tick. I've organised a promotion for A Shaper's Promise. Tick. I've attempted to find ways to generate reviews on amazon.com (PLEASE *note the hysterical use of capitals*, PLEASE let me know if you know anyone in the USA who might write one for me!), but have found the only way is to pay or spend weeks painstakingly compiling your own list of possible reviewers, most of whom will never get back to you. No tick. Sigh. It looks like I've been busy. I haven't. I've been twiddling my mental thumbs much too often. I should be getting on with the next chapter, but I'm doing this instead. I'm prevaricating like the world's best prevaricator. Actually, I'm not. If I was the world's best prevaricator, I wouldn't be telling you, would I? Energy boost required. Mood boost required. Reason for giving a damn required. Roll on tomorrow... |