Wee bit of festive fun. Just finished it this week.
A Christmas card from me and my wee family.
Merry Christmas!
Mostly childrens fiction, folk tales, comics and ghost stories...sometimes all at once.
Thursday 15 December 2011
Santa's Little Werewolves
Labels:
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Wednesday 7 December 2011
A Bit of The Moon!
This was the first Christmas poem I wrote for my children. It accompanied a genuine purchase of lunar property. I believe land is now also available on Mars, assuming of course you are prepared to take it by force from the martians. Anyway, I still have all the documentation, and am assuming that this land purchase is legally binding and therefore when we eventually move into terraforming we'll be quids in. Check out some cool Christmas in Space photoshoppings here..
What should I get you for Christmas?
A new rattle? A carved silver spoon?
Never mind a new toy, you’re a lucky wee boy
I got you a bit of the moon!
I could’ve got you a big woolly mammoth
Or a hunting hat made from raccoon.
But there’ll be no fur for you young sir
I’ve got you a bit of the moon.
I could’ve got you a trip on a pirate ship
On the second last fortnight in June.
But no treasure yet, no parrots for pets,
See I’ve got you a bit of the moon.
How about a Tibetan safari?
In a marvellous hot air balloon?
But we’ll see yeti later, Kung Fu monks can just wait,
Cos I’ve got you a bit of the moon!
And maybe one day, you’ll fly away
To the sea of tranquillity.
You’ll build a wee home inside of a dome
And we’ll fly up to your house for tea.
Labels:
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midwinter,
moon,
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stramashed
Monday 5 December 2011
Monday 7 November 2011
Foglights
An uneasy mist
Leaks languidly along
The seafront,
Gasping through
The bench slats
And on
Into the town behind.
I sit smiling
In the empty white,
Irregularly illuminated
By your
Lighthouse smile.
Wednesday 26 October 2011
Steampunk Love Poem
Rounding off a wee informal month of scifi style postings, I just found this in an old fanzine I used to produce called "refractor"; it was a sort of a conspiracy zine, except I just made up all the conspiracies in it...my favourite was one about the British attempting to use the power of voodoo during the second world war. I stopped doing it when it became clear to me from the disturbing letters and phonecalls I was getting, from the zines readers, that some people really believed what I was saying.
Anyway, a steampunk love poem...
Hearts Without Pistons
That day
The smog hung like a shroud,
Draped grimly
Over the greying decay
Of slowly rusting streets,
And green smoke
From the armament factories
Swirled sickly through gaping chimneys,
Cutting stinking lime streaks
Across the five o’clock sky.
In the park
A circus
Too big for fleas
Entertained the factory children
With clockwork clowns.
“They’ll be thinking for themselves soon.”
“The children?”
“No. The clowns. And the Policemen.
And the Priests.
And all the other tin men
With their wind up hearts.”
The next shift of children arrive
In time to watch the trapeze.
Timing so precise,
No one will ever fall.
At 8pm
A rocket roars upwards,
Gleaming brass and shining copper,
Trailing purple flames.
And inside,
The two lovers
Escaping to somewhere more real.
And if steampunk is yer thing, you may enjoy reading about the adventures of "the robot James Watt built", Tin Jimmy...
And if steampunk is yer thing, you may enjoy reading about the adventures of "the robot James Watt built", Tin Jimmy...
Wednesday 19 October 2011
Doctor Who - Red Letter Day
The disappearances had been going on for some time before myself and the other gentleman became involved. On many occasions since, I have cursed the day I ever set foot in the wretched bookshop – certainly my nerves have never fully recovered. There are still those who recognise me in the street, glancing askance, inferring upon me a sinister notoriety I scarcely deserve. For that reason, I have resolved to record my own version of events, in the hope that it will go some way to drawing a line under the whole affair. Perhaps too, it will convince some of those who left my life that it may yet be safe to return.
The Bookshop in question enjoyed a reputation in the town for sourcing rare and unusual editions. It was equally famed for the haphazard nature of its collections and so I had set aside a day for my explorations. I was looking for a particular copy of “Peter Pan and Wendy” to gift to Miriam – it had been her favourite book as a child – and as I wandered leisurely in and out of the rickety wooden maze of shelving and book stacks, I became gradually aware of being watched. I looked around, but seeing no one, I continued my deliberations. Shortly thereafter the feeling came upon me once more, and this time, I could also hear a whispering – again, not uncommon within the more respectable bookshops, but as I looked around, there was still no one to be seen. I rang the bell upon the counter for service, more for the reassurance of company than assistance, and as if in response there came a low guttural giggle. There was then within me, a very sudden and inexplicable panic, a tremendous overpowering urge to flee, and so, with scant regard to who might see me, I ran foolishly towards the door, intent on leaving immediately. But the door was no longer there.
At first, assuming I had become confused and inexplicably lost my bearings in a small city bookshop, I looked around, expecting the door to be elsewhere. It was then that I saw the man sitting cross legged on the floor.
“Odd isn’t it?” said the gentleman “That’s where I was sure the door was as well.”
I politely nodded, hoping my acknowledgement would not be taken as an invitation to further conversation. Naturally it was.
“Sorry.” He said “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m the Doctor. Good afternoon. Is it still afternoon? You lose track of time in bookshops…”
“No…it’s before eleven.”
“Ah…then is it still Tuesday?”
“Not until tomorrow. Excuse me.”
I wandered across the room, still looking hopefully for the door, no longer interested in buying anything this shop had to offer.
“At least a week then. No wonder I’m getting tired.”
I was embarrassed and annoyed and in no mood for further nonsense from the gentleman.
“What’s this all about?” I said “Were you the one laughing just now?”
“No. No I don’t find our situation remotely funny.” He said “And that feeling? Like you’re being watched? I feel that too. Something’s watching both of us – presumably the same something that has hidden the door.”
“Don’t be ridiculous” I said, intent on maintaining some semblance of normality “I stepped through the door not 5 minutes ago…I’ve become disorientated is all.”
The Doctor smiled.
“Possibly. Though again….that’s how I tried to rationalise it. Is it really that big a bookshop d’you think?”
I looked again, I was so certain; I ran my hands over the wall as if expecting it to give way, revealing one of those secret passages so popular in gothic fiction.
“This was the door.”
“And yet…it isn’t there.”
The panic came again, this time finally resolving itself into terror. I grabbed at one of the shelves to steady myself.
“I only came in here for a gift for my fiancés birthday.”
The Doctor stared at me for a moment, then, clearly having reached some sort of decision he smiled and leaped up from the floor, hand extended.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Harper. Maxwell Harper.”
“How do you do Harper. Glad you’re here. And no. I don’t know the way out either.”
Hands still shaking, I passed the Doctor my flask, but he declined.
“Unlike yourself Harper, I didn’t actually come here looking for books. I was looking for people. Missing people.”
Here finally, was something I could understand, something real.
“You’re investigating the disappearances?”
“I was. What do you know?”
“No more than has been in the papers.”
By this stage you may recall that more than twenty people had apparently vanished over the preceding fortnight. It would be fair to say that it’s very likely more than twenty people vanish every day in London, people who are already invisible, destitute and alone. This twenty, who had more obviously vanished, were well heeled city folk. The presence of the gentleman and the strangeness of our situation suddenly put an altogether different complexion upon the matter.
“You think the bookshop has something to do with the disappearances?”
“I know it has. Listen.”
I was first aware of a low moaning, then a whispering
“It’s the books.” Said The Doctor “There are ghosts in the books.”
“Ghosts! Please don’t tell me you’re one of those dreadful spritualists.”
The Doctor hushed me, and I heard once again the strange whispering I had heard before. This time though, the voices were more distinct, sad, some crying, all talking at once without order or reason, as if desperate to be heard.
“Can you hear them? The books are talking Harper. I’ve been hearing them for hours now.”
He lifted a book from the nearest shelf, ran his fingers carefully along the cover, then lifted it up to his face, first sniffing at it, then listening to it as if it were a shell found at the seaside. His face darkened.
“Something very bad is happening here Harper. These aren’t just books.”
He handed me the book. It had no title. I carefully opened it; the pages were of a heavy yellow vellum, more suitable for manuscript. Indeed, that seemed to be what it was, for across every page the words were scrawled in a deep angry red, like scars across the parchment. Realisation came then, and I dropped the book in horror and disgust. The Doctor carefully picked it up and respectfully returned it to its resting place on the nearest shelf.
“The books are…written in blood?”
“I’m afraid its rather worse than that. Whoever has been making the books doesn’t believe in wasting anything at all. And we need to put a stop to that.”
I’m sure my face betrayed my terror, my cowardice, for he brightened then, as if resolving to reassure me by his own example.
“There’s a door back here I can’t get opened. Maybe if we give it a go together eh?”
We pushed at the door and finally it gave way, revealing stairs leading down towards the cellar. Below, burning torches, bathed the room in a low red flickering light. I will not pretend I took the first steps down those stairs. Neither did I run, much as every part of my being seemed to scream at me to do so.
We surveyed the room, even in the poor light the cogs and grinders of some awful machine could be seen, stretching and stitching the terrible leather of those bindings. The Doctor was staring into the corner. As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I could make out a hunched figure. The shape shuffled and giggled.
“Hello there! I’m The Doctor, I’m a…”
“Time Lord, yes. I gathered. I’ve been watching you wander around my shop for days. I cannot wait to write your story.”
The figure kept his back to us, still clearly busying himself with some unpleasant task.
“Oh there was no need to be shy. You could have come and said hello…I don’t bite. Which I’m guessing is probably more than can be said for you.”
The man turned and stepped out from the shadows into the dim red light of the workshop. He was a fat, unpleasant looking fellow, wearing the telescopic glasses jewellers use for precision work.
“This is my friend Mr Maxwell Harper. And you are?”
“A simple craftsman.”
He gestured around the room.
“Do you like my machines? Certainly they can help you create…but you must of course have the spark of imagination to start with.” He grinned. “And the right materials.”
“You’re too modest.” Said The Doctor “Operating this level of technology takes more than craftsmanship Mister..?”
“On this world, I am but the nib.”
“Mr Nib.”
He stepped forward again, just far enough that we were able to see he was brandishing a number of knives.
“There are always collectors on the look out for something new and different. My books from this planet are very much in vogue in certain circles.”
“And you use this machine to what? Unpick and extrapolate their life and memories?”
“As a starting point.” Said Nib “Then I embellish the stories slightly. More glamour, more pain. My collectors can only take so much of the mundanity of this tedious little planet. But they do love the misery. The sorrow.”
The Doctor lifted a book.
“But these are people….in every possible sense.”
“Yes. That’s rather the unique selling point Doctor. You however, will be a true original. It’s whether you are one oversized edition or an eight volume set.”
All the while they had been talking, I continued to look desperately around the room for something, anything that could aid us in escaping. Certainly there were no other obvious exits from the cellar, only his machines and the endless dark shelves, rows and rows of unread lives, unlived. It became clear to me then, that far more than twenty souls had become the focus of Nib’s craft.
All pretence of polite conversation now dropped, Nib circled The Doctor in predatory excitement.
“You will be my finest work. Truly priceless. Timeless.”
Nib lunged for The Doctor, blades outstretched and instinctively The Doctor shielded himself with the book he was holding. As the knives plunged in, there was a shriek then what sounded like a sigh before the book crumbled into pieces.
“No!” cried Nib.
Seizing his opportunity, The Doctor pushed Nib back towards the machinery and then grabbed one of the torches from the wall.
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this Harper…burn the books!” he cried “It’s the only way to free them.”
I flailed around, grabbing as many of the braziers from the wall as possible, and setting them to the shelves while the Doctor continued to fight off the fiend who had written them.
As each book took flame, there was a terrible screaming, a wailing release from the pain and the eternal sadness of what might have been. Not undaunted, but certainly undeterred, I visited fire upon each and every one of the damnable volumes. The cellar walls were now aflame, and the shelves began to crack and topple. I caught sight of The Doctor attempting to haul Nib back, but he charged into the flames as if somehow expecting to rescue his abysmal machines. There was fire all around and amidst the burning books, a constant unearthly howling. In those final moments, The Doctor dragged me back up the stairs. By now, blackened and coughing, I was sure my own story was coming to an end. The Doctor smiled sadly as everything began to blur..
“You know, my birthday always seems to end up like this.” he said, and then he handed me a book.
It was two days later that I was discovered unconscious in the scorched rubble of the bookshop, surrounded by the bones of the missing, still holding the book The Doctor had given me. My own distressed and dishevelled state went some way to convincing the authorities of my innocence – but only just. In any case, my association, however unfortunate with the horrific bookshop murders was enough to immediately distance me from polite society.
I spent months unable even to leave my house, my only comfort, the book given to me by The Doctor. For days I would grip it, as if to anchor myself to this world lest I once again drifted into his. But those days are behind me now, and I am ready to give it to Miriam, for whom it was intended, if she will but pass my way again.
There are loads of sites featuring "fanfic", stories, books and novels based on other people's creations; some really REALLY weird stuff out there, but loads of cool stuff too. This was my entry into a Doctor Who competition run by audiobook company Big Finish a few years ago. As you may have guessed...it did not win. But it was right good fun to write. For the record, its meant to be the Paul McGann version of the Doctor. But yknow...if you have to explain it...
Wednesday 12 October 2011
Terminus
This is somewhere between vanity press and a labour of love.
I've loved HG Wells "The War of the Worlds" since I was 8 years old. It's the book that keeps on giving, and I've read it pretty much every year of my life since then. No really.
In the mid 90s, when conspiracy theory and aliens and all that malarkey were popular, I decided to write a sort of a sequel, something many other people have attempted. My favourite is Christopher Priest's "The Space Machine".
I wanted it to be illustrated, like this version I had read when I was younger that terrified the life out of me. So if nothing else, working on this was how I properly got to know my friend (and artist) Ross, who among other less impressive feats, introduced me to my future wife. So what I'm saying is, even if you cant be bothered reading the whole story, metaphorically it has a happy ending.
Terminus
I've loved HG Wells "The War of the Worlds" since I was 8 years old. It's the book that keeps on giving, and I've read it pretty much every year of my life since then. No really.
In the mid 90s, when conspiracy theory and aliens and all that malarkey were popular, I decided to write a sort of a sequel, something many other people have attempted. My favourite is Christopher Priest's "The Space Machine".
I wanted it to be illustrated, like this version I had read when I was younger that terrified the life out of me. So if nothing else, working on this was how I properly got to know my friend (and artist) Ross, who among other less impressive feats, introduced me to my future wife. So what I'm saying is, even if you cant be bothered reading the whole story, metaphorically it has a happy ending.
Terminus
Thursday 6 October 2011
National Poetry Day - Dad's Time Machine
To celebrate National Poetry Day, poems across all the blogs...
The theme for National Poetry Day is actually "Games", this poem is one I wrote for my wee boy Connor a few years ago now...just silly.
“Look!” said Dad
“Everyone come and see,
It’s my fantastic, wonderful
Time machine!”
And it had
Wheels that went whoosh,
And springs that went ping,
Ten levers for pulling
And a bell that went bing.
And a big round blue button
That when pressed it, went pop
And right at the top
Going tick tock
A clock.
“We could go back to last Christmas
And meet old Saint Nick
We can fly on to next Thursday
Come on! Let’s go! Quick!"
So we all jumped in and the clock went
BONG!
And dad said “Oh no!
I’ve set the time wrong.
It’s not going to take us
To meet Santa Claus
We’re going right back to see
Dinosaurs!”
The wheels went whoosh.
The springs went ping.
The lights all went out
We could not see a thing.
And we shuddered
And shoogled.
We went in, out and round.
We wibbled
And wobbled
We went up, under and down.
Then..a big BUMP.
We stopped
With a thump.
All the lights came on again
And a roaring made us
Jump.
Out of the trees came
A big T-Rex!
With sharp shiny teeth
Wearing huge purple specs.
Down from the sky came
A pteranadon!
Flapping his wings
Which had pink mittens on.
Over the hill came
A triceratops!
With big pointy horns
And polkadot socks.
And they all stood around
With their horns, wings and teeth
And dad said “Hello!
Would you all like some sweets?”
We counted out sweeties.
One. Two. Three.
There were some for the dinosaurs
And some left for me.
Then we all said goodbye
To our dinosaur friends.
The clock went BONG
We were off again!
National Poetry Day - Star Wars Biscuits
To celebrate National Poetry Day, I've been publishing poems across all the blogs.
This one is a painful childhood memory, exorcised...
Encased
Forever in a Tupperware box
Beneath my bed,
A treasure
Without value.
A Time Capsule
Full of 1983.
A crazy notion,
A recognition of mortality
One hazy summer’s day.
When
Having just been to Coopers
I sealed my feshly purchased
Return of The Jedi Biscuits
In a box
To keep forever.
Star Wars biscuits were nice.
That is,
They actually are Nice, the biscuits,
Sort of coconutty.
But Nice biscuits
Didn’t have pictures of Jabba The Hutt
Drawn on in food colouring.
On the eve of my 21st Birthday
Perhaps hoping to recapture
A little slice of a childhood summer
Long since gone,
I opened Pandora’s Tupperware Box.
Inside were a few black and blue crumbs,
The crumpled remnants
Of the cheery wrapper
And a note from Stephen,
My childhood friend
Which read
“Ha ha. I have ate your bisckits.”
And for a moment
It was 1983 once more
And I wanted to kill the bastard.
My favourite thing about this poem, was actually the time I got to perform it (and several others) at a Proper Poetry Club on Ashton Lane, accompanied by my good friend Ray Mitchell on both trumpet and bongos. Needless to say, it went down an absolute storm.
I've noticed a lot of folk land on this page looking for actual star wars biscuits. By way of an apology, might I recommend you check out this top notch official star wars recipe for wookie cookies. Nom.
I've noticed a lot of folk land on this page looking for actual star wars biscuits. By way of an apology, might I recommend you check out this top notch official star wars recipe for wookie cookies. Nom.
Wednesday 31 August 2011
Bombmaking
At the redder end of August
You and I screwing
The tops off bottles,
And filling them with petrol.
I can't forget your giggle
As we siphoned the petrol,
Or the picnic we had
To empty all the bottles.
You lay there
Terrifyingly beautiful;
That smile,
A flash of white light
Tearing a hole in the summer skies.
I almost forgot who I was,
Where I was.
Our glass arsenal
And some ants
Stealing the crumbs from the sandwiches.
“Let's go.”
You said.
A kiss
Before we packed up the picnic.
And the bottles.
We caught the bus into town,
Then spilt the cost of the matches.
Sunday 12 June 2011
Open Up
It is a rainy Wednesday lunchtime, I have just finished my chocolate espresso and Michael is constantly waggling his eyebrows up and down at the waitress. She is not impressed.
Myself, and two of the workers from the “Hokey Cokey” art project are having coffee in Utopia, an inoffensively fashionable coffee shop. Technically, this is research, so the council are picking up the cheque. In celebration of this, we have all had the most enormous muffins on the menu. Mine was banana and nut. Mmmmm.
So, just to clarify, we didn’t come up with the project name “Hokey Cokey”. We all hate it. It’s called “Hokey Cokey” because it’s about bringing what is often termed “outsider” art “into” the wider community. In. Out. See? Well exactly.
“Outsider” art, is one of the least offensive names for art which is produced by groups considered to be excluded from “regular” society. This is all pretty much straight out of our information leaflet you understand. Anyway, in the case of “Hokey Cokey”, our particular outsiders are adults with learning disabilities.
There’s me and there’s Sasha, our artist in residence, and there’s anyone else who wants to turn up and enjoy themselves. And we really do. Enjoy ourselves. So anyhow, we’re opening up a gallery to display all the work we’ve put together, and eventually, it’s going to have a coffee shop in it. Which is why we’re here at Utopia. That and the muffins.
“What do you think?” I ask
“Nice.” says Michael, who has now moved on to winking at the staff.
“You’re out of order.” I say. “If you don’t watch out that waitress is probably going to belt you.”
Michael is undeterred.
“She likes me.”
“I think Anne might have something to say about you chasing other women.”
Here, Michael stops.
“You wouldn’t tell her?”
“Oh really? Stop harassing the staff and we’ll say no more about it.”
Michael nods solemnly and shakes my hand by way of a gentleman’s agreement.
“You’re a good pal.”
“I am. She’s way out of your league anyway.” I say. “I mean don’t worry about it, she’s way out of my league too. We should both just chuck it.”
Lisa returns from the toilet.
“Nice soap. Smell.” she says, thrusting her open palms almost entirely up my nose.
“Mmmm.” I say. “Are we about ready to go then?”
“I am.” says Lisa, hauling on her coat.
“Me too pal.” says Michael. He looks at me very seriously and slaps my arm. “Me too.”
I grab my notepad. I’ve been scribbling down things I’ve noticed about Utopia in order to at least vaguely justify this field trip. It is full of incisive comments; “We should definitely get those syrups which make the coffee go all different flavours. Hazelnut?”
As we leave, I half heartedly smile at the waitress, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or care. She really is out of my league, I wasn’t joking about that.
Hokey Cokey HQ is a former charity shop on short term loan. If the gallery and the cafe all work out as planned, we’ll take on the lease. In theory. We really have to get it right first time, which is why we’ve invited the Provost, the social work department and the entire council to our opening party. It’s in two days. I’m sure it will all work out fine.
Michael, Lisa and I arrive back at the same time as Susan, another of the workers. We are barely through the door, when Lisa spies someone exciting.
“Craig!” shouts Lisa and runs off into the workshop.
Sasha walks over smiling. Sasha’s always smiling. And it’s one of those ‘weak at the knees’ smiles. I’m sure you know the kind I mean.
“Hiya.” says Sasha.
“Hello.”
I am about to ask Sasha how her morning was when I notice Susan standing very still, and very close. Susan seems to have almost no concept of personal space, but is far too polite to butt in on a conversation. It is easier therefore, to just ask her what she wants.
“Hi Susan. Can we help?” I ask.
“Today...” announces Susan “I have brought...for you and Sasha...a special treat.”
“Smashing.” I say. “What’s that?”
“It is...home baking. Buns.”
“What kind of buns?”
“Coconut. And I have also added...a small number...of chocolate chips.”
“Thanks very much Susan. You’re the tops.” says Sasha.
“Well Sasha...you deserve a treat. But now...I must go...and finish my sculpture.”
Susan wanders off into the workshop. She’s been making a model of the Yellow Submarine. Our toilets have an undersea theme. It certainly makes going to the bathroom more fun. There was a big octopus which was going to hang from one of the ceilings, but it fell on my head and so we had to remove it for health and safety reasons. And also because I was very angry.
I examine the buns.
“These look excellent.”
“Mmmm.” says Sasha “She’s really come on since she got her own place. How was Utopia?”
“Well Michael failed to score with the waitress.”
“What about you?”
“Well, I wasn’t really trying.”
“Waitresses aside, do you think we can make our coffee shop as cool?”
“Oh easily. Well, not easily...it’ll be murder. But we can definitely do it. Probably.”
“Mission accomplished then.” she smiles. God.
“Come and see some of this new stuff.” says Sasha excitedly. “People are just going to be blown away.”
She leads me through the gallery and into the workshop, to the untrained eye a chaos of colour and plaster and wire. But when you stop looking and just see, there’s clearly alchemy at work here. A secret science. Admittedly, we’re not actually making gold or anything, but there’s so much gold paint all over the floor that it almost doesn’t matter.
“Anne’s made a vase...just feel that texture, and with those colours...outstanding! And over here Simon started a painting of a dolphin. And look at this...yesterday Lisa drew this picture of a policewoman on the computer. And she’s copied and pasted lines of them all on screen. Loads of them.”
She almost dances round the room as we go. And she’s right. The artwork is impressive, but I’m honest enough with myself to know that I am spending more time being impressed by her. We’ve been planning this party for three weeks now, and coincidentally, that’s exactly how long I’ve been coming up with ever more complex reasons to avoid asking her out. So I nod and I smile and I give the big thumbs up, taking the opportunity just to enjoy how close she’s standing to me. I know. I know.
It is mid afternoon and I am sitting in the tearoom imagining. Susan walks in purposefully, and I suddenly realise that I haven’t yet had one of the buns she baked for us. Susan can get very hurt if you ignore her bakery and so I grab the little bag and make to open it.
“Have you eaten my special treat yet?” asks Susan, pointing at exhibit A, the unopened buns.
“No Susan.” I say, holding up the bag, “I was actually just about to...”
“Oh. Good!” she says, and snatches the buns away.
“What...I...”
“I have...just remembered...that today’s special treats...were I am afraid...not for you. They are for...the MacDonald Centre staff.”
“Oh!” I say “No buns for me then.”
“No. Perhaps...a special treat for you and Sasha...tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.” I say “I’ll look forward to that.”
“Although...I am making marshmallow cakes...for the party...so I may be unable...to bake anything for you.”
“Well I’ll just have one of your marshmallow cakes then.” I suggest.
“They’re for the party!” exclaims Susan.
“Yeah. But I’ll be at the party.”
“Oh. Of course...how silly of me.”
Susan slaps herself on the forehead, smiles, and walks away with the buns.
I should have eaten them at lunchtime.
I am so disappointed by the loss of the buns, that I decide to see them as a symbol of my inability to seize the day, even with confectionery. I’d be the first to admit that this is rather flimsy, but y’know, I’m of a mind to feel sorry for myself. They had chocolate chips and everything.
It’s late. Dusky.
All the workers left around four hours ago. Right now, Sasha and I are slumped against an enormous papier mache banana. We are The Velvet Underground sweating. Still, the workshop’s tidy, except for the bit of floor where Michael has painted “Rangers” in a nice Royal Blue.
“Time’s it?” I ask.
“Just after nine.”
“There’s hardly any point in going home.” I say, which is meant to be just one of those things you say but comes out sounding like a sinister proposition. I adjust my big black top hat and twirl my evil moustache in anticipation of her response.
“More iced coffee I think.” she says. Read into that what you will.
Sasha wanders over to the fridge. It’s covered in magnetic poetry, which today reads “atonal balloon, sasparilla nightmare windmill”. So true.
“What are we making to eat? For the party I mean.”
“Sausage rolls?” I suggest. “Go traditional.”
“That’s rubbish. The food should be y’know...as exciting as the exhibition.”
“Confrontational food?”
“No. Y’know, just...fun.”
“Fun eh? How about papier mache banana sandwiches? They’re really chewy.”
“Too bland.” she smiles.
“Maybe the way you make them. Anyway, sausage rolls are fun. We could call them ‘pigs in a blanket’.”
“I think we’ll ask the team tomorrow.” says Sasha, unimpressed.
“Goddamn you free thinkers and your blasted democracy.”
“Yeah well it’s either that or you’ll have us cutting the crusts off triangular sandwiches.”
“Nobody likes crusts! And what are you suggesting...sandwiches cut into...spaceships or something?”
“Bingo! And we could lay out a big table with all the identically shaped sandwiches, except we dye the bread all different colours, Warhol style.”
“I don’t think he ever branched out into catering.” I say, and for a moment I consider cracking a joke about everyone being hungry for fifteen minutes, but thankfully, think better of it just in time.
“So...” I say, loudly announcing Some Serious Conversation.
“Mmmm?”
“Are you bringing anyone to the party?”
There is a silence. But is it the silence of someone who doesn’t like to talk about their private life, or the silence of someone who can see an unwanted proposition approaching waving a big red flag and banging a drum?
“I’m not actually seeing anyone right now.” says Sasha.
More silence, but not the sort which is a cue for me.
“I’m kind of down on relationships. I finished with this guy last year and well...it wasn’t very nice. Not a good break up.”
“None of them are exactly good.”
“No this was really terrible. The police had to take me away.”
“Oh.” I say. I don’t know what to do with this information.
“But he dropped the charges. I mean...he provoked me.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I was painting him and he didn’t like it so...”
“What, a sort of caricature thing or...”
“No. Him. I was actually painting onto him. In gloss. I’d found out he’d been messing around on me from day one. Well...day three, so I decided to paint him bright red.”
“Right.”
“And I’d just started inking on the word ‘wanker’, when he woke up.”
“That’s when he phoned the police?”
“That’s when he phoned the police. I couldn’t get the paint off the phone for weeks.”
I laugh nervously. I am working with Zelda Fitzgerald. Perversely, this mental health issue instantly makes Sasha ten times more attractive. I’m not even going to attempt to justify that.
“What about you?”
“Girlfriend? Nah. My mum’s stopped just short of putting my name in Exchange & Mart.”
“Well your biological clock is ticking.”
“I think it might actually have stopped.”
Just there, I catch myself. I really do pull off being feeble and non-threatening with aplomb. It’s not deliberate. I have a mate who intentionally turns on this sensitive loser act around women.
“When women don’t feel threatened, you’ve more chance of getting them to shag you.” he says.
It would be a lot easier to get annoyed about this statement if it didn’t turn out to be true on a fairly regular basis.
So anyway, I’m not trying to sound pathetic, I’m just being myself. Unfortunately, I genuinely am pathetic. Bonus though, I think she likes that.
“Well...” I say, incisively.
A policeman passes and checks that we haven’t just broken in to stage an art exhibition.
“I suppose we should lock up.” she says.
“Mmmm.” I say, downing the chilly dregs of my iced coffee. “Yeah we really should.”
Smooth.
We pull down grilles, lock the doors and go our seperate ways. I stalk home alone to watch “Annie Hall”. See. I’m pathetic even when nobody’s watching.
The party food production line is in full technicolour effect. My sausage rolls were unceremoniously howled down at yesterday’s morning meeting, and so while Susan humanely dyes the bread, Michael is using a cutter to turn them into flying saucers and rockets. Elsewhere Lisa pours fruit salad into tall glasses which have been decorated with stick on smiles and crazy eyes. Sasha meanwhile, surreally sculpts carefully dripped icing across the tops of cakes.
I’m out of my depth here and so wander into the workshop where Anne sits, painting one final piece for the gallery. She looks especially focused this morning, meticulously coating this last canvas in end to end green.
“How you doin’?” I ask.
“Painting.”
“Painting what?”
“Green.”
“It certainly is green. What is it, a field, or..?”
“No. Just green. The...the...colour.”
“Very relaxing Anne. Good stuff.”
“This bit is...a different green.”
“Like a Mark Rothko print.” I observe cleverly.
“No. Like my dress.”
Anne gestures, and sure enough, she’s decked out all limelike.
“Green.” she explains.
“Got it.” I say. “Good one.”
“Have you decided what to call it?”
Anne nods.
“Boyzone.”
“Really? ‘Cos I would have gone with ‘Green’.”
“No.” says Anne very definitely. “Boyzone.”
“You’re the artist.” I say.
“Yeah. And Sasha. Sasha’s the artist.”
“She sure is.”
“Is Sasha your girlfriend?”
“...eh...no.” I say, and then cleverly mask my embarrassment with an enormous Brian Blessed style laugh.
“No we’re just friends.”
“How?”
“...” I say, for a while, and then “Let’s make party hats.”
“Do you know my boyfriend?”
“Michael?”
“Yeah. Michael.” she giggles “He’s gorgeous.”
“You’re right enough Anne. He’s a fine lookin’ man.”
“Yeah. We’re gettin’ married.”
“Excellent.”
“You marry Sasha.”
“No!” I laugh.
“Don’t you like Sasha?”
“Of course I like Sasha.”
“Woot woo.” giggles Anne as I fall into her trap.
“Very good.”
“Sasha likes you. She said she wants to do a slow dance with you at the party.”
Anne emphasises this point by waggling her eyebrows up and down in the manner made popular by her boyfriend Michael.
“Oh really?” I say.
“Yes really.” says Anne and goes back to painting.
This conversation is clearly over.
Soon they will be here. I look around our gallery and there isn’t anything I don’t like. Even the buffet is art. And I see her smile beaming from every corner of the room, a spotlight laughing, illuminating everything we’ve done.
Anne stands by the door, ready to open it with a vengeance when our guests arrive.
“Where’s Sasha?”
“Woot woo.” says Anne.
“She’s in the storeroom.” points Michael “For the paper towels.”
“Right.” I say.
And suddenly, This Is It, as if perhaps “paper towels” was the secret trigger placed in my mind by a benevolent hypnotist. I am going to ask Sasha out. Right now.
I leap toward the storeroom like a man in serious need of a new broom.
I throw the door open a little more melodramatically than I had intended and Sasha is struggling to reach the shelves.
“This fucking octopus.” she says. Which is suddenly the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.
“We had to put it somewhere. It’s a hazard.” I say “Anyway never mind that. Listen. Do you want...I mean...this afternoon..why don’t we sort of...couple up. Host and hostess style. We’ll be like the Fitzgeralds. But with less cocaine.”
That, was brilliant.
“Couple up? What’s brought this on?” asks Sasha, who is, at least, smiling.
“Well...it was Anne really. She said...she said you wanted to do a slow dance with me at the party.”
“Oh did she!”
“She did. But I’m a terrible dancer. And so rather than stand all over your toes I thought it’d be easier to just ask you out. But it isn’t, and it seems to be taking forever and it’s very hard to do it properly with that octopus looking at me.”
“Anne eh? She’s all there and round the corner. She’s been talking you up for weeks now. Not that she needed to really.”
Oh.
I lean forward, time slowing to a near standstill. But not enough of a standstill for the door not to open as I lean against it. And as I tumble backward, I grab Sasha to steady me, but she’s already tilting badly. So Sasha too, grabs for support, but despite having a full compliment of eight arms, the octopus sculpture is of very little use on this score. The first kiss, the door opening, and the octopus poking me in the eye. And we fall together into the party, all tinsel and kisses. Wrapped up in ourselves and also, in the wire frame of the banished octopus sculpture. The team are clapping and laughing as we roll helplessly around on the floor.
“Will you go out with me?” I ask, crepe paper seaweed sticking to my glasses, tinting Sasha a pleasant green.
“Yes.” she says “But I think I should warn you that this octopus is also making advances.”
Party poppers for big moment fireworks, our names are writ across the skies in tissue.
We kiss again, and Lisa pours pink lemonade into painted paper cups.
Anne opens all the doors.
note : I spent seven years working with adults with learning disabilities, more time than I've ever spent in any other job, you were guaranteed a wee laugh pretty much every day. Some of this actually happened, making this particular entry just slightly more self indulgent than normal.
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