Sunday 15 November 2015

Auntie Norma

Past lessons in my creative writing course supplied a Scrabble board with ten pseudo-random words. The challenge was then to incorporate those words in your own piece of writing. On my Android tablet, I play a type of Scrabble game "Cross Craze Free" (highly recommended!), and I thought it would be interesting if I could fit a complete game's worth of words in a piece of writing. This is the result.

Auntie Norma - Cross Craze Challenge

Those who were aware of her at all knew her as Auntie Norma. She could be found in the early part of Wednesday evenings, sitting in the window of that fast food place on Moor Lane, usually making a good job of devouring a plate of fish and chips. I met her one particularly busy night when we had to share a table and we got talking. Thereafter, it became a regular event.

She told me how she’d been involved in Chinese medicine and how there was an art to each potion she’d mix. I even learned the meaning of ‘qi’ beyond its use as a potential high scorer in Scrabble.

The best stories were of her youth, and I recall her description of the time in the States when she’d been loaned a jeep by a character she only knew as “El Capitan”, a member of the Nu-Theta-Kappa fraternity house at the neighbouring university. She had used it to drive to a dance hall at the other side of town. This is how she described the following events:

I remember it was in the late Sixties, and most of my friends were spending time with the guys who were on leave from Vietnam exchanging naval duties for dancing frugs and other dances of the day.

I’d paired up with a sailor called Ed, an ox of a man who had seemed really nice. It started to change once he’d had a few drinks. He started to reveal his ill-bred nature by talking dirty, and I was looking for an avenue of escape when this weedy chap walked up to our table and said “Hi. Ed, isn’t it? If you can’t refine your behaviour, perhaps you should go away and have a kip.”

He appeared so inept that I expected Ed to paste him, but nothing happened. Zilch. Instead of fireworks it was just a damp squib; Ed pushed himself up onto his feet, and then he walked away, his legs stiff-like. He appeared to be leaving a wet trail in his wake.

The weedy chap examined Ed’s seat before sitting. He placed a wax effigy on the table and nodded towards the doorway where Ed was disappearing. “There’s always some leakage,” he said, and beamed the widest smile I’d ever seen.

He told me how he’d studied with a Yogi on the Indian subcontinent, spent some time learning about voodoo in the West Indies, and made secret pacts to learn what his own future holds.

The music and the hubbub around me seemed to diminish to a series of drones. The only clarity was in his voice. He had won my complete attention.

“I was told I would meet my future wife being harassed by a large sailor in a dance hall.”

Re what followed; suffice to say, I still owe El Capitan one jeep.

Friday 20 March 2015

Arthur Podge

Arthur Podge

The room was old-fashioned. The décor in assorted shades of caramel, the dado rail supporting a row of painted plates denoting birds of prey, the record player and integral speakers built into a piece of Sixties’ period furniture, the wooden standard lamp topped with a shade of autumnal foliage; the only nod to more modern technology was the digital set-top unit attached to the huge wooden box that was a television. The three piece suite had seen better days as well, but it suited the small rounded man who sat in an armchair near to the gas fire. He was old-fashioned too.

Arthur Podge tapped his foot in time to the music. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass were playing Spanish Flea. The slight smile on his fleshy face showed he was enjoying the tune. It was a mild diversion from the trad jazz music that usually occupied his turntable and, after all, it wouldn’t do to be too stuck in his ways. Any sense of irony in this thought would have been lost on him.

The song reached its end and the stylus arm clicked and returned to its cradle. Arthur sighed and heaved himself out of his chair. He pulled at his grey corduroy trousers where they had wriggled into his groin, and walked towards the window. The evenings were getting a little lighter and it was notable that the inhabitants of Little Benton were taking full advantage of the extra daylight.

He saw Johnny Perry turn the corner by Mrs Whelk’s bungalow. Johnny had calmed down since his arrival in the village two weeks ago. The youth no longer repeatedly kicked his football at Mrs Whelk’s door. The requests to stop had been ignored, but when every kick of the football began to rebound into Johnny’s face, the habit was cured. Arthur noted that the two black eyes were starting to fade.

A shadow flitted across the window, interrupting the evening sun. The door chimes echoed down the hallway. Arthur pulled the edges of his cardigan forward and shuffled to the front door. He looked down at his slippers. Nearly worn out, he would need new ones soon.

In the hallway he saw a figure distorted by the frosted glass panels in his door. Arthur nodded to himself. It was his neighbour, Ellie Mayberg. She’d said she would come when she had an update on her current domestic situation. He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. Was he suitably dressed for company? A button on his shirt had loosened due to the strain imposed by his belly, so he moved his knitted tie accordingly and tucked it into his pants. His hair was neat enough, premature balding helping in that respect. Yes. He would do. He opened the door. Ellie was smiling.

“Mr Podge, I’ve got some great news. Can I come in?”

“Yes, Miss Mayberg –“

“Ellie, I’ve told you.”

“Ellie. Yes. Come in.”

They moved into the room Arthur had recently vacated. Ellie sat down on the sofa, clearly eager to speak. Arthur eased himself back into his armchair.

“First, that weasel Barry Harwood was found out. His manager came across from Manchester and called me back in to work, told me that Harwood shouldn’t have fired me, and that they want me to replace him. He’s out on his ear.”

“When did this happen?”

“The firm found out about him yesterday, around the time I was in here talking to you. They told me this afternoon. I can hardly believe it.”

Arthur nodded. “That is good news, Ellie.”

“I was so worried. Sorry for being a mess yesterday.”

“I’m pleased it’s worked out for you.”

“It has, hasn’t it? And that’s not all. Paul has been dumped.”

“Paul who used to be your Paul?”

“Yep. And he had the gall to come crawling back to me this morning.”

“And?”

“No one treats me like that. I gave him the knee.”

“Ouch.”

“I just had to come and thank you for listening.” She came to her feet and kissed Arthur on his cheek. “You’re a good friend, Mr Podge. Arthur.”

Arthur reddened. “Thank you. I’m happy things have turned around.” 

Ellie’s smile widened. “They have. I just had to tell you, but I can’t stay. I’m expecting a pizza delivery.” She moved towards the hallway. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”

Arthur listened to her leave, reflecting on her words. A pizza delivery. The village was beginning to change. He slowly shook his head, stopping when the telephone rang. He reached towards the side table and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is that Mr Podgy?”

“Podge.”

“Ah. My name’s Eric. I’m calling from Microsoft support. We are detecting problems on your computer.”

“My computer?” Arthur sighed. Another scam call. He reached into his pocket for his briar pipe and gazed at it whilst the voice on the telephone continued to speak. He didn’t smoke, but it he found it soothing to handle its smooth wooden stem, a habit he had acquired many years ago. He resumed listening to “Eric’s” accented voice.

“…it is something that will not be identified by your virus control software…”

Arthur put the pipe in his mouth, clamping it with his teeth. The mouthpiece was cool on his lips. He breathed out through his nose, listening to the caller. Something was happening in the background – an increasing commotion of voices threatening to overwhelm Eric, who was still intent on informing him of a problem with a non-existent computer. The background voices grew in volume.

“…there’s a problem with the entire network… …something’s burning… …we’ve lost the entire database… …oh no, the sprinklers…”

There was a single tone as the line went dead. Arthur replaced the receiver, took the pipe out of his mouth, smiling as he put it back in his pocket.

He was still smiling as he made his way back to his record player and flipped over the Herb Alpert long-playing disc. Time to listen to this before he made his tea. Perhaps he would try a pizza one of these days.

He didn’t consider himself a superhero. Superheroes deal with international issues, whilst he was content to live in his old-fashioned house in Little Benton.

Arthur Podge. Karma Man.

[This short piece is in memory of my best schoolfriend Chris Simister who sadly passed away towards the end of last year. Chris created a doodle of Arthur Podge when the rest of us were drawing superheroes. I attempted to duplicate the drawing above. RIP Chris.]

Tuesday 27 January 2015

Coping

“I don’t know why they publish this sort of stuff,” said Diane, throwing the paperback onto the garden table. “I mean, talk about clichés – ‘it was all a dream’? Do they think we’re stupid?”

“You didn’t like it, then?” said Mark, struggling to keep a straight face as he raised himself up from weeding the borders. “And you paid full price for it, too.”

Diane looked at her husband over the top of her Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses. He could see that she wasn’t amused and waited for a suitably acerbic retort. He didn’t have long to wait.

“You know what? The book may be a cliché, but no more than our marriage. Do you think I have fun living in this house, this oh-so-precise garden, having to cope with your super-nerdy workmates talking about computer programs – I wonder why I put up with it all.”

Mark looked at his wife – the botoxed forehead, the thin lips, the corded neck, the expensive jewellery, the carefully manicured nails on her claw-like fingers – paying particular attention to her expression as he formed a reply.

“Why do you put up with it all?” Mark said, taking off his gardening gloves. “Perhaps it’s because it pays for your lifestyle, your jewels, your cosmetic surgery, your affairs and even the trashy novels you criticise.”

Diane’s mouth dropped open.

“You seem surprised,” said Mark, “I don’t usually have the audacity to reply, do I?”

“You can’t talk to me like that–” began Diane.

“Not usually, no. But today’s different. Today I asked myself why I put up with it all.” He reached into a terracotta planter, shifted some hessian sacking and withdrew a sawn-off shotgun.

Diane visibly shrunk back into the garden lounger as Mark lined up the twin barrels.

“You know, it wasn’t that difficult to come up with an answer.”

Two shots rang out.

Mark closed his eyes and sighed.

There was a beep, and a synthesised voice resonated in his ears. “Simulation forty-six completed.”

He opened his eyes and took in the familiar surroundings of the computer lab, pulling off his de-activated goggles, removing the headphones and the sensor-enhanced gloves.

So. Sure, it was all a dream, but it’s one way of coping. Especially when Diane buys a new book.

[Another "Scrabble Challenge". This time, the ten words to be incorporated were publish, dream, like, paid, saint, fun, house, cope, super, shots.]