Monday 21 October 2013

Ramblings

A bit of a while since my last post on here, the writing part of my life has become secondary to my Baking, but I have been doing a bit here and there. Mainly random jottings, started off with a thought to see where they lead.

The first was based on the phrase "Derelict House,"


 Albany Road was a dead end, in more ways than one, part of a vast council estate; it had become a dumping ground for all those with 'problems,' but although they might not have jobs, or two parents, the people had pride, and a sense of community.

There were a group of teenagers that gathered at the end of Albany Road, on the wide verge by the space where misdirected cars could turn around. They had done every night since they had been old enough to have been allowed out, and they all knew each other well as a result. Not only that, they had spent most of their lives at the same school, when they could be bothered to go, from the age of four.

That night there were six or seven of them, all about 17 years old, totally relaxed in each other’s company, sitting round in a circle, drinking cheap cider and passing a single cigarette round.

An observer would notice that there was a space in the group, and if you had asked, they would had said, "that's for Malcolm,whilst glancing at the derelict house that framed the end of the road.

Once it had been a smart, detached house, of the sort that the residents would now call 'posh,' now all that remained were blackened walls, jagged roof beams jutting like broken teeth, and sightless windows.

That was Malcolm's house.

Malcolm had arrived in Albany Road when the group were on a long summer holiday, just before the start of secondary school. A small quiet boy, he had thick glasses and a shock of brown hair. Initially, the group had not wanted his attention, but they soon realised that his looks belied a rich wit, and an ability to obtain booze and cigarettes for their nightly meetings. It soon became apparent that he got these from his mother, who sadly was getting over her man leaving in the time honoured way of blotting it out.

They had been happy days, there were open spaces to explore, trips into the city and endless sunny days to fill. Malcolm soon became a part of the group, and over the months they became inseparable.

Then one day, Malcolm's father turned up, the group didn't know who he was at first, but the shouting from the house soon gave the game away. Malcolm wasn't seen outside for a while and they questioned him at school. At first he said that his mother was ill and he was looking after her, but eventually he opened up and told them the full story.

"My mum's had a breakdown," he explained," and my father has threatened to hurt her, so I stay in after school now to keep her company."

The group understood family breakups, after all most of them had seen the same events played out in their own lives, so they nodded sympathetically and offered help, which was what friends did.

Over time, Malcolm's mother didn't get any better, but she didn't get much worse either, and the situation dragged on until it was seen as normal and the group stopped asking. But they always left a space in the circle, in case Malcolm came back.

One day, Malcolm was in an agitated state at school, his mother, he said, had fallen asleep, drunk, and started a fire when she dropped her cigarette. Malcolm had put it out and no damage had been done, or nothing that moving the furniture couldn't hide.

The first they knew, that winters evening, was when the windows of Malcolm's house lit up in flickering patterns. It was late and the group were just going home.

At first they didn't realise that there was a fire, then they heard the banging on the door, coming from the inside. Malcolm was shouting through the letterbox,

"The doors are locked and I can't find the key, so are the windows. She's been frightened that dad would come back."

They were all double-glazed and try as they might, they did not break under the hail of stones from the group. All the time, Malcolm was shouting through the letterbox, until he started coughing and the flames forced him upstairs.

The fire brigade had been called, and were soon on the scene; Malcolm was stood at an upstairs window, obviously locked by his mother. Then he was gone.

The firemen smashed the door down and as they were about to go upstairs, with a roar the roof collapsed, sending a stream of flame and burning objects out of the door and blowing all the windows out.

And that's why there's always a space for Malcolm, on the grass outside the derelict house.
 
Next was a piece inspired by the idea "Memories," its unfinished but written in one, with no corrections.
What are my memories? Well I can remember lots of things, and more come into my head as I type. I remember St Mary’s Park in Collaton, and sitting on the wall with my Grandmother the day we moved in. We had caught the bus from Town and were about half way up the hill (we have moved into Number 96) My Grandmother was old and out of breath, so we stopped and she sat on someone’s wall to get her breath back. I remember it was a hot day and she told me the owners of the wall wouldn’t mind. I was 4. I think it was near the house that my other grandmother later brought, Number 50, although I can’t be sure.
I also remember going to Brixham on the bus, in the school holidays, with my mother. It was a rainy day, and we sat by the harbour to eat fish and chips for lunch. My mother shouted at some teenagers who were using bad language. I remember being surprised that they apologised for their behaviour.
Also in Brixham, I can recall school trips to the aquarium and to the Golden Hind. My friend from Secondary School, Ian Taylor showed me his father’s Gift Shop in Paignton Harbour, called David Taylor Gifts, he had another in Brixham. I remember one day he wasn’t at school, and when he returned he told us that his father had died. I remember the feeling of shock, it was the first time I had been that close to death, and I recall his behaviour was erratic for a long time afterwards.
I remember his house, near Windy Corner, it was close to the house that my father’s physiotherapist Mrs Towesland lived in, she was treating him for a bad back, diagnosed as Rheumatism by our doctor. Her treatment never made any difference, he would writhe in agony some evenings, eventually, he went to London as a private patient, and I was left with my grandmother for the day. X-Rays, which our doctor had never ordered, showed an undiagnosed slipped disk and cartilage wear were the cause of his pain, and an Osteopath in Preston was able to assist. His name was Mr Benians or something like that. Anyhow, our Doctor was furious that my father had gone behind his back seeking treatment, and the whole family was struck off. We had no doctor for several years, I don’t think that would happen now, you have to remember that the 1960’s were a different time.
What else comes to mind? Well I remember playing in the turning at the top of the road, and
climbing over the wall at the back of the garden, to explore the fields.
And finally, today's essay, again at random, this time describing my day,
Do you ever get the nagging feeling that there’s something that you should be doing?
At first I thought that it was guilt, as I think that I spend quite a bit of time sitting around doing nothing, whilst I can see jobs around the house that need to be done. And the funny thing is, once I started doing these jobs, I found that they were not as long or complicated as I had imagined.
But its more than that, I have a good job that I enjoy, although through choice I only work part-time, it gives me lots of days where I can do what I (or we) like.
So in that respect, I am very fortunate. Despite the above, I try and use my hours wisely, doing things that interest me, but still the dissatisfaction creeps in.
I think that I am worried that I am wasting my talents, that I should be more creative, that it’s a shame to be good at something just for itself and not to use it for the greater good. And almost “what’s the point of ability if you keep it to yourself?”
Here’s the rub, I need a push in the right direction, do I carry on as I am, feeling vaguely unsettled, or do I move to a different level, and do I even know what that is.
Logically, I should keep on as I am until a definite course reveals itself, but the worry is that I might miss it, realistically, that is unlikely as surely I would ‘know’ when the time or thing was right.
What a load of old angst.
I have also become embroiled (lovely word that) in a saga with the American Tax Office. In order to avoid paying tax on American sales of my book, I have to obtain an exemption from tax, which involves filling out a form and attending the Embassy to have my identity verified. I didn’t want to post off my passport for two months so it seemed the easiest way. Anyhow, I duly went up to London and did the necessary, and was told my application was correct, all the required forms and papers were produced and I came home. Imagine my surprise when my application was rejected due to “Incorrect Documentation.” Worse; the letter didn’t say which bit was incorrect.
I have tried over 300 times to call the number given, only to hear either a ringing tone that never gets answered, or to be told that ‘all our specialists are busy’ so now instead of keep calling I have written to them. Stay tuned.
At this rate, I need to sell about 3000 books to get back in tax saved the value of the expense of a trip to London and calls etc. So it’s a long term investment.
People have said that if you are trying to do something and it’s not for a life or death situation, or vital in some important way, that being unable to do it means that it’s unnecessary, or the wrong thing. I think that repetition whilst expecting a different outcome is a sign of madness. The truth is probably somewhere in between, so I have sent a letter and put it out of my mind.
Meanwhile I am reading “The Writing Warrior” by Laraine Herring, having listened to an audio book of “Writing down the Bones” and gained inspiration from Natalie Goldberg. What I didn’t realise when I got the book, was that I would have to learn breathing and shaking routines first!
Last Saturday I was waiting outside the Doctors at 0830 for my Flu Vaccination, they were late opening and I remember thinking, “When I was young I was waiting for the Pub to open, now that I’m old It’s the Doctors! Made me grin to myself, that’s progress.
There's enough material there for an entire conference.




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