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.
