Camel Safari

We set off in our hired green Renault Twingo, which my Mrs inexplicably referred to as a ‘Twingo with a twango’. ‘Thank fuck I’ve only hired it for four days or there might be cause to use the medical card thing after I’ve smashed her in the face with the king size bottle of Malibu after sun’ I thought. The Twingo with a twango had a foldable roof, which we had removed, letting the early morning Lanzarote sun warm our pink barnets on the way to the camel safari.

When we arrived we paid and were each given a shot of hooch, which took the hairs off the inside of my nose when I breathed out. A group of ten people went through this ritual and then we were led to the camels. Me and the Mrs were put on the first camel in the train of five and off we all set off up into the hills guided by a bloke tugging on a rope which was tied to our camel’s noggin.

After about ten minutes we were surprised to see a couple of policemen up in the hills that proceeded to stop our guide and ask him for some paperwork or other. There was a bit of a heated discussion between the three of them and the guide ran off. The coppers chased him for as bit, but the little fella was too quick for them and he was away over the rocks. When the policemen returned they were properly pissed off and came over to me and the Mrs on the lead camel and asked us had we been drinking. She replied that we had had a gratis shot each before we had set off on which the copper produced a breathalyser and asked me to blow into it.

“Why?” I asked,

“Because we suspect you of being drunk in charge of a camel” he replied.

“Everybody else has had a drink why don’t you breathalyse them instead!” my Mrs shouted, clearly agitated.

“Blow into the bag!” he shouted.

“Do one Elvis” I replied.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he took a notebook from his pocket.

“Michael”.

“What’s your second name?”

“Mouse”.

“What hotel are you staying in?”

I gave him a blag name and when he had finished writing he said that we would have to go with him back to the police station where I would be charged with obstructing a police officer in doing his duty and that they were going to obtain a new guide as the previous one was an illegal immigrant and that’s why he had legged it. As we waited sat on our camel my Mrs whispered to me,

“After three, leg it. One – two – “

“Nah love have a minute, we’ll sort it out when we get back to the office”.

After about 10 minutes the new guide arrived and took us back to the start point, where we got off the camel and were escorted to the office. In the office there was an oldish bloke and two young lads who had been walking past us, backpacking when all of the kafuffle was going on. One of the lads pulled out a small video camera and one of the coppers said to me,

“Smile please; you have just been on German Candid Camera”.

Why was that king-size bottle of Malibu after sun in the car just when I needed it most to knock fuck out of the five nuggets in front of me. I’m not sure if it ever got aired on German TV as it wasn’t particularly funny. Although it might have been if my Mrs had of legged it as she was proposing to.

Paul B

Face Down

As the Christmas party was thinning out a bit in the garden, I wandered up to talk to Wes and hit another rich seam of polish vodka.   He had small claw shaped holes on his face that were filling with flecks of blood. I'd missed his mauling by Katie, his wife.  She had just left.  People passed shots and tried to decide what he should think it all meant.  

I remember looking through to a brightly lit room and seeing Ann & Claire and Andy (in an orange wig) dancing like all lives everywhere depended on it.  Johnny was involved in the affray.  After a period of time which could have been hours I became one of them, as did the remaining ten or so casualties.  

It had been light for maybe a couple of hours and Ann had demonstrated some less well-known falling over moves to an eager audience when we decided it was time to leave.  We 'walked'.  I managed to keep her upright and moving in broadly the right direction only through full physical effort, combating a left lunge with a right brace and so on.  I must have taken my eye off the game by the time we were on our street.  Anyway, she went off the other way with a vengeance, I couldn't hold her and the only way to protect her head was by swivelling her round as she went down. With both my hands trying to hold her I plunged face first across the gravel of the pavement.  

There was a fair bit of blood from superficial cuts and grazes across the right side of my face.  Drinking tea, speaking and especially smiling all hurt.  I will tell the people in Newcastle that I had a mountain-biking accident. 

Paul F

A Question Of Sport

We used to talk about it lots. We used to talk about all kinds of things lots. A few of the boys had Staffordshire Bull Terriers, they used to talk about dog fighting. Young wanna be toughs who'd be more likely to pat their dogs to death than let them tear each other apart. No, they had the dogs but it was all part of an image, a facade, nothing more, those boys loved those dogs make no mistake about that. I knew of dogs ate better than I did.

One lad reckoned he'd seen two dogs fighting a badger. He was full of shit. I'd never seen a badger and that's still true to this day. I think he'd seen it in a book, or on a TV documentary. He knew all about it.
"They break the badger's jaw first to make it a fair fight." A fair fucking fight where they break your jaw first? Christ!
 "And then they let the two Staffs loose on him and they work as a team. The farmer, when he's digging the badger out, he shoves sticks down his wellies 'cause if the badger takes hold, he'll not stop biting until he breaks your leg. If he hears the snap of the sticks he'll let go." Our champ could never quite explain why, if the badger was such a fearsome creature, the farmer wouldn't just shoot him never mind, dig him out, break his jaw - with a club, I imagine - and then risk two good dogs.
"Sport, mate, sport."

JL

The Importance Of The Right Equipment Cannot Be Overstated

It's said that to fail  to prepare is to prepare to fail. Well, you'll not find me getting caught out. I've consulted the weather reports, precipitation levels, barometric pressure, temperature and phase of the moon, waxing. I've poured over maps, studied several routes and come up with one I think will work best given the conditions, drizzle/turning to steady rain, the amount of day light I can reasonably expect and, of course, the lay of the land, mostly flat with one or two slight elevations.

I've carefully chosen a lightweight, Italian made day hiker that should offer support yet prove nimble enough should speed be of great import. The temperature is seasonal, winter, but the wet weather has negated the down Summit Parka I'd usually opt for on an outing like this one. Down has fantastic insulating properties, especially when you consider it's weight to warmth ratio, but it's useless when wet. I've chosen synthetic insulation in the form of a fleece jacket, well it's actually part of my 3 in 1 system, all conditions jacket (Mountain Hardwear). It zips effortlessly into the Gortex shell which sports abrasion patches on the high stress areas, shoulders, elbows and skirt. I particularly like this one as the hood is out sized to allow for use over a helmet, if, say, you are belaying up a cliff face for instance. I won't need a helmet today though. Instead I've plumed for a simple woolen bobble style hat, hand crafted by the descendants of the Inca, no two are the same. The hats, I'm not sure about the Peruvians. It's made, of course, from wool and resists the elements well.

I picked up a pair of Gortex mittens in the sale at Blacks, this is to be their maiden voyage, if you will. I've decided to go with the classic Patagonia hiking pant, with the zips at the knees that enable you to convert them to shorts should the need arise, not that I think it will on this particular trip. They are synthetic and dry quickly, an important consideration given the rain expected.

Right, I've chosen a small day pack, I'm not travelling far and I wouldn't want to get weighed down unnecessarily so provisions have been chosen with the utmost care. I'm quietly confident I'm ready for all mother nature can throw at me. Right, I'll be on my way, I think I've got everything

"You off hiking son?"
"No dad, it's Oldham Preston at Deepdale, can you give us a ride to the train station?"

JL

Twenty Minutes

It's never easy staring at a blank piece of paper. "You've got twenty minutes," they said. Twenty minutes, I can't come up with anything in twenty minutes. Where do I start? What would I write? What if someone else has done it already? I have no imagination, I never did have.

Twenty minutes, it's a long time to, say, hold your breath but to actually write something? You can't get much down in twenty minutes can you? How'd you develop a narrative when it's over before it's begun? Beginning, middle and an end, good luck with that in twenty minutes.

What can I write? What can I write? Only five minutes left, I'll have to come up with something... Okay, here goes nothing.

Terry S******  Expenses Nov/Dec 2012.

Terry S

The Girls At Kiss Kiss

I saw his name in the paper.  Micheal Pilkington. Below it in brackets Tiny.

Tiny Tiny Tiny. It mentioned my local, The Brew Inn, is that where I knew him from. I just couldn’t put a face to the name. Tiny -Micheal Pilkington -Micheal Pilkington - Tiny  I tossed the names around my head on the way for my Friday night drink. I didn’t have to ask, before I’d even sat down with my first pint Jim asked if I knew about Tiny.

 ‘I can’t place him, who’d he used to drink with?’

It turned out, I did know Tiny albeit not very well. He was a few years older than us and apart from the odd game of pool I’d never spoken to him, apart from the usual courtesies. I could put a face to the name though.

Jim told me the tale. A few weeks ago Tiny received a tax rebate of £2000.

‘So what you gonna do with it then Tiny?’

‘I’m off on ‘oliday?’

‘Very nice, somewhere exoctic?’

‘Kind of….KissKiss….. for a whole week.’

‘KissKiss the massage parlour on Denbury Road?’

‘That’s right. Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week.’

‘Right…ah well,  suppose Spain hasn’t warmed up yet.’

KissKiss on Denbury Road,  not really a massage parlour more of a brothel.  

This stories not about the morals or the rights and wrongs of prostitution. It’s about Tiny. And apparently he did spend a week there, playing pool naked, sleeping with a different woman every night. He left on the Sunday evening and called in for a few pints at the Brew Inn telling anyone who’d listen about his escapades.

  He was found dead in bed on the Monday morning, died in his sleep, a heart attack.

The newspaper said

Michael Pilkington.

(Tiny)

Regular at the Brew Inn and KissKiss Massage Parlour.

Miss you already

The girls at KissKiss.

 

Soulheed

Wife says “There's someone on the phone wants to talk to you about funerals.” 

I say “Hello,”

He says, “Mr Cullen, as I've just been mentioning to your wife; do you have a funeral plan in place…”

And I say “Well, our Paul's doing the music.  I've left him two tapes.  One called Death Disco and the other, rather wittily, or so I thought, called Death Disco Two.  I'm fairly sure I'll go before him.  And believe me, he'll get them the right way round, so it'll be The Perfect Kiss by New Order for starters.” 

The man says “Actually Mr Cullen, it's more about the financial aspect…” 

I say "Don't worry about that either, I'll leave a few hundred quid behind the bar, so everyone who wants to, can have a right good drink." 

Wonder if someone's got a list somewhere with all our names on and when you reach a certain age, a red flag appears next to your name and they ring you about this kind of thing.  He said he'd send me a brochure, but it's not arrived yet. 

And it’s probably a black flag, not a red one.

Martin C

I Can't Put A Figure On It.

"Arh yes, Mr and Mrs Leigh, it's nice to see you again. Sit down please."

Open night, my Mam and Dad up the school getting it straight from the horses mouth. I hate open night.

"Right, well, Shaun. Phew, what can I say?"

"Well how's the lad doing, that might be a good start."

"Right, right, right, great yeah, sure. The thing is, Shaun, Shaun's got talent...

-Jesus, our Shaun's right this ones a tosser alright. Still, English teacher, bloke, what'd you expect?

... but he's got no, he has no, erm, he has no drive. He doesn't seem to care. He's wasting what God's given him."

"What do you mean Mr Fisher? Is he not doing his homework?"

-Fucking woman's haircut. Looks like he dyes it. Cord jacket. And that tie, what the fuck is that tie all about?

"Oh no, no, no. No, no, no, no ,no... He does his work but it's just that. Well, it's... How can I put this?"

"Why don't you just tell us what he's not doing that he should be doing?"

"Right Mr Leigh, right. Well, the thing is, I think he's capable of more."

- It's fucking knitted. His tie's fucking knitted. Jesus, you're gonna sit there and slag my lad off while wearing a knitted tie?

I know they're gonna kill me when they get home. They always do. I always fuck up somehow.

"More? In what way?"

"Well, I can't, I can't really ..."

"What is it, words, paragraphs, pages, what do you want?"

"Well, it's not really a matter of quantifying it like that it's just that I know he has more in him."

"What my husband's trying to say is if you tell us what it is you want him to do we'll make sure he does it."

"I just feel he's capable of more, it's not about the number of pages or words, it's just he has..."

"More in him?"

-Jesus have you seen him, playing with his 'tashe?

"Exactly Mr Leigh."

"Put a number on more please Mr Fisher."

"I can't. I really can't I just don't..."

"One hundred words? Two Hundred words? Three hundred..."

"Please Mr Leigh, we're not really getting anywhere with this are we?"

"Look Mr Leigh, I'm sure you're a very intelligent man but our Shaun, well look at us, he's our son, we never went to college, we just need to know what you want from him and the lad will do it. Give us a figure to work with."

"Please don't put me on the spot like this. Shaun has talent and he really, really needs to develop it"

"Right come on love let's go see the maths teacher. Thanks for your time Mr Fisher. The lad'll write more, he'll try harder. "

"Please erm, I hope I haven't..."

"We won't take up any more of your time"

"Thank you Mr Fisher, thank you."

"Come on love, maths teacher."

"Jesus, what chance has the lad got of knowing how much to write if the teach doesn't know?"

"He seems a nice man, a bit confused but a nice man. He reminded me of someone."

"Oh aye?"

They're back.

"Mam, dad, how'd it go?"

"Well son you'd need to be a fucking detective to work that English teacher out"

"Shoestring!"

"What Mam?"

"Shoestring."

"Yeah, you'd need to be Eddie Shoestring to work that one out.

"Funny that, the kids call him Shoestring. Did you see his knitted tie?"

Fight Night

I remember, when I was a younger, I used to watch the boxing on TV with my old man all the time. Midweek fights with Jim Watt and Reg Guteridge commentating, Pat Cowdell giving his all, me and the old man camped in the living room with a box of Jaffa Cakes and pots of tea, Mam, long gone off to bed. A Saturday afternoon, European Championship fight, Kirkland Laing fighting in Italy.
"He'll need a knockout to get a draw over there, son." He was right. Jaffa Cakes, Tea, the curtains drawn Mam off somewhere. A big fight, Saturday night/Sunday Morning, live from Vegas, Hagler Mugabi, by Christ those two could bang. Jaffa Cakes, tea, Mam sound asleep.

My old man let me swear up a storm when we watched the boxing. I'd get a clip round the ear any other time. He was funny like that. I loved boxing. I loved my old man. I still do. I miss him, too. I still drink tea and eat Jaffa Cakes. I don't watch too much boxing anymore though, it's not the same.

JL

So it’s summer, 1978.  I'm 16, but, partly because I’ve got a job with a road gang, I look at least 19.  Saturday night I’m in the disco [see, it was 1978] and doing nicely.  
 
As an already-accomplished liar, I mention to her that I work in an office and you can tell she’s impressed.  

Tuesday afternoon, I'm towing my rocks off with a bucketful of tar, down a side street near Hemsworth.  
 
Then, the situation starts to unravel like Bob Dylan’s Shelter From The Storm; 

“Suddenly, I turned around and she was standing there...,” but the scenario doesn't continue to unfold in the same way as the song.  Because the song goes; 

"..with silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair…"  Alas, here, she's got some two-bob Woolworth's jewellery on her wrists and the remains of badly-rinsed, Co-Op Wild Apple shampoo in her hair.  

And her screams, threats, fists, are everywhere.  Crazy, yet somehow careful.  She wants to kill me, but doesn’t want filthy grime transferring from my clothes onto hers. 

"You - lying - bastard - you- said - you - worked - in - an – OFFICE!"  

"I do; It’s my turn for the ink.”

Martin C

A Mystery

At first I thought I was just getting a bit forgetful, nowt to do with age...obviously. But it kept happening and I tried to work it out, eliminate possibilities.

Now, fair enough, I'm a ponsey, artsy-fartsy, wishy-washy, head-up mi'arse, luvvie, almost writer but I don't believe in bollocks or new-age nonsense, I'm more of a logic, science type of fella. I'm not going to fall for some daft elf and shoemaker or Pisney Dixar set up, I'll test the fucker, work it out, nail the scamp in the act.

As I quickly - second time it happened - realised that it wasn't me being senile, it had to be Mrs Mick, no other possible option....well, strictly speaking, the Pisney Dixar scenario was possible but I'm more likely to develop the ability to fly and fuck off to Barbados everyday for a bit of morning sun.

The most logical thing I’m left with is that I’m completely and utterly off mi trough, a couple of synapses short of a working brain. But I’m not, can’t be, there has to be some logic hanging around here somewhere. The last one like this was when I kept writing notes, phone numbers, dates on the calendar and yet I wasn’t. I would’ve missed the talk at Wortley Historical Society if they hadn’t phoned me the day before….and they were paying me, insisted on it no matter how much I protested. So as I’m taking the kitchen apart, looking for the telephone number I’d written down the previous day, mi youngest saunters in, ‘Ah, there it is mi’Spy Pen, bin looking fo’that.’ TWAT, invisible ink and he’d helpfully chewed off the labels so it just looked like a black pen, which I’d obviously grabbed in a flap.

Right, what do I know for sure? Just the one thing, ten pound notes keep turning up in the inside right pocket of mi leather jacket. No two things, I’m not doing it. Mrs Mick int doing it, the kids don’t have access to that kind of money, the house is locked and there’s no correlation with visitors.  So I don’t know one thing, I know shitloads and the one thing that’s really getting me is that something thoroughly illogical is happening in our kitchen. It’s worse than God, a belief in fate – they are at least possible – or shutting mi’eyes at Elland Road as a nipper when Leeds were just about to score…..to make sure they did…. it’s as bad as that.

It’s not huge amounts, we’re not going to retire and move to Hydra or owt, odd tenner here, thirty quid there, the most I’ve had in a seven day period is £140. But when you’re a bit skint, that’s a decent chunk of extra cash. Financially, we’d be alright if them selfish, bastard kids would stop wearing their shoes outside and eating food….they also wear their coats in wind and rain which I’m sure damages them, the coats that is.

With everything else it’s just enough to get by on; I can continue pretending to be a writer whilst sponging off Mrs Mick’s hard work and decent wage. I’d explained the constant small chunks of cash by telling her that I’d found and book shop in Garforth and a gift shop in the Corn Exchange who both insisted on paying in cash, she dint question it.

I realised I’d turned into Gollum when we went to set up a book launch, I hung up mi jacket on the coat stand…..bad move. I’d carried a few boxes up the spiral stairs, arranged some leaflets, hung some posters, got bombarded by people asking me questions, went to get a fag out of my jacket…..IT WAS GONE…. ‘THIEVING CUNTS…. WHERE’S MI JACKET? I’D HUNG IT UP THERE.’

‘What’s it look like?’

‘DARK BROWN, SOFT LEATHER JACKET.’

Well, ten people searched the room, it got a bit frantic, no-where to be seen, I was close to tears when John pointed at me and said, ‘What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’ 

 ‘That fucking jacket you’re wearing, that dark brown, soft leather fucking jacket that you’re wearing.’

I kissed him. He gave me a big hug and whispered, ‘Love you, y’dosey cunt.’ We laughed.

So I’m still left with the only option that I’m a mentalist, which is fine but due to some weird insecurity I need to get to the bottom of it and prove mi’heads innocence. Early on I watched the access to the kitchen, not directly but locked doors and stayed up in a place where anyone would need to pass me to get to the kitchen, nothing but two tenners in mi’pocket four hours later. There isn’t a certain time it happens; it was through the day a couple of times with no-one else in the house. Two other things, it seems to make no difference whether I remove the money when I find it or leave it there, just piles up and it’s always ten pound notes, sometimes tatty, sometimes crisp.

I would stake it out properly and watch it but I don’t want to hex it, the money’s useful and I don’t want to fuck with this process. I hated that, but had to admit I’m almost agreeing to a belief in magic, fate or faith or sommat bollocksy…..but at least I’m getting paid for it.

Of course this is all bollocks, it's a daft story, but if we ever meet, keep away from my fucking jacket….I’ll be watching you.

Mick – now y’know why I never flog any books – McCann

Wheel of Misfortune

Chris picked up the next card on the pile, and checked it.

Mrs Swindells; Ward One: Wheelchair; Chest X-Ray; 4:10

He collected one of the departmental wheelchairs, clearly marked as a result of a previous turf war, and trundled down the corridor. Visiting time was approaching. It made sense to pick her up early.

He turned onto the ward and asked the perpetually grumpy Staff Nurse Walsh where he could find the patient.

'She's down in the day room. She's already in a wheelchair so you can leave yours here.'

Chris worried about the potential red tape this was going to generate but couldn't be bothered arguing.

He saw Mrs Swindells in the wheelchair, eyes closed, hands resting on her lap.

'Just taking you off for an X-Ray, Mrs Swindells'.

She said nothing.

He wheeled her back past the Staff Nurse.

'She's not very lively'

'Well spotted. She's been sedated –it's a common hospital procedure!'.

All attempts at conversation with his passenger were fruitless, so Chris took her to X-Ray, left her in the waiting room and told Sister Costello. He went off to read the newspaper in one of the cubicles reserved for patients waiting for enemas, having checked first that it was unoccupied.

He had hardly opened the paper when he heard his name being called out. There was a definite sense of urgency in the voice which made him move quickly.

'You’ll have to take her back.'

'Why'

'She’s dead.'

'What'

'You’ll have to take her back to the ward.'

By this time an incoming tide of visitors was streaming along the corridor to the wards. Chris waited for a gap and then proceeded down the corridor as fast as was prudent whilst pushing a corpse in a wheelchair.

As he was about to turn into the ward he heard the staff nurse's voice. 'She's just gone for an X-Ray, shell be back any minute.'

Shit! Why couldn't he have picked a less demanding holiday job! He didn't fancy a confrontation with angry family members, so he kept on going and pushed his expired charge down a side corridor to the sanctuary of the porter's room, where he decided to wait until all the visitors had departed.

After five minutes, he heard approaching footsteps. It was Polish George, a large amiable ex-miner. George stopped, looked at Chris's inert companion and exclaimed

' Chris, you can't bring patients into the porter's room!.'

'She's dead George!'

'Chris, you can't bring dead patients into the porter's room!'

'What should I do with her then???'

'Take her to the fucking morgue. That's the norm with dead patients'

Chris could see his logic.

He wheeled Mrs Swindells out the porter's room, through the side door and looped back along one of the outside paths. It was dusk. The air was cold and clammy with a fine drizzle hanging in the air.

Chris approached the morgue, which was half way down a covered way between the two main hospital buildings. He tried the morgue door. Locked. Shit. There was no one around and little ambient light. He left the wheelchair and headed back to the porters lodge for the key.

Returning through the gloom, he peered at where the wheelchair should be. There was nothing. He looked down the covered way, and in the half light he spied some movement. Gingerly, he made his way towards it. There was the wheelchair, on it's left hand side, the right wheel spinning slowly. Mrs Swindells, thrown clear by an impact with the kerb, was sprawled, half on the path and half on the flower bed.

Further down the covered way he saw Dr Browning, the Chief Registrar, striding purposefully up the slope. He looked down at the damp and muddied cadaver, still clad in her beige NHS dressing gown and slippers, in front of him, and pondered possible courses of action.

Things were clearly going to get worse before they got better.

Still, at least the wheelchair seemed undamaged.

Pete.

Jerry From Yonkers

I used to work with this young guy, let's call him Jerry From Yonkers because, well, his name was Jerry and he was from... You know the sort, knew everything about everything, especially sport. His passion was The Yankees but, thankfully, we only worked together, or rather we worked in the same building, briefly, during the off-season. For the duration of our acquaintanceship  he had to make do with basketball. That wasn't a problem for him because he knew everything about The Knicks too. His talents seemed sadly wasted running the freight car in an apartment building. If it wasn't for the fact that Charles Oakley, Patrick Ewing, John Starks and the rest of the New York Knicks had to settle for Pat Riley as a coach while Jerry From Yonkers was busy putting out the garbage who knows how many championships they might have won?

Jerry From Yonkers was a regular on sports radio phone-ins. I forget the show but, it's not important, they're all pretty much the same. At least three times a week the presenter would announce, 'And our old friend Jerry From Yonkers is on line two.' Jerry From Yonkers 'Coulda been a Contenda!' He had 'an arm.' He had two, like most of us but, apparently, according to Jerry From Yonkers, one of his could toss a mean curve ball. Somehow or other though he managed to slip through the scouting system of every major league, every minor league and every college baseball program in America. They really should fix those programs because talent like that of  Jerry From Yonkers, as described to me by Jerry From Yonkers himself, is something the American public should not be denied.

As well as 'an arm' Jerry From Yonkers also had 'a voice'. Jerry From Yonkers had a little girlie voice in fact, a little girlie voice that I just couldn't take seriously. No one could. For some reason, and I'm not sure why, I've started to listen to sports radio phone-ins on my drive to work of late and, 19 years removed from my time working alongside Jerry From Yonkers, I still hear his voice and find it hard to suppress a smile. It's not a smile born of affection rather it's born from the memory of a prank call made by another coworker. We'll call him John because, well, you get the picture... You see, John phoned up Jerry From Yonkers' favorite sports phone-in show and did a more than passable impression of Jerry From Yonkers while I was sat in the workshop with Jerry From Yonkers drinking coffee as we both listened to the same radio show...

JL

WAITING FOR MRS O'BRIEN TO DIE

WAITING FOR MRS O'BRIEN TO DIE

The kitchen window in the old house looks down over the vale of Tralee to the steeple of St John's Church and beyond to the Slieve Mish mountains. It's only a small window and allows poor light; if the house were to be built today it would be twice the size so that the new money could appreciate the view that they'd bought into. But this house was built a decade before the famine when views were ten a penny but glass was expensive. Because it's a small window the kitchen's dark but it's still my favourite room in the house. I'm moving the last bit of fried egg around my plate and staring out of the window at the view. It's not as great today because sheets of rain are cutting down the visibility and the Slieve Mish are just a suggested brooding shadow rather than a clearly defined range. Jack's sat under the table eating a bit of bacon that I've slipped to him. He won't go out in the rain; he's got more sense this sheepdog. I look at the clock and it's five to nine. I get up and put the kettle on, take out two cups, put tea bags in them and wait for the kettle to boil. It's all done by a minute to nine. I put the two brews down on the table and sit back down, taking a sip. It burns my lips so I rest it down again. The old man comes in from working outside, picks up his cup and eases himself into the chair next to the stove. "Turn the radio up," he says and I do. We do this every day. Nine o'clock. "Radio Kerry has been informed of the following deaths: Thomas McKelligott, 79, of Castleisland..." the voice drones on; a list of names. I don't know any of them. "Padraig Moran, 68, of Killorglin; Mary Keane, 84, of Dunquin; Dennis Harty, 62, of Tralee..." The list ends and the presenter moves on to the local news. The old man stands up and drains his cup. "Feckin' bitch," he says and goes back outside.

DG

I Think We Are Stuck

“I think we are stuck.” She says.

She’s right. We are. This lift has lodged between the 9^th and 10^th floors.

“That’s not ideal.” I say. “Should we press the alarm button?”

“Lets give it a second.” She says.

She’s pretty this girl. Really pretty. I was pleased when she got in the lift. In a way stuck in a lift, just the two of us should be some sort of dream scenario.

“I definitely think we are stuck.” She says.

She presses the alarm button. A shrill ding surrounds the lift and runs down the floors.

Silence. Should probably introduce myself.  Make her know I’m not a rapist or something.

“I’m Kevin.” I say.

“Oh…hi. I’m Lisa,” She says.

We awkwardly shake hands.

Lisa. Pretty Lisa.

“Been stuck in a lift before?” I say.

I’m as rubbish talking to girls in odd situations as much as I am in natural ones.

“No.” She says with a laugh. “You?”

“Once actually yeah. With my Nan in Brighton. Stuck for about 15 minutes. So don’t worry, you are with a pro.” I say.

She does a nervous laugh. Turns away from me for a second. Probably rolling her eyes.

I might as well keep up this elevator pitch for love.

“Do you work here?” I ask.

“Yeah. On 15^th floor.” She says.

“At American Airlines?” I say.

“Yep…sadly.” She says.

“That bad ay?” I say.

“That bad.” She says “You?”

“Well I was. Last day today, at the bank on the ground floor. Was just going up here to hand in my security pass.” I say.

“Well, you are certainly having a last day to remember. “ She says.  “Why are you leaving? That’s too personal a question. Sorry. I’m really bad at that. My ex always told me I was too invasive.”

Ex? Invasive? This is interesting. Clever and single. Might as well use that line I always do when a girl mentions her ex boyfriend.

“Well, he sounds like a dickhead.” I say.

She laughs. Which is good. That line has been known to backfire.

“Yeah he was. A cheating bastard dickhead.” She says.

She looks at me for second. I think she just looked at me as a person for the first time. No longer just a background extra. Might as well answer her question.

“I’m moving back home. My mum is sick. Well she’s dying actually.” I say.

“Well that is just awful.” She says.

“It is. And I appreciate you not saying you are sorry. I’m sick of people saying that.” I say.

“Yeah, I hate that too.” She says.  “Are you moving far?”

“Yeah, back down south. Boscombe. One of the worst places in England. It’s essentially a worse version of Bournemouth. Imagine that?” I say.

She looks a bit sad.

The lift then jolts into action.

“Oh, here we go.” She says.

The lift is soon at the 15^th floor. The doors open.

She turns to me. I look at her.

“Bye then… Well good luck with everything Kevin.” She says as she steps out.

I should ask her number. Or kiss her. Or something. I should definitely do something. Say something.

The doors begin to close.

“Yeah, thanks, bye.” I say.

The doors close. 

Tom Greaney.