Just a little seasonal thought.........................

Memory Lanes

I sit knees tucked under,

leant against the chair,

a  handful of wallets

Ilford , Kodak, Boots Express.

I open a random wallet

and life drops to the floor,

a history in crimped edge photos

parents, brothers more.

A picture from my birthday,

knife in right hand [how wrong!],

 rosy chubby cheeks,

there with my mom.

Primus shielded by tarp,

Back of the car we sit,

A tea break on the journey

On small stools we sit.

A caravan in the New Forest.

Mom standing on a step.

The dog, Lass, good as gold,

a summer day to rest.

A beach, rolling waves

two boys digging in the sand.

Small girl in swimming cosy:

a woman and a man.

The boys sat by the sea,

hair in cow lick style,

mom eating prawns,

Mudeford style.

Happy smiling faces,

50 years of life.

I look at me at one

and then in my mother there.

No one will ever look back

on me as I am now.

No children to miss me.

No rummaging in my past.

I’m looking at my mother.

Reflecting on me now.

So different are our lives,

I wonder how I got here now.

May contain nuts

always amusing to look back at things written very tongue in cheek

May contain nuts

There were no fireworks.

There was no big band, harpists or a chorus of angels.

But there was, in the days of ‘moonlighting’ and Cybil Shepherd; soft focus.

This was if truth be told, the result of far too much wine to blot out the jabbering of the Wokky next to me who was interviewing a guy for the prospect of coitus non interuptus. She crashed and burned but moved onto the next unsuspecting bloke by cooing adoringly at how lovely his little pooch was. Now was probably not the time to remind her that she was old enough to be his mother however well preserved she is!

But back to my soft focus. Yes, I had walked into or nearly fell into the lap of, my Milk Tray Man. Tall dark and devilishly handsome, I was hooked. Trying [convincing I felt] not to slur my words I leapt in with both feet about my love for the area and how much I wanted to live here. That I was an aspiring writer and wanted to come here to create THE masterpiece that would turn me into the next J K Rowling. At this point I failed to mention poetry as it tends to make people run a mile. He smiled and continued to put up with my chatter. I couldn’t shut up! When he could get a word in, my Milk Tray Man, it appeared, wasn’t on holiday, but lived in this heavenly place. He woke up every morning to the stunning blue skies and mountainous countryside that surrounded us. How envious was I? In my soft focus moment, I’d also failed to notice his distinct northern accent. My vision was coming back to earth with a bump as the bar we were in shut [but it’s only 1am!] and we had to move onto the next one. A ramble of countryside loving Brits on what I thought was ‘a session’ headed 200 yards without backpack or navigational equipment to get the beers lined up and continue the chat. Little did I know, this was normal drinking here!

Negotiating road, kerbs, parked cars and continuing to bend Milk Tray Man’s ear [although god only knows what twaddle I was talking] I realised my alcohol limit was at its peak. No more for me thanks! I glanced at the jabbering Wokky who was still pouting and preening at the boyman with the cute pooch; he seemed to be enjoying it so I left them to it. Somehow and I really don’t know how, well, other than my big mouth going into overdrive of alcoholic bravery, I was discussing the making of béchamel sauce with the hulking geezer next to me. ‘Rubbish, you can’t call it a béchamel with just milk and flour’. Was that me? Oops it was. The hulk turned to look, his mates too. Ooh, what had I done? I plodded on, all sense and sensibility gone, ‘you’ve got to steep the milk with bay leaves and cloves’ I kept on, what did he know? Milk Tray Man, leant into my ear, ‘he’s a chef.’ Did I shut up? Nope! ‘well, he ought to know better then!’ was my retort to which, Chef went through the full minutiae of making béchamel sauce.

I’d like to say, that Milk Tray Man walked us back to our hotel but, he didn’t; so I had the jabbering Wokky all to myself. Joy. In went the earplugs and out went the jabbering, for now.

I was surprisingly perky the next morning, even when I groaned about the béchamel sauce faux pas. Ah well, I wouldn’t see them again would I? And what about Milk Tray Man? Mmm. Dunno. Was it just the drink? I wandered to breakfast alone in my thoughts. The Wokky was still resting her jaw so I had peace and quiet over Lipton’s tea and  tostadas and wondered what milk Tray Man would look like without the soft focus.

Joey in his VW neckerchief

a little bit of Joey

Barking Mad

Well the barking has finally got to She-mom.

Well actually it wasn’t the barking; it was the smell.

Well really it wasn’t the smell but what/who had caused the smell.

I am definitely in the dog house.

She was sitting with her feet up and had been trying to identify the smell for a few days but couldn’t work out what it was or where it was coming from. She’d checked the fridge and shut the back windows in case it was drifting in and disinfected the bin too. But it was still there. Then just as we were off to bed, she dropped onto the floor, sniffing like a blood hound. Uh oh. My number was up as she neared the far end of the couch ‘Joey!’ I cowered. She’d found it. I couldn’t look. She was wiping her hand on the couch and the carpet; maybe the puppy eyes would work?

Copious amounts of kitchen towel flowed from her hands like a white bouquet as she dropped it onto the spot where I had pee’d.  She was mumbling something again but I kept well away. All she did was look at me with those eyes. Not the lovey dovey ‘you are my best boy’ eyes but the slightly cooky ‘Hellraiser’ ones.

 I slept on the landing for most of the night before creeping onto the bed and making myself so small in the corner that she wouldn’t notice.

It was still there, the smell that is, so she-mom was consulting the oracle on her ipad. Water then a nose wrinkling vinegar and water were applied, more paper towel and a brick. Success. No smells. I still kept out of the way and made myself busy in the conservatory fly catching; I know this impresses her; cats bring mice, I catch flies, simples. But I mean, it’s her own fault really. If she is going to bring a bloke in here to challenge my male domain, what does she think will happen? Boys will be boys!

I settled down in the sun and relaxed. Life was sweet again, or so I thought.

I raised an eyebrow as I heard my name called. She-mom had my lead in her hand. WALKIES! Excitement and circles and whoops and woofs of delight; WALKIES! Where are we going, it’s evening and we are getting in the car? Oh no. had I blown it this time? Was I going back ‘there’? Now I was scared. I barked.

And I barked and barked. NOOOOO!

We stopped. Where were we? The park? Hmmm no. I sniffed the air. I could smell other dogs. Little dogs, big dogs, puppy dogs and old dogs. Was she going to leave me in a cell again? We were going towards the big doors where a cute little Pomeranian had just gone in.

In we went and there was a big black Labrador. Oh my, he was huge and he just sat there, happy as you like not even taking any notice of me. We walked towards another couple of She-moms, they were smiley and were stroking me and giving me the lovey dovey eyes. This wasn’t a cell place, this was a happy place and I liked these She-moms! Then I saw two Spaniels and another dog I didn’t know, just lazing away by some chairs, napping. She-mom was leading my up some stairs and then we were above everybody. I like this; I can see and be seen and, hello, here’s the cute little Pomeranian: but what’s going on? More dogs were coming in.

Then they were all walking in a circle with the big lab in the middle watching over them with his He-dad. Then they changed direction and walked in circles the other way.  And then…oh…and then… I sniffed…bacon! I smell bacon! Oh yes, treats!!!! I sat bolt upright; I wanted treats but it was all the other dogs getting treats. I gave She-mom the puppy eyes, would it work? Yeah I got a treat too.

But what was I doing here?

brambles rambling in my mind

A clean sheet of paper. The first in quite a long while: too long in fact. Where do I start? We all know that the weather in the UK is currently amazing, that night follows day, that, sigh, where am I heading here?

Joey. Dear little Joey...now even smaller as I’ve had him shaved for the summer [he is a dog by the way not an errant child or heaven forbid husband] can spin me into a complete stress. It’s been a good number of years since I had a dog around and never one adopted at 8 years of age. But Joey has his own pages in my head; such is his personality that he deserves his own space. But I am stressing over his blooming barking at other dogs. In fact I am just stressing.

Why though?

I think I was raised a worrier. My dad certainly was. He would come home from work every night and ruminate over the day’s events and talk them through with my mother. She would listen and let him get it off his chest and ask the right questions. She was his leveller.

A scrupulously fair man he would never do anything rash, everything was carefully thought through and justified and he took full responsibility for his actions and no doubt worried about them too! We were brought up to have respect and to have conviction in our actions, to stand up for ourselves if we believed in what we were saying even if we were a lone figure in a throng.

The responsibility of my actions weigh heavily on my own shoulders still; too heavy. But why? Why do I feel so responsible for things that are out of my control? Why do I worry that my words may hurt someone? We are all entitled to our own thoughts and opinions and rarely do I take anyone’s opinions personally. How daft am I?

               

I have just spent over a week worrying about the daftest thing; telling a guy I don’t want to see him again. The first guy in a long time that had seemed ‘normal’. We had a lot in common but there was no spark, no excitement, no nothing. I analysed every detail. Was I just running away because he was close to what I wanted? Would he be upset? Would he accept it? ‘He, he, he...’ was I worrying about me? No. I had to accept that I was getting so worked up about the whole thing that it was obviously not right to be with him and so I did the deed. He said ok, yes ok.

A weight had been lifted off my back. I had my space back. The weekends were once again mine to do what I wanted to do for me. Sounds selfish? No, not really. In my old fashioned married for 24 years head yes weekends were for being a couple but in the 7 year single head, weekends were my space to be me especially with the stress of work. Yes, there goes that word again.

What that short relationship did enforce in me was that there has to be a connection between two people for a relationship to work in my life. Also that I missed being out in the English countryside for the weekend as it does me the power of good. It invigorates and inspires me [lets ignore this year’s hay-fever development] and with the lack of a significant other to throw things around with, it is my leveller.

So, only yesterday, I bought a tent. Nothing too fancy and nothing too small either. Big enough to sleep in and sit in should I need to be inside but small enough to not give me too many issue to erect.

But then I’m off on my stress mission once more. Joey

Since I have only had him for 6 months, his personality keeps coming out and he is a definite bossy dog and use to having his own way. He hates not being by my side when I do anything. Washing the car on the drive he will bark constantly at the window. I just ignore him as telling him off does no good whatsoever. So is he going to be a pain in the butt whilst I am calmly trying to erect the tent watched by the googly eyes of other campers? Then there is his peer attitude. I’ve never known a dog so contrary. Walkies on one day and he can smile and greet other dogs or nonchalantly walk past them. On other days he will bark at every dog he sees, usually with tail wagging. What am I actually worrying about though?

 The barking will stop.

He’s on a lead so can be controlled.

It’s just a bit of noise.

What I should be thinking about is the first brew on the camping stove.

The sitting enjoying the view.

The sunset.

The first night under canvas for more years than I care to remember

 and the smell of bacon wafting across a field to wake me up in the morning and relaxing.

I need to remember what it felt like to sit on the big swings as a kid. Pump your legs getting the swing higher and higher to the point of where you get the slack in the chains. Your heart beating fast, swooping back to the ground, grazing the toe of your shoes on the earth. No one to catch you if you fall but not even thinking that. Just enjoying the rush of adrenalin that left you feeling giddy with laughter and pleasure.

Where do the days go?

Now Janet has given me a friendly nudge, it's good to kick myself into action.

Some of you will know a little about my house purchase in Spain and that i started a memoir; cathartic to a degree but it does need lightening up, characters added in and a whole new feel now that the wounds have healed. So here is a taster of how it all started...roll on the time to rewrite and get to include all the fantastic characters in the town!

PROLOGUE

As the clock strikes 9

Morning chill softens as the sun eases over Town Hall

spotlighting on protective silent cannon.

Martin crosses the main square with Jess and Ben,

tongues lolling after their morning adventures in the campo.

sniffing absently at the benches, weeless cocking habitually.

Martin nods at José, seated, leaning with gnarled

hands on the equally gnarled walking stick.

José’s mirror image seats himself next

coughing from smoking too much Pueblo.

Cut and paste the bench-of-two repeatedly around the square,

change the clothing colours and hue, the odd hat,

maybe a year or two and we have the remnants of the

Franco revolt, openly chatting in habitual defiance.

The women appear now steps are swept and plants watered,

across to the panaderia in housecoat and slippers.

Then back inside to do more chores and straighten antimacassars.

Children scamper and play, screams and giggles and fun

respectfully enjoy the space, safe in the company of elders.

Not a swear word to be heard as balls bounce across the road

niños chase after them.

The winter sun begins to set as

the litter picker silently collects the butts of the day.

The square, quiet once more.

As the clock strikes four.

Chapter One

I watched the builders arms display what his words were saying as we stood in the mule shed under my house. Eyes raised to the rafters, elbows raised to shoulder height, he was gesticulating to the carpenter, his hands dropping down to the floor. As with all Spanish people, his voice accentuated the urgency of his words. Then there was a shrug and an open handed gesture. I knew immediately what he was saying without understanding the words; the whole house was in danger of collapse. I felt sick.

Welcome to my new home. My retirement dream. Five years dreaming, three years planning. Two minutes to cast a lead weight into my belly.

 Chapter Two

I kept myself together; mentally stepped outside this beautiful little village in the Alpujarras and like a matador with a cape, drew it around me to cloak me from the news. It all should have been so perfect, but today everything was falling apart; my relationship with my boyfriend had run its course, the previous builder had not done as instructed and now this. The chestnut beams were rotten to the core, a concern I had raised but been dismissed by the previous guy who accompanied me when I viewed it, who said that that they had been treated and were ok. He had poked at them in places and to be fair, the holes were only surface deep. Gut instinct didn’t cut in at any time. Now this qualified builder was telling us that if the beams weren’t replaced immediately, the house was in danger of collapse. I turned my back and walked away as Carl tried to tell me what Miguel had said. ‘I was told two weeks ago that a couple needed doing and I thought they had been done before I got here’ I said; so much should have been completed before I arrived. ‘And how safe is the hole in the wall for the new double doors without acrow props to support it?’ all three of us looked towards the rear of the building at the gaping hole. No lintel. No temporary supports. I already knew the answer. What was above? Three more storeys of house, all reliant on these original chestnut beams and the back supporting wall. For the second time in as many minutes I felt sick. Carl and Miguel looked back at me with sadness in their eyes; it wasn’t looking good.

We locked up the mule shed and arranged for Miguel to quote for the work to be done as soon as possible. I went upstairs, slid open the lounge door and gazed out into the beautiful view of the Sierra Nevada. I could just see through the mountains to Morocco on my left and to my right the sweeping undulations of the Lujar. The sun was going down on what should have been another beautiful day in May but I felt like it was my last day on the planet. I couldn’t face clearing up the debris that surrounded me, I needed to run and escape what was happening. But I wasn’t at home. I couldn’t just call up a friend and escape into their lives with my tales of woe. I had to face this on my own. A drink was required and some company and light banter; time to let Fernando tell me his worst jokes.

The next morning, with no one to turn to, or so I thought at the time, I set to, cleaning up the mess in my Spanish home. The lounge had someone’s smelly work clothes perched next to the television and a pair of boots kicked into the corner. Old bedspreads acted as dustsheets over my couch. The lower terrace was covered in sawdust, no wonder I was coughing in the night, the dust had been blowing into the bedroom. The kitchen was what can only be described as a builder’s yard. Tile off cuts were on every work surface from where the builder had been cutting them whilst doing the bathroom, all my plates were stacked, filthy dirty amongst the debris and a grease laden frying pan; it was like someone had been living here whilst I was away. With the clothes in the lounge, maybe they had. The rubbish bag was in the same place it had been five weeks previously and was oozing something from the bottom onto the marble tiled floor. A line of wine bottles snaked its way around the base of one cupboard and for some reason, there was a gaping hole where the cooker should have been. This was down in the entrance way, snuggled up to the over laden mini skip, old door frames, breeze blocks and capa fina bags full of rubble. The neighbours rubber tree plants were coated in a thick layer of cement dust; she must have been cussing me since the day I moved in.

Being May, the weather was warm and sweeping and mopping had to be done at a steady pace not British pace; I was learning the tranquillo way of the Spanish. The only place you got by rushing was stressed and tired. At 11.30, sweaty and weary I decided to go down to the bar for a coffee. I looked down at myself; dusty from head to toe, I wasn’t going to get changed just to go for coffee, so I sauntered down town and seated myself in the sun. Cafe con leche and tostados, perfect. I leant back and absorbed the rays and began to relax and remember why I wanted to be here.

Second Hand Dog

A new life

Prologue

There are people everywhere.

All above me; ignoring me.

They are around Mom’s bed.

She is being taken, not roughly and she’s not protesting.

But she can’t.

I need to stop them.

But I am too small. But I try.

I am picked up; I kick and I scream. I’m being soothed; held tightly and cuddled.

I quieten as the other people leave.

I look at the bed. There is a dent where she was. A warm spot I would sometimes curl into. Smell her scent, relax and fall back to sleep until I am called for breakfast. I try to scramble free to get to that spot. To smell her scent. To feel warm and safe. But I’m held close and taken from the room.

I cry.

IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS JOEY

Chapter One

I shiver and curl up tighter: it’s minus two degrees and I’m not in my comfy bed.

I’m not snuggled up in my warm room

I’m not even in my house

Or with my family

I’m in a cell.

Concrete walls and floors. A smell of disinfectant and a warm breeze from somewhere.

It’s dark. I can hear others breathing but no one is here with me. I curl up on my bedding; at least this is mine. It smells of me and of Mom.

Chapter Three

I can hear activity. Footsteps coming along the passageway and I blink at  the winter sun coming through the bars on the windows. The latch is lifted on my cell. I edge back into the corner frightened of what is to come. Two bowls are placed before me. My nose twitches. Biscuits and water. I blink. The girl smiles and leaves; onto the next. I sit. Wary. I edge my way towards the bowls... it’s ok. Smells good and I take a small mouthful. I’m not overly hungry as I’m more sad than anything. But I eat and curl back into the corner.

Chapter Four

The daily routine is the same. The nice girls come in and feed me, I don’t understand what they are saying but they are kind. They take me out for fresh air and exercise, feed me and look after me.

They are nice.

There’s a new lady. Noisy.  Laughing. But she seems nice too. She doesn’t mind me walking in the mud and the puddles. In fact she likes doing it too! Then she’s gone. Who is she?

She’s back again. Yes! And this time...hey, what’s happening here? I’m getting into her car, wow, look at all this space. I want to sit in the front seat but she won’t let me but that’s ok.

Oops, we’re moving, where are we going? I watch the trees and bushes as we weave down the rutted lane. I say goodbye to the sodden horses in the field, glad to be inside in the dry as I have no coat like they do.

I wonder where we are going?

[Charlottes World]

Episode One

‘Bloody phone when I’m trying to draw’. I look at the caller; Jayne.

‘Hi Hun, are you still interested in a dog?’

‘er, yes course. Why?’

‘think we’ve found you one. Owner has died and he’s in the kennels. Want to see him?’

‘Er yes course.’

‘come to the pub and we’ll take you over.’

The phone went dead. I did that daft thing and looked at it..then down at myself. Pj bottoms and a sweatshirt. Well it was Sunday. But I had better get dressed.

CHAPTER Five

Fox.

There’s a bloody fox. And it’s daylight. This is my walk down here mate, what are you doing? Quit scavenging on my patch. Go on, get lost.

The little bugger. He’s ambling across the yard like he owns it. he hasn’t seen me, he hasn’t even scented me. This scrag end of a town fox in its brindle coat isn’t even taking any notice of the workmen on their fag break. I pull towards him, but She’s not having it. Damn. I want that fox.

I follow his scent down the track, weaving this way and that. She isn’t amused.

 Tough.

Where has he come from?

Where is he going?

All the way around the block I’m thinking of that fox. I’ve lost his scent now. Damn.

EPISODE Two

After last nights whining on the way home, a quick round the block should ease Joey’s bladder without me having to stop off ‘just in case.’

Blooming heck, it’s daylight and there’s a fox, brazenly strolling across a factory courtyard. He takes no notice of us or the bunch of men in their hi viz. He’s resolute.  Joey pulls towards him, nose twitching in the air. I flick his lead and walk on, leaving the workers to gaze gormlessly through the railings at this rough looking urban parasite. Nothing like the countryside fox in its titian splendour, this beast is an urban scavenger, hyena in its lack of beauty.

Joey pulls, tracking the scent this way and that from where it had come. I sidestep potholes and rein him in a little and once we turn onto the main road the scent is gone. We return to the unit and I slip his lead off as we enter, assuming he would go straight in, but no; playtime. He’s off. Exploring the yard, not wanting to come in the door. He stands just outside, daring me to approach. Shit..come on Joey, there’s a good boy. He stands and stares. The panic starts to rise within me and I try to keep my voice calm; we are 20m away from a main road, it’s getting dark and he is mostly black. I push the thought to one side as he heads for the gates

CHAPTER Six

‘JOEY!’

Yeah, yeah, I can hear you but I need to see.

FOX.  FOX.  FOX.  FOX.  come on foxy, where did you go.

I sniff a patch of oil

‘JOEY!’

I take no notice, I’m fine, and I know what I’m doing.

I.

Want.

That.

Fox.

She’s coming. I sidestep into the gates. Least she isn’t running. Good, I can get him.

I hear the gates close. But she can’t see me. She’s still calling.

The scent is gone. The fox is gone. Damn. Another day. I amble along the units as if it’s normal. Knowing I am going to get a roasting. But she’s not shouting, why not? Does she get it?

Lead on we amble back to work. Not a word spoken but I can hear her mumbling. I can’t quite make it out. Sounds like you little shit.

Chapter Seven

Nearly the end of my first week with Hu-mom. And its kinda ok...oh, here we go, I’m in the back of the van again. Where are we going today? Surely after that lovely lie in, we aren’t going to work again? Sigh.. I whine at the grill in front of me, straight in hu-moms ear.

It’s ok, we’re only going down the road, we’re going to see Aunty Laura. Aunty Laura has a shop. A lot of noise is coming from it; squawks, squeaks, squeals: a tinkle of bells and voices. All sorts of voices.

And smells.

Oh what smells! My nose twitches in delight. I raise my nose and sniff. I can scent, ...I twitch again, straw, that’s it; straw. A high pitched squawk makes me wince as a beady eye watches me enter. Who are you then you noisy bugger? Nose down I follow the scent of the straw, ignoring hu-mom and all the other humans. I bump noses with a bit of wood, then a mesh and, ooh, hello a pink twitchy nose..and whiskers .. and fluffy fur. But not a dog... not like me; no. Hmm. He twitches again; oops no, he is a she, she bops me on the nose through the mesh for being so nosy. Hmmpf, I moonwalk backwards affronted. What do I do? I’m excited by this, what is this creature? Dogs I know [even the big ugly ones and the small yappy ones. Cats I know, I think I grew up with them but I can’t remember. Foxes I know, they smell awful and they spray on my garden. My garden, how dare they? But what is this fluffy thing who challenges me? I slide forward paratrooper style on my belly. Low down I’m sure she can’t see me so I will have the advantage. I reach the wood and raise my nose to the mesh...boff! she got me again. I skitter backwards starting to quiver in excitement then bark. Then a little squeak like two balloons rubbing together. My head snaps to the right and the next bit of mesh...a russet and white face with a twitchy nose...who is this little chap?