Episode 33 - Crushed By The Wheels Of Industry

Stayed up late last night - sleep as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel. As sometimes happens to me, I paced my lounge up and down, nervously contemplating the next day at work.

I am really growing to hate my job with a passion that few can muster.

Eventually I crawl into bed and slow slip off into dream land. The usual suspects drift like mist inside my sleeping world - freedom, escape, loads of cash and no desk job. But before you know it, the alarm rings, its half past five and time to wash, dry and pour myself into my clothes, stuff my mouth with toast/flakes/tea/whatever and drag my semi conscious body behind the wheel of my C3 and point it in the direction of Swansea and the mountain of paper-work/figures/shit that no doubt awaits.

I'm spending the next two weeks putting a training regime together for my colleagues and I don't give a fuck. The day drags on and eventually its time to leave and its at this point that I briefly feel alive - a pause in my zombie like working trance.

Clunk-click and I'm strapped into my commuter-mobile and pointing away from Swansea and back home. Pancakes for tea and out again, children in tow to the local hall where they teach gymnastics. The children make shapes with their arms and legs for an hour whilst I look for the meaning of life in the nearby library.

Haven't found it yet, but I did find a book about DNA - seriously.

I return to the hall and children are bending like reeds in the breeze. Soon we are home again. A bed they go and the day peters out. I am numb with fatigue but the worry about tomorrow is soon revisited.

I seek salvation.

Episode 32 - Luck, Luck, Lucky!?

Like most fat and contented Westerners, I moan about the littlest things. Ooh, my PC has crashed, or there's no semi-skimmed milk in the fridge.

I've spent consecutive evenings watching films set in Africa - Blood Diamonds and Hotel Rwanda. Now, it struck me that for a lot of Africans life is pretty tough - getting killed by gun wielding psycho's, being ignored by well meaning whites and so forth. Not once did anyone moan about anything regarding semi-skimmed milk or fucked up personal computers.

Those two films, told me a bit about Africa, but not much. I am, after all, an ignorant European who for the most part concerns himself with consumerism and other crap. Nothing that I worry about really comes down to a life or death situation - I've got my health and a wide screen TV.

But what struck me is this. I ended up occupying the flesh and bones that envelope me this very day, but who is to say that I would not have ended up a Tutsi, or a man trying to find his family in the middle of some civil war, where life is cheap?

Yes, I moan like the next person but in essence I am a very lucky person - I just don't appreciate it very much.

Episode 31 - Easy?

That last bit.

I should say that as easy as it is to type such things, it's a lot harder in practice. Sorry if I sounded glib.

Here's a nice picture to make up for it. I hope.

Episode 30 - Your Life In Your Hands

I wonder about people sometimes. I wonder why people (myself included) constantly live in fear.

At whatever level.

Not fear of being maimed or killed in a road side bombing. Not fear of being attacked in the street for their outlandishly expensive mobile phone, nor fear being diagnosed with a wasting disease.

Even though the things above are just a few of the very reasonable things to be scared of, it is fear of yourself that paralyses nearly everyone on some level. Fear of being different, fear of not conforming, fear of sticking your neck out.

Fear of taking a chance.

Fear of taking control of your life.

Fear of taking the blame or taking the plaudits. Fear of liberation.

And I'm no different.

Episode 29 - Talking To God On The Big White Telephone

Went out on Thursday night, to meet a friend in a local pub. I was in school with Richard but hadn't really stayed in touch for about 20 years. We'd met up over Christmas but still had a bit of catching up to do - and besides, it was interesting to find out whether we still had that old friendship and whether we could still get on?

Sian, another one of the old school turned about and stayed for a drink and then left. Out of all of us she had seemingly changed the least - still looked the same and sounded the same. But, like all of us the last 20 years had not gone by without leaving some trace. She was in the twilight of a fading marriage. Richard, long divorced but embarking on a new relationship with Jane - the fourth our little school time group. Richard had held a candle for her even then and it was a nice surprised to hear that they'd got together at last. Here's hoping that they get 20 years together and more.

When Sian left Richard and I got down to the business of the evening - talking bollocks, which i felt we did with some aplomb. Especially with all that ale and wine swilling about!

We spoke of creativity and what it was to us. Richard is a talented artist and I'm trying to be a writer (trying being the operative word). I've always wanted to write a children's book. I have the ideas, the characters and all the details in my head but not the courage to actually do it. Strange that, when you tell people your dreams, they come back with something - a word of encouragement - that seemingly pierces the veil and all becomes possible. You wonder why you held off for so long.

But the year, so far, has been like that. Re-appraisal, reconnection and re-vitalisation. Most of all, the confidence is returning and the fear is receding.

We talked about lots of other things too but I can't remember what. Soon, we drank up and left. Richards father picked him up and I walked home through the cold night - I was offered a lift, but the thought of spewing in the back of Richards Dads shiny Passat was a significant deterrent!

I eventually made it home, woke the house, retched in the toilet and was banished to the sofa. Spent the next day doing some more retching and felling sorry for myself. However, it all did the trick - as my head and stomach reconnected, I felt that me and more world were coming back together too.

Here's to hope.

Interlude - Is There Anybody Out There?

A thought.

I wonder if anyone has dropped by? Maybe not, but I've given this blog a lot of thought and effort. I'm not doing it for anyone else, but still, you can only wonder if it will ever fall beneath the gaze of another's eyeballs?

After all, I'm as vain as the next person.

Episode 28 - Myths Of The Near Past (pt 6)

Rather bizarrely, life did in fact get a lot better from that day. Maybe there is some truth in the saying "If it doesn't kill you, it'll make you stronger" (or similar). Its funny to think that it was me trying to kill myself that was the act that made me stronger, more ready to face up to my responsibilities.

I had been to the brink and had come back. I was lucky and I knew it. Maybe it was only indigestion tablets that I had taken but hey, I was still here and ready to move on. I was still going to be a dad and as such had to reconnect with Sian. No point throwing it all away again. There was the small matter of the death threats but I was sure we could work around them.

I eventually got back in touch with Sian by letter. She eventually agreed to meet me and after a heated exchange (mostly her telling me what a twat I had been and how much I'd upset her and her family...) we finally got to talk about the baby and the future. There was to be no wedding - there couldn't be now. But we could try and be together, albeit in secret. We managed to do the things that expectant couples did like buy prams and all the other paraphernalia of birth. Sian wasn't going to get her council house just yet and was planning to stay in her parents house after the birth. I was lucky enough to finally land a job and was able to pay for everything she needed.

I re-discovered my friends, too. The constant piss taking about the impending birth became a strange comfort. Unfortunately, one friend wasn't going to be around to see me make it to father hood. Just two days before his birthday, Bruce G was snuffed out by a van driver whilst on his way to work on his bike. His neck was snapped instantly and a family lay devastated - shadows of one of my possible future, with me in the Bruce G role but mine would've been no accident.

The funeral followed and we all gathered at the local crematorium in our white shirts and black ties. Young men with futures saying goodbye to a young man without one. After the service we moved onto a pub on the coast - like Bruce G, long gone - and sat about under a pale blue sky, sharing memories and saluting our departed friend. I've been to funerals since, but those of the young are always the saddest.

Life goes on. And as one ended, another was to begin.....

Episode 27 - Myths Of The Near Past (pt 5)

The phone rings and I answer it. It's Sian and she wants to discuss the up coming wedding. The phone call went as follows - a small talk starter, before the wedding main course and the deserts which, as it happens, were to be far from sweet.

Even though I had said how we wanted things to be and then having spectacularly caved into demands from her parents, the little finger of rebellion had been tickling my brain with increasing regularity. I had been brave and decisive, cowardly and weak, but it now seemed that a sense of defiance - or was it self preservation - was kicking in. Its appearance as mystical as my spineless back tracking over the wedding. It chose to explode into this particular phone call.

One minute I was talking to Sian, the next minute her mother and it was during this bit with her mother that all my inner turmoil poured out. I know that the call ended with, "........Go fuck yourself, you black mailing cow!" and then slam, the hand set was back in its cradle. I remember very little else, but something must have happened to make me do that. Maybe that little finger of rebellion had hit the right button?

Within 12 hours of that call ending, I was laying there in the dark waiting for my escape from this self constructed nightmare.

The phone rings again, and in a daze I answer it. Its Sian's Dad and he wants to discuss with me my comments. He tells me that it wasn't the right thing to do, that i could consider my involvement with his daughter over and that it was his view, that should I be seen again by him or any of his sons, they would consider it their duty to kill me. Slam and the line went dead.

Oh fuck. I've pissed them off now. Now that little finger of rebellion was pushing other buttons - wrong ones - despair, fear, hopelessness. My mind started working on how I could retrieve the situation and make everyone happy again, or more importantly, how was i stop Sian's family from doing me in (self preservation makes cowards of us all).

I picked up the phone and dialed. Sian's father answered. He repeated in more forthright terms his earlier stated views and soon i was listening to the dialing tone again. The rebellious finger disappeared from whence it came, leaving the despair, fear and hopelessness buttons jammed in their casings, permanently on.

My world darkened as the evening gloom closed in.

All through this my mother was outside talking to a neighbour, oblivious to her youngest child taking a turn for the worse. I went up to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the abyss where my carpet used to be. Outside the sun was setting but inside it was already below my inner horizon. Deep inside out of the growing darkness came a fist, tight and frenzied, metaphorical and real - I went into a daze - and came out of it with blood on my knuckles and a hole in my bedroom door.

Down in the street my mother looks up from her neighbourly conversation, liked she'd heard a noise.

Much later, I lay there on my bed with the lights out. I weighed up my limited options, considered the glowing embers of my burnt bridges. But in lots of ways (retrospection is a wonderful thing), my outburst was inevitable.

My parents are deeply middle class. My father, a civil engineer, is a man with precise views. He had aspirations for his son. He wanted me to do well, to achieve something and to be someone that he could be proud of. My mother too, wanted only good things for her little boy. Neither of them wanted their son to get his 18 year old girlfriend pregnant. Neither of them wanted their son to get married because of a baby either. For them these things were a vision of hell.

I had given them the opposite of what they wanted. I had not covered myself in glory. I'd started off well by saying what I thought was best - no marriage, wait and see - and then acquiesced to the needs and wants of Sian's parents and Sian herself (who'd become convinced that a weeding was best). My capitulation deepened my parents sense of middle class outrage and served to piss them of more than I could've believed. Through all of this my own sense of how things were lurched from triumph to abject defeat, from sensibility to rank stupidity, from white(!) to black.

Somewhere inside me, the pressure was building and like all pressure, something has to give.

And it did. The pressure blew away the sense of loss of control - I had gone from control to being controlled - and in desperation I had blurted out how I really felt and in fairness I did feel these things from the beginning but had allowed others to change things. The natural order had to be restored - these feelings refused to be suppressed.

Hence the inevitability. (I know I may not be making much sense, but looking back there is a lot I do not understand and more that I cannot remember clearly)

It was in these circumstances and with these feelings inside, I crept downstairs to the medicine cabinet. Suicide seemed the best way to resolve things - I had let everyone down and most of all I had let myself down. I remember thinking that it was something I was capable of. It was the ultimate escape. Selfishly, I probably didn't consider the effect on those left beside. I only thought of myself, my little world, my feelings and no one else. I wonder if all suicides are selfish? I think I was - after what I had put my family through I hadn't a care for what else I was going to inflict on them.

It hasn't escaped my notice that I am not really a sympathetic character in this particular phase of my life, but then again I should be happy that I'm here to say this!?

I opened the cabinet and looked inside. Plenty of pills to found. I grabbed a bottle, emptied it into my mouth - the bottle looked important enough and I figured the lot would do the trick. To this day, I don't remember what they were. A glass of water to wash them all down and I was soon back in my bedroom, waiting.

I contemplated what I had done. Too late to back out now - I could vomit, but why should I? I was as serious as I could be and my mind was set. I lay there, listening to the house, listening to the silent night. The darkness in my room seemed to get darker - blacker? My breathing got shallower and my chest seemed to get heavier, the weight of the duvet pressing down.

The fact that I'm writing this makes the outcome obvious. My attempt failed and aside from a missing pill bottle no one in the house that night would have been any the wiser.

The sun rose, the world turned and another day began. My plans not to be a part of it hadn't worked out, but I wasn't disappointed - I was calm.

One thing was clear, though. No more laying in the dark waiting for my breathing to stop.

Episode 26 - Panic On The Streets Of Everywhere

Over the last few days, there have been rumblings in the weather news about snow. Lots of it, too. And being the UK, people mostly, well, panic. They all jump in their cars and bugger off down to Tescos where they all stock up on bread, milk and other stuff, that unless something fairly apocalyptic happens, the shops never run out of. But because snow is due, everyone goes mad.

Last night at the rugby the talk was of snow - how much, how deep, where and when. Some one mentioned sleet - oh no, I've bought 20 loves of bread and planned a day off and you're telling me its only going to sleet!? But I'm prepared and by golly it had better snow!! Gary has a bad heart but we're all worried about the snow. And freezing our arses off watching our kids run around with an egg shaped ball.

The weather men got it right and it did indeed snow - lots of it. Predictably the areas affected ground to a halt, offices and workplaces up and down the land ringing to the sound of phone chiming the imminent non arrival off staff who don't fancy the roads much.

Hey, I was one of them. I did try but after seeing a few cars stuffed into the central reservation on the M4 I lost my bottle and turned back. Let's face it. No one is going to thank me for getting my self damaged trying to get to work? Besides, any excuse.

The street soon filled up with children fighting pitched battles with each other, snow balls arcing across from one gang to another. One little twat thought it amusing to see if he could put my patios doors through by throwing the largest snow balls imaginable. Not amused, was I.

Funny thing is, much later in the day the snow has virtually gone. Panic over until the next time. Imagine if we lived in Sweden!!! They get tons of the stuff and it doesn't bother them. If it happened here, we'd be f.........

Interlude - Poetry Gone Bad (pt 3)

Due to the author not being able to come up with a shockingly bad poem, there will be no Poetry Gone Bad today.

We apologise for any inconvenience.

Episode 25 - Myths Of The Near Past (pt 4)

Seemingly, everything was as rosy as anyone had a right to expect. Yes, I'd got my girlfriend pregnant. Yes, people were not pleased, but yes, everything seemed to be unfolding in a civilised manner.

NO!!!!!! Hold the press. Remember that bit about re-writes at the end of part 3? Oh aye, we had re-writes alright! You go away at the end of the one episode thinking, ok, that's not to bad. Could be worse. But, and there always is a but, plans were a foot.

My dear mother and father decided that they needed a holiday - two weeks in France to have a think about what their silly little boy had done and stuff like that. And they probably drink a lot of wine, too. Which is what they 'd planned to do anyway?

Remember that but? (I've highlighted it, you can't miss it...about a paragraph back?) Will here it is (finally).

Sian's Mum and Dad were not to be so easily beaten off the scent. They'd smelt a wedding and by jingo they were going to have one. One evening I visited their house to see Sian and just do the usual - chat, spend time etc. But, in the greatest traditions and being on their turf - they ambushed me. I can't quite remember the details but by the time I'd left that night, I had agreed to go back on everything I'd said and marry their daughter as they'd originally planned.

If mistake number one was joining the every growing statistic of young un-married men getting young un-married girls pregnant, then mistake number two was being brow beaten into going along with their plan for me-domination.

Have you noticed how this sorry tale has suddenly taken a turn for the ridiculous. Is it me or is my prose getting flippant and that I'm loosing my grip?

It is me, isn't it?

I'd completely caved in, become a coward and all manner of spineless shits. Before my parents returned from France, I'd obtained a marriage license, a marriage date and Sian's family had set about drawing up a list for toasters, kettles and all manner of white goods to adorn the house that no doubt, the council was to provide. They'd even bought pickled eggs for the reception!

When my parents learnt of this, my mother wept even more and my father had one of those temper losing sessions in which he bore a passing resemblance to Norwegian god of war who'd heard something really bad and was really, really fighting the urge to go a-plundering and pillaging.

Then everything settled down again. Sian was happy and on the outside I looked happy - must've really, as everyone on her side of the family thought that everything was going swimmingly. They'd got their way. They'd won. Their little girl was going to get her day.

Inside, this was not what I wanted. The question was, could I find the courage to stand up for what I'd originally wanted? What I thought was the best for both me, her and our unborn child?

Tune in next time for the next exciting(?) episode..........

Episode 24 - Myths Of The Near Past (pt 3)

One Sunday afternoon Sian's parents came to my parents house, with the intention of sorting out mine and Sian's future. June, a Saturday afternoon wrestler of a woman - big daddy in a wig, parked her self on the sofa next to her slicked backed, pony tailed husband - John. Although, typically, he did the talking (when allowed) it was obvious who was the power behind the throne. Tea and biscuits refused, they (she) set our their stall.

My father and mother were also in a business like mood and not prepared to be bullied by this domineering she-thug and her weaselly other half. Sian and I, apparently, were to be seen and not heard.

Them: Your son will marry our daughter of he'll not see her or the baby.
My Parents: Don't make me laugh. How do you think your going to do that. Its up to these two surely? (pointing at us). And besides, my out son has no job, no prospect of one. More importantly, where do you suppose they live?
Them: Ok, fair point. But the council will give them a house and the Government will provide.
My Parents: That is no foundation for a future.....
Them: But it will do to start with?

Like a game of tennis, this went back and forth for most of the afternoon. The room grew warmer as tempers flared and air thickened with the potential for violence. June's smug demeanor was starting to wear down my fathers iron facade. John and my mother were fast becoming spectators like myself and Sian.

But then - break through.

As if suddenly noticing that Sian and I were actually in the room, my father (like a poker player with a winning hand) said, "What do you two think is best?" Considering what was at stake you'd think that I we would've had an opinion by now. All I could think of was, "Let me and Sian go for a walk so that we chat about it privately...." And that what we did.

We were quite sensible about it as we walked through the streets near my parents house. We both agreed that we shouldn't marry, that we would wait and see how it all turned out. I would get a job and do my best to support us and the baby. We would not, above all, rush into things.

All in all, quite a mature attitude and one that we both agreed upon.

We returned to the house and said all of this to a considerate silence. Soon after Sian and her parents left and things didn't seem so bad. My parents were still quite pissed off with me but at least they had an idea of what the future held.

The script for our future had be written, but as ever, a couple of the lead actors in this particular production had plans for re-writes.

Stay tuned?

Interlude - Poetry Gone Bad (pt 2)

Another bad poem. Possibly, I could be had under the trade descriptions act for this one:-

Scent Of A Worm

You self procreate
In the dank earth
Blowing your own trumpet
So to speak
I'd never leave my house
If I could do that.

Address your howling criticisms to usual address etc

Episode 23 - Doing The Loop

I do the loop almost every week day.

At 12 o'clock (mostly) I leave my desk, collect my lunchtime buddies and head off down the High Street - to get some air and to stretch the legs. The High Street is an interesting place.

In so much that all human life is there. From shoppers to drug dealers, wino's to the cream of the civil service (tongue placed firmly in cheek). So, it is through this motley lot that I pick my way each day. Trust me when I say a bomb would very much improve the place.

We mostly go to the same old places, sticking to the familiar and not straying to far. Grab a sandwich, buy a paper, look at clothes, sometimes we even buy clothes, look at other stuff etc. Sometimes we try and put the world to rights, or talk of our little triumphs or share our moments of saddness.

Today, Simon is choosing a shirt for his brother-in-law. When Simon buys stuff he tends to umm and ahh for some time before taking the plunge, buying an item, taking it home and then bringing it back the next day because he's changed his mind or its too.......something. It can be very entertaining watching his inner struggle, and this shirt was no different. "Is this a bit too pink?" "Not sure if black will do......" "Oh dear, a stain!"

For the love of God!!!!! Just give him some fucking money so he can buy his own shirt!!!!!!

Oh, and it couldn't be more than a tenner. Something really expensive like a car or a plot of land and he's right in there. As he says himself, "Go figure...."

As much as its a break from the mindless drudgery of the job, I look to a day when I don't have tip toe through the scum of the earth every lunchtime.

Should've paid attention in school and got a proper job.

Interlude - Poetry Gone Bad (pt 1)

I like bad poetry. Here's one I wrote earlier:-

Snails That Do It

Slimy and moist
Their fragile shells
Go click clack
Slow to climax
No post coital cigarette
For hand-less molluscs.

See? I told you it was bad.