I am not overly keen on 'politeness' for the sake of it. That is probably due to a traumatic experience I had as a callow youth of twenty-one when, as a keen tennis player anxious to become involved in the social scene of the local club, I overcame my natural Capricorn reticence and shy nature and bought myself a ticket for a Wine & Cheese party!!! Out of my depth at such functions (in fact out of my depth socially anywhere) since I still retained the inelegance of my teenage years and gauche nature of an ex boarder, I attempted conversation with a variety of people whilst balancing a plate of cheese nibbles and a glass of red plonk in either hand. My face was pinker than the not very inspiring vintage that wobbled around in my glass, this state having been induced by my cringingly embarrassing attempts to engage in conversation with the fairer sex, my limitations in this skill being cruelly exposed by rambling sentences interspersed by a stutter which, up until that point, I didn't realise I possessed.
My evening scaled the heights from difficult to extremely complex when I was engaged by what I can only describe as a professional ‘small talker.’ His conversation, such as it can be called conversation since to accurately be described as such it possibly has to be two way, involved him telling me all about his accountancy firm. I assume he was telling me, but I wasn’t entirely certain, because his eyes scanned the room as if he was expecting an imminent attack by a disgruntled client, rather than look at me directly.
In hindsight I wish I had had the cojones to interrupt and say,’ Can I stop you right there. Listen, I am not remotely interested in the boring, dull and pathetic existence you lead out there and your attempts to make it sound like what you do is some sort of much sought after, wild, innovative career. And since I am not interested, why don’t you save your breath and go tell it to some of these other similarly dull half wits that earlier on this evening I had so wanted to be accepted by.'
But I didn’t say any of that.
But... the experience has made me question why people need small talk and pleasantries? Why don't they just get to the point? Why ask things of strangers like, ‘How are you?’ Just get to the point. If you are talking to a stranger it must be for some reason otherwise you wouldn’t be doing it. Always remember that if you ask a question which is merely a preamble to the real point of your conversation, you run the risk of having that question answered and, consequently, being bored witless by some nobhead who actually thinks you might want to know!
Friday, 25 October 2013
Sunday, 13 October 2013
Shaving Gel
After work this evening I called into a well known high street purveyor of cosmetic and beauty products to get shaving gel. I took my selected item to the counter, handed it to the sales assistant and reached for my wallet.
'Would you like anything else, Sir?’ she asked.
‘No thank you,’ I said.
She looked at me squarely in the face.
‘Did you know that if you spend fifteen pounds you can have a free face mask?’
Ignoring the obvious insulting content of the question I gathered my thoughts. I'm no oil painting but I am allowed out in public so I considered a mask to be unnecessary and risked telling her so.
‘It’s ok,’ I said, ‘I'm ok without the mask.'
I don’t know if she thought that to improve my facial appearance I would need to spend a lot more than fifteen pounds but she suddenly switched anatomical regions.
‘We have a special offer on body butter,’ she said, an optimistic smile lighting her face.
I say optimistic because I assume the confidence in her sales pitch was based on the assumption that I had actually heard of body butter.
‘Body butter?’ I said, confirming my lack of knowledge. The fact that I was questioning it was completely missed.
‘Yes, body butter. We are doing two for one.’
I was confused enough at that point, considering that perhaps body butter was something you applied after spending too long exposed to the damaging rays of the midday sun and resembled a bit of burnt toast. I was half expecting the two for one to include body marmalade as well. The shake of my head and the mumbled ‘no thanks’ only encouraged her to move back to my face.
‘Perhaps you would like something to exfoliate?'
'Exfoliate?'
'Yes...your face.’
My Face? Sure I needed a shave. I wouldn't have come in to buy shaving gel if I didn't but what had she got against my face? And what would happen if I exfoliated it anyway? Did she mean obliterate it? I only wanted a shave.
‘No. I don’t think I should...should...err..exfol...a shave is...I mean the shaving gel will be fine thanks.’ A queue was building up behind me, all of them women.
The assistant then decided to treat me like a four year old.
‘Shall I pop it into a little bag for you?’ she asked, in a twee, high pitched voice.
I was surprised she didn’t begin to make coochie coo noises and tweak my cheek between thumb and forefinger. I suppose I shouldn't have been that surprised given that she found my face so horrendous. She'd probably decided that touching it in its present 'unexfoliated' state was a step too far.
As she placed the shaving foam into the bag she came up with another offer.
‘Would you like a free Moroccan scrub, Sir?’
Moroccan scrub? I had visions of a bloke in a fez and djellaba jumping out from behind the counter with a very large brush and a bucket of soapy water. She saw my quizzical look.
‘It’s a free product that helps get rid of dead skin.’
She placed a small round container into the bag.
Dead skin. Blimey, she clearly didn’t think much of me. I grabbed my little bag, ignored the smirks of the ladies behind me and exited the shop as fast as I could.
I might just grow a beard.
'Would you like anything else, Sir?’ she asked.
‘No thank you,’ I said.
She looked at me squarely in the face.
‘Did you know that if you spend fifteen pounds you can have a free face mask?’
Ignoring the obvious insulting content of the question I gathered my thoughts. I'm no oil painting but I am allowed out in public so I considered a mask to be unnecessary and risked telling her so.
‘It’s ok,’ I said, ‘I'm ok without the mask.'
I don’t know if she thought that to improve my facial appearance I would need to spend a lot more than fifteen pounds but she suddenly switched anatomical regions.
‘We have a special offer on body butter,’ she said, an optimistic smile lighting her face.
I say optimistic because I assume the confidence in her sales pitch was based on the assumption that I had actually heard of body butter.
‘Body butter?’ I said, confirming my lack of knowledge. The fact that I was questioning it was completely missed.
‘Yes, body butter. We are doing two for one.’
I was confused enough at that point, considering that perhaps body butter was something you applied after spending too long exposed to the damaging rays of the midday sun and resembled a bit of burnt toast. I was half expecting the two for one to include body marmalade as well. The shake of my head and the mumbled ‘no thanks’ only encouraged her to move back to my face.
‘Perhaps you would like something to exfoliate?'
'Exfoliate?'
'Yes...your face.’
My Face? Sure I needed a shave. I wouldn't have come in to buy shaving gel if I didn't but what had she got against my face? And what would happen if I exfoliated it anyway? Did she mean obliterate it? I only wanted a shave.
‘No. I don’t think I should...should...err..exfol...a shave is...I mean the shaving gel will be fine thanks.’ A queue was building up behind me, all of them women.
The assistant then decided to treat me like a four year old.
‘Shall I pop it into a little bag for you?’ she asked, in a twee, high pitched voice.
I was surprised she didn’t begin to make coochie coo noises and tweak my cheek between thumb and forefinger. I suppose I shouldn't have been that surprised given that she found my face so horrendous. She'd probably decided that touching it in its present 'unexfoliated' state was a step too far.
As she placed the shaving foam into the bag she came up with another offer.
‘Would you like a free Moroccan scrub, Sir?’
Moroccan scrub? I had visions of a bloke in a fez and djellaba jumping out from behind the counter with a very large brush and a bucket of soapy water. She saw my quizzical look.
‘It’s a free product that helps get rid of dead skin.’
She placed a small round container into the bag.
Dead skin. Blimey, she clearly didn’t think much of me. I grabbed my little bag, ignored the smirks of the ladies behind me and exited the shop as fast as I could.
I might just grow a beard.
Wednesday, 9 October 2013
Jam
I don't go food shopping! I'm a bloke. I did go once and found that :
a.) women get in the way
b.) everybody wanders around in no coherent order
c.) people just stop dead in the middle of an aisle with a full trolley completely oblivious to others trying to get past with their trolleys. (I do hope the same people are not allowed out in cars)
It seems that most people have no idea what they went out shopping for in the first place. Either that or they suffer amnesia on the way there...because they just stand staring at things once they get there...as if they are indeed suffering memory failure. Go in, pick it up, put it in your basket and get the hell outta there. That's proper commando shopping. Get in, get the job done and get back out. Don't stand gawping at jam! It's goddam jam. You either came out to get jam or you didn't? If you didn't why are you staring at it? If you did...pick it up and move on! Jam can't have suddenly become immensely appealing, causing a trance induced state - unless you started out on hard narcotics. And if you did, you shouldn't have driven to the shop in the first place. In fact you shouldn't even be in charge of a trolley. Perhaps that's why you just leave your trolley slap bang in the middle of the aisle when people are pushing past to go stare at Weetabix. You forgot you had a trolley. Maybe on the drive home you'll just forget you had a car, stop it in the middle of the road, get out and just leave it right there, engine running holding up the whole High Street causing a ........a jam.
a.) women get in the way
b.) everybody wanders around in no coherent order
c.) people just stop dead in the middle of an aisle with a full trolley completely oblivious to others trying to get past with their trolleys. (I do hope the same people are not allowed out in cars)
It seems that most people have no idea what they went out shopping for in the first place. Either that or they suffer amnesia on the way there...because they just stand staring at things once they get there...as if they are indeed suffering memory failure. Go in, pick it up, put it in your basket and get the hell outta there. That's proper commando shopping. Get in, get the job done and get back out. Don't stand gawping at jam! It's goddam jam. You either came out to get jam or you didn't? If you didn't why are you staring at it? If you did...pick it up and move on! Jam can't have suddenly become immensely appealing, causing a trance induced state - unless you started out on hard narcotics. And if you did, you shouldn't have driven to the shop in the first place. In fact you shouldn't even be in charge of a trolley. Perhaps that's why you just leave your trolley slap bang in the middle of the aisle when people are pushing past to go stare at Weetabix. You forgot you had a trolley. Maybe on the drive home you'll just forget you had a car, stop it in the middle of the road, get out and just leave it right there, engine running holding up the whole High Street causing a ........a jam.
Extract from Vegas Pursuit (Fleeing Sin City) - The Speed Awareness Course scene
Lucy looked up and placed her hand over the telephone mouthpiece.
‘I will be with you in a moment, Sir.’
‘I just need to know…to find out…where the course is...some information…’
As I said the word, I stopped in mid flow. Information. The board. The notice board behind me. An information board maybe. I ran across the floor towards the window and stopped in front of the gold framed panel. Speed awareness…where was it? Speed…speed. I caught sight of the key words - speed and conference. Room B, Ground Floor.
I practically broke down the door of Room B, such was my rush to get in. My hurried entrance caused the audience to swivel around as one in the direction of the hastily opened door. At the far end of the room a surprised looking executive type in a dark blue suit stood in front of a white drop down projector screen, mouth open as if his script had been ripped from his hand.
‘Sorry. Sorry I’m late,’ I blurted out. ‘It’s a long story. I’m not too late am I?’
The executive type regained his composure in an instant.
‘Never too late my friend, despite the fact that it’s nearly twenty past ten. Now who are you?’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. My name is Matthew Malarkey. I’m booked on the course. I’m really sorry about being late.’ I realised I was overdoing the apologies.
‘Well, welcome Matthew, take a seat. You can catch up as we go along. I’m Robin Hargreaves and I’m running the course today. We’re having a coffee break at eleven fifteen and we can do the formalities then.’ He turned towards the white screen. ‘Right, let’s crack on.’
Relieved at having finally made the course I took a seat at the end of a row in the middle of the room. The adrenaline that had been pumping through my system began to dissipate as I settled in my seat. Robin Hargreaves picked up where presumably he had left off before my entrance but my attention began to focus on my surroundings rather than on what he was saying.
‘…are in an age of instant demand…’
I estimated that the room was filled with around thirty to forty other people, all smartly dressed, an even mix of male and female. The thought flashed through my head, as I viewed my fellow miscreants, that we law breakers all looked fairly normal.
‘…it’s about expectations…you know that feeling when you are standing at an ATM and your cash can’t come out fast enough…’
The age range appeared to be between early twenties up to late forties. Speeding wasn’t just the domain of boy racers it seemed.
‘…when you surf the web you need instant access. It’s all about speed in this day and age…’
A wave of tiredness washed over me as I surveyed the room. The sudden drop from hyper unease to quiet inactivity had hit my concentration levels. I knew I had to focus in order to get through the course successfully but I was just catching snippets of Robin Hargreaves’s delivery. I sat upright and stared ahead in an attempt to apply my full attention.
‘…a Traffic Management system that allows you to monitor traffic activity so you never go over your limit…’
My interest picked up. That sounded useful.
‘…successfully achieving speeds up to two hundred and forty times faster than the national average…’
Who was going that fast, I wondered. What did he say? Two hundred and forty times faster than the average? That couldn’t be right. What was the average anyway? My mind started to tick. I was on the course because I had been doing forty-six in a forty mile an hour speed limit area. If someone was going two hundred and forty times faster than say thirty, that would mean they were doing…I pulled my iPhone from my pocket and tapped on the calculator icon…7,200 miles an hour. Seven thousand, two hundred? That couldn’t be right. I must have misheard.
I leant towards the person on my right, a woman in her twenties.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered, ‘did he say two hundred and forty?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry…I didn’t quite catch what he said. Did he say two hundred and forty times faster than the…err…limit…the average…limit, thing?’
‘Oh…erm…yes, I think so.’ She turned away and looked to the front again.
I concluded that she must have misheard too and tried to focus my attention on what was being said.
‘People are demanding faster speeds and we are encouraging that demand…’
I knew that there had been Government discussion on increasing the speed limit but I was not aware anyone was encouraging it.
‘Our platform is based on super-fast network capacity and our unique fibre optic system is capable of delivering some of the fastest broadband in the world.’
Broadband.
I turned again to the woman on my right.
‘Sorry to interrupt again but did he say broadband?’
‘What? Broadband? Yes, he did say broadband.’
I detected a slight note of irritation in her voice. She turned away.
‘But I thought this was about speed awareness. What’s broadband got to do with it?’ I asked, risking her disapproval.
She turned sharply to face me, the irritation at my continuous interruptions now plain on her face.
‘Yes, it is about speed awareness and broadband has everything to do with it. Look, I realise you were late and you have missed the introduction but if you listen you’ll catch up. Now I really would like to hear what is being said. My company has paid a lot of money for me to be on this seminar.’
‘Your company paid for you to be here? Err…do you have a company car then?’ I asked, a little confused since I had paid my own way.
‘I beg your pardon? A company car? What are you on about?’
‘I mean…you know…were you speeding in a company car?’
‘Speeding? I wasn’t speeding in anything. Look, I told you, I want to hear what –’
‘Yes, sorry…I know…but you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t broken the law too, would you?’
‘Listen, Mister…Mister whatever you said your name was. I don’t know what you want or who you are looking for but this is definitely a case of mistaken identity. I haven’t broken any laws at all. I am here because I want to be here. Because I work in an IT department and I want to learn about next generation broadband delivery. Now if you don’t mind I would like to listen to what is being said.’
Next generation broadband delivery. The words penetrated my skull but I brushed them aside by forming another question.
‘Err…are you sure you’re on the right…the right…’ Next generation broadband delivery. The words swirled around my head refusing to be dismissed so simply. ‘…the right course?’
My newly made acquaintance did not reply. She simply stared directly at me as if I had asked her to remove her clothes and dance naked for the entire gathering.
‘DashNet Internet Solutions has anticipated the growing demand for bandwidth and committed the capital investment that will make these superfast speeds possible…..’
Robin Hargreaves’s enthusiastic delivery rang in my ears as I contemplated my own words - right course.
A shockwave began its heated ascent from the pit of my stomach and rushed rapidly to my face, its sudden impact causing me to jump to my feet in an uncontrolled reaction.
‘The right course…is it the right course?’ I shouted out, causing the entire audience to turn in my direction.
A brief look of dismay darkened Robin Hargreaves’s features.
‘The right course, Mister…err…Matthew. The right course for what?’
‘Yes, the right course…am I on…I mean, is this the course…the right course…for…speed awareness?’ I asked, my sentence struggling for coherence as I waited for an answer.
‘Well, sure it is Matthew.’ Robin Hargreaves scanned the room. ‘You guys are all in the ISP business, right? As carriers you want to deliver better and faster broadband wireless to your consumers. We at DashNet Internet Solutions are here to show you how to do just that.’
At that point I knew that my next question was pointless but I couldn’t help myself.
‘No, I mean…the course…isn’t it for people who have been going too fast?’
A low murmur echoed around the room, interspersed with a few stifled chuckles. A smile played on Robin Hargreaves’s lips. He glanced towards a window to his right as if looking for composure before he replied.
‘Quite the opposite Matthew. Today is for people who want to go faster. People who want more speed. For those who want to get hold of the latest innovations and –’
‘Shit…bollocks.’
The expletives silenced the room. I spun around and sprinted towards the door.
Back in the hotel lobby I rushed over to the noticeboard. I skimmed the list looking for Conference Room B. I found it. DashNet Internet Solutions-The Need for Speed Conference. Definitely room B. My gaze scanned the rest of the list. A hairdressing product launch in room C; a doctor’s medical conference, room D; I could hardly read the letters such was my rush as my stress level heightened.
‘Come on, come on…where are you?’
Surely not the wrong hotel too?
‘Are you ok, Sir?’
I heard the voice from behind and turned to see Lucy, the receptionist that I had tried to engage earlier, standing to my right side. Out from behind the main desk she looked taller, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
‘Err, yes…no…I was just talking to the...the…err…no, look I am trying to find the National Speed Awareness Course. The driving thing…for people who have been speeding. I’m supposed to be attending it today and I’m late.’
‘That’s in one of our meeting rooms, Sir. This is the Conference list,’ Lucy said, a kindly smile lighting her face.............
‘I will be with you in a moment, Sir.’
‘I just need to know…to find out…where the course is...some information…’
As I said the word, I stopped in mid flow. Information. The board. The notice board behind me. An information board maybe. I ran across the floor towards the window and stopped in front of the gold framed panel. Speed awareness…where was it? Speed…speed. I caught sight of the key words - speed and conference. Room B, Ground Floor.
I practically broke down the door of Room B, such was my rush to get in. My hurried entrance caused the audience to swivel around as one in the direction of the hastily opened door. At the far end of the room a surprised looking executive type in a dark blue suit stood in front of a white drop down projector screen, mouth open as if his script had been ripped from his hand.
‘Sorry. Sorry I’m late,’ I blurted out. ‘It’s a long story. I’m not too late am I?’
The executive type regained his composure in an instant.
‘Never too late my friend, despite the fact that it’s nearly twenty past ten. Now who are you?’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. My name is Matthew Malarkey. I’m booked on the course. I’m really sorry about being late.’ I realised I was overdoing the apologies.
‘Well, welcome Matthew, take a seat. You can catch up as we go along. I’m Robin Hargreaves and I’m running the course today. We’re having a coffee break at eleven fifteen and we can do the formalities then.’ He turned towards the white screen. ‘Right, let’s crack on.’
Relieved at having finally made the course I took a seat at the end of a row in the middle of the room. The adrenaline that had been pumping through my system began to dissipate as I settled in my seat. Robin Hargreaves picked up where presumably he had left off before my entrance but my attention began to focus on my surroundings rather than on what he was saying.
‘…are in an age of instant demand…’
I estimated that the room was filled with around thirty to forty other people, all smartly dressed, an even mix of male and female. The thought flashed through my head, as I viewed my fellow miscreants, that we law breakers all looked fairly normal.
‘…it’s about expectations…you know that feeling when you are standing at an ATM and your cash can’t come out fast enough…’
The age range appeared to be between early twenties up to late forties. Speeding wasn’t just the domain of boy racers it seemed.
‘…when you surf the web you need instant access. It’s all about speed in this day and age…’
A wave of tiredness washed over me as I surveyed the room. The sudden drop from hyper unease to quiet inactivity had hit my concentration levels. I knew I had to focus in order to get through the course successfully but I was just catching snippets of Robin Hargreaves’s delivery. I sat upright and stared ahead in an attempt to apply my full attention.
‘…a Traffic Management system that allows you to monitor traffic activity so you never go over your limit…’
My interest picked up. That sounded useful.
‘…successfully achieving speeds up to two hundred and forty times faster than the national average…’
Who was going that fast, I wondered. What did he say? Two hundred and forty times faster than the average? That couldn’t be right. What was the average anyway? My mind started to tick. I was on the course because I had been doing forty-six in a forty mile an hour speed limit area. If someone was going two hundred and forty times faster than say thirty, that would mean they were doing…I pulled my iPhone from my pocket and tapped on the calculator icon…7,200 miles an hour. Seven thousand, two hundred? That couldn’t be right. I must have misheard.
I leant towards the person on my right, a woman in her twenties.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered, ‘did he say two hundred and forty?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry…I didn’t quite catch what he said. Did he say two hundred and forty times faster than the…err…limit…the average…limit, thing?’
‘Oh…erm…yes, I think so.’ She turned away and looked to the front again.
I concluded that she must have misheard too and tried to focus my attention on what was being said.
‘People are demanding faster speeds and we are encouraging that demand…’
I knew that there had been Government discussion on increasing the speed limit but I was not aware anyone was encouraging it.
‘Our platform is based on super-fast network capacity and our unique fibre optic system is capable of delivering some of the fastest broadband in the world.’
Broadband.
I turned again to the woman on my right.
‘Sorry to interrupt again but did he say broadband?’
‘What? Broadband? Yes, he did say broadband.’
I detected a slight note of irritation in her voice. She turned away.
‘But I thought this was about speed awareness. What’s broadband got to do with it?’ I asked, risking her disapproval.
She turned sharply to face me, the irritation at my continuous interruptions now plain on her face.
‘Yes, it is about speed awareness and broadband has everything to do with it. Look, I realise you were late and you have missed the introduction but if you listen you’ll catch up. Now I really would like to hear what is being said. My company has paid a lot of money for me to be on this seminar.’
‘Your company paid for you to be here? Err…do you have a company car then?’ I asked, a little confused since I had paid my own way.
‘I beg your pardon? A company car? What are you on about?’
‘I mean…you know…were you speeding in a company car?’
‘Speeding? I wasn’t speeding in anything. Look, I told you, I want to hear what –’
‘Yes, sorry…I know…but you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t broken the law too, would you?’
‘Listen, Mister…Mister whatever you said your name was. I don’t know what you want or who you are looking for but this is definitely a case of mistaken identity. I haven’t broken any laws at all. I am here because I want to be here. Because I work in an IT department and I want to learn about next generation broadband delivery. Now if you don’t mind I would like to listen to what is being said.’
Next generation broadband delivery. The words penetrated my skull but I brushed them aside by forming another question.
‘Err…are you sure you’re on the right…the right…’ Next generation broadband delivery. The words swirled around my head refusing to be dismissed so simply. ‘…the right course?’
My newly made acquaintance did not reply. She simply stared directly at me as if I had asked her to remove her clothes and dance naked for the entire gathering.
‘DashNet Internet Solutions has anticipated the growing demand for bandwidth and committed the capital investment that will make these superfast speeds possible…..’
Robin Hargreaves’s enthusiastic delivery rang in my ears as I contemplated my own words - right course.
A shockwave began its heated ascent from the pit of my stomach and rushed rapidly to my face, its sudden impact causing me to jump to my feet in an uncontrolled reaction.
‘The right course…is it the right course?’ I shouted out, causing the entire audience to turn in my direction.
A brief look of dismay darkened Robin Hargreaves’s features.
‘The right course, Mister…err…Matthew. The right course for what?’
‘Yes, the right course…am I on…I mean, is this the course…the right course…for…speed awareness?’ I asked, my sentence struggling for coherence as I waited for an answer.
‘Well, sure it is Matthew.’ Robin Hargreaves scanned the room. ‘You guys are all in the ISP business, right? As carriers you want to deliver better and faster broadband wireless to your consumers. We at DashNet Internet Solutions are here to show you how to do just that.’
At that point I knew that my next question was pointless but I couldn’t help myself.
‘No, I mean…the course…isn’t it for people who have been going too fast?’
A low murmur echoed around the room, interspersed with a few stifled chuckles. A smile played on Robin Hargreaves’s lips. He glanced towards a window to his right as if looking for composure before he replied.
‘Quite the opposite Matthew. Today is for people who want to go faster. People who want more speed. For those who want to get hold of the latest innovations and –’
‘Shit…bollocks.’
The expletives silenced the room. I spun around and sprinted towards the door.
Back in the hotel lobby I rushed over to the noticeboard. I skimmed the list looking for Conference Room B. I found it. DashNet Internet Solutions-The Need for Speed Conference. Definitely room B. My gaze scanned the rest of the list. A hairdressing product launch in room C; a doctor’s medical conference, room D; I could hardly read the letters such was my rush as my stress level heightened.
‘Come on, come on…where are you?’
Surely not the wrong hotel too?
‘Are you ok, Sir?’
I heard the voice from behind and turned to see Lucy, the receptionist that I had tried to engage earlier, standing to my right side. Out from behind the main desk she looked taller, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
‘Err, yes…no…I was just talking to the...the…err…no, look I am trying to find the National Speed Awareness Course. The driving thing…for people who have been speeding. I’m supposed to be attending it today and I’m late.’
‘That’s in one of our meeting rooms, Sir. This is the Conference list,’ Lucy said, a kindly smile lighting her face.............
Monday, 12 August 2013
Ghosts
I hadn’t been in the bar for two decades. Nothing had changed. Still the same decor, exposed bricks, whitewashed pillars. A low rouge light from badly placed lighting. I remembered it only too well. But something had changed. People. Sure there were still people. But now coupled up. Sitting round tables, eating bar snacks. Where had it gone? The Friday, Saturday, Sunday thing? The vibrancy. My friends. Back then there had been friends. A big group, smiling, interacting, carefree. No plans. I stared around dismissing the sounds of the present, still hearing those that I knew, the chatter of the past. Danny, Bruce, Kathy, Gill, Kevin...even Steve Six. Echoes still bouncing off the walls but no longer a presence. Where were they? Where had their lives taken them...all of a sudden? No, it’s never sudden. It’s slow, a creeping thing that none of us see happening. How does it happen? Why do we walk away one night with the casual assumption that we will 'see ya tomorrow.' We walk to the bus, the train, the taxi in the unproven certainty that we will 'see ya tomorrow.' But we don’t. Not always. Sometimes maybe, but in the end the inevitability we exude is stamped upon by fate’s capricious whim and an era stops.
So, where are they? They are not ghosts. Too young to be ghosts. But one time we had laughter, chatter, love...together. As I stand staring at a crowded bar that’s all I can hear. The chatter of ghosts. They are out there somewhere but I will never find them. Lost souls...to me anyway. When was that last night? The last night that you didn’t know you'd never see that person again, the characters who you came to expect in your life? Not your fault. You just didn’t know. ‘See ya later,’ you’d said and heard it echoed back. But you didn’t. They didn’t go suddenly. They started to drift until one night there was no more ‘see ya’ and one by one they dropped off into a parallel timeframe. A timeframe that ticks along beside your own but one you cannot share.
Ghosts now...living, breathing ghosts that you cannot find. Wrapped up in lives that they had no inkling of when they’d said that ‘see ya’ for what was, unintentionally, the last time.
Maybe he's right. Maybe the Dalai Lama is on the money. Live in the present ...for ghosts arrive too quickly
Wednesday, 22 May 2013
Vegas Pursuit (Fleeing Sin City)
My new book, Vegas Pursuit (Fleeing Sin City), is out in both paperback and Kindle now. It can be found on Amazon.
Vegas Pursuit is a sequel to Cupid's Pursuit and, once again follows the misadventures of Matthew Malarkey. This time Matthew finds himself in the bright lights of Las Vegas on a trip to celebrate his fortieth birthday. Where Matthew goes mayhem often follows and instead of enjoying a chilled, relaxed party atmosphere, he finds himself in the middle of life threatening confusion. As usual Matthew is never sure how he got involved but he does know that he has to find a way out...and he doesn't have much time to do it.
Vegas Pursuit, like Cupid's Pursuit, is a fun read, written to amuse and raise a smile.
For more details go to www.pursuitseries.com
If you buy the book I hope you enjoy it.
Vegas Pursuit is a sequel to Cupid's Pursuit and, once again follows the misadventures of Matthew Malarkey. This time Matthew finds himself in the bright lights of Las Vegas on a trip to celebrate his fortieth birthday. Where Matthew goes mayhem often follows and instead of enjoying a chilled, relaxed party atmosphere, he finds himself in the middle of life threatening confusion. As usual Matthew is never sure how he got involved but he does know that he has to find a way out...and he doesn't have much time to do it.
Vegas Pursuit, like Cupid's Pursuit, is a fun read, written to amuse and raise a smile.
For more details go to www.pursuitseries.com
If you buy the book I hope you enjoy it.
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
Flowers in the Rain
I had been looking forward to the date. She looked good in her pictures and we had seemed to hit it off on the ‘phone. In fact it was the ‘phone chat that had done it. Killed the apprehension I had about internet dating. At the end of it I asked her out. For a date. In effect a blind date. Nothing overly complicated. Just a simple drink at the Dog and Sausage. So as I sat in the back of the taxi, speeding my way through the driving rain to our rendezvous, I had made my mind up to impress. I glanced at my watch. Five to six. Our date was at 6.30pm. I wanted to be early.
It was at that point that I caught sight of the florist sign through the cab’s rain spattered windows. If I hurried I would just catch it before it shut.
'Stop...just here. I need to pop into that shop,' I said to the driver as I pointed across the street. ‘I won’t be a second.’
I pulled open the door thinking that my date was bound to appreciate the effort. Outside the rain was coming in horizontal sheets, lashing the street in a flurry of wind-whipped spray. I pulled the lapels of my jacket tight around me and raced across the road.
Perhaps I should have been paying more attention but my thoughts were elsewhere. I just didn't see it. The vacuum cleaner wire was drawn tight across the floor as the assistant cleaned up before close. My foot caught the hazard and pitched me forward like a human missile. My impetus was arrested by a free standing display of pot plants and vases of flowers. As I hit the bottom of the rack, several pots and vases pitched forward straight at me. What felt like an avalanche of soil and water tipped straight over my now prone body, covering me in a glutinous muddy mix. The assistant screamed. I sat there on the floor, surrounded by splintered ceramic, in a pool of water, dazed, trying to gain some composure.
'Err...do you have any...err...roses,' I asked, as I spat a mouthful of soil and petals onto the floor.
There was no discernible, coherent response from the assistant. Well none that I could translate into a recognised world language. Her reaction was bordering on hysteria, a mix of sobs, screams and wails. She even did what appeared to be a mini two step dance, an involuntary movement born out of some sort of helpless frustration. I looked around me. Sure there was a mess. Yes, there were a lot of broken pots but I considered her response something of an overreaction. I, on the other hand had plenty to get upset about. My jacket was soaked, soil trailed down the front of my new white Paul Smith shirt, and when I glanced down at my trousers I spotted a six inch rip straight along the seam of the right leg.
I began to rise to my feet, still blowing soil out of my mouth. The assistant stopped the wailing noise she was making and began to step backwards, almost in fear of my approach.
I held out my hand in a placatory gesture.
‘It’s ok,’ I said, ‘no need to be upset. It’s only a spillage. Nobody’s died-’
‘Not yet they haven’t,’ she said.
I was taken aback by her sudden ability to speak English. My next thought was to wonder whether what she had said was a threat or a prediction.
‘Yet?’
‘Yes. My mum will go mental,’ she said as she wiped a tear from her face.
‘Mental? Err...your mum will? Why? What’s it got to do with your mum? It’s just an accident. Accidents happen.’
‘It’s her shop and it’s just my second day. She asked me tidy up and lock up at six. She has an important client coming in tomorrow. Some big contract....for a function or something. God...she will kill me.’
‘Well, can’t you call her? Tell her what’s happened. I mean, she is your mum. I’m sure she’ll understand?’
‘I can’t call her. She’s out. That’s why she left early and asked me to take care of everything.’
I wiped the soil from my hands and looked at my watch. Ten past six. I was in danger of being late for my date if I didn’t get out of the shop soon. Across the street I could just make out the flashing hazard lights of the waiting taxi through the driving rain.
‘Look, I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I just didn’t see the...the wire thing. I tripped.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘Here take this. If you need me to speak to your mum about what happened, so she won’t think it’s your fault, I am happy to do so. But you need to call her and get her to give you a hand to clear up. I’m sure she’d want that.’
She took my card, stared at it and then looked up. ‘I can’t call her. She told me not to...not to disturb her.'
‘Why? It’s an emergency.’
‘She’s on a date.’
The word focussed me on my own necessity to get out of the shop and get to my date. And then the word took on another meaning. The hairs on my neck began to prickle.
‘A date? Did you say a date?’
‘I did. Why?’
‘Err...what sort of date?’
She ran a hand through her hair and shot me a curious look. ‘A date. You know, with a bloke. She was looking forward to it. Said he seemed nice, not like the idiots that she normally ran into. So, that’s why she doesn’t want me to bother her.’
Coincidence. It had to be. ‘Erm...where is the date...,’ I asked.
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Err...well just out of curiosity...you know, in case I ever...well, wanted to go on one myself...erm...you know, sometime. Wondered if there are any good places.’
‘I dunno...some bar or pub...the sausage dog or something.’
As she said it I just caught sight of the taxi driver walking across the road to the shop. I bent down and picked up a piece of broken plant pot. Time to impress.
‘I’ll give you a hand to clear up.’
It was at that point that I caught sight of the florist sign through the cab’s rain spattered windows. If I hurried I would just catch it before it shut.
'Stop...just here. I need to pop into that shop,' I said to the driver as I pointed across the street. ‘I won’t be a second.’
I pulled open the door thinking that my date was bound to appreciate the effort. Outside the rain was coming in horizontal sheets, lashing the street in a flurry of wind-whipped spray. I pulled the lapels of my jacket tight around me and raced across the road.
Perhaps I should have been paying more attention but my thoughts were elsewhere. I just didn't see it. The vacuum cleaner wire was drawn tight across the floor as the assistant cleaned up before close. My foot caught the hazard and pitched me forward like a human missile. My impetus was arrested by a free standing display of pot plants and vases of flowers. As I hit the bottom of the rack, several pots and vases pitched forward straight at me. What felt like an avalanche of soil and water tipped straight over my now prone body, covering me in a glutinous muddy mix. The assistant screamed. I sat there on the floor, surrounded by splintered ceramic, in a pool of water, dazed, trying to gain some composure.
'Err...do you have any...err...roses,' I asked, as I spat a mouthful of soil and petals onto the floor.
There was no discernible, coherent response from the assistant. Well none that I could translate into a recognised world language. Her reaction was bordering on hysteria, a mix of sobs, screams and wails. She even did what appeared to be a mini two step dance, an involuntary movement born out of some sort of helpless frustration. I looked around me. Sure there was a mess. Yes, there were a lot of broken pots but I considered her response something of an overreaction. I, on the other hand had plenty to get upset about. My jacket was soaked, soil trailed down the front of my new white Paul Smith shirt, and when I glanced down at my trousers I spotted a six inch rip straight along the seam of the right leg.
I began to rise to my feet, still blowing soil out of my mouth. The assistant stopped the wailing noise she was making and began to step backwards, almost in fear of my approach.
I held out my hand in a placatory gesture.
‘It’s ok,’ I said, ‘no need to be upset. It’s only a spillage. Nobody’s died-’
‘Not yet they haven’t,’ she said.
I was taken aback by her sudden ability to speak English. My next thought was to wonder whether what she had said was a threat or a prediction.
‘Yet?’
‘Yes. My mum will go mental,’ she said as she wiped a tear from her face.
‘Mental? Err...your mum will? Why? What’s it got to do with your mum? It’s just an accident. Accidents happen.’
‘It’s her shop and it’s just my second day. She asked me tidy up and lock up at six. She has an important client coming in tomorrow. Some big contract....for a function or something. God...she will kill me.’
‘Well, can’t you call her? Tell her what’s happened. I mean, she is your mum. I’m sure she’ll understand?’
‘I can’t call her. She’s out. That’s why she left early and asked me to take care of everything.’
I wiped the soil from my hands and looked at my watch. Ten past six. I was in danger of being late for my date if I didn’t get out of the shop soon. Across the street I could just make out the flashing hazard lights of the waiting taxi through the driving rain.
‘Look, I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I just didn’t see the...the wire thing. I tripped.’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘Here take this. If you need me to speak to your mum about what happened, so she won’t think it’s your fault, I am happy to do so. But you need to call her and get her to give you a hand to clear up. I’m sure she’d want that.’
She took my card, stared at it and then looked up. ‘I can’t call her. She told me not to...not to disturb her.'
‘Why? It’s an emergency.’
‘She’s on a date.’
The word focussed me on my own necessity to get out of the shop and get to my date. And then the word took on another meaning. The hairs on my neck began to prickle.
‘A date? Did you say a date?’
‘I did. Why?’
‘Err...what sort of date?’
She ran a hand through her hair and shot me a curious look. ‘A date. You know, with a bloke. She was looking forward to it. Said he seemed nice, not like the idiots that she normally ran into. So, that’s why she doesn’t want me to bother her.’
Coincidence. It had to be. ‘Erm...where is the date...,’ I asked.
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Err...well just out of curiosity...you know, in case I ever...well, wanted to go on one myself...erm...you know, sometime. Wondered if there are any good places.’
‘I dunno...some bar or pub...the sausage dog or something.’
As she said it I just caught sight of the taxi driver walking across the road to the shop. I bent down and picked up a piece of broken plant pot. Time to impress.
‘I’ll give you a hand to clear up.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)