A bird lands on a chimney pot, high above the street.
It sings.
It displays a wonderful array of notes, running up and down different scales, cutting across a number of different tune settings, effortlessly.
It is such a small bird and it has repeated much of what it is singing on a number of different perches throughout the morning. But here is its best perch. Here it excels, lifting its voice high, letting releasing everything as it begins to sing beyond its best. The bird is in a high state of ecstasy, revelling in the songs it is producing.
In a small flat two floors below the bird’s song is reverberating throughout the room and its occupier is worried that a bird is trapped behind the gas fire within the fireplace. After frantically trying to remove the panel that holds the fire in place she ‘phones up the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and explains her problem.
The voice on the other end of the line is very calm and helpful.
She takes the ‘phone to the room and the person listens carefully.
It is alright, she assures the caller, this is normal.
The bird in question is using the chimney as an amplifier. It is perched in the chimney pot, singing to its heart’s content.
After she puts the ‘phone down the woman picks up her keys and leaves the flat.
Outside, she walks along the road and crosses to the other side. She looks up and sees a tiny figure moving around, bobbing up and down, and singing with a voice much louder than its size could ever merit.
That’s what happens when you take the day off. Some damn bird gets in the way and disturbs the peace!
She begins to laugh as she walks to the newsagent to buy a newspaper.
Friday, 14 December 2007
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty seven
She is on recon patrol as she slips along the street in light body armour, helmet in place and her trusty machine gun at the ready.
The light from the sun makes it difficult to cover the ground safely and the extremes of light and shade obscure some potential problem areas.
As she passes an old bombed out shop a flash of light catches her eye. It’s a window moving to let a sniper gain clear access to the road.
A fast crouch as she brings the gun to firing position, a short burst and the enemy is eliminated.
She is good! She knows she is but her vigilance must not be lowered as she silently gives herself a pat on the back.
Meanwhile, just behind her in the transport module, the person she is protecting as she does her patrol is oblivious to the danger and her heroic efforts. He is deep in thought and a tuneless song ebbs and flows from him like strange mutters and mumbles that gradually bubble up into a recognisable tune and words before becoming immersed in his contemplations.
It is difficult to understand just what he is thinking and she knows that the person she has sworn to protect can sometimes be very awkward. She checks him out and nods at his driver before snaking between a waste bin and a lamppost. With a couple of rapid steps she conceals herself in a doorway and scans behind her for problems.
Slipping out a grenade from her belt, she lobs the bomb over the transport module at an approaching enemy attack ship before darting to the end of the next building. She knows this is a major hazard area and waits quietly as she scans for danger. She hears a voice coming in on her radio from the driver of the module.
“Jan. Don’t cross the road without us. Good girl. Now hold onto the buggy ‘till we get to the other side, then you can go ahead of us again. But keep in sight, OK?”
The soldier says, “Yes mum!” as she engages with the support module for extra cover as they transverse the difficult patch of terrain.
The light from the sun makes it difficult to cover the ground safely and the extremes of light and shade obscure some potential problem areas.
As she passes an old bombed out shop a flash of light catches her eye. It’s a window moving to let a sniper gain clear access to the road.
A fast crouch as she brings the gun to firing position, a short burst and the enemy is eliminated.
She is good! She knows she is but her vigilance must not be lowered as she silently gives herself a pat on the back.
Meanwhile, just behind her in the transport module, the person she is protecting as she does her patrol is oblivious to the danger and her heroic efforts. He is deep in thought and a tuneless song ebbs and flows from him like strange mutters and mumbles that gradually bubble up into a recognisable tune and words before becoming immersed in his contemplations.
It is difficult to understand just what he is thinking and she knows that the person she has sworn to protect can sometimes be very awkward. She checks him out and nods at his driver before snaking between a waste bin and a lamppost. With a couple of rapid steps she conceals herself in a doorway and scans behind her for problems.
Slipping out a grenade from her belt, she lobs the bomb over the transport module at an approaching enemy attack ship before darting to the end of the next building. She knows this is a major hazard area and waits quietly as she scans for danger. She hears a voice coming in on her radio from the driver of the module.
“Jan. Don’t cross the road without us. Good girl. Now hold onto the buggy ‘till we get to the other side, then you can go ahead of us again. But keep in sight, OK?”
The soldier says, “Yes mum!” as she engages with the support module for extra cover as they transverse the difficult patch of terrain.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty six
Chris kisses his wife Mary and sets off down the stairs, his trusty camera swinging on its strap. He is anxious to get the pictures early so he can get to school and send them off. He is a Geography teacher but has made a great discovery – a medieval wooded structure behind the video shop on the high street.
He nods to a couple of parents and exchanges comments with some of the school kids passing down the street. Many are on their way to the school he teaches in. He thinks that it is a mixed blessing being relatively local to your school.
As he turns down the alleyway he begins to notice a strong smell of smoke. Someone is burning wood in their garden. He thinks how unsociable that is and wonders at the waste and pollution. Shaking his head he turns the corner and sees the plume of smoke rising from one of the enclosed yards behind the shops.
Picking up his pace he trots along the alleyway to the fence behind the video shop. The gate is open and a couple of builders – one very young and the other near to retirement – are poking a great pile of chopped up logs as they burn and smoke. The older builder looks around and tosses his cigarette butt into the flames. Chris just stands dumbfounded looking at the wood burning and across at the cleared ground where the medieval structure had once stood.
“You’ve destroyed it?” is all he can say and he feels tears flooding into his eyes.
“Bit smoky, the fire.” Says the old man. “I said they should have chopped it up smaller and sold the lot as firewood but the boss just wanted to get rid of it fast, like!”
The younger man looks up and recognises Chris.
“Morning sir!” He says, “Are you alright. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”
Chris takes a deep breath, chokes of the smoke and splutters, “Hello John. Have you left school already?”
The young man nods and says, “This summer. You sure you’re alright?”
“No.” Chris replies, “I’m not. I suppose I have just seen a ghost. Is this the last of the wood?”
John nods and the old man says, “Yeh. This fire’s been going for almost 24 hours now. They wanted it clear by today so they paid me and the lad extra to stay behind overnight to finish it off! Not bad, eh? By nine I’ll be on my way home for a good wash and a spot of kip.” They are both nodding as Christ walks away. His feet feel like heavy weights and he wishes he could just call in sick but that’s simply out of the question. He should be hurrying but all he can think is, “Idiots! Stupid Idiots! What a stupid, stupid waste!” He does not realise he is saying this out loud and doesn’t notice the older man getting read to go after him. Young John intervenes saying, “He’s not talking about us. Its this wood we’re burning. He’s into the environment and the like.”
The old man shakes John off and looks at his watch. Only another ten minutes before the morning crew are due to arrive. The breeze shifts direction and he can now smell the bacon from the café just up the road. His mind begins to focus on other things as he fishes out yet another cigarette.
He nods to a couple of parents and exchanges comments with some of the school kids passing down the street. Many are on their way to the school he teaches in. He thinks that it is a mixed blessing being relatively local to your school.
As he turns down the alleyway he begins to notice a strong smell of smoke. Someone is burning wood in their garden. He thinks how unsociable that is and wonders at the waste and pollution. Shaking his head he turns the corner and sees the plume of smoke rising from one of the enclosed yards behind the shops.
Picking up his pace he trots along the alleyway to the fence behind the video shop. The gate is open and a couple of builders – one very young and the other near to retirement – are poking a great pile of chopped up logs as they burn and smoke. The older builder looks around and tosses his cigarette butt into the flames. Chris just stands dumbfounded looking at the wood burning and across at the cleared ground where the medieval structure had once stood.
“You’ve destroyed it?” is all he can say and he feels tears flooding into his eyes.
“Bit smoky, the fire.” Says the old man. “I said they should have chopped it up smaller and sold the lot as firewood but the boss just wanted to get rid of it fast, like!”
The younger man looks up and recognises Chris.
“Morning sir!” He says, “Are you alright. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”
Chris takes a deep breath, chokes of the smoke and splutters, “Hello John. Have you left school already?”
The young man nods and says, “This summer. You sure you’re alright?”
“No.” Chris replies, “I’m not. I suppose I have just seen a ghost. Is this the last of the wood?”
John nods and the old man says, “Yeh. This fire’s been going for almost 24 hours now. They wanted it clear by today so they paid me and the lad extra to stay behind overnight to finish it off! Not bad, eh? By nine I’ll be on my way home for a good wash and a spot of kip.” They are both nodding as Christ walks away. His feet feel like heavy weights and he wishes he could just call in sick but that’s simply out of the question. He should be hurrying but all he can think is, “Idiots! Stupid Idiots! What a stupid, stupid waste!” He does not realise he is saying this out loud and doesn’t notice the older man getting read to go after him. Young John intervenes saying, “He’s not talking about us. Its this wood we’re burning. He’s into the environment and the like.”
The old man shakes John off and looks at his watch. Only another ten minutes before the morning crew are due to arrive. The breeze shifts direction and he can now smell the bacon from the café just up the road. His mind begins to focus on other things as he fishes out yet another cigarette.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty five
Father James has just finished saying the morning Mass and is hurrying down the road to buy something to eat for his lunch before going off to the local hospital to do a shift there as one of the chaplains.
He bumps into a group of young lads and says sorry in an absent minded, distracted way. He is thinking about his homily and how he missed out an important part of it. This didn’t invalidate what he said but it would have been much better to have given the whole of the homily. Somehow he just left it out. Perhaps his mind is going or maybe God let that bit slip out of his thoughts for some reason? He is thinking about this when he recognises the voice of one of the young men.
Father James looks up from his shoes to see the face of the young man in question.
“Hello Father.”
“Hello Philip how’s your mother these days. I have not seen her for a while.”
“She’s fine. Working hard at that design company in the old cinema building.”
“Really? Well that’s good. She has a fine mind, you know. Was top of her class at school. Your grandfather should have let her go to university, but that was a while back. So stubborn, he just wouldn’t listen!”
The young man nods, not quite sure what to say.
“And how are your studies doing? I’m not so involved with the school since they moved to that new site by the canal.”
“Fine Father; doing my A levels this year at Sixth Form College.”
“And which university are you thinking of going to. Have you thought of that yet?”
Philip blushes. “I’m thinking of doing English but I haven’t decided where yet.”
“Well now, that’s good. I read English at Cambridge many years ago. If I hadn’t gone into the priesthood I would, no doubt, still be teaching it today.”
“You were a teacher?” Philip asks, quite surprised.
“Not really. I was an academic for a while – I still have a few contacts; old friends around the place. Let me know when you are deciding on your university applications and I’ll see what I can do to help.”
“Thanks.” Blurts Philip, not really knowing what he should say.
Father James just shrugs and says, “It was what I was going to say in Mass today. You can never change something that has already happened – like your mother not going to university straight from school. But you can learn from the experience and try to do better the next time. Tell your mother I would love to see her again sometime – she can always pop in for a coffee ….. or something stronger!”
As he turns away he adds, “Oh, and the invitation is there for you and your friends, too!”
They watch as he picks up speed, already thinking of his lunch and when he needs to leave to get to the hospital in time.
He bumps into a group of young lads and says sorry in an absent minded, distracted way. He is thinking about his homily and how he missed out an important part of it. This didn’t invalidate what he said but it would have been much better to have given the whole of the homily. Somehow he just left it out. Perhaps his mind is going or maybe God let that bit slip out of his thoughts for some reason? He is thinking about this when he recognises the voice of one of the young men.
Father James looks up from his shoes to see the face of the young man in question.
“Hello Father.”
“Hello Philip how’s your mother these days. I have not seen her for a while.”
“She’s fine. Working hard at that design company in the old cinema building.”
“Really? Well that’s good. She has a fine mind, you know. Was top of her class at school. Your grandfather should have let her go to university, but that was a while back. So stubborn, he just wouldn’t listen!”
The young man nods, not quite sure what to say.
“And how are your studies doing? I’m not so involved with the school since they moved to that new site by the canal.”
“Fine Father; doing my A levels this year at Sixth Form College.”
“And which university are you thinking of going to. Have you thought of that yet?”
Philip blushes. “I’m thinking of doing English but I haven’t decided where yet.”
“Well now, that’s good. I read English at Cambridge many years ago. If I hadn’t gone into the priesthood I would, no doubt, still be teaching it today.”
“You were a teacher?” Philip asks, quite surprised.
“Not really. I was an academic for a while – I still have a few contacts; old friends around the place. Let me know when you are deciding on your university applications and I’ll see what I can do to help.”
“Thanks.” Blurts Philip, not really knowing what he should say.
Father James just shrugs and says, “It was what I was going to say in Mass today. You can never change something that has already happened – like your mother not going to university straight from school. But you can learn from the experience and try to do better the next time. Tell your mother I would love to see her again sometime – she can always pop in for a coffee ….. or something stronger!”
As he turns away he adds, “Oh, and the invitation is there for you and your friends, too!”
They watch as he picks up speed, already thinking of his lunch and when he needs to leave to get to the hospital in time.
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty four
He is thinking about his childhood.
He sees himself as a little boy, running down a hillside with his hand held tightly by his father. His sister is running, too. She is holding their father’s other hand and just as they seem to reach an impossible pace and his feet are just glancing off the tussocks of grass his father stops and the brother and sister collide. Everyone laughs because it is funny but his sister took the opportunity to hit him hard as she swung into him. Everyone is laughing but he is really crying; he just can’t show it and he can’t let the smug look on his older sister’s face defeat him.
He is thinking that childhood was never a particularly enjoyable time.
He looks through that lens that helps you focus on so many different incidents.
He examines each of these in detail. Each small humiliation and each large hurt passes his gaze as he sits there.
He thinks of the times since those childhood years. The warm, heartfelt stories and films, the sentimental reminiscences narrated by so many people that seem to pull so many heart strings and he still finds it difficult to believe that people enjoys such tosh. Such lies and hurtful propaganda grind him down even when he is not watching, hearing or reading it. The thought of it flashes through his mind and he flares with anger and resentment.
Perhaps other peoples’ childhoods really were better.
Then he thinks how pathetic it is to be even thinking of such things at his age. As if the little boy never escaped from that shitty life. As if he really is in the same shitty existence now.
As a child, even before he went to school, he would find a quiet place to be, perhaps locked in the toilet or somewhere else. There he would wish with all his heart that this was just a dream. He hoped that the last few years had not really happened. He wished he would suddenly waken up in his bed, be much younger that he is at the moment and none of the horrible things would have happened. He would then be able to live a better life; one that was different.
He is thinking about his childhood and wondering how to put the whole thing in the shredder and get rid of it.
Forget about going back – it’s too late for that, now. Can I just start having a better life now?
He looks at the four walls and thinks how much depression hurts.
He hears shouting and noises out in the street but he does not want to get up and look out the window.
He sees himself as a little boy, running down a hillside with his hand held tightly by his father. His sister is running, too. She is holding their father’s other hand and just as they seem to reach an impossible pace and his feet are just glancing off the tussocks of grass his father stops and the brother and sister collide. Everyone laughs because it is funny but his sister took the opportunity to hit him hard as she swung into him. Everyone is laughing but he is really crying; he just can’t show it and he can’t let the smug look on his older sister’s face defeat him.
He is thinking that childhood was never a particularly enjoyable time.
He looks through that lens that helps you focus on so many different incidents.
He examines each of these in detail. Each small humiliation and each large hurt passes his gaze as he sits there.
He thinks of the times since those childhood years. The warm, heartfelt stories and films, the sentimental reminiscences narrated by so many people that seem to pull so many heart strings and he still finds it difficult to believe that people enjoys such tosh. Such lies and hurtful propaganda grind him down even when he is not watching, hearing or reading it. The thought of it flashes through his mind and he flares with anger and resentment.
Perhaps other peoples’ childhoods really were better.
Then he thinks how pathetic it is to be even thinking of such things at his age. As if the little boy never escaped from that shitty life. As if he really is in the same shitty existence now.
As a child, even before he went to school, he would find a quiet place to be, perhaps locked in the toilet or somewhere else. There he would wish with all his heart that this was just a dream. He hoped that the last few years had not really happened. He wished he would suddenly waken up in his bed, be much younger that he is at the moment and none of the horrible things would have happened. He would then be able to live a better life; one that was different.
He is thinking about his childhood and wondering how to put the whole thing in the shredder and get rid of it.
Forget about going back – it’s too late for that, now. Can I just start having a better life now?
He looks at the four walls and thinks how much depression hurts.
He hears shouting and noises out in the street but he does not want to get up and look out the window.
Friday, 7 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty three
Theo is suffering from another one of those skull cracking headaches with the visual disturbances and strange feelings but this time he is OK. In fact this is the first time he has felt OK while suffering one of these damn things.
He felt it coming on and called in sick for the morning. He should have taken the pill as he felt it coming on but he wanted to make sure. He wanted to feel absolutely certain that this was not just fatigue and stress; that it really was one of his headaches.
He sits down with the pills and the glass of water and does the swallowing and water drinking routine; he finds swallowing pills difficult. He finishes off the glass of water and sits watching the horrible snaky geometric patterns flow across his vision like some sort of souped-up video display from the nineteen eighties or nineties. God, he hated them, too!
But he is not upset or worried. He first began to suffer from the headaches a couple of years ago and he began to worry that there was something really wrong with him. Perhaps he had a brain tumour or some sort of cancerous growth behind the eye. He felt that he was going slowly mad and wondered about all sorts of things. He typed in the symptoms onto Google and got a variety of potential causes but he was too wary of the whole thing – the effect on him was too great to really be something as common place as, say, migraine, and he was worried about what it really might be.
Finally, when it was beginning to seriously affect him and eat into his work, he decided to seek medical help. His doctor assured him it was migraine and spent quite a bit of time with him reviewing symptoms and discussing what was known about it and how it might be managed. He prescribed a particular drug, explained how it would work and what its affects might be and asked Theo to call in and let him know how effective the drug was in his case.
He sits there with the empty glass beside him, saying to his headache and other symptoms, “I am not going mad and I am not going to die! I know what you are and I don’t have to put up with you any more.
In half an hour the affects of the drug are clear. He is beginning to feel much better. It has not gone completely yet but he feels so much better; so much more in control.
He will be back at work by lunchtime.
He felt it coming on and called in sick for the morning. He should have taken the pill as he felt it coming on but he wanted to make sure. He wanted to feel absolutely certain that this was not just fatigue and stress; that it really was one of his headaches.
He sits down with the pills and the glass of water and does the swallowing and water drinking routine; he finds swallowing pills difficult. He finishes off the glass of water and sits watching the horrible snaky geometric patterns flow across his vision like some sort of souped-up video display from the nineteen eighties or nineties. God, he hated them, too!
But he is not upset or worried. He first began to suffer from the headaches a couple of years ago and he began to worry that there was something really wrong with him. Perhaps he had a brain tumour or some sort of cancerous growth behind the eye. He felt that he was going slowly mad and wondered about all sorts of things. He typed in the symptoms onto Google and got a variety of potential causes but he was too wary of the whole thing – the effect on him was too great to really be something as common place as, say, migraine, and he was worried about what it really might be.
Finally, when it was beginning to seriously affect him and eat into his work, he decided to seek medical help. His doctor assured him it was migraine and spent quite a bit of time with him reviewing symptoms and discussing what was known about it and how it might be managed. He prescribed a particular drug, explained how it would work and what its affects might be and asked Theo to call in and let him know how effective the drug was in his case.
He sits there with the empty glass beside him, saying to his headache and other symptoms, “I am not going mad and I am not going to die! I know what you are and I don’t have to put up with you any more.
In half an hour the affects of the drug are clear. He is beginning to feel much better. It has not gone completely yet but he feels so much better; so much more in control.
He will be back at work by lunchtime.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty two
The room is clear of furniture but that just means everything has been crammed into the other rooms. They are eating take-aways and accumulating dirty dishes and debts as they work on decorating the room.
There has been a cry for some time now which goes something like “They make it look so easy on those TV programmes!”. This is usually echoed with a short word or phrase such as “Bastards!” or “Lying toadies!”
Mark and Tony are preparing the floor for the final coat of varnish. It took them ages to do the ceiling and walls, even longer to do the wood-work, a life time to sand and stain the floor and soon, well soon enough, the final touches will have been completed.
The two young men have grossly underestimated the time and cost of their week’s holiday and one room just does not seem enough reward for their troubles.
Last night, in amongst the dark shadows cast by the upended sofa languishing in their bedroom Tony had asked if they really would finish the living room in time and Mark had reassured him. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we will celebrate the end of our decorating marathon with a bottle of Champagne!”
In the dark, Tony could almost believe his partner.
So, with the windows open to air the room and with paint brushes ready, the two young men begin to carefully apply the varnish.
“You don’t think we are perhaps just a bit too perfectionist?” asks Tony.
“This is our first home. It has cost us a lot to get where we are. Trust me, the best is the very least we deserve!”
As they meticulously put the last coat on the floor in a perfectly decorated room filled with love and resonating with music by Chopin, an old gas boiler in the empty flat above is beginning to leak quite badly. Water is already soaking into the wall and the old carpet below it is dark with stale moisture from the growing pool.
There has been a cry for some time now which goes something like “They make it look so easy on those TV programmes!”. This is usually echoed with a short word or phrase such as “Bastards!” or “Lying toadies!”
Mark and Tony are preparing the floor for the final coat of varnish. It took them ages to do the ceiling and walls, even longer to do the wood-work, a life time to sand and stain the floor and soon, well soon enough, the final touches will have been completed.
The two young men have grossly underestimated the time and cost of their week’s holiday and one room just does not seem enough reward for their troubles.
Last night, in amongst the dark shadows cast by the upended sofa languishing in their bedroom Tony had asked if they really would finish the living room in time and Mark had reassured him. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we will celebrate the end of our decorating marathon with a bottle of Champagne!”
In the dark, Tony could almost believe his partner.
So, with the windows open to air the room and with paint brushes ready, the two young men begin to carefully apply the varnish.
“You don’t think we are perhaps just a bit too perfectionist?” asks Tony.
“This is our first home. It has cost us a lot to get where we are. Trust me, the best is the very least we deserve!”
As they meticulously put the last coat on the floor in a perfectly decorated room filled with love and resonating with music by Chopin, an old gas boiler in the empty flat above is beginning to leak quite badly. Water is already soaking into the wall and the old carpet below it is dark with stale moisture from the growing pool.
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