A is a woman of unknown age who sits in the café from eight until nine thirty every day. She tends to be as close to the counter as possible and seems to thrive more on the hot air circulating around that area of the café than on the two cups of coffee and the plate of bread and butter she consumes each day. This is her “little luxury”, as she calls it. She has lived in the area all her life and her memory extends to well before the Second World War, possibly to before the First, although nobody seems to know or seems to want to find out.
B is an old man who appeared in the area about a year before and, although no one knows where he has been in the last few decades, he seems to have known A many years before and may have lived in the area then.
Both live in sheltered accommodation nearby and spend much of their time pottering around the street and surrounding area…..
A, “There were two stalls on the corner. One sold vegetables and the other sold fruit.”
B, ”I remember. They were brothers but they never spoke to each other. They had stopped talking to each other before their dad died. My father always used to say that their dad died of a broken heart because of them.”
A, “Well, you know what happened, don’t you. You know why they hated each other? I remember as a girl the few times they came to fisticuffs right by where the bus stop is now on the other side of the junction. It used to be a ratty old field full of weeds, holes and rough patches of grass. We used to play over that way and down by where the deep ditch was, close to the canal.”
B, “I remember that place, where they found that boy, dead.”
A, “They were always finding dead bodies down there, either in the canal at that point or in that ditch, yet nobody I can remember ever told us as children not to play in that field or go down there.”
B, “Well, it was always strangers, they found, wasn’t it. What about the brothers, by the way?”
A, “Oh, yes. The brothers. They would sometimes shout abuse at each other from across the street. Or one would spend the whole day repeating the same phrase as he sold things to people. You know. Things like, ‘there’s your potatoes and cauliflower, Mrs Bentows and at least you can know that I have not overcharged you like some stall holders I know about!’” and he would almost shout the last part so that the other brother could hear it. Eventually, he would start to respond in kind and then they would be out there on the scrubland punching it out with their two skinny young assistants looking after the stalls.”
B, “I remember, now. One of them had his arm broken as a result of those fights.”
A, “I can’t remember that but I would not have been surprised.”
B, “So, what started it all? How did they end up hating each other?”
A, “It was one of those things they call sibling rivalry, I think. They used to fight over the same girls and then, when it became serious for one of them and the other stole that girl away from his brother all hell let loose. But even that was not the half of it. The story goes that Ben (he was the older brother) fell in love with this young girl from down Boston Street.”
B, ”You mean that street that was demolished over by where they now have the industrial estate?”
A, “Well, after the place was almost flattened by the bombs during the war it was ear marked for flats but ended up as warehouses.”
B, ”I remember. So she came from there. I can only remember the Harris family from there.”
A, “This girl lived two doors down from them towards the old bakers.”
B, “Yes, I remember their mutton pies, and their coconut fancies, too!”
A, “You would, you were always a one for that sort of food! Anyway, this girl was courted by Ben for some months and there was even an announcement of their engagement. Then, suddenly, the whole thing was off and Sam, the younger brother was walking out with her.
Shortly after that there was an enormous commotion when it was discovered that this poor girl was pregnant and do you know? Each brother accused the other brother of being the father! Neither took responsibility for the child growing in the young girl’s belly and before you know it, she’s gone and drowned herself in the canal.”
B, “Well she would have. It was a pretty grim thing to be in that situation back then. She would have been beaten senseless for it by her father and the whole street would have looked upon her as a jezebel. There was one girl down our street who faced the same sort of blight and gassed herself in her mother’s kitchen. Sadly, the whole family were killed in the process as the gas filled the other room, too. I remember my mother crying about that as a boy.”
A, “Yes, well, those two brothers never cried about the girl. They were too busy fighting each other – the girl was just like a prized bit of property rather than a person. That’s how they seemed to see it and of course they blamed each other for the girl’s death as well. Neither ever saw that they were both responsible. I remember my mother never wanted to buy anything from either of them again. She would rather walk all the way down to Hillside than buy her fruit and vegetables from those two.”
B, “Funny. I remember the same thing, too. My mother suddenly stopped buying stuff from them, too. I always assumed it was because they were a couple of crooks who over-price their things, though I must confess I could never see the benefits of shopping so far away.”
A, “They may have been mean little crooks, too but that was not why. Now you know. Ben and Sam were two nasty, selfish toe-rags and my family never liked them. It used to be funny watching them knock seven bells out of each other – you know both were rubbish at fighting. Even as a young girl I could see that.”
B, “So, that’s why their father went to his grave with a broken heart?”
A, “Heavens, no. He was upset because they refused to set up together in a shop, which is what he always wanted to have. They could have run a very nice grocers shop on the high street and would have become established tradesmen but their hatred for each other stopped that and their dad went to his grave impoverished and with his dreams in tatters. He was just as mean as his two sons.”
B, "True. True."
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
Tuesday, 30 October 2007
stories of the street - Seven
Every morning the bus stops at the place by the corner and Mary hesitates before getting on. For five years now, almost every working day sees her there and she still hesitates before getting on.
Bus drivers grow bemused as they watch this and they talk about it to colleagues who cover the route, too.
Some call out, “Come on dear, I won’t bite you!” or, “C’m’on, we haven’t got all day!”, words like those but they never seem to stir any response in her. It’s as if there is nothing conscious or intentional in the hesitation she displays.
No one knows that Mary is really suffering from agoraphobia and from claustrophobia, too. She is on the verge of breaking up and has been for over five years, now. Each day this quiet young woman prepares herself to face another ordeal. In her quiet little bed-sit she finishes her breakfast and washes methodically, brushing her teeth with care, knowing that she could carry on brushing her teeth for a couple of hours. She could brush her teeth ‘till her gums bleed then phone in sick knowing that she at least had some shred of truth in the story as she sat there with her mouth quietly on fire from the raw, bloody gums.
Instead, she finishes her brushing and dresses, spends a few minutes on her make up and walks around the living room half of her bed-sit. She walks around the sofa and on to the small table, around it and past the sink and cooker to the sofa again. She stops and looks over to the bed with its covers down to air the sheets. She puts her coat or jacket on, depending on the weather, then goes over and pulls the cover back over the bed, picks up her bag and leaves.
Locking that door and walking down the stairs to the main door always carves a hollow space inside her. By the time she opens the main door and steps out into the street she feels like she is in free fall. Every step now is a half felt probe into a distant world as she makes her way to the bus stop. Inside her rages a storm of terror and a constant voice telling herself it will be alright, she must keep on going. It is a voice she finds difficult to believe, even if it is her own voice. It is her own mind, telling her that she can do it while the other part of her brain is screaming, “RUN!!”, “MOVE IT! GET BACK TO THE BEDSIT NOW!! TOO LATE, CURL UP IN A BALL AND HIDE! OH, GOD HELP ME!!!”
Then the bus arrives. She can run but it feels like it is too late for that. She wonders how she can face moving from the bus shelter to the crowded bus and the driver/conductor is always chivvying her along to get on. She drives herself forward with all the power and determination she can drag from the shreds of self left intact by the turmoil she is suffering and gets on. She is so terrified she is both acutely aware of every little movement and sound around her but she is so past the ability to do anything more than move to a seat or standing space that everything feels like she is dislocated from it. She is controlling her breathing and her internal pleading to run is subsiding into a general mode of abject fear of everything.
Another working day has started for Mary.
Bus drivers grow bemused as they watch this and they talk about it to colleagues who cover the route, too.
Some call out, “Come on dear, I won’t bite you!” or, “C’m’on, we haven’t got all day!”, words like those but they never seem to stir any response in her. It’s as if there is nothing conscious or intentional in the hesitation she displays.
No one knows that Mary is really suffering from agoraphobia and from claustrophobia, too. She is on the verge of breaking up and has been for over five years, now. Each day this quiet young woman prepares herself to face another ordeal. In her quiet little bed-sit she finishes her breakfast and washes methodically, brushing her teeth with care, knowing that she could carry on brushing her teeth for a couple of hours. She could brush her teeth ‘till her gums bleed then phone in sick knowing that she at least had some shred of truth in the story as she sat there with her mouth quietly on fire from the raw, bloody gums.
Instead, she finishes her brushing and dresses, spends a few minutes on her make up and walks around the living room half of her bed-sit. She walks around the sofa and on to the small table, around it and past the sink and cooker to the sofa again. She stops and looks over to the bed with its covers down to air the sheets. She puts her coat or jacket on, depending on the weather, then goes over and pulls the cover back over the bed, picks up her bag and leaves.
Locking that door and walking down the stairs to the main door always carves a hollow space inside her. By the time she opens the main door and steps out into the street she feels like she is in free fall. Every step now is a half felt probe into a distant world as she makes her way to the bus stop. Inside her rages a storm of terror and a constant voice telling herself it will be alright, she must keep on going. It is a voice she finds difficult to believe, even if it is her own voice. It is her own mind, telling her that she can do it while the other part of her brain is screaming, “RUN!!”, “MOVE IT! GET BACK TO THE BEDSIT NOW!! TOO LATE, CURL UP IN A BALL AND HIDE! OH, GOD HELP ME!!!”
Then the bus arrives. She can run but it feels like it is too late for that. She wonders how she can face moving from the bus shelter to the crowded bus and the driver/conductor is always chivvying her along to get on. She drives herself forward with all the power and determination she can drag from the shreds of self left intact by the turmoil she is suffering and gets on. She is so terrified she is both acutely aware of every little movement and sound around her but she is so past the ability to do anything more than move to a seat or standing space that everything feels like she is dislocated from it. She is controlling her breathing and her internal pleading to run is subsiding into a general mode of abject fear of everything.
Another working day has started for Mary.
Monday, 29 October 2007
Stories of the street - Six A and B
----A ----
One of the most enduring sights on the road is that of the young man who is always cleaning a car. He is not a professional car valet although you might have thought that such a job would have suited him well. He simply loves cleaning cars of all sorts and owns a car that is cleaner than any factory-new model could ever be. He is an repair and maintenance engineer with a large company and drives a van around a wide number of sites to carry out his work.
After a couple of months in his new job his boss noticed just how incredibly clean and tidy the young man’s van was. He even congratulated him on it and told him he did not need to clean the van but the young man said that he would carry on doing it any way.
The manager dropped the lad’s van off the cleaning roster and then did some calculations. They had six vans in the section and he hired a valet company to give them a good cleaning every six months. After some deliberations he announced that headquarters were passing a new directive. The average van’s life is extended if you rotate them across a wide range of users; good drivers cancel out bad drivers and bad drivers do not have a van long enough to ruin it. Everyone moaned but could see the logic of it. For the first six months they swapped vans every month, then they began swapping every two months.
The truth was, the manager earned his efficiency bonus by stopping the contract with the car valeting company and he maintained a better level of cleanliness for his vans by leaving it all up to the young man.
When the young man was not cleaning his car, his van-of-the-month or his mother’s car he was cleaning his girlfriend’s car while she sat with his mother watching soaps on cable TV.
He had one secret dream. A wish he only half dared to admit to himself. But when he was cleaning the cars or vans he would slip into a little fantasy where he was a forensic scientist and he had to extract every bit of dirt, dust, hair and smudge so that he could study them all back at the lab. The phrase, “back at the lab” would sent little shivers down his spine, especially when he detected a hair or clothing fibre in the carpet of the car.
Today, his mother’s hubcaps are being attended to with great care and determination.
-----B-----
Postcard on the unswept floor of No 42B.
Dear Harry, it has not stopped raining but that’s OK. We are all in the big living room, reading and playing cards with old Santana and new Belle and Sebastian in the background. Have you sorted things out yet? Are you coming out to see us? I miss you so much. OK, we all do! Satisfied, now? Come ASAP and everything can be sorted out. Love you, Deb and the crew XXX
One of the most enduring sights on the road is that of the young man who is always cleaning a car. He is not a professional car valet although you might have thought that such a job would have suited him well. He simply loves cleaning cars of all sorts and owns a car that is cleaner than any factory-new model could ever be. He is an repair and maintenance engineer with a large company and drives a van around a wide number of sites to carry out his work.
After a couple of months in his new job his boss noticed just how incredibly clean and tidy the young man’s van was. He even congratulated him on it and told him he did not need to clean the van but the young man said that he would carry on doing it any way.
The manager dropped the lad’s van off the cleaning roster and then did some calculations. They had six vans in the section and he hired a valet company to give them a good cleaning every six months. After some deliberations he announced that headquarters were passing a new directive. The average van’s life is extended if you rotate them across a wide range of users; good drivers cancel out bad drivers and bad drivers do not have a van long enough to ruin it. Everyone moaned but could see the logic of it. For the first six months they swapped vans every month, then they began swapping every two months.
The truth was, the manager earned his efficiency bonus by stopping the contract with the car valeting company and he maintained a better level of cleanliness for his vans by leaving it all up to the young man.
When the young man was not cleaning his car, his van-of-the-month or his mother’s car he was cleaning his girlfriend’s car while she sat with his mother watching soaps on cable TV.
He had one secret dream. A wish he only half dared to admit to himself. But when he was cleaning the cars or vans he would slip into a little fantasy where he was a forensic scientist and he had to extract every bit of dirt, dust, hair and smudge so that he could study them all back at the lab. The phrase, “back at the lab” would sent little shivers down his spine, especially when he detected a hair or clothing fibre in the carpet of the car.
Today, his mother’s hubcaps are being attended to with great care and determination.
-----B-----
Postcard on the unswept floor of No 42B.
Dear Harry, it has not stopped raining but that’s OK. We are all in the big living room, reading and playing cards with old Santana and new Belle and Sebastian in the background. Have you sorted things out yet? Are you coming out to see us? I miss you so much. OK, we all do! Satisfied, now? Come ASAP and everything can be sorted out. Love you, Deb and the crew XXX
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Stories of the street - Five A and B
----A----
He’s been sitting at home on his own now for several days. There is nothing left in the fridge and hardly a tin in the cupboards. He is cold and thirsty but he cannot be bothered to get up and sort things out. He just sits there looking out through the grimy net curtains, wondering what to do. Sometimes he folds his arms; sometimes he realises that his arms are falling asleep as they lose circulation; once or twice he has placed his hands at the back of his head and tries to look like a picture of what he imagines relaxation to be like.
He has stopped turning the lights off and on. When it gets dark he cannot look outside with the light on in the room.
He cannot remember the last time he went to the toilet. Perhaps he goes without thinking about it and therefore does not notice. He wonders how it is possible to slow your life down so much and still experience it as a blur.
He watches a familiar face as it pauses in front of his window. The doorbell rings and he thinks that it is good to know the battery still has a charge. After a few minutes the face appears at the window again and he hears his name being called out. This person can see him and seems to be worried so he waves his hand in what he hopes is a friendly but conciliatory manner and prays that the person will go away. He then shakes his head in a fashion that might be seen and understood. Finally, he is left in peace again.
“It’s only your daughter.” He says to the cold room behind him. His voice is as dry and brittle as an old leaf.
----B----
One girl is singing.
The voice is so loud it almost drowns out everything else and the song is brilliant. As she sings, the lyrics take shape and ease inside the music, increasing the intensity and power of the song.
She is taking notes, struggling to keep every single word in her head, so she goes over some lines several times, occasionally changing and improving a word or a sentence and testing it to make certain that they are the very best words ever.
At times she is amazed by how ignorant the people around her are. They are all completely deaf. OK, so she is singing in her head, but the vibes must surely be bursting out through her skin. Her pores are positively vibrating with the song and her whole being is dancing with the music.
One girl is singing but she looks just like any other school girl walking along the street.
He’s been sitting at home on his own now for several days. There is nothing left in the fridge and hardly a tin in the cupboards. He is cold and thirsty but he cannot be bothered to get up and sort things out. He just sits there looking out through the grimy net curtains, wondering what to do. Sometimes he folds his arms; sometimes he realises that his arms are falling asleep as they lose circulation; once or twice he has placed his hands at the back of his head and tries to look like a picture of what he imagines relaxation to be like.
He has stopped turning the lights off and on. When it gets dark he cannot look outside with the light on in the room.
He cannot remember the last time he went to the toilet. Perhaps he goes without thinking about it and therefore does not notice. He wonders how it is possible to slow your life down so much and still experience it as a blur.
He watches a familiar face as it pauses in front of his window. The doorbell rings and he thinks that it is good to know the battery still has a charge. After a few minutes the face appears at the window again and he hears his name being called out. This person can see him and seems to be worried so he waves his hand in what he hopes is a friendly but conciliatory manner and prays that the person will go away. He then shakes his head in a fashion that might be seen and understood. Finally, he is left in peace again.
“It’s only your daughter.” He says to the cold room behind him. His voice is as dry and brittle as an old leaf.
----B----
One girl is singing.
The voice is so loud it almost drowns out everything else and the song is brilliant. As she sings, the lyrics take shape and ease inside the music, increasing the intensity and power of the song.
She is taking notes, struggling to keep every single word in her head, so she goes over some lines several times, occasionally changing and improving a word or a sentence and testing it to make certain that they are the very best words ever.
At times she is amazed by how ignorant the people around her are. They are all completely deaf. OK, so she is singing in her head, but the vibes must surely be bursting out through her skin. Her pores are positively vibrating with the song and her whole being is dancing with the music.
One girl is singing but she looks just like any other school girl walking along the street.
Saturday, 27 October 2007
stories of the street - four
The cinema had never been a great success. It had been too small to compete with others nearby but it had struggled on through the latter part of the silent movies and into the talkies. The facade had been changed when a new owner tried to revitalise the theatre’s fortunes and a new organ had been installed which was hardly ever used and fell into disrepair. It was the organ that had been that owner’s downfall and a film enthusiast with limited resources and enormous energy had run it for several years after until the real decline in cinema going finally combined with the effects of his poor health to cause the place to close.
It had since been a carpet warehouse, a roller disco, and had almost become a restaurant. For a while it was empty and almost became a McDonalds. Then a clever local business woman stirred up protest at the idea of the golden arches taking over the place and had the site handed to her for a below market price and a number of grants so that she could turn it into a range of select offices and TV production facilities.
The “up and coming” news and current affairs production company enjoys the status of being the main tenant of the building. Recently, a small design consultancy has appeared on the scene. They have rented a suite of offices at the top of the building enjoying a splendid view of the canal and sprawling city beyond which had been the exclusive view of roofing contractors and burglars until the cinema’s development three years earlier.
Today, only one person is occupying the offices of this design company. She is the office administrator and book-keeper and her name is Mary Hegley. She is brighter and more talented than either of the partners who own the company but her self-esteem is too low to admit this. Of the three other members of the company (two junior designers and the director of new business/account handling ) only the youngest woman designer has any inkling of Mary’s talents. Next year, when her son starts 6th form college and she is more sure of her finances she will do a foundation arts course in the local college. They have already accepted her and seem keen to help her onto the course.
For the moment, she assists in supporting the inflated egos of those around her and keeps the business running. Today is one of their “away days” when they spend all day brainstorming, strategy building, team building, eating, drinking and fantasising in a country house hotel about fifty miles south of the offices.
Mary fields calls, deals with emails and faxes and takes time to sort out the mess left by people who think that being creative means being undisciplined and unfocussed. She corrects her thoughts with a smile. They are not all that bad. In fact they have done some good work and the jobs they get pay well but she does not think they are destined for much more than they have achieved already. The youngest and most junior member of the team will leave them (she will be poached by one of two firms that Mary is already watching with interest) and will be working on bigger and better things within six months. The rest can keep on going, working hard to keep her employed until she feels able to leave them for her own dreams.
Mary knows well that dreams sometimes take a long time in coming.
It had since been a carpet warehouse, a roller disco, and had almost become a restaurant. For a while it was empty and almost became a McDonalds. Then a clever local business woman stirred up protest at the idea of the golden arches taking over the place and had the site handed to her for a below market price and a number of grants so that she could turn it into a range of select offices and TV production facilities.
The “up and coming” news and current affairs production company enjoys the status of being the main tenant of the building. Recently, a small design consultancy has appeared on the scene. They have rented a suite of offices at the top of the building enjoying a splendid view of the canal and sprawling city beyond which had been the exclusive view of roofing contractors and burglars until the cinema’s development three years earlier.
Today, only one person is occupying the offices of this design company. She is the office administrator and book-keeper and her name is Mary Hegley. She is brighter and more talented than either of the partners who own the company but her self-esteem is too low to admit this. Of the three other members of the company (two junior designers and the director of new business/account handling ) only the youngest woman designer has any inkling of Mary’s talents. Next year, when her son starts 6th form college and she is more sure of her finances she will do a foundation arts course in the local college. They have already accepted her and seem keen to help her onto the course.
For the moment, she assists in supporting the inflated egos of those around her and keeps the business running. Today is one of their “away days” when they spend all day brainstorming, strategy building, team building, eating, drinking and fantasising in a country house hotel about fifty miles south of the offices.
Mary fields calls, deals with emails and faxes and takes time to sort out the mess left by people who think that being creative means being undisciplined and unfocussed. She corrects her thoughts with a smile. They are not all that bad. In fact they have done some good work and the jobs they get pay well but she does not think they are destined for much more than they have achieved already. The youngest and most junior member of the team will leave them (she will be poached by one of two firms that Mary is already watching with interest) and will be working on bigger and better things within six months. The rest can keep on going, working hard to keep her employed until she feels able to leave them for her own dreams.
Mary knows well that dreams sometimes take a long time in coming.
Friday, 26 October 2007
Stories of the street - three
School children flow down the street in a mixture of styles. It begins with those who go to school some distance away. They are early walkers and bus travellers whose uniforms are rarely seen by the time children start heading for the local school. The street is a main thoroughfare for school children. If you want to know where your child is between 8 and 8.45 am look at the jumbled mix of kids crowding down this street.
Some walk steadily along the street either engrossed in discussions with others or in some more individual reverie. Some are on mobile phones, others are talking to friends on the street while conducting conversations on ‘phones and others are texting people who could be miles away or walking along next to them.
Pulled along by the general flow but encountering various forms of resistance are small clumps of children who stop in doorways or down the few alleyways found along the street. Some smoke, some adjust MP3 or CD players, others just chat. All of these clumps seem determined to delay the final moment when they are fully absorbed by the huge machine which is school.
Favourite places to stop along the way are the shops that sell sweets, crisps, magazines and cigarettes. With restrictions such as “MAXIMUM 3 SCHOOL CHILDREN AT ONE TIME, PLEASE!” on the doors of shops, there is a desperate and continuous struggle to minimise shop-lifting and disruption while maximising sales. Each group favours particular shops for their range of sweets or other items whose fashion and favour changes almost weekly. Others are favoured for the blind eye the shopkeeper has when it comes to selling tobacco to under aged smokers.
As the time progresses towards school bell and the closing of gates the flow thins out; some groups tarry ‘till the last minute while there are always those who are late and have to run down the street lugging heavy school bags huffing and puffing with the daily panic that brings them to a new school day.
Some walk steadily along the street either engrossed in discussions with others or in some more individual reverie. Some are on mobile phones, others are talking to friends on the street while conducting conversations on ‘phones and others are texting people who could be miles away or walking along next to them.
Pulled along by the general flow but encountering various forms of resistance are small clumps of children who stop in doorways or down the few alleyways found along the street. Some smoke, some adjust MP3 or CD players, others just chat. All of these clumps seem determined to delay the final moment when they are fully absorbed by the huge machine which is school.
Favourite places to stop along the way are the shops that sell sweets, crisps, magazines and cigarettes. With restrictions such as “MAXIMUM 3 SCHOOL CHILDREN AT ONE TIME, PLEASE!” on the doors of shops, there is a desperate and continuous struggle to minimise shop-lifting and disruption while maximising sales. Each group favours particular shops for their range of sweets or other items whose fashion and favour changes almost weekly. Others are favoured for the blind eye the shopkeeper has when it comes to selling tobacco to under aged smokers.
As the time progresses towards school bell and the closing of gates the flow thins out; some groups tarry ‘till the last minute while there are always those who are late and have to run down the street lugging heavy school bags huffing and puffing with the daily panic that brings them to a new school day.
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Two
Further down the road, in a newly tarted-up building that used to be the local cinema, the news team are having their morning review. Another John, who calls himself Jack, is sitting with his colleagues struggling with that uncomfortable feeling you get when you are suffering from strong déjà vu.
“Hold on”, he says, “We covered that yesterday, didn’t we?”
“Here we go again!” the news editor, a young and very sharply dressed woman spits out through clenched teeth, “No, we have not covered this before. It is hot off the line and this is the third item today you have done this, too. Yesterday and the day before that it was only one item you had déjà vu over! What’s got into you, Jack? Do you need a holiday or something? Not banging enough bimbos lately?”
“Sorry, it’s just, well it feels like we did this yesterday. Let me guess, there were eight people killed and four injured and the head of the information department claims it was the Muslim’s again but there is emerging proof that it was actually a pro-government faction that was to blame.”
“OK, so its not a unique story. It’s happening every day, so you can guess the bones of the story easily. However, the facts are, we have five dead and seven injured and the minister was not available for comment!”
Just then a young lad comes in and drops a sheet of paper in front of the editor.
“Shit, Jack, did you read this before we started the conference? Hold on, the time on the email makes that impossible. OK, so you guessed accurately yet again. Now can we get back to the priorities for the day, please?”
She passes the paper to her right and the assistant editor whistles as he reads the updated report – emailed twenty minutes after the start of the meeting it revises the body count and gives updates as described by Jack. Score three to Jack’s déjà vu this morning. He smiles to himself and thinks, “Maybe we should forget about subscribing to the big news agencies and just get Jack to write the stories before they break”.
Jack bites his tongue two other times before the end of the conference. This is getting too close to having premonitions. He did not want to make the news or even foresee it, he just wanted to read it and keep climbing up that slippery pole towards a real anchor job on prime time TV. The whole thing was giving him another bad headache.
“Hold on”, he says, “We covered that yesterday, didn’t we?”
“Here we go again!” the news editor, a young and very sharply dressed woman spits out through clenched teeth, “No, we have not covered this before. It is hot off the line and this is the third item today you have done this, too. Yesterday and the day before that it was only one item you had déjà vu over! What’s got into you, Jack? Do you need a holiday or something? Not banging enough bimbos lately?”
“Sorry, it’s just, well it feels like we did this yesterday. Let me guess, there were eight people killed and four injured and the head of the information department claims it was the Muslim’s again but there is emerging proof that it was actually a pro-government faction that was to blame.”
“OK, so its not a unique story. It’s happening every day, so you can guess the bones of the story easily. However, the facts are, we have five dead and seven injured and the minister was not available for comment!”
Just then a young lad comes in and drops a sheet of paper in front of the editor.
“Shit, Jack, did you read this before we started the conference? Hold on, the time on the email makes that impossible. OK, so you guessed accurately yet again. Now can we get back to the priorities for the day, please?”
She passes the paper to her right and the assistant editor whistles as he reads the updated report – emailed twenty minutes after the start of the meeting it revises the body count and gives updates as described by Jack. Score three to Jack’s déjà vu this morning. He smiles to himself and thinks, “Maybe we should forget about subscribing to the big news agencies and just get Jack to write the stories before they break”.
Jack bites his tongue two other times before the end of the conference. This is getting too close to having premonitions. He did not want to make the news or even foresee it, he just wanted to read it and keep climbing up that slippery pole towards a real anchor job on prime time TV. The whole thing was giving him another bad headache.
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Stories of the street - One
Deep in thought, deep space occupying enough of his mind to blot out people’s faces, he drifts across the street and into the café.
“Everything and black coffee!” is all he needs to call out to the grizzled smile framed by an ancient coffee machine, then he sits. Staring out into empty space at the very edge of the galaxy he opens his notebook and quickly scribbles. Waiting for the bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread, mushrooms and baked beans he sips his coffee as the huge vessel condenses out of pure black before him. Unfeasibly large and threatening it sits, waiting, while the skeleton crew feel panic rising. One more note before eating is interrupted by a jostle to his table and a voice.
“Oi! I’m talking to you, arse!” and as a hand moves to snatch his notebook the images he has been struggling to keep fresh in his mind evaporates and he stabs resentfully at the intruder’s hand with his biro.
The jab is effective and before the incident can move any further forward the grizzled face from behind the counter is there, mounted on a rather bulky body struggling to be contained by a rather grimy looking white overall.
“What’s this! No trouble comes here! What you doin’ harassing my customers!”
The intruder is a young man in his late teens, quite tall but still a bit lanky rather than solid with a bad case of acne and a scowl enhanced by a grimace from the pain of being biro-stabbed. He snaps back at the café owner.
“This guy’s been watching us for days now, taking notes in that book of his.”
“What you think he is? The police? Special Branch? He’s my customer and a famous writer! He writes books for Christ sake … he doesn’t even see you!”
“Well I’m saying he better keep out of our business. We can watch him just as easily as he watches us! We’re ‘local residents’, too!”
As the owner pushes the young man out he says, “He’s not one of those newcomers. He was living here before you were born – ask your mother, she probably knew him then!” He closes the door before the young man can think the statement through and respond.
“Sorry about that John. He’s Mary Hegley’s boy. Him and his mates are not the real troublemakers around here but they get most of the flak so they react badly. You’re too much of a dreamer. Eat your breakfast.”
John, the writer sits looking at his pen, his pad and his breakfast. Damned interruptions. They always seem to hit when the flow starts. Eating automatically, he tries to build the images in his head. No good, he needs to get back and sit in front of his computer with some loud music and some of his preferred blend of coffee, so he skims his notes and looks out of the window at the small group of lads as they start to move away from their morning gathering point just a bit further down the road from the café.
“Everything and black coffee!” is all he needs to call out to the grizzled smile framed by an ancient coffee machine, then he sits. Staring out into empty space at the very edge of the galaxy he opens his notebook and quickly scribbles. Waiting for the bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread, mushrooms and baked beans he sips his coffee as the huge vessel condenses out of pure black before him. Unfeasibly large and threatening it sits, waiting, while the skeleton crew feel panic rising. One more note before eating is interrupted by a jostle to his table and a voice.
“Oi! I’m talking to you, arse!” and as a hand moves to snatch his notebook the images he has been struggling to keep fresh in his mind evaporates and he stabs resentfully at the intruder’s hand with his biro.
The jab is effective and before the incident can move any further forward the grizzled face from behind the counter is there, mounted on a rather bulky body struggling to be contained by a rather grimy looking white overall.
“What’s this! No trouble comes here! What you doin’ harassing my customers!”
The intruder is a young man in his late teens, quite tall but still a bit lanky rather than solid with a bad case of acne and a scowl enhanced by a grimace from the pain of being biro-stabbed. He snaps back at the café owner.
“This guy’s been watching us for days now, taking notes in that book of his.”
“What you think he is? The police? Special Branch? He’s my customer and a famous writer! He writes books for Christ sake … he doesn’t even see you!”
“Well I’m saying he better keep out of our business. We can watch him just as easily as he watches us! We’re ‘local residents’, too!”
As the owner pushes the young man out he says, “He’s not one of those newcomers. He was living here before you were born – ask your mother, she probably knew him then!” He closes the door before the young man can think the statement through and respond.
“Sorry about that John. He’s Mary Hegley’s boy. Him and his mates are not the real troublemakers around here but they get most of the flak so they react badly. You’re too much of a dreamer. Eat your breakfast.”
John, the writer sits looking at his pen, his pad and his breakfast. Damned interruptions. They always seem to hit when the flow starts. Eating automatically, he tries to build the images in his head. No good, he needs to get back and sit in front of his computer with some loud music and some of his preferred blend of coffee, so he skims his notes and looks out of the window at the small group of lads as they start to move away from their morning gathering point just a bit further down the road from the café.
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