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.
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty one
Tony finishes serving a customer. She has a bacon roll and a cup of black coffee in front of her and she is deep into the sports section of the Daily Mail.
As he turns away from her he looks out of the window onto the street.
Immediately in front of the café he sees a black-cab driver beeping his horn and shouting to a heavily tattooed skinhead in an old Ford Cortina. Tony is just thinking he has not see a Cortina for a while when the skinhead seems to unfold himself from the car and stomp towards the cab.
The Cab driver is saying “Hurry up, I have a fare to pick up and your in the fucking way!”
The skinhead shouts, “Why don’t you just fucking back up your cab!”
Tony sees that there is a growing line of cars behind the cab and wonders why the skinhead doesn’t just move his car forward so the cab can drive around it.
“Don’t be so fucking stupid, you dozy idiot, just move your fucking car!”
“”Don’t you call me a fucking dozy idiot!” shouts the skin head as he walks up to the cab driver’s open window. The cabbie rapidly closes the window and Tony thinks he has locked his doors, too. The skinhead punches the window, then the door panel and tries to open the door. Tony can’t see all of this clearly but it is obvious that this is what is happening.
As the skinhead rants and raves at the cabbie, Tony moves a little to one side and writes down the number of the Cortina, then the taxi. He then fishes out his mobile ‘phone from the top pocket of his shirt and scrolls through the numbers. As a local business man with a cash-till, he knows the local police numbers and keeps them close.
Tony is waiting for the number to ring when he sees the skinhead open the boot of the Cortina. He watches the young man pull out a long, thick, heavy chain with a massive padlock fixed to one end.
The skinhead then proceeds to shout at the cabbie as he walks around the taxi smashing all of the lights with the chain, swinging the metal snake around above his head and then in loops to one side of his body, then the other.
Tony narrates the events to the woman on the other end of the ‘phone and dictates the two number plates then provides his own personal details.
The skin head is in the process of smashing the chain repeatedly onto the bonnet of the taxi cab when Tony hears the faint call of an approaching police siren. He thinks it’s a shame they are sounding the siren as it might cause the skinhead to escape but the young man is too intent on destroying the taxi to hear anything until it is too late.
Along the road comes the very loud siren and the whine of the police car’s engine. It stops at an angle in front of the Cortina and two policemen step out of the vehicle with grim looks on their faces.
Tony quietly walks up to the front door of his café and pulls out his keys. Two quick turns and the door is locked. He does not want the young man running through his café swinging a chain. As it is the skinhead drops his chain and looks to the approaching policemen, then to the people crowding the pavement on the other side of the taxi, then to the café.
With some athletic grace he swerves past the taxi and runs full pelt at the café door, thinking he can push the door aside along with Tony, then exit through the rear of the café.
Not so gracefully, he bounces off the locked door and seems to ricochet onto the paving stones. The two policemen are almost laughing too much to pick him up and handcuff him. They wave at Tony as he unlocks the door. “We’ll pop back in an hour or so to get your statement.” says the older one.
Tony nods, thinking, “That idiot skinhead is going to cost me two free lunches. Still, best to keep the local police on your side. It’s an investment, really….”
As he turns away from her he looks out of the window onto the street.
Immediately in front of the café he sees a black-cab driver beeping his horn and shouting to a heavily tattooed skinhead in an old Ford Cortina. Tony is just thinking he has not see a Cortina for a while when the skinhead seems to unfold himself from the car and stomp towards the cab.
The Cab driver is saying “Hurry up, I have a fare to pick up and your in the fucking way!”
The skinhead shouts, “Why don’t you just fucking back up your cab!”
Tony sees that there is a growing line of cars behind the cab and wonders why the skinhead doesn’t just move his car forward so the cab can drive around it.
“Don’t be so fucking stupid, you dozy idiot, just move your fucking car!”
“”Don’t you call me a fucking dozy idiot!” shouts the skin head as he walks up to the cab driver’s open window. The cabbie rapidly closes the window and Tony thinks he has locked his doors, too. The skinhead punches the window, then the door panel and tries to open the door. Tony can’t see all of this clearly but it is obvious that this is what is happening.
As the skinhead rants and raves at the cabbie, Tony moves a little to one side and writes down the number of the Cortina, then the taxi. He then fishes out his mobile ‘phone from the top pocket of his shirt and scrolls through the numbers. As a local business man with a cash-till, he knows the local police numbers and keeps them close.
Tony is waiting for the number to ring when he sees the skinhead open the boot of the Cortina. He watches the young man pull out a long, thick, heavy chain with a massive padlock fixed to one end.
The skinhead then proceeds to shout at the cabbie as he walks around the taxi smashing all of the lights with the chain, swinging the metal snake around above his head and then in loops to one side of his body, then the other.
Tony narrates the events to the woman on the other end of the ‘phone and dictates the two number plates then provides his own personal details.
The skin head is in the process of smashing the chain repeatedly onto the bonnet of the taxi cab when Tony hears the faint call of an approaching police siren. He thinks it’s a shame they are sounding the siren as it might cause the skinhead to escape but the young man is too intent on destroying the taxi to hear anything until it is too late.
Along the road comes the very loud siren and the whine of the police car’s engine. It stops at an angle in front of the Cortina and two policemen step out of the vehicle with grim looks on their faces.
Tony quietly walks up to the front door of his café and pulls out his keys. Two quick turns and the door is locked. He does not want the young man running through his café swinging a chain. As it is the skinhead drops his chain and looks to the approaching policemen, then to the people crowding the pavement on the other side of the taxi, then to the café.
With some athletic grace he swerves past the taxi and runs full pelt at the café door, thinking he can push the door aside along with Tony, then exit through the rear of the café.
Not so gracefully, he bounces off the locked door and seems to ricochet onto the paving stones. The two policemen are almost laughing too much to pick him up and handcuff him. They wave at Tony as he unlocks the door. “We’ll pop back in an hour or so to get your statement.” says the older one.
Tony nods, thinking, “That idiot skinhead is going to cost me two free lunches. Still, best to keep the local police on your side. It’s an investment, really….”
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Forty
Two men are walking along the road.
The taller one has silvery grey hair combed back and gelled into something like a metal shield over his scalp. This hides a bald patch. He used to swim regularly until his wife filmed the family in the pool on holiday and he saw just how thin his hair was getting. He let the hair grow a bit longer, combed it back in a distinguished look, tried for a ponytail but decided that was not for him, then settled on this modern version of the Brillcream man.
He is wearing a light grey, summer woollen suit with a white, short sleeved shirt, dark red tie (double Windsor knot) and grey socks with simple, black slip on shoes. He has a leather briefcase bought for him by his wife. The initials G.R.D. Are discretely engraved on the front. His name is Gerald Robert Deeds and his friends call him Gerry.
Gerry’s companion is not a friend.
“Mr Deeds,” the companion is shorter and quite plump. His dark suit is less well cut and looks more uncomfortable than it actually is as he waddles fast to keep up with Gerry. “You must see that we have no option now.”
Gerry suddenly stops, causing the other man to stumble and almost collide with him.
“When we get to the meeting I want you to keep quiet. Do not speak unless you are asked a question. OK?” Gerry’s eyes lock onto his companions and he gives them the big stare.
“Of course, I..”
“Please,” Interrupts Gerry, “This is not a final meeting. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING has been agreed yet. You are going to be there to show that we can do our sums.”
“I understand, It’s just that we are not in a position…”
Gerry interrupts again. “Look, we can do this my way or you can go back to the office and I do it my way, on my own. What I really need… no, what the whole company really needs, is for us all to stick together. We went through this all of yesterday and much of last night. We do not need to let them know what our position is at this precise moment in time. They initiated the meeting; once we get talking I will decide what needs to be revealed. If you speak out of turn there will be blood on the carpet. Do you want that?”
“No, of course not.”
“One word from you and we may be facing a hostile takeover and I won’t be the only one to loose out.”
They start walking again and Gerry looks at his companion.
“What ever you think they might do for you if they take us over, think again.”
The other man tries to look confused or baffled but just looks embarrassed.
“I have been on the other side of these sorts of meetings many times. Remember, I have gobbled up more companies that your proverbial hot dinners. Every time, and I mean every time, I made sure that the finance director was as friendly as possible during the process, then I flushed him or her down the toilet with most of the rest of the staff.”
“But remember this,” they stop again, “I did it nicely. They never felt abused and I was always able to do business with them afterwards. These guys will not be as nice. They won’t even make the final decisions. They are just the hatchet boys.”
They walk on again and as they near the end of the street Gerry turns to his companion.
“Remember, let me do the talking.”
As they turn the corner, Gerry is thinking, “As soon as we get in there he is going to open his mouth. They know it, he knows it and thank God, I know it. What de doesn’t know is that I planned it this way. The fat shit does not know that he is part of my exit strategy; him and that greedy set of bastards are so busy preparing for a feeding frenzy that they have not noticed me! I know their game better than they do.”
He opens his jacket pocket and fishes out two Ibuprofen tablets and swallows them. “After today, the headache will be theirs”, he smiles to himself.
The taller one has silvery grey hair combed back and gelled into something like a metal shield over his scalp. This hides a bald patch. He used to swim regularly until his wife filmed the family in the pool on holiday and he saw just how thin his hair was getting. He let the hair grow a bit longer, combed it back in a distinguished look, tried for a ponytail but decided that was not for him, then settled on this modern version of the Brillcream man.
He is wearing a light grey, summer woollen suit with a white, short sleeved shirt, dark red tie (double Windsor knot) and grey socks with simple, black slip on shoes. He has a leather briefcase bought for him by his wife. The initials G.R.D. Are discretely engraved on the front. His name is Gerald Robert Deeds and his friends call him Gerry.
Gerry’s companion is not a friend.
“Mr Deeds,” the companion is shorter and quite plump. His dark suit is less well cut and looks more uncomfortable than it actually is as he waddles fast to keep up with Gerry. “You must see that we have no option now.”
Gerry suddenly stops, causing the other man to stumble and almost collide with him.
“When we get to the meeting I want you to keep quiet. Do not speak unless you are asked a question. OK?” Gerry’s eyes lock onto his companions and he gives them the big stare.
“Of course, I..”
“Please,” Interrupts Gerry, “This is not a final meeting. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING has been agreed yet. You are going to be there to show that we can do our sums.”
“I understand, It’s just that we are not in a position…”
Gerry interrupts again. “Look, we can do this my way or you can go back to the office and I do it my way, on my own. What I really need… no, what the whole company really needs, is for us all to stick together. We went through this all of yesterday and much of last night. We do not need to let them know what our position is at this precise moment in time. They initiated the meeting; once we get talking I will decide what needs to be revealed. If you speak out of turn there will be blood on the carpet. Do you want that?”
“No, of course not.”
“One word from you and we may be facing a hostile takeover and I won’t be the only one to loose out.”
They start walking again and Gerry looks at his companion.
“What ever you think they might do for you if they take us over, think again.”
The other man tries to look confused or baffled but just looks embarrassed.
“I have been on the other side of these sorts of meetings many times. Remember, I have gobbled up more companies that your proverbial hot dinners. Every time, and I mean every time, I made sure that the finance director was as friendly as possible during the process, then I flushed him or her down the toilet with most of the rest of the staff.”
“But remember this,” they stop again, “I did it nicely. They never felt abused and I was always able to do business with them afterwards. These guys will not be as nice. They won’t even make the final decisions. They are just the hatchet boys.”
They walk on again and as they near the end of the street Gerry turns to his companion.
“Remember, let me do the talking.”
As they turn the corner, Gerry is thinking, “As soon as we get in there he is going to open his mouth. They know it, he knows it and thank God, I know it. What de doesn’t know is that I planned it this way. The fat shit does not know that he is part of my exit strategy; him and that greedy set of bastards are so busy preparing for a feeding frenzy that they have not noticed me! I know their game better than they do.”
He opens his jacket pocket and fishes out two Ibuprofen tablets and swallows them. “After today, the headache will be theirs”, he smiles to himself.
Monday, 3 December 2007
Stories of the Street - Thirty nine
A dog is happily walking down the road, nose close to the road’s surface, ears pricked up for anything interesting. Just background noise overhead and boring human smells but every surface has potential.
Every smell tells a story.
“Here we go”, he thinks in his doggy way, “a large male, this one, with a bit of a problem with his general health but still strong. Long hair, probably slightly older than me and with pretty good food, lucky swine. Better than my food, any way. Left the scent earlier this morning and is fairly local, though not been this way for a little while. Noticed me, though and has overtones of wanting to share packs with me. Sounds good. I’ll add my scent and see what happens….”
“Hullo, here’s another. This time the first dog’s scent is connected with a pretty small female I know. Some tones of interest there; I think he must have noted her earlier scent and his is a response to that. She is a bit cheeky showing interest in him. I have first call there, I always have! Better get that across before the whole thing gets out of hand.”
“A bit of scent here and there will help do the trick.”
“Hullo, something even more interesting. One of those foxes has passed by here and taken a shine to one of the local cats. He thinks she will make a very nice snack. A couple of other scents seem to be hinting his friends are feeling the same way. Stupid animals, catching cats is not a good idea. Chasing them is fun, mind you…but so is chasing those stupid foxes!”
“Hold on, I am being dragged off to the stairwell where I often get a few special sweet treats. I’ll read more on the way home; lets get up these stairs fast and start looking all eager and lovey-dovey! That should do the trick.”
Every smell tells a story.
“Here we go”, he thinks in his doggy way, “a large male, this one, with a bit of a problem with his general health but still strong. Long hair, probably slightly older than me and with pretty good food, lucky swine. Better than my food, any way. Left the scent earlier this morning and is fairly local, though not been this way for a little while. Noticed me, though and has overtones of wanting to share packs with me. Sounds good. I’ll add my scent and see what happens….”
“Hullo, here’s another. This time the first dog’s scent is connected with a pretty small female I know. Some tones of interest there; I think he must have noted her earlier scent and his is a response to that. She is a bit cheeky showing interest in him. I have first call there, I always have! Better get that across before the whole thing gets out of hand.”
“A bit of scent here and there will help do the trick.”
“Hullo, something even more interesting. One of those foxes has passed by here and taken a shine to one of the local cats. He thinks she will make a very nice snack. A couple of other scents seem to be hinting his friends are feeling the same way. Stupid animals, catching cats is not a good idea. Chasing them is fun, mind you…but so is chasing those stupid foxes!”
“Hold on, I am being dragged off to the stairwell where I often get a few special sweet treats. I’ll read more on the way home; lets get up these stairs fast and start looking all eager and lovey-dovey! That should do the trick.”
Stories of the Street - Thirty eight
Richard is watching the street from his living room window located two floors above the butcher’s shop. Mid-morning activities abound, with people doing shopping, a few school kids bunking off school – or maybe they have free periods. Some old couples begin to gather in the Post Office and an old lady is walking her two dogs.
A brief flurry of wings catches his attention and he looks around just in time to see a bird swoop by and swerve between two buildings straight in front of him. In close pursuit is some sort of bird of prey but, as the first bird reaches the alleyway the bird of prey majestically curves to one side, obviously aiming to cut the other bird off and make its kill.
Unfortunately the bird of prey has mistaken the large arched window for an open arch, leading to the same place as the alley way. There is a muffled thump and a flurry of dark brown feathers and the hawk, or what ever it is drops onto the roof of the newsagents below.
The bird seems to shake itself briefly then flies up to a satellite dish where it appears to perch in a nonchalant fashion, while it calmly surveys the street for new prey.
Richard lets out an unexpectedly loud guffaw of laughter, the bird turns its head towards Richard’s window then flies away in disgust.
A brief flurry of wings catches his attention and he looks around just in time to see a bird swoop by and swerve between two buildings straight in front of him. In close pursuit is some sort of bird of prey but, as the first bird reaches the alleyway the bird of prey majestically curves to one side, obviously aiming to cut the other bird off and make its kill.
Unfortunately the bird of prey has mistaken the large arched window for an open arch, leading to the same place as the alley way. There is a muffled thump and a flurry of dark brown feathers and the hawk, or what ever it is drops onto the roof of the newsagents below.
The bird seems to shake itself briefly then flies up to a satellite dish where it appears to perch in a nonchalant fashion, while it calmly surveys the street for new prey.
Richard lets out an unexpectedly loud guffaw of laughter, the bird turns its head towards Richard’s window then flies away in disgust.
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