Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee

I hear their high pitched giggles before I see them. They’re excited about something and are all jittery from the saccharin of too many orangeades and chuppa chups.

As they saunter into my sightline my jaw drops slightly in shock/surprise. Loitering in front of me, gawping towards the shiny automatic doors of the entrance to the Bus Station over the road, are Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee in colour co-ordinated tracksuits. One is tracksuited in pale lemon yellow, her outfit finished off with a white bolero cardigan, white shoes and cheap white plastic bangles from the market. The other is the antithesis to this scheme in a white tracksuit with yellow bolero, shoes and accessories. They are young, about 14, so I forgive their bad taste. I wonder if they will look back on these outfits with regret the way that I reminisce about my own fashion faux pas.

These two girls are exactly the same age, height and build. At first glance you would barely be able to tell them apart, but should you look twice or your gaze linger a while (as their colour scheme demands) you may notice a different in the tones of their skin. One of the girls has Afro Caribbean heritage and the other does not.

The paler of the two has limp hair in comparison to her friend’s buoyant afro ‘do’. She has adopted a crimped-fake-hair-extension-pony-tale attachment to compensate for this and to maintain the similarity of their appearance (shattering the façade of their alikeness would devastate the dramatic impact of their carefully planned and eagerly anticipated ‘entrance’ into the Bus Station over the road).

I wonder which out of the pair had had this bright idea – and which boy in particuar they hope to impress with their spectacle.

They’ve been hanging around on the steps of the Mecca bingo for some time but now they are ready to embark on their rite of passage through the automatic doors of the Bus Station. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee may or may not realise that integration into the posse of teenagers who amuse themselves daily at the Bus Station (a group of which huddle outside the doors sharing a cigarette end) will be their final step away from the innocence of their childhood.

Cilit BANG !

I could use a dose of Cilit Bang (of sink and drain unblocking fame).

I have bloggers block you see.

If someone could just tip me gently sideways and pour a good dose in through one of my ears, that would be marvelous. Maybe it would disolve away all the other stuff in my head so all the writing can get out onto the page again.

In the meantime here are a few photographs to entertain you.

nostalgia

He stared out into the distance, way beyond the wall, which, in reality, blocked his view. His face relaxed, his eyes were happy, sad and far away at the same time. I thought I saw a child staring out of them for a moment. His memory transported him to the bedroom of a 10 year old boy. It was his bedroom, practically furnished with bed, a large wardrobe, a table and a chair, all in neutral colours. Tidy, apart from a comic that laid just underneath his bed where it had fallen from his sleeping grasp a week before.

It was 1978 and he was making his way towards the bedroom excitedly. His Dad was right behind him up the stairs. Throwing the bedroom door open, he stood for a while, his jaw dropped in wonderment at the vision before him.

Boy - ‘Is it MINE?’

Dad - ‘It is Son, here I’ll show you how to turn it on.’

His Dad pulled the chair up close to the wardrobe and had him stand upon it so that he could reach right up to where the control switch was.

Dad - ‘It takes a while to warm up, but once it’s on you’ll be able to watch Italy play France tonight – in Mar Del Plata.’

Boy - ‘But Dad, it’s black and white.'

Dad - 'Yes, it was a bargain.'

Boy - 'How will I know who’s who?’

Dad - ‘Well, the French ones will all be wearing berets.’

Boy - ‘Berets? Oh, ok.’

The telephone rang and 1978 cross faded back into reality.

‘It was the best 50p ‘e ever spent’ he said before he answered the phone.

a few miles too far

‘We’re in the middle of f***ing nowhere’ reverberated across the Valley.

Far off in the distance a keen hill walker turned round, squinting in our direction, thinking we were shouting for help. Always willing to lend a hand the hiker stalled her party and began marching towards us, armed with a map in a plastic keep dry pouch.

‘Well, you said you wanted a surprise!’ said my somewhat flabbergasted boyfriend who had done his very best in organising our trip.

‘Yes, but I didn’t say I wanted to walk seven f***ing miles to the next f***ing Village.’

I’d known about the surprise for a whole week. I’d actually requested it and had provided a map, a list ‘of desirable places to visit’ and suggested a number of activities (most of which involved eating) that might take place at the aforementioned locations. As the week had passed by I’d been looking forward to the ‘magical mystery tour’ and in my daydreams I’d created a mental picture of the occasion. I would be dressed in my finest, most feminine bohemian/English rose/gypsy outfit, sipping champagne and laughing in a carefree manner in the sunshine, my cheeks flushed with fresh air, dining on a picnic of fine food. Then we would walk hand in hand around a picturesque village, smiling at each other, and the friendly locals, as we passed in and out of the quaint little craft shops and cafes.

‘I’m wearing f***ing flip flops’

‘But I told you to wear sensible shoes’ said James

When I’d received the email which informed me ‘that there would be ‘a few miles’ of walking but not too much’ I had assumed that this would be ‘a few miles’ covered within the whole day. Confident that I probably covered ‘a few miles’ on a typical Saturday in town I’d opted for footware that was bearable for shopping trips and looked good with my outfit. Unfortunately my assumption had been way off. There we were at the top of the Yorkshire Dales wearing jeans and flip flops clutching a bag of sandwiches, watching walking booted, rucsacked, APPROPRIATLEY DRESSED seasoned walkers striding across the Valley in the distance.

I wanted to swear some more but the arrival of the friendly, helpful Hiker was imminent so I shut up and seethed inwardly. The map was pulled from its packet. Turning the map this way and that and pointing here and there, the helpful Hiker explained our whereabouts.

sir major

‘Mind if we join you?’ I asked in my sing song voice.

The two seats on the opposite side of the table to him were the only ones available that were facing in the ‘right’ direction. My companion had an aversion to traveling backwards on trains.

‘We’re very quiet and we won’t make any fuss.’

My initial greeting was intended to put him at ease rather than to instigate conversation
But, traveling alone, the man at the opposite side of the table was more than delighted to have company.

Within moments I knew that he was traveling from Leeds to Carlisle in the hope of taking some photographs with his new top of the range digital camera and was rather put out about the tinted window glass. Almost within the same breath he talked of his Late Wife and his previous career in the Army. This sudden and unexpected exposition landed weightily on my shoulders.

The Army references became more frequent and he spoke of how he would be upgraded to first class at airport check in and called ‘Sir Major’ by the airline staff.

‘So – what did you do in the Army?’

He spoke of land mines, Serbs run down by tanks, the bayoneting of animals and the young in a village massacred by the enemy. I heard about a ‘band of brothers’, their bond firmly cemented through shared experience of battle, setting out as 80 and returning as 23. I heard about 57 letters to families telling them that their beloved would not be returning home and I was told of the period of alcoholism following these events in an attempt to erase them from memory.

He was not yet 40. Retirement had been imposed (following a botched field exercise involving 6 bullets and a lack of body armor) and had culminated in a large pay out and a trip to Venice on the Orient Express.

Away from the institution of the British Army, Sir Major had mellowed, but he still carried with him a hip flask full of forgetfulness. His eyes lit up while he shared with me the many uses of alcohol in battle, as anesthetic, fire fuel, wound cleanser and an excellent cleaner of mess tins.

As my companion and I departed, Sir Major turned to gaze out of the window, a lost and slightly haunted expression creeping over his features.

delayed

Wearing the climate like a woollen coat the working day passes in slow motion

The characters that normally scream to be let out on to the page,
rapping on the inside of my skull in impatience,
have temporarily retreated to my dreams

I would love to join them in my imagination but I am slightly delayed

Tied up with mundane matters

Held back by the schedule of my reality