mermaid

Her feet sting but still she stands there, temporarily routed to the stop.

A breeze windtunnels past her but she remains motionless apart from the carrier bag hanging from her stooped frame. For a moment it gains flurried momentum but still she is unmoved.

The turquoise and jades have caught her eye. The white horse tendrils make the water seem almost real. As if at any moment it will come crashing down onto the pavement and wash her away.

She recalls stories of pirates and of stormy seas, of sailors smashed against rocky coasts, drawn in by sirens, of under water kingdoms, of ships sunk along with cargos of treasure, of lost worlds, submerged along with their histories.

Is this what it looks like on a choppy ocean? Vessel dove down into a valley amidst the waves?

A breeze windtunnels past her. Bolder this time. She pulls her coat around her and decides to make her way home.

Tonight her dreams will be waves rolling onto pebbly shores, lapping against the beach. And she will be young again, one minute here, the next submerged, a flash of sunlight reflecting from her tail of scales as she disappears into the briny deep.

Inspired by Stefan Lubomiski's photograph 'absorbtion. Follow this link to have a look at his other photographs.

Parson's Lane

Hollow echoes along the lane, a war call.
There is no war, but the beer makes it feel that way.
Leer at the ladies walking past, skirts short but scowling at this attention.

Giggles bounce off the brick work, the night is young and the young are free on a Friday night.
Girls not yet women, not yet broken, totter along the pavement catching up on one week’s gossip.
Boys in bars awaiting their arrival, heads twitching every time a new face appears through the door. Could tonight be their lucky night?

Someone not quite so young any more.
Just wants to get home and safe before any more chaos hits the streets.
Maybe settled in the wrong place as somehow just not settled.
Wound in a duvet long before those nightspots empty, ear plugged and blindfolded to keep the commotion out.

A lorry trundles by.

More war calls, louder now, shouting over the noise of the traffic, the vibrations giddying up some enthusiasm, oh how those shouts make his heart beat faster, stir the alcohol adrenaline in his veins.

Base grinds through the chests of those paused at the crossing when the lights glow red. Volume pumped up at the sight of bare legs, presence announced by that low rumble. Heads turn to locate the noise and driver, the right kind of woman purrs at this machine and he drives her away into the night.

Someone scuttles past, clutching for lost keys, the noise pounding in her head, needs to drink away the work stress in the comfort of home.

Saturday morning smells of the night before on Parson’s Lane.

Written in response to Stefan Lubomirski's photograph 'Red'

china in your hand

The style that had been cut 6 or 7 months ago now hung around my shoulders rather than just under my chin where it belonged. I tried to make the best of it. The length leant itself to a volume and height previously unachievable. However, one morning, as I fixed a bouffant style fringe type arrangement in place, James pointed out, rather delightedly, that I looked like Carol Decker.

I made a hair dressers appointment immediately.

I had prepared for the trip to the uber fashionable salon. I had changed three or four times before I had left the house but practicality had still got the better of me. My footwear was sensible, as was my clothing (i was prepared for ALL weather conditions). In fact, as I settled in front of the salon mirror, with my frumpy middle bits rolling over the top of my jeans, surrounded by the most made up and fashionable people on earth, I regretted not wearing a comforting cardigan. I wanted to cover up the unsightly bits. I was also rather self conscious of my 80s hair.

The junior stylist who washed my hair chatted happily about her love of Top Shop and how she had run up a huge debt there on her ex boyfriends store card. She was really, really glad that leggings were back in fashion because they were so comfy. I tried to share her enthusiasm. I said that I liked those little ankle boot shoe things that were en vogue at the moment. The junior stylist went a bit quiet, as if she didn’t know what I was talking about.

I relaxed only very slightly following the 5 minute stress relieving massage that came as part of the package. My slim, fashionable hairdresser twittered around me and got to work on tidying up my frizz. I was swung this way and that on my chair, leant backwards and hair dryered from every angle. Eventually the transformation was complete.

‘There, that’s more like it, back to yourself again’ said my slim, fashionable hairdresser as she held a mirror to show me the back of the cut.

‘Oh, yes, it’s lovely. Thanks. I’ll try not to leave it so long between appointments this time, my boyfriend said I looked like Carol Decker!’ I laughed, silently vowing to myself to keep on top of my mass of hair and while I was at it, to loose a stone.

‘Who?’ said the slim, fashionable hairdresser.

‘The lead singer from T-Pau’ I said.

‘Who are they?’ said my stylist.

At that moment I realised that my hairdresser, a confident and experienced senior stylist, was, for all her authority when it came to hair, considerably younger than me. So young in fact, that she had no recollection of the 80s music scene.