Christmas Shopping

'Tis Tuesday again!  How fast it swings around.  Today's creative writing task was to write a poem...scary stuff for me.  I don't think I have written a poem since I was 15 years old.

It was suggested that we look for inspiration in poets and poems that we admire and then use them as a starting point to try and write our own poem.  My favourite poet is Michael Rosen, the man is wonderful and an absolute hero of mine.  So, this small token, is my rhythmic emulation of one of Michael's brilliantly beat-tastic poems.

Christmas Shopping

Greed,

gluttony,

Christmas Shopping.

Need?

Not really,

Christmas Shopping.

Tramping,

stamping,

buying up the ladies' scents.

Arguments,

money spent,

wonder where the savings went.

Where's the family?

Where's the humanity?

You'll never find your soul

by Christmas Shopping.

The Banker

Tuesday, as ever, is Creative Writing class.  This week we had to take a fairytale, legend or myth and re-write it in a modern setting.  I plumped for an update of an Aesop's Fable.  Enjoy!

The Banker

Having spent his working life surrounded by figures, a retired Banker had taken all of his savings and worldly goods and invested them in the stock market.  He now spent his days watching three computer screens on his desk, tracking numbers going up and numbers going down.   

He lived in the corner of the office, in his rickety old house, his desk and screens lit by an artificial strip light above his head.  He never went anywhere, or bought anything.  His wife complained that she never saw him and when she did, she lamented that all the Banker could speak about were the numbers on the screens, whether they were going up or whether they were going down.  

Each night the Banker would obsessively make a tally of how much money he had now amassed and how many shares and title deeds he now owned. After making his evening’s calculations he would rub his hands together and rhythmically key all of his figures into an enormous spreadsheet.  With a satisfactory click of the mouse he would finally close the computer down, and with a slug of whisky he would smugly crawl into his bed, by his desk.

But one day, a seismic crash took all of the numbers on his screens and made them fall down, down, down to the floor.  The Banker howled in horror as his tally told him that he had lost all of his money, his stocks and his title deeds.  Stricken with grief he roared and began banging his head off of the top of his desk.  

Upon hearing the noise, his wife ran into the room and the Banker told her what had happened.  “Don’t worry”, she said, “I have the answer to your problem”. 

“You do?, said the Banker in disbelief.

“Yes”, said his wife. 

She went to a corner cupboard and came back holding a box for the Banker. 

“Here you are dear husband.  As the money was just mere figures on a screen and you never used any of it, nor intended to, you might just as well play Monopoly instead”.  

The value of money, depends not on accumulation, but on its use.

Grandad

I finally had to read out my story in the Creative Writing class.  What a terrifying experience!  I don't mind reading aloud, but reading your own short story aloud is something I haven't done in front of others, pretty much since I was at school.  My story was quite long, at two and a half pages, and by the middle of the second page I was desperate for it to end, I could feel that the rest of the room pretty much felt the same!

Nevertheless, they were very kind and made some nice comments and, as it was my first time reading aloud, nobody said anything too harsh.  The worst I got was from the teacher, who said my sentences were too long, something you readers of this blog will probably agree with!  To be honest I have been being told this since I was at school, so it is obviously a hard habit to break.  I have to admit though, that a part of me also feels that many award winning authors write in very long sentences, so why can't I?  Indeed whole books have been published which are just one sentence, to much critical acclaim, (Mathias Ernard's Zone being one example).  But in the spirit of taking feedback on-board, I will have a go at chopping my sentences down and see how it feels.

This weeks task was to write about an actual person from your past in 500 words and then to write 500 words from THEIR perspective.

So here it is:

Grandad

As I write this, I am sitting at my Grandad’s desk.  It is a grand old piece of sturdy furniture; a chunky solid oak roll-top desk.  It reminds me of my Grandad every time I sit down to write.  But, not because my Grandad was a writer, oh no, no, he was a worker and this desk is covered in dents and gnarls and gouged notches where he chiseled and hammered and fixed things.  He didn’t care much for aesthetics or art, he was just concerned with the practical, with mechanics and making things work.  He built his own cement mixer, he made his own water pump, he fixed a hundred clocks (what a racket being in the kitchen when the hour struck!) He built his own family home, which was part of the thriving country garage, petrol station and shop which he created from nothing, all physically built by him.  Nothing was beautiful, but boy, it worked.

He was a native Doric speaker and he spoke fast.  So broad and so fast in fact, that I often struggled to understand him myself.  He was a wealth of comical catchphrases, but he wasn’t a talker.  He would appear in the kitchen when you went to visit, in his boiler suit and navy blue flat cap, covered from head to foot in grease. After washing his hands with the pungent pot of Swarfega at the kitchen sink, he would stop briefly for a (very) quick cup of tea, filling the room with the smell of oil as he lent on the old Rayburn.  He always drank from a grey plastic mug, he wasn’t allowed a proper one, as his favourite party trick of spinning them on the table like a top, performed daily, had resulted in a lot of broken crockery, (he wasn’t allowed proper plates or bowls either for the same reason!)

When he eventually retired, he built an extension to the house and the resulting new part of the upstairs attic became his domain.  Up in the attic all the stores for the shop were kept.  It was a fantastic adventure as a child to creep up there, to the bare wooden floor boards, and the aisle of shelving, double your height, stacked to the brim with sherbert dips, golden wonder crisps, milky ways, tins of ambrosia custard and baked beans, along with tins of beer and lager, the lovely ladies from the Sweetheart Stouts smiling down at you.  What a place!  

As much as I loved going up to the attic, even as a teenager I never once dared step into Grandad’s domain, which was entered by a large opening off of the store.  From the safety of the shelves, you could see the cluttered roll-top desk in the distance, lit up by a stream of dusty light from a small dormer window in the roof.  The space was huge, but just like a real life Uncle Bulgaria, my Grandad had filled it to bursting point with all sorts of broken bits and pieces of machinery, that other people had deemed to be rubbish, and he steadily turned them into amalgamations of things that worked; his favourite being cuckoo clocks to deafen everyone with!

From Grandad

Tie, tie, it’s been a braw life.  Some folks might say that I’ve work-ed hard a’ my days; but I say that holidays an’ rest is jist for the idle rich.  Fitten on earth wid you want to go on holiday for, when you hae a’thing you would eiver want or need at hame?  And fa is suppose to dee your work while you are aff wi your feet up, suppin at a cuppie o’ tea?  

I dinna believe in this new fangled wye o’ living.  I see folks comin’ in tae the garage and they are in sik a panic and flurie, that I says to them that they better just “sit doon, and tak a seat until their hurry gangs by”.  Fit is the pint in a’ this rushing and rinning from een end of the country to the ither?  If a things meant tae happen, it’ll happen without a great big fan-dang-do aboot it.

Work and makin sure your family is a’ richt is fit matters maste.  Workin ilky years has meant that my loons hae a guid business to support ‘em.  And my quine and my Anna hae deen fits expected o’ them and putten het meals on-o the table three times a day, for us workin men to ate.  But naebudy should get onything for free, even your ain family, work is the only way to mak a budy guid.  Aye, aye, the idle rich hae a sorry life a’ richt.

And lets nae spik aboot the banks.  A’ my spare pennies are stashed under the mattress, like ony ither sensible budy would dee.  I hae niver trusted a bank in a’ ma life, an’ it looks to me that I hae been proven deed richt.

I hiv niver been een to blether muckle, fits the point o’ a’ that tongue wagging, we can a’ jist as weel leave that tae the fishwives.  But a wee joke or a pullin o’ a budy’s leg, weel that maks me lauch.  There’s nithin better than furlin your plate aroon on the table, an’ then heeding up the stairs to fix a puckle o’ clocks.

I Am An Angel

Here is story number two for my creative writing class.  I am yet to read my story out in class and have it critiqued by everyone.  I am off there this afternoon and I am sure I won't escape this time!  For this exercise we had to use an object as the stimulus for the story and allow the object to 'talk to us'.  My object is pictured below; unfortunately it wasn't saying much!

I Am An Angel

For many years, each December, I have been carefully taken out of my box and hung up near the very top of a richly decorated Christmas tree, surrounded by twinkling lights and baubles of red, gold and green.  I can still smell the fresh scent of the thick and bushy pine needles that surrounded me and feel the comfort that they brought me.  

From my secure perch, way up high, I could see the fire that always burnt brightly in the hearth, with amber, orange and bright yellow flames a-glow.  I could watch safely over the children as they excitedly hung up their brightly coloured knitted stockings in a row, in anticipation of St. Nicholas and the gifts that he would bring.  The thick curtains would be shut, snug and tight, against the cold winter’s night and the children’s mother would play Christmas tunes on the little piano, and I would silently sing with joy, as the children sat in front of the fire and sang happily along until it was time for their little feet to take them off for a fitful night's sleep.

As the rest of the house crept to bed, I would be left alone with the lights, the tree and the gently glowing fire.  Orange and clove oil would fill the air from the pomanders that sat in a bowl in the centre of the room.  The house would be warm and quiet as we all waited for the soft pad of black boots on the hearth and the ‘ho, ho, ho’ of old St. Nick.

But sadly, that was long ago and the children are now all grown up.  The magic has been shut away for years and I too have been shut away in my box.  Christmas hasn’t come for me for many a year and I lie still and remember how it used to be.  I am an angel, and I am waiting for the gentle patter of little feet for the magic to be opened up once more.  

Creative Writing: My First Story

On Tuesday I went to my first Creative Writing class.  I was really nervous about going and as I made my way there I hoped that the class wasn't full of strange people that you often find at day time Adult Education Classes, you know that type!  But thankfully I found that the class was made up of around 15 people, and there were a few people my own age as well as a mix of recent retirees.  Everyone was very friendly and I chatted to two ladies while we waited for the teacher.  I was relieved to find a really nice person sitting beside me who was very welcoming and talkative.

So we set to work and it was absolutely as you would imagine a Creative Writing class to be, that typical scene of people reading out their work and the class and the teacher feeding back.  I felt completely unqualified to comment on other people's stories and so didn't say much at all!  But the stories were really enjoyable and it was great to hear what others had written.

We were then set the task of selecting a photograph from a range of pictures laid out on the table.  The idea was to pick a photograph and then build a character from there.  The picture I chose was of a women in her late thirties with a little baby in her arms.  She is looking down on him, with her eyes almost closed, she has dark circles under her eyes, but looks so content, with a faint smile on her lips.  So, here is the second draft of my very first story.  It may change drastically before it needs to be handed in next week, so don't be too critical!

Time to Change The Law

Natasha flew about the house like a whirlwind, manically flitting from one job to the next.  Although she had barely slept for the last two weeks, she was putting washing away like a demon. As she was expertly putting socks away in the bedside table drawers, she became distracted by the small collection of dirty glasses and cups on top that needed to be taken downstairs.  On the way to the kitchen, she noticed the thin layer of grey dust, which had just been illuminated by the bright afternoon sunlight that was now streaming through the hall window on to the sideboard, she put down the glasses and nipped to the utility room to get the duster and polish out.  Oh how she missed her cleaner!  But she knew her husband was right, if she wasn’t working, they needed to cut back.

Sideboard cleaned, she put back the duster in its place and while she was there she quickly put on another load of washing and gave the back sink a quick wipe around.  She eventually got back to putting the clean clothes away, and picking up the cups and glasses she had left in the hall, she made it to the kitchen to put them in the dishwasher.   

An hour passed in much the same fashion and Natasha could feel the time marching on, matching her heart rate, quickly pulsing by like a countdown clock on fast forward.  She deftly moved from one room to the next sweeping brush in hand one minute, damp cloth and rubber gloves the next, until she heard a soft snuffling noise coming from the bedroom and knew that her time for action was up.

Her ears were tuned in to that noise, which would have been inaudible to anyone else in the house, but Natasha knew what it meant and that she had just enough time to dump a load of wet washing into the tumble dryer and get upstairs, when sure enough, within thirty seconds the soft snuffling had turned into a broken cry, a sound which Natasha knew would increase by degrees the longer the baby was left in his cot.

Natasha went into her bedroom, reached into the cot and lifting the baby up she breathed in Michael’s delicious smell of talcum powder and newness and felt the warmth of his little body as she spoke to him gently, feeling the softness of his skin as the crown of his head touched her cheek she soothed him with her quiet words, while instinctively rocking her body back and fore.  As soon as he was picked up Michael stopped crying, safe and secure in his mother’s arms.   Natasha felt content with her son resting against her body and she enjoyed the moment of tranquillity that his being in her arms again brought her. 

As she walked out of the bedroom and downstairs with Michael, she could see what still needed to be done, she hadn’t had a chance to tidy the jumble of shoes by the front door and the pot plants really need to be watered.  She was reminded of the saying about housework taking the time you have available, plus half an hour, how true!  She had cleaned and mopped, polished, straightened, emptied bins and wiped surfaces. In the sitting room the flames danced in the gas fire and gave the room a warm amber glow.  She looked around at her work, while all the time rocking back from one foot to the other to comfort her son.  She was reasonably happy with what she saw, but her body tensed and she could feel a growing knot in her stomach as she saw the time, 4pm, they would be here soon.  The tea things weren’t laid out, she hadn’t managed to make that cake she wanted to bake and where on earth was her husband?  He had promised to be back early from work, she panicked at the thought of having to entertain her visitors without him, novice breastfeeding while trying to pour tea did not appeal!

Natasha really wanted this visit to go well, she wanted to show her husband’s parents that she was a good wife and now a good mother too.  Family life was nothing like work.  Work was a place where Natasha and her BlackBerry could solve anything, no spreadsheet was too complex, no meeting too difficult, Natasha took it all in her stride.  But home life was a different story, Natasha felt like she was in an alien environment with Steve’s family.  She hadn’t seen his parents for months, as they lived so far apart, and so even though she was a grown woman of 38 and had been married for eight years, she still felt as nervous as when she first met them.  Where was her husband!  “Okay, get a grip”, Natasha thought to herself,  “you can do this, they will be delighted to see the baby, you are a good mother”.  

She changed Michael’s nappy, checked the clock again, felt her blood pressure rise at the impending visit, wished there was an escape route for her, but knew there was no backing out now.  She was just settling down to feed him when Steve came rushing through the door, “Sorry I’m late, work was horrible”, and he bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek and to say hello to Michael.  But before he could say anything else Natasha was giving him a list of instructions, “can you get the teapot out, with the cups and saucers with the little roses on and the matching milk jug out, which is in the cupboard on the right hand side of the kettle, put them all on a nice tray (not the one with the cracked handle) and I didn’t have time to bake that cake that I wanted to do, so could you please put some kitkats and what have you on a little plate and get the kettle on, they will be here any minute Steve!!!! “  “Okay Tasha, don’t panic, take a deep breath, it will all be fine, mum and dad aren’t coming for the tea, they’re coming to see the baby!”  Natasha sucked in her breath really hard and resisted the urge to shout at him, that she knew they weren’t coming for the blooming tea.  Thankfully Michael’s rhythmic sucking calmed her and she resigned to the fact that there was nothing she could do. 

Steve clunked about with cups and saucers and came back and fore for clarification on her orders and just as Michael had finished his feed Natasha heard a car pull up outside followed by the clunk clunk of two car doors and she knew that the in-laws had arrived.  With sixty seconds to go, Natasha popped Michael in his moses basket, buttoned her blouse, looked in the mirror to straighten her hair and with a quick swipe of lipstick to steady her, she was at the front door all smiles and hellos; the perfect wife and mother.  

With their arms full of packages and parcels Steve's parents entered the house.  Their eyes lit up as they saw Michael, and Steve’s mum went into raptures over how much he looked like Steve at that age.  As they sat down to a cup of tea, Natasha noticed that Steve had picked out the wrong cups, she said the ones with pink roses, not blue poppies!  Biting back her criticism,  she poured out the tea and offered round the freshly baked Carrot Cake, which Steve’s mum had expertly prepared, (along with the homemade chocolate truffles and fruit loaf which were through in the kitchen beside two jars of Steve’s mum’s Tomato Chutney, which she thought might come in handy).   Navigating the mass of hydrangeas and roses, which Steve’s mum had bought from her garden, which were now in a vase on the coffee table, alongside the little lucky money pot plant she had also taken for baby Michael, Natasha passed over some snaps of Michael which had been taken just when he came out of hospital.  “My, how he has grown already” said Steve’s mum, “it is amazing what you miss when you don’t see them regularly.  I remember when Steven was little...” and she went off into a family tale which had Steve chuckling away while Natasha smiled, none-the-wiser, and became lost in stories about the Bakewells and the Petersons whom she didn’t know.    

When the conversation came to a lull, Natasha passed Michael over to Steve’s mother for her to hold him for the first time.  She saw the look of absolute devotion which spread across her mother-in-laws face as soon as she held him, the way her mouth softened and her eyes became moist.  “Well the wait has been worth it hasn’t it Natasha, what a beautiful baby you have”, she said.  Natasha nodded and smiled her agreement and as she looked on at Michael with his Grandma cooing softly over him, she felt the tender beginnings of a bond between herself and her mother-in-law at last.