Digital Ischemia

15/04/2020

Wee Boy at the Window

Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 17:55

There’s a wee boy at the window again. Most mornings when I trundle about, I pass my window several times and there he is at his, gazing fixedly out. I’m fairly sure he’s a boy – he has a short-back-and-sides and blue pyjamas. Gender stereotypes are alive and well in Kinross.

He seems to have remarkable attention for a two-year-old. In my limited experience, two-year-olds are Active. They have not long discovered their limbs and intend to use them as much as possible. (When not stupefied by the idiot lantern.) This boy stands there for 10 minutes or more, in the gap he’s pushed in the vertical blinds, watching out the French window. He never sees me; he doesn’t look up. His focus is the driveway.

On sunny mornings I see him through the reflection of my neighbour’s car. Is that his fixation? Surely there must be some activity to keep his attention, but this early all is quiet. He seems too still and too unlikely to be a young ornithologist. A cat lover? Certainly a couple of cats have been quite active in the shrubbery recently, but they are also very vocal. They combine malevolent and coy in one terrifying howl. Strange times.

Today he’s there again. More animated, miming in slow motion smears against the glass. The relative perspectives must be different because now I see the top of someone’s head, as if sitting on the steps outside. This is unusual in itself because my neighbours all seem so short that I never see any sign of them above the fence. Today I fancy I also see a wisp of smoke. Is it possible that this daily fascination is Grandad sneaking a fag before anyone else is awake? Busted.

06/04/2020

A Terriering Hurry

Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 16:45

A farm track heads due south from the village church. On both sides are rough pasture tending to moorland, usually populated by horses/cows/ragwort. The track runs for about a mile until it arrives perpendicularly at a rural road. Roughly halfway along there is a dogleg right between a few remnant scrubby beeches and rowans. The verge is wildly uneven and sprinkled with gorse and broom and seasonal wildflowers. The sky is vast and you can see the weather heading toward you 20 miles west.

One day, on my return north, or in fact east on the dogleg, I encountered an actual dogleg, several, comprising a whole dog. One wee dirty white westie terrier catapulted into sight around the bend. We faced each other, both instantly wary: I froze; the westie screeched to a halt with dust clouds billowing from its feet. It panted. I had elevated breathing. I don’t like dogs of any size ‘being friendly’. We shuffled a wee trackway do-si-do then I acquiesced and stepped on to the verge, vanquished by the westie’s adrenaline haze. The dog revved up, cartoon-style, and catapulted— no, dog-a-pelted by me, around the other bend and out of sight. Last seen heading south at full tongue loll, legs going like wheel spokes.

I was captivated by the exhilaration radiating from that wee face. Anthropomorphisation, of course, but the sheer exuberance seemed unmistakable. I would say so to its human companion in due course. I rounded the bend and saw the track heading north to the village. Empty. I’d not passed anyone going out, nor returning this far. Perhaps they were behind that wee rise a quarter of a way from the village… No.

The wee dog was utterly unattended. Where was it going? Where fae? Finally, my only limp hypothesis was the kennels a further mile east – an escapee? Liberated by its own nifty cunning and pelting hame or just anywhere, with the euphoria of restored freedom… Maybe. It gave me a smile.

31/03/2020

Reconnecting

A short radio play that could be a reaction to current events…

SCENE 1.

HAYLEY: I’m Hayley. I’m calling about— What?

SCENE 2.

SOUND: AUDIO CALL ALERT
HAYLEY: Hey, you. Are you done? Are you coming over?
TIM: No?
HAYLEY: Oh, are you having to self-isolate?
TIM: Of course. I have to prioritise my career.
HAYLEY: Tim, you’re not… a vital worker.
TIM: I perform for thousands! I can’t risk that many people!
HAYLEY: I’m surprised if auditorium’s are—
TIM: It’s vital to keep peoples’ spirits up.
HAYLEY: So it’s just me you’re isolating from.
TIM: Difficult decisions. Difficult times. You understand, don’t you?

SCENE 3.

HAYLEY: I got your flyer and I wanted to call— because I have no friends.

SCENE 4.

SOUND: AUDIO CALL ALERT
HAYLEY: Hey Anthony. How’s you; how’s your parents?
ANTHONY: Yeah, I spoke to my dad this morning. They were just back from the shops.
HAYLEY: Did they get what they needed?
ANTHONY: He said it was a waste of time because there was nothing to buy.
HAYLEY: Is your mum alright, though? Not fretting?
ANTHONY: My dad said she was in the back garden, digging a bunker.
HAYLEY: (LAUGH) He sounds OK.
ANTHONY: Are you alright?
HAYLEY: Oh, yeah, I just need some agricultural disinfectant.
ANTHONY: Really?
HAYLEY: I’m putting a bucket at the front door for visitors.
ANTHONY: (LAUGH)
HAYLEY: Tim just didn’t get that.
ANTHONY: So how are you using all this extra time?
HAYLEY: (LOW) Tim didn’t ask about that either.
ANTHONY: Sorry?
HAYLEY: Difficult decisions… between admin or spring cleaning.
ANTHONY: Or speaking to—
HAYLEY: Sorry – can you hear that?
JAN: (OFF) There’s nothing to do! Did you hear about the kids at the Co-op? The police had to move them on. Well, someone told me the police would have to—
HAYLEY: Can you hear them? They’re just shouting up and down the stairwell at each other, having a right old moan about the situation in that ridiculous way where they’re not listening to each other, they’re just waiting for the other one to draw breath so they can jump in with their next whinge.
ANTHONY: It’s a headline-grabbing competition, isn’t it? But if it makes them feel better…
HAYLEY: I also got a lovely flyer through the door from a neighbour I don’t know who is part of a community group offering support for anyone who is staying in. It’s so heartening to see such kindness.
JAN: (OFF) Her with the hair – in there? (PAUSE) She’s at work. Anyway, I’m not having a go.
HAYLEY: Why do they have to be like that?
ANTHONY: They’re probably scared. Why aren’t you at work?

SCENE 5.

HAYLEY: I have your flyer about the community resilience and I want— because I have nothing to do because now I don’t have a job. Because I can’t just ramp up my productivity, especially when we’re supposed to be observing social distancing, just to suit someone’s greed for profiting from this.

SCENE 6.

SOUND: AUDIO CALL ALERT
ANTHONY: Hayley?
HAYLEY: Sorry! I was waving my hand about and I pressed the button.
ANTHONY: I was just saying, apart from gossiping neighbours, how are you feeling about—?
HAYLEY: I’m OK; I was OK, but then I was reading the guidance, you know, to make sure I’m up-to-date with whatever they’re saying today, and there was mention that—here we are back to the police again—they’re stopping folk to ask where they’re going.
ANTHONY: Some folk just aren’t heeding the advice to stay indoors. It’s other folk they’re putting at risk.
HAYLEY: I was just— I got to thinking about— is this how freedoms are lost? Are we going to have to start carrying ID about?
ANTHONY: Maybe. But I don’t think that’s what’s happening now. Are you getting panicky?
HAYLEY: Not really. The show must go on.
ANTHONY: What?
HAYLEY: Tim.
ANTHONY: He’s probably scared too.
HAYLEY: How did you get to be so… generous?
ANTHONY: I decluttered.
HAYLEY: Anyway I don’t want to keep you.
ANTHONY: Why?
HAYLEY: You don’t want to be on the phone to me for half an hour!
ANTHONY: Oh, wait: is this the text thing?
HAYLEY: Yeah, but I’m not making a thing about it. I’m glad you told me.
ANTHONY: I thought you were weird when I said it. Why didn’t you just ask? If it sounded harsh or whatever?
HAYLEY: You needed to declutter your life. It made sense.
ANTHONY: I said I didn’t want to spend a half hour on a text to you.
HAYLEY: It’s fine. It’s… It just seemed like I didn’t mean that much to you—less than I thought. But I didn’t want you spending half an hour—
ANTHONY: What I meant was: I needed to just say stuff and not keep going over and over and fiddling with the text forever.
HAYLEY: Well, now I’m worried: I didn’t think you were saying anything… deep.
ANTHONY: I wasn’t. That was the prob—

SCENE 7.

HAYLEY: I love what you’re doing and I want to volunteer. To help. Because I need help. Ach! “Attempting to reconnect” (IRONIC LAUGH)

SCENE 8.

SOUND: AUDIO CALL ALERT
ANTHONY: Did you just cut me off again?
HAYLEY: No, the power went off for a moment. I really can’t cope if power’s going to go off as well. Sorry, what were you saying?
ANTHONY: I could come round? It would be easier to talk.
HAYLEY: How would that work? Isolation?
ANTHONY: I’ve already had it. I’m immune.

SCENE 9.

HAYLEY: I got your flyer and I want to help.

01/01/2020

Father Episodes cont’d

A further instalment of eccentric vignettes, following the original Father Episodes

Shortly after Father arrived, he presented me with half a dozen nail files and a magnifying hand mirror.
“I thought you might like these for… female titivation.”
I gratefully frowned at the rust spots on the mirror and the assorted specifications of filery: a wide array of shape, coarseness, colour and a common theme of unfit for purpose.
He saw he was losing ground in this attempt to ‘shed’ benevolently.
“I purchased the series in trying to find the right one. I haven’t used them.”

——

One evening there was a crescendo of televised warfare, culminating in the vociferous cry, “get ‘im! Get ‘im!” This was followed by a rapid series of clunks and curses, “you blighter!” as Father’s reclining chair misinterpreted his vigorous limb-flinging and unfolded on him. His cries of chagrin continued as he flailed in vain to regain sight of the television and reach of the remote control, with the escalating frustration of the battle continuing without him.

——

Father wears Marks & Spencer’s navy blue moccasins with the special sheep fluff lining. This is a permanent association like birds and feathers, dating back to at least 60 years before any such product was available with the St Michael label. Once there was even a delighted but nebulous epiphany around a previous life as a Native American. Michael of course having received his sainthood for services to ‘cowbags and indibugs’, as the inchoate Father coined his favourite game c.1884.

These slippers are replaced every year in December. Never washed, just replaced. They are purely for nighttime trundles and restricted to the journey between bedroom and bathroom. Not too controversial. However, in my house, I prefer to wear slippers throughout, a probably pointless commitment coincidentally following a substantial outlay for new carpets.

As a spectacularly deviated protest, shortly after moving in, Father explained to me that he was now alternating between two pairs of Marks & Spencer’s navy blue moccasins. The original pair size 7 for original restricted use. Plus a new pair size 7 1/2 for daytime and entire house expeditions. Size 7 1/2, he elaborated, because of the addition of a layer of sock, which would not fit in size 7. Notwithstanding this duplicate provision, he would still sneak about in his shoes like a first class rotter, just to demonstrate that he did not recognise my authority.

After he had moved out, I discovered his final revenge. In one of his now empty rooms, the neutral coloured carpet that had required that substantial outlay was now adorned with two large, well worn, blue patches. These locations correspond exactly with his two chairs: the recliner for leisure purposes, and the executive computer operator chair for hyper-consumerism diversions.

It could have been worse: it could have been neutral-coloured dog shit from Outside.

——

Shortly after Father had departed to his new residence, one of his old friends, Don (the name has been changed to protect the undead) wrote to me seeking Father’s new address. Since Don supplied an email address, I promptly contacted him with the sought contact details.

Don responded with no less than 23 emails, in progressive stages of drafting, conveying his appreciation as well as some family updates. It seemed his webmail account had some synchronisation glitch that shared every saved stage with the recipient. I let him know and thought the contact was concluded.

Some weeks later, I received an unexpected email from a suspicious account with Don’s name as alias, plus a suspicious lack of text and presence of attachment. Clearly spam, and not surprising following the previous IT dodginess.

In my next conversation with father, I was prompted to enquire whether Don and he had got successfully in touch following their communication fankle.
“No. I received a nonsense attachment.”
“Ah, you got that too. I think it was spam.”
“Did you get the subliminal message?”
“No?”
“Don is dead.”

I was so utterly bewildered by the sheer non-sequitur of this reasoning, that he chuntered on about some trivia for a couple of minutes before I stopped him to protest that (A) it was consistent with the pattern of spurious emailing I had experienced as well as having all the hallmarks of spam, pointing toward a compromised mailbox, and (B) if you suspect one of your oldest friends is dead, however unconventionally you have received the notification, it is usual to contact their family and express condolences.

Needless to say, Don was not and is not dead. Long live Don, and death to personal correspondence gremlins.

——

Phone calls are either epic waffles and whinges about the weather and Waitrose, or abbreviated bulletins concerning his health status. The latter comprise two minutes maximum, concluding with “end of message,” then a click as the connection is terminated. Either way a monologue.

I called Father one afternoon. As often happens, there was a twenty second delay between him lifting the handset and responding verbally into the phone.
“[mumble]”
“Have I woken you up?”
Further pause before further muffled response. “I’m eating a peppermint.”
“So, you’re safely back home?” Stating the bleeding obvious as invitation to journal the banal.

In the background, a chime resounded.
“Ah: doorbell. Hang on.”
I have learnt over the years to swiftly pull the phone away from my ear before the statutory series of amplified sound effects as he abandons the handset and shuffles off.

Following a couple of minutes of distant conversation, sound effects resumed, then conversation.
“My helper. Just a quick visit. Been here already. Earlier. [mumble, mumble, breathing]”
“Shall I call another time then?” Pause for peppermint-filtered mumbling. I continue. “Allow you to have one conversation at a time?” Even one can be a challenge.
“[Mumble] call back later on.”
With cheery relief I hung up. Total call time three minutes seventeen seconds. Total conversation time substantially less.

——

My sister visited him on one occasion and inevitably found herself detailed with a list of specially selected noisome chores. In the depths of some wardrobe manoeuvres, she identified a stack of brand new, polythene-sealed shirts.
Father pronounced, “bin.”
Her expression clearly expressed bewilderment so he expanded.
“Wrong fabric. Should be poly-cotton mix.”

My sister’s attempts to tackle this monstrous illogicality from the angles of (A) return to retailer for financial recompense and (B) donate to charity met with the characteristic Wall of Disinterest. This is a fascinating feature of the Pilgrim’s Progress that was under-written and sadly lost in an early draft.

The material continues to accumulate…

24/12/2019

Magic Circles

A short fairy-tale about fellow creatures and freedom

Once upon a sill, a crone placed a crock containing a thin layer of compost and a sprinkling of cress seeds. She passed her fingers under her metal waterfall and flicked drops over the terra nova. The gesture seemed more used to issuing fingertip icicle hexes.

An internal program unfurled and ascertained the presence of substrate, nutrients and water. Then darkness sneaked upon the tiny world and was greeted with a quiet curse. The seeds indignantly passed the night by drawing in water and swelling into frogspawn.

My pursed eyes welcomed darkness, as the daylight was far too bright. Plus it seemed to trigger the crone to croon horribly and torture a wooden box in the other room, making ghastly tinkling noises.

During the night it was safe to explore. The hag also kept a jar of alfalfa sprouts. These required nothing more than twice-daily rinsing under her waterfall. However, to keep the sprouts in as the rinse-water poured out, she had fixed a piece of some ancient, revolting undergarment across the top. I could reach this by rolling off the windowsill. I tried to penetrate – I’m sure I was the first to attempt to penetrate that fabric – but it was a sturdy barrier and the effect was like a trampoline. Nevertheless, the fresh, sprouting smell that emanated was intoxicating, even as I bounced up, away and down to the sill again.

After five nights of this tantalising exercise, I was thrilled to see a shimmer of green at the rim of the crock. I imagined wading in that beautiful field of cress. Perhaps I could use my trampoline practice. A couple of clacks and a light whump; bounces building higher and higher; a carefully calculated turn at the point of touching the fabric. I arced like the best of bridges and landed perfect centre.

cress sprouts close-up of tightly packed stalks

Being in among cress stalks was far better than smelling distant alfalfa through hag’s hosiery. I rolled and rolled with sheer delight. I burrowed into the soil. That didn’t take long. But to feel even just a few grains was bliss. When I finally sat up I had a shock. What a mess I had made. Each cress sprout had been barely clinging on to that thin film of earth. My antics had entirely uprooted many of them. The shame! After all that waiting, when I finally reached my heart’s desire, I trashed it.

As best I could I made reparations: I righted each stalk, dusted off any soil, and re-arranged its roots. Still, some could no longer support themselves, so I ingeniously oriented each one to rest on the next in a circle of support. Cunningly I had left a thin gap to the edge of the crock which allowed me to depart without further destruction.

The next morning I was rudely awoken by the hag. Not the staccato bleatings of dismay I had feared, nor the usual piercing clangs from the other room, but a sharp intake of breath into those lungs of hers that made the air pressure drop. She kept drifting her quivering hand toward the crock, but not touching it, as if afraid of something, or trying to sense something without disturbing it. She kept murmuring, “a crop circle!” Daft biddy.

However, the fact that she noticed the results of my leisure gave me an idea. The next night I found the cress had recovered well and was very obliging. By a careful pattern of rolling, I arranged the fronds into an arrow pointing at where I lay on the windowsill. Simple.

Unfortunately, the next item along the windowsill beyond me was hinged scythes. The hag’s quivering hands moved reverently right past me to snip a great sheaf of cress. She sprinkled it over some revolting layered morsel, popped the thing in her mouth, and beamed as she chewed her supernatural snack.

That night I wept to see the severed swathe. I had no appetite for frolics among those amputated stumps. Lying supine on the sill, a movement caught my attention. I found it soothing to watch a large spider roaming at great pace along the cornice, then settling in a corner and lacing round and round: coppe circles. That gave me another idea.

The spider was most obliging and co-opted several other inhabitants to help. They knew the source of the unpleasant daytime plonking and saw an opportunity. A team of woodlice dug in and prised a book’s pages, making it creak like rhubarb growing. A weevil held a page in place with the antennae on his nose – curious but surprisingly powerful. The spider then wove a hem stitch along the page edges, binding them together and keeping the score open at the right place at the piano.

The next day the hag sat down and scrabbled but she could not shift those pages. She cursed the “coppe-infested old box” and viciously stabbed a lever at the left end. It produced a lovely vibration I felt all through me. The spider was poised ready on her shock-absorbing legs but the woodlice went blurry and two fell out. Thankfully, eventually the hag got the message: she played the tune, badly, but the pebble dropped. It was Edvard Grieg’s Småtroll, if you like that sort of thing.

I got a free ride on those pudgy appendages of hers. She muttered much regret. She had mistaken me for a beautiful nobbly pebble. An ornament! Myopic old mammal. She repatriated me to my beloved banking. I swished between abundant verdure; I burrowed in depths of soil; I lay, free, on a pillow of moss. The joy of that long-awaited dip in the burn!

So now I need a new name – the only troll ever to go inside brickhill, vanquish the hag, and come out again – because small guys are canny.

Merry Cressmas… to crone and troll.

____________

If you fancy a Scandinavian accompaniment: Ture Rangström’s Symphony 1 mv 3 ‘Trollruna’ or Edvard Grieg’s Lyric Piece Op.71.3 Småtroll. Reclaim the troll!

Inspired by Alan Coren’s comic essay ‘And Did Those Feet?’

21/12/2019

The Missed Visitor

Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 11:00

A maudlin metaphor for an unexpected, unknown arrival

Outside, our familiar environment is obscured in shades of dark blue and dark grey. Snow has been falling heavily since dusk and is expected to continue through the night. The power will likely go off but we are prepared; we’ve done this before. We are all together, warm and safe. After tea we play a candlelit board game then head to bed early as the cosiest place.

In the morning we each go straight to our nearest window to see the white world: huge pillows of snow draped over everything, again disguising our familiar world. Some of us rush to wrap up and run out to feel it viscerally. Some of us watch from other windows revelling in the dazzling pristine purity. We gather for breakfast and share sights and crystals. We are interrupted by hammering at the door. A neighbour has come for our help. There seems to be someone lying in the snow along the road.

The shock mutes us. We tramp along what seems to be the footpath, all the joy of white discovery now frozen. There is indeed somebody lying in the snow, dead. A small figure, thin and pale. We can’t tell if it’s male or female, child or adult.

If only we’d known. If we’d known someone was out there we would have left a light on. A torch. Something. We would have welcomed them into our home, given them warmth and food, dry clothes. We all think of the people we do know who we can offer warmth and food.

________

Oddly, this came about as a analogy for the miscarriage of an unknown pregnancy: someone who would have been welcomed had their potential arrival been known.

08/12/2019

Just Gasking

Filed under: Essays, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — Teepwriter @ 15:00

On Thursday I missed a call. I was elongated on my chaise and not for moving. And I had someone with me. Not on the sofa. For once I was not in the toilet. And for once curiosity overcame lassitude and propelled me to investigate the number, since it was not mostly comprised of zeros.

Curiouser still, the internet gave me an interesting answer: “When WE ring YOU, it shows as 01738 476693.YOU ring US on 01577 867250.” Compelled by capital letters and red text, I was agog to learn the name of this communicative establishment: “Arngask Primary School, Main Street, Glenfarg.” A mere stone’s throw from here!

Such curiosity! I wonder what Arngask Primary School could want from me. My legendary ‘adult’ ‘humour’ combined with my antipathy toward the festive season? Could they have over-interpreted my recent prehensile clawing at my rightful title of ‘Queen Nerd’*? They are after all seeking a solution for their mysteriously vague ‘mind craft technical issues’. If their neurology needs ratcheting, I’m ready to wield the instrument. Further reviewing their exciting (amended) programme for the week commencing 18th November, I find myself entirely enticed and exhorted.
[*more anon]

I shall bring my PE kit. As a self-confessed Maths Bag, I shall go out. I shall harken to Mr Bulley’s Bolero. I shall taste a rugby tot. Not to mention the irresistible blank bullets. Most of all, I would love to learn more about mandarins. And the very next entry resolves my tiny transport misgivings: I need only secrete myself aboard the trusty mobile library with a few provisions, and after several days touring the beautiful scenery of Perth and Kinross, I shall be issued, raring to go, at Arngask, and stamped due for return by 15 January 2020. Farewell!

Monday 18th Nov
No Mindcraft Club 3.15 – 4.15pm technical issues
Bring your P.E. kit
Maths Bags P1-4 go out
P6/7 Show Racism the Red Card

Tuesday 19th Nov
Bring your P.E. kit
Mr Bulley Music lessons on Guitar Class – places available, find out more at http://www.pkcmusic.com
 
Wednesday 20th Nov
Bring your P.E. kit
Chanter Class music lessons 3.15pm – 4.00pm (enquiries to Mr Kennedy 07736 383755)
Return Maths Bags please
Nursery – P2 Rugbytots Rugby Tasters
 
Thursday 21st Nov
Bring your P.E. Kit
Parent Council Meeting 6.00pm. All welcome
 
Friday 22nd Nov
P6/7 Mandarin Lesson
Mobile Library Visit
Bring your P.E. Kit 

03/11/2019

PalmKeys

I need a tactile, curved surface. I need to feel every character, even in awkward positions or the dark. I am of course referring to the perfect smart device input fandangle. Context-sensitive touch screens are all very well, but they demand far too much attention to the medium, and far too little to the message.

Of course such a culmination of superlative design and engineering does not exist. The very fact of me wanting an object of this specification means it will not exist. I must design and create my own. However I’m having a little trouble with electrical devices this week.

First the toothbrush declined to switch on/switch off/charge, except at random times to suit itself. Toothbrushing operations became unpredictable. At other idiosyncratic times of day or night the charging light would spontaneously and irregularly flash or the motor suddenly and unnervingly grind into action. The silver spindle oscillating like a high-speed lighthouse. Clonking it off the porcelain didn’t help. My presence was no longer required. I now see condensation within the light – probably not helpful for something that tries to maintain a safe demarcation between electricity and water.

Second a smoke alarm started emitting an annoyingly loud electric squawk once every minute. I found I couldn’t not count the seconds. I had to get between the kitchen and wherever without being in the hall at the deafening moment. I couldn’t eat my breakfast without counting in order to plug my ears every 60 seconds. This is disruptive to my perfectly engineered routine, not to mention higher thought. The alarm resisted being prised off the wall with my grabber, certainly in less than 60 seconds. Kind neighbour with greater stature easily executed the required ‘lift and twist’, then dug out battery compartment. The battery proved to be soldered to its anode and cathode, and the action proved to void the warranty, as helpfully blurted at me by the helpline. Presumably I was supposed to bury it in the garden until resolution could be arranged.

Third the heating timer had amnesiac episode. Late in the evening the boiler fired up. This proved to be because the timer had forgotten the actual* time as well as the program, and seemed to be sleeping, as I wished I was. Thankfully I managed to lean on the right combination of buttons while simultaneously thrusting a safety pin into the reset slot with my teeth. Bizarrely the actual* time was recalled, but the program has defaulted to factory settings. So be it.
[*Actual time was at that time defined as British Summer Time minus 10 minutes. As the seasons change, it is far easier to adjust the ‘actual’ time once than reprogram the start time seven times. Plus factoring in the vagaries of my circadian clonkwork.]

Three things. Constitutes synchronicity. Am I emitting pulses of disruptive electromagnetic radiation? Has Pluto gone retrograde again, causing cosmic havoc? I suppose it is that time of year – the darkening quarter when crackly mischief oozes out of musty corners. So, you can feel fully confident that this device has designed-in resistance to gremlins. Back to the drawing board. With electricity. And rubber gloves.

Sweetcorn cobs annotated with keyboard characters

Obviously, to the undiscerning eye, these will look like grenades. So I must get in a pre-emptive strike! With my explosive! branding: PalmKeys™️. How damp. Sounds like some plastic-fronded holiday resort in Florida.

These may also look like warped versions of those horror-inducing keyboards that split unpleasantly down the middle, giving that referred discomfort of ‘slackness’ in the underwear area and imperative concern that a seam somewhere has gone.

However, they are in fact based on the eminently fondleable appearance of one of my most formative ‘characters’: Wordy from the BBC children’s television learning program Look and Read.

Wordy from the BBC children's television learning program Look and Read

Please note the incorporated strap which passes across the back of your hand and keeps your PalmKey firmly positioned so you can type with confidence. This is made from the innovative plant-based fabric Maiztex which has strength and durability but also a comfortable silky fibrous layer against your skin.

And if all this wasn’t enough, they double as hand-roller-skates, allowing you to reach all sorts of unpleasant recesses.

31/10/2019

The Case of the Missing Duvet

A macabre, unexplained and slightly true mystery.
The Case of the Missing Pillow would of course be a witty title, but for reasons that will become obvious, like the tablecloth trick, that didn’t happen.

I wake in the night. After a few moments mentally orienting myself, I realise I feel chilly; I don’t feel my duvet. I spread-eagle and swish my limbs to reach the extents of the mattress, but nothing. I lean over each side of the bed, expecting to glimpse a patch of lighter dark on the floor, but nothing. I haul myself up to sitting and peer over the foot of the bed: nothing.

Bewildered, with no further strategy, I get up and head for the toilet. The corridor zigzags from a skylight outside my bedroom past a loft cupboard, the shower room, along beside the stairwell and under another skylight, to my sister’s bedroom door, at the head of the stairs.

As I approach the sliding door of the shower room, and reach my hand to the light switch, my eyes are still looking ahead, to where the corridor makes its next zig, or zag, beyond the end of the wall. I see that longed for patch of lighter dark protruding around the corner.

My duvet lies in a dragged, crumpled heap at the midpoint of the corridor. What dramatic and cool irony had it been my map of the world duvet cover, but no. Floral number. Pink. With frills.

With no street lights, at night that corridor is lit only by the moon or suspicious cloud glow. Such wispy whiteness is enough to find your way with sleepy eyes and feeling fingers and stubbable toes. But who is the figure wandering abroad, carrying the weight of a duvet?

Perhaps the child frets in her sleep, wrestling with the emotional challenges of yesterday and tomorrow, as translated into virulently coloured and textured blobs which loom and recede uncomfortably in her imagination. The awful weight of unflattering parental authority becomes manifest and externalised. Gratifyingly, it can now be physically discarded.

Perhaps the other child fancies revenge for any of a multitude of mean tricks: “the teeny grapes are the sweetest” and suchlike. That sibling awakes, tormented by the relentless cruelties. She contemplates screwing a Fisher-Price figure into an eye-socket. Kneading Play-Doh into hair. Spooning green poster paint down a manipulative gullet. Fisting nettles up the bum.

Perhaps upon the first sleeping child’s forehead an eldritch circle lights up, like a very small gas hob. Aurora strands dance out through the translucent skin and over the duvet. The fabric quivers then slowly lifts and drifts across the room. At the door it is abruptly arrested by snagging on a doorframe splinter then petulantly yanked onward.

A long time I have waited to resolve this conundrum. I shall know. There must be a perpetrator. There must be retribution. I shall have my glorious rewengay.

One hundred and sixty patient years later I shall approach the bed of my irascible irasibling, stepping carefully around the snoring chicken, wheeling silently my well-greased, domestic-sized crane. I shall arrange the rigging, lock its feet, and attach each of the four grabs to a corner of her moth-eaten, dribble-sodden duvet. I shall resist the exquisite temptation to toss every heavy object in reach upon it, including my dainty self, and said mini crane. I shall not press and press all the guilty air out of her malign lungs.

No. In a trice I shall reel up and float that equivalent quilted smotherance out, out and away. But only so far. I shall carefully, carelessly position it halfway down the corridor, ideally swiping it through some unspeakable filth. I shall melt back into the night. I may shudder considerably with stifled cackling.

Then I shall nip back to retrieve my incriminating hoist. One of the wheels will jam between floorboards or paving stones, and while I skilfully, silently wrestle it back into motion, I shall realise I still haven’t elicited a confession. Drat.

But then, I shall say nothing for millennia.

29/10/2019

Rhett Riding-Hood and the Wolf

Filed under: Shorts — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — Teepwriter @ 11:00

Once upon a town, which was in Northern Ireland, and thus pronounced ‘tine’, Rhett set out to visit her grandmother, carrying the obligatory basket of poisoned apples. Her bright red cape billowed in the wind, whipping and snapping like a flag. Or a rag. And someone was watching. And snapping.

Rhett followed the footpaths, and, when these ran out, the winding tracks through the woods. She was completely unafraid, as she had walked these paths twice already. Several times she deviated, and even wandered right off the path, because she saw some pretty little flower and had an urge to crush it. Or heard a delightful chirruping bird and simply had to swat it with the brim of her enormous detachable hood. She would carefully lift whichever bruised, tattered remnants and stuff them into her basket.

Just at the point when she was finding the whole thing tedious, she approached her grandmother’s cottage. However, having visited twice before, she noticed something had changed. On one side of the cottage, where her grandmother’s vegetable garden had rewilded itself into a dense tangle of strangulating bushes and vines, the ground was now completely bare.

Not completely bare. There were Power Tools. Also a lot of loud noise. Three Power Tool Operators were shouting abuse at each other over the din of their assorted water-jet, hedge trimmer, drill, hammer, paint sprayer, chainsaw, strimmer, of which they were each wielding at least two, to demonstrate their personal Power.

In mid gasp, Rhett became aware of a tremendous force bearing down on her from one side. A toy bulldozer crashed out of the woods, fountaining splintered twigs, and dunted into her ankle. A boy climbed out and launched a stream of age-appropriate unpleasantries, such as “you dirty pants, you bogey nose, you smelly brain.” Rhett frowned at him in puzzlement and eventually he got bored and started kicking his toy bulldozer.

Meanwhile the noise of the Power Tools had increased, due to them getting nearer. Rhett found the volume unbearable and so stuck her fingers in her ears as she squinted at the unpleasant encroachment. Accompanied by the muffled cacophony, she watched the three operators mouthing obscenities and gesticulating aggressively. She tried to insert her questions between their shouts, but it made no difference to their behaviour, and in her head her voice sounded ridiculous.

Still the three operators loomed closer and closer, and the wielding of the Power Tools became ever more threatening, and the stupid boy with the toy bulldozer kept ramming Rhett’s ankle. In sticking her fingers in her ears, she had dropped her basket, and notwithstanding some of the contents already being the worse for wear, the whole lot was unceremoniously bulldozed into a mess of twiglets. Rhett snapped likewise. She shrieked as loud and long as she could, birled about, and charged off in a direction roughly away from the cottage.

As the droning and whining in her ears faded, she unplugged her fingers. Around this time she also thought to open her eyes properly and see where she was going, according to the diverting lashings of brambles and buffetings of tree roots. This was just in time as the end of the world suddenly rushed up.

Rhett stopped running and teetered above a crevasse of rocks, shaped like an uneven stack of pencils, descending into the ocean. In her frazzled state she was quickly mesmerised by the hexagonal pattern, the way you can hypnotise a chicken with a straight line, and her brain activity mostly suspended.

All this drama was observed by a mini drone that looked like a Snitch from a Potter-esque game of Quidditch, i.e. a tiny but unfeasibly heavy brass ball, but with non-enchanted mechanical wings, wheeling and hovering overhead.

Back beside the cottage there was an executive sort of disturbance in the undergrowth. Russell? No, ’twas the Ginger Avenger with his sturdy helmet bobbing about, glinting in the—
“Unacceptable name! I require something considerably more—”
Do not deviate from the narrative. Do not address the narrator directly.
“To whom should I address my complaint?”
There will be ample opportunity to discuss any issues of casting, character authenticity, plot flaws et cetera once the draft is circulated.
“Corrections will be retrospective?”
Find and replace. Move along now.

The GA (pending) rippled with… brine, ebbing from his recent constitutional dunking. As a consequence of which, any fish thereby attached to his person were entirely coincidental and claimed as legal salvage. He swished decisively, removing any debris from his path ahead. For this purpose he had judiciously acquired a crooked cane, which was also expedient for the removal of unfunny entertainers, inept service providers, and unwanted companions.
“And inappropriate appellations. And truculent narrators.”
Never mind.

As the GA (TBC) strode into the throng, the noisy Operators cowered and grovelled. Assorted motors ground to halts.
One of the now quieter Operators bleated, “are you the police?”
The GA pointed out wearily, “observe helmet. Larger than polis ones, yes? Thus I smite them.”
The erstwhile noisy Operators glanced among themselves, wondering and fearing the exact definition of the word ‘smite’ and its possible application to themselves. And how much damage that helmet might do, especially around the edges.

As if this weren’t enough, another lesser and less prepossessing character emerged surreptitiously from the undergrowth, having first ascertained that his predecessor has established superiority. The GA gestured an introduction for this newcomer.
“Flat-head Peter is my sidekick; he—”
“I do feel I have been mis-cast. I should have a more prominent role.”
I refer the unprepossessing gentleman to my earlier response. Carry on.
The GA continued, “Peter assists me in the poaching of fish.”
Peter jolted. “Just to clarify: ‘poaching’ relates to cooking.”
The GA was supremely nonchalant. “Secure these pests. I shall retrieve the heroine.”
“Of course. You help yourself to the fun bits.”
The GA raised an eyebrow. Peter unhitched shears from his pack and grudgingly set to work.
“Apply the polyethylene fibres and record everything they say.”
The suddenly silent Operators squirmed incontinently, as they were suddenly filled with hellish visions of fibreglass and asbestos type tortures.

They were quite wrong, of course. The GA was merely suggesting to Peter a convenient use for the non-biodegradable twine that he was supposed to have been weaving. This was the most expedient way to get rid of the billions of plastic microfibres his flat-cap had attracted by static electricity during the recent fishing, ahem, swimming expedition.

The GA fished in a pocket and dextrously thumbed knob and rolled ball. He extracted a remote control device and pointed it skyward. The mini drone whined obediently into view, screeched a U-turn and appeared to beckon with a wing. The GA accordingly switched his way seaward, along the path indicated by the heroine’s spoor of bloody brambles and twigs waving tiny flags of torn fabric. He was of course well practised in bushcraft.

Shortly thereafter the swaying Rhett was deftly yanked from the jaws of danger and squish by a crooked stick. Her brain resumed something approaching normal function and her eyes took in this Ginger Avenger.
“My mother told me to beware of a wolf in striped clothing.”
“Wolf? No, I’m Wilf!”
“Rhett.”
“No, just Wilf. And I’m sure it was about sheep…”
“Perhaps; she wouldn’t wear less than cashmere.”

Rhett’s writhing hood flapped unhelpfully across her face. Once again the crooked stick was employed to efficient effect.
“Thank you. Who were those horrid creatures?”
“Those mendacious mercenaries have planning permission to raze the area. They plan to build a, ugh, tourist facility to exploit the Dwarf’s Causeway, or Causewee as they’ll probably nauseatingly label it.”
“What about Grandmother’s cottage?!”
“Technically your grandmother is squatting.”
“She suffers from nodules.”
“Has she tried fish?”
“Oh, yes, that’s why she lives by the sea; she loves watching their acrobatics.”
The GA glanced at the dry-curing danglements from his fishbelt. “Ah. Leeks?”
“Only if she squats too quickly. But I’m fond of seafood.”
“Can I interest you in a Three-fish Mess Marinara?”
“Only three?” Rhett eyed his scaly accoutrements.

On returning to the cottage and its desertified grounds, Rhett and the GA found a collection of neatly bound annoyances. The appearance was of a giant spider’s lair, but that would be a whole other story. Peter the sidekick was, however, absent.
The GA demanded, “where’s Peter?” Silence. Stillness. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” He flexed his fingers then snatched some gaffer tape off one intruder’s mouth. Wails ensued.
The intruder admitted only that Peter was “gaun.” No mention of his obsessive muttering about being destined to vanquish a wolf.

Rhett twinkled with an rash idea. “I shall be your sidekick. I have… skills in… macabre things.”
The GA widened his eyes in alarm. “He’ll be back. Thinks he can set up a rival avenging business. Fool.”
“He doesn’t even have a proper helmet.”
“You don’t have a proper cloak!”
“What’s wrong with it? It billows! It hides all sorts.”
“It’s irretrievably fankled! My cloak is far more… cloaky. Properly cloaky. Like a cloaking device.”
Insofar as the intruders’ eyeballs were able to move below their encasing mesh of twine and tape, there was rolling.

Grandmother emerged from the bottom drawer where she had been lately hiding and was thoroughly enthralled by Rhett’s withered, trampled, pulverised offering. The intruders were roasted on an open fire, made of the suddenly abundant kindling, then released by skilful prodding with the crooked cane when they became insufficiently entertaining, as the GA was not in the mood for sausages. Rhett found their dripping marinated the fish marvellously. The GA commented, “I always find fire works.”


 

Inspired by Supporting a good Cause, along with a diverse list of bizarre narrative milestones, most of which the above manages to clonk into.

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