Archive for November, 2010

East of Wragby

Monday, November 29th, 2010

Crossing the line means entering no mans land. Its a place where few dare go. It means you are either brave or stupid. A frozen wasteland with little sign of life. I can imagine the line of the trench, the lookout peering out uncomfortably through a gap in his scarf. Watching for nothing. Thanked by no one. The imagination plays tricks in these conditions, especially when you can’t feel your feet. You are almost looking for signs of blood circulation as much as movement out in the fields. Who is going to venture out in this weather?

In November 2010 the snow line divided the county into those who lived to the east of Wragby and those to the clear lands of the west. It was a short lived notoriety for the Lincolnshire market town but one that its residents would remember for days afterwards.

The line soon moved further west leaving Wragby temporarily buried under the snow. Whether everyone coped or not  play no part in this narrative.

A chink in life’s curtain

Sunday, November 28th, 2010

It’s a comfortable old day. Snow was falling as we walked home late last night and there is an inch or so on the ground this morning. Plenty to fuel a snowball fight and enough to make sure that the golf was cancelled.

I have been out and chopped some wood for kindling and then to the garage to buy some coal and logs. It would be better to buy it in bulk at the beginning of the winter rather than in dribs and drabs but we only light the fire occasionally at weekends so we never seem to get round to sorting it out.

This morning I also bought another bird feeder. One that takes fat balls. I makes me feel good looking after my little feathered friends in this way.

Now I am sat on my own in the house, doing a bit of pottering. Today this mostly means laying down a few words. The foundations of legacy. The kids will get two things from me. Firstly they will inherit some of my genes and the effect of having lived with me for eighteen years. Then they will have my writing. None of the other worldly wealth stuff matters, not that there is much of it anyway.

I’m half thinking of having a bit of a snooze but I will have to go and pick up hannah from town shortly so there isn’t really time.

The murmur of conversation floats

Thursday, November 25th, 2010

The murmur of conversation floats around the hotel lounge as I wait for her to arrive. Quite relaxed, I am slumped in a chair with a pot of tea on the table in front of me. Business conversations carry on whilst my mind drifts.

This is a state of suspension I enjoy. Others continue with purposeful intent but I care not. Not whether the deal is done, the offer accepted or the idea has life. The machinations, the process, the exhortations and driving ambitions pass by in limbo.

The attendant sees to my every need, sure in the knowledge that she has my credit card held safely, out of minds eye and harms way. I imagine an infinite stay. The rows of teapots stretching to the horizon, empty, await collection. Biscuit crumbs add to the careless feel of the place.

I debate whether to order a beer but objections are raised from within. Not conscience, merely common sense. This clarity of lack of purpose needs no assistance.  Even the tea is only a prop.

3rd Law Part 8 – Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Saturday, November 20th, 2010

3rd Law Part 7

The concert had its good bits and some bits where the violins strained a bit – everyone is tired on a Friday night, but these occasions are the whole point of playing an instrument. I didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight but the body still wakes up early so here I am again, streaming.

There are three sounds I hear. One is the gas ring hissing away on the cooker. It’s too early to put the central heating on – it would wake Anne up. Instead I use the cooker.

The second sound is the clock and the third is the keyboard with me tapping away at it. I notice that I seem to do a lot of typos these days. Typographical errors as was in the days of the typewriter. Maybe it is only this morning because I am still a bit tired.

I will go back to bed when I take the tea up. That second doze is a good one. The typewriter would have made a much bigger noise of course. A real clacking. My iPad makes no noise at all. I probably switched off the keyboard sounds. Stealth typing. I don’t use the iPad for writing stuff that needs speed of finger and thought. Or should that be thought and finger?

Sounds almost like the name of a pub aimed at literary types. It almost certainly has book lined walls and maybe even uses remaindered pulp fiction as beer mats. There is some poetry in there somewhere, a statement. Your book was crappy so I’m just going to use it to stop my glass marking the table. Bathos? Is that the right word. Certainly a deep disappointment.

Perhaps not. The author probably just got paid a fee for churning it out to a recipe that some bimbo (male or female – I’ve just retargeted the definition on the fly to avoid accusations of sexism) thinks they find interesting or suitably mind numbing on the beach, or both if that is possible.

Have you noticed that my paragraphs are quite short. A lot shorter probably than in that bimbo’s book. I suspect it is all to do with the font size I use in Word. It makes words look bigger on the screen so I may artificially be shortening the paragraphs although I’m not sure that there is an international standard for paragraph length. It would be difficult because different countries have different average word lengths.

I said that in quite an authoritative manner though I’m not at all sure as to the veracity of the statement (good word veracity – slipped it in to see what you think). Authoritative is also a good word though I won’t labour the point. The Germans I know for a fact have some really long words. The Welsh are also known for them but in actual fact that is based on just a single village name in North Wales. Anglesey to be more specific. Anglesey isn’t the long word, its the place where the village is. I’m not going to reproduce the long word here. It would make this paragraph too long.

Carriage return sorry “enter”. “Carriage return” is dated. Readers of this stream of words should not be confused into thinking that this is a product of the 20th, or even the 19th centuries. When did they invent the typewriter? Who invented the typewriter come to think of it? I could find out but I’m not really that interested. Ditto the refrigerator.

Due to the sheer professionalism with which I approach the writing of this stuff you probably will not have noticed that I am now using Word2007. It has a lot more features than my previous version, Word2003, well it seems to, but the problem is that I am still learning it. It took me a while to find the “strikethrough” icon for example. But I’m starting to bore you here. Shakespeare didn’t leave comments in his margins informing readers that he had deliberated over his font size or the size of his quill.

My hand writing is terrible by the way. I would have been useless with a quill. Ink spots and crossings out everywhere.
For the technically minded amongst you I have written 698 words in roughly 45 minutes. I don’t know exactly because I haven’t yet worked out where to look for the statistics on this new Word package. I only know my approximate editing time because I looked up when I started tweeting this morning.

Enthusiasm is grinding to a halt now in any case as the body reminds me that it is still a tad tired and wants to take a cup of tea up to bed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

3rd law part 9


Friday, November 19th, 2010

notes have feelings you know
they sometimes need love
though they can get angry
and occasionally want to be left in peace

it can often be a mistake
to leave notes to their own devices

where have all the flowers gone?

Thursday, November 18th, 2010


The 9 random expressions of woman

Sunday, November 14th, 2010

M&S cafe Lincoln, Sunday 7th November


Once Again.

Friday, November 12th, 2010

Gas, gas, gas,
I see a cloud of yellow,
Rolling on towards us searching for its prey,
My sergeant bellows, gas masks men come on quick,
I stand paralysed in fright, then fumble desperately to see the light,
It drifts towards us like a ghost in the night,
My fellow soldier standing next to me,
Crumples & falls, lies choking & writhing,
Suddenly he stops, lies still as a stone,
As if this cloud has sucked all the life & death out of him, leaving just an empty shell,

Men are yelling, falling, dying as I come to my senses,
The gas has gone but more terror has begun,
Bang, bang, bang a machine gun whirs, as if it will never end,
Then silence and nothing is heard,
I am standing among the dead,
My comrade is still beside me,
Eyes open, not seeing, not breathing, not living, just as still as stone.

And now 5 years later I stand in silence,
On the 11 day of the 11 month on the 11 hour,
To remember all the fallen,
Who will never see the light,
Never hear the laughter,
& will never remember anything again.

So you my fallen comrade,
I stand and in the silence remember you,
Once Again.

Violent violins of Vancouver

Sunday, November 7th, 2010

Violent violins of Vancouver,
Dangerous double basses of Boston,
Poisonous pianos of Portsmouth and the
Terrifying trumpets of Tunbridge Wells.