Category — stuff

Once upon a time there was a friendly gargoyle who never had a cross word for anyone and always had a wide smile. His one failing was a habit of spitting, and, because of this, Gordon the gargoyle was never spoken to by anyone except the very youngest of children who didn’t realise that spitting was a nasty, unsociable habit. Then one day a grown up who, up until then, everyone had thought was a responsible person decided to switch off the water supply to save money for the city council and so that he could go on a courtesy visit to their twin city which was in a foreign country many miles away over the sea. All at once many more grown ups decided that they hadn’t minded Gordon’s spitting and if anything they actually liked him doing it (although just because they wanted Gordon to do it didn’t mean that they thought it was OK for all the boys and girls to do it). They kicked up an enormous fuss and paraded in front of the city hall until the grown up responsible for turning off the water relented (he was the mayor by the way) and to everyone’s joy turned it back on.

For a short while people made a special effort to go go and see Gordon gargoyling, but very soon all the hoo hah was forgotten and everything went back to normal. The only people who would talk to him were the children, but Gordon didn’t really mind this, after all he quite liked the boys and girls.

The end.

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The Canton cockerel stopped crowing some time ago. A shame really because I enjoyed hearing the sound. Perhaps someone who lived closer to it got a bit fed up though. Or maybe the urban foxes found it. But yesterday was a great day. Yesterday was the day the blackbirds came back into my life. They’ve been largely missing since I moved away from Balham. I used to be able to open the windows at the back of the flat and listen to the evening conversations of the blackbirds across the myriad Balham back gardens. Beautiful. And now they’ve found my garden in Canton. Let’s hope they don’t get chased away by the territorial magpie or either of the two cats who periodically fight over the privilege of sitting on my decking.

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Walking back from doing my civic duty this morning I passed a chap struggling, one-handed, to manipulate a large wheelie bin along the pavement. In his other hand was a mobile phone, clamped to his ear.

Chap: “Oh aye, you’re off for a week now aren’t you ?”

Mobile phone: “I’M OFF FOR A WEEEEEEEEEK !!!!!!”

It made me smile

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I saw a man walking a dog. I thought it was a pig.

woof woof. all dogs must be kept on a lead. woof woof.

it’s a dog’s life.

come by shep, wheeet, wheeet.

siiittt

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The suspension on this one can be quite firm. If you are looking for passenger comfort you want a Mercedes.

Conversation overheard whilst passing a parked coach, one driver talking to another.

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I might just have one of these active yoghurts and a slice of ham

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Life’s a struggle, when you are a paperboy and it has been snowing all night. As I drove out to get some coal in the Jeep this morning I passed a paperboy trying to make headway on his bike. It somehow made me think of the Pony Express and how the mail must get through.

In this case it wasn’t just the mail. It was the Sunday Times, Telegraph, Express, News of the Screws and others. This doesn’t quite bring the same sense of urgency especially as I long since stopped taking a Sunday paper in favour of reading it all on the internet.

Returning with a boot full of fuel and birdseed I saw another paperboy laden down with a heavy shopping trolley. His face was a picture of grit and determination, the attraction of payday on a Saturday outweighing the obstacles to getting the job done.

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I sit here in my cocoon gazing at the football grey February morning. The only sounds are the muffled voices of people outside the envelope punctuated by the occasional thud of ball.

Cars turn up and doors slam. The electrified East Coast line marks one boundary but no trains yet. It is Sunday morning.

From my vantage point I can see the whole pitch. The green of the grass is in noticeable contrast to the otherwise dull winter scene surrounding the ground.

[Read more →]

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the school
the daughter
the tap dancing practice
the double wing
the slip
the elbow
the sling
[Read more →]

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He lay prone, face down on the pew in the kitchen, left arm dangling limply onto the floor. On his face was a look of utter hopelessness, the vacant stare of the condemned man, the innocent about to be consigned to an undeserved fate.

There had been a time in the run up to that moment where he had sat there earnestly, waiting for the good news to arrive. The radio was on in several rooms leaving nothing to chance. There was no way, when that announcement came, that he would not hear it. So there he had remained.

He displayed none of his usual appetite while he waited. Such was his concentration, intensified by an anticipation that told you the stakes were high.

The others had heard of their good fortune quite early on in the process and had already begun to celebrate. This did not help. In fact it was part of the problem.

As the kitchen clock ticked, the remaining time shrank away and the realisation that it was not going to happen finally hit him. His shoulders dropped and pure anguish radiated from the shapeless form.

His school stayed open whilst his older brothers and sister got to stay at home to play snowballs because theirs had shut!

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That place between sleep and full consciousness is a lovely one to savour. The dream hasn’t yet been forgotten and the usual neighbourhood morning activity outside is only starting to become apparent. Car doors slamming, engines starting up, rubbish vans reversing far too quickly up the one-way street beeping as they go, the odd bird jumping about on the slates above my head. This morning there was a cockerel. It wasn’t part of the dream, it was a proper, real, cockerel with as good a cock-a-doodle-doo as they get. I wonder if Cardiff City council are re-introducing them in an attempt to bring nature back to the inner city. Or perhaps it’s just another installation by the local art centre. Either way, it was good to hear. If it’s still there in six months in can add its voice to all the other birds (mostly seagulls) that wake me up at 4am every day.

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Brightly party coloured frocks and heels with emigrants sequined mingle at Lime Street.

Stepping onto the platform feels as if we are heading towards an ocean liner and a new life.

The Steam Bar is only a partial destination. A woman adjusts her set.

The black ties have upped and gone and the dark haired barmaid with the cleavage has wiped the table. Gold lame and glittering red but no regulars.

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Passing conversation in the queue at one of the mens toilets in the Millenium Stadium – one person coming out talking to another going in. It lasted five seconds.

Hey how’d the MOT go?
Not bad thanks – only forty quid.
Good, got away with that then!

They continued on their separate ways.

He turned to me and said – that was my dad.

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Smart grey suit with dark lapels, grey silk Liberty handkerchief, crisp white shirt & expensive watch on his right wrist

Effeminate voice.

Completely out of place at the buffet bar on the 7.29 from Newark Northgate to London Kings Cross.

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It’s getting dark outside. The clocks went back last week and the nights have closed in on us. I like this time of year. This afternoon I cleaned the grate out and set the fire ready for a cosy evening on the settee.

As I fetched in some kindling from the woodpile at the bottom of the garden a small bird flew across the lawn and into the hedge. Getting ready for a quiet nestle in the nest for the evening no doubt.

We are all at it. All is well.

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