Nothing Much

Thinking about it recently and particularly today, there’s nothing much been happening. Perhaps my life is nothing more than a bore or that I have lost the ability to remember things. Or maybe I’m just knackered. Ok, currently the snow has affected me by preventing a journey to work today but that didn’t give me the bug to scribble something down. What I had noticed about the white stuff was that it has managed to wrestle top spot on all the news agendas from the ever present ‘credit crunch’ saga. In fact I found myself sitting on my bottom step thinking who invented this term ‘credit crunch’. Was it said nonchalantly by an economist during a Channel 4 news interview? Or perhaps it was Nick Robinson the politics man for ITV (I’m sure he used to be on the BBC) who mentioned it one day in a broadcast. Or perhaps The Sun or The Mail paid someone to spend all day thinking of buzz words to encapsulate something so intricate and complicated that by saying the term everyone else will understand what they mean without knowing what they actually mean. If you know what I mean!

Have been ignoring television recently and I don’t know why. Seems like anything I want to watch is never on during a time I feel like watching television. Instead I have started to listen to some Radio 4. Some of it is boring (actually I find it hard to understand) but the good stuff is good. Currently I have been getting into listening to some Parliament show that’s on in the night. It’s just a recap of what happened in Parliament that day with clips of people debating with one another. I smirk every time I hear them say ‘My right honourable gentleman’ and then proceed to tear his/her argument apart by insinuating the party they belong to are nothing more than corrupt aristocrats who spend money at the same rate Jimmy Carr delivers controversial jokes. Still, I often find myself trying to put the faces to the voices and almost all the time there’s a vision of a fat balding man in a smart suit and if they are female it’s always a focussed power suited woman with intelligent eyes. I then sigh and realise that I truly have let my impressions be led by the ever enticing stereotype.

What I have been getting into recently are audio books. How I wished I discovered them earlier as this has become my favourite way to imbibe knowledge (by not actually concentrating and letting my subconscious do all the work). So far I have listened to the galvanising voice of Barack Obama talking about his experiences within the senate in The Audacity of Hope. Then there’s some narrator I have never heard of tell me the tale of A Tale of Two Cities. I have been listening to some Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix too. Ok, I’m not going to learn much from Harry Potter but it’s still entertaining. If you ever find yourself not sure what to bung on your iPod, go do a search for ‘audio books’ on iTunes and you’ll be in for a treat.

I’m going now, my tea bag has seemed to have dried up and want to wash it before it sticks to the base.

Exhaustion

I haven’t really done myself any favours recently. As the seasonal cold bug starts to infect the office it is only a matter of time before you are next on its list. So on Sunday I woke up with a bit of a sore throat and the sniffles. This didn’t stop me from deciding to go for a 3 mile run which upon my return only intensified my ever growing cold. On Monday I woke up still feeling under the weather when I remembered I promised one of my work colleagues I'd play him at squash so I packed my kit begrudgingly and set off to work.

The squash game was rather intense with me prevailing 2-1 in games but not without playing so hard that when I looked at the wall I thought I saw stars. The next morning my cold was still lurking within me waiting to strike me down when I realised that I had a touch-rugby game. Once again I packed my kit thinking maybe I should take a rest. We lost the game 3-1 and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep my eyes open as I looked at the computer. As I am writing this my body is completely stiff and I feel run down and it is all my fault so I’m not going to do anything else until next Tuesday when I have another touch-rugby game.

Being unable to move due to sore muscles has enabled me to write some more prose. Check it out at your leisure.

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“Yannish?”

“Yannish?”

Yannish’s opened his left eye wearily to see a dark silhouette of a man leaning over him. He could feel his head swaying from within.

“Give me that can.” Said the voice of the silhouette.

He could hear a slight struggle going on above him but finding himself unable to move he lay there. Suddenly he heard a squeal and then a can being opened and all of a sudden gushes of cold beer landing in his mouth, his eyes and up his nostrils. His immediate reaction was to lean forward so that no more beer would its way into anymore vulnerable orifices. Coughing up beer that managed to tickle his throat on his way down he squinted his eyes to see Peter standing in front of him.

“There, I knew that would rouse you. Harsh, I know, but I needed to know whether you were severely injured. Trust me, it was debated whether to waste such favoured liquid on waking you up but then Conrad pointed out that a dead body would only attract unwanted attention. And so if that was the case we’d of had to move you somewhere. With gloves of course.”

Yannish, saw Conrad and George walk into his focus. His head was rattling and the swaying in the head was still there but the sudden jolt of action had stimulated his mind again and he was beginning to gain his senses.

“Where did you find me?”

“Here stupid.” Retorted George.

“Yes, we found you laying here. In fact we believed you to be dead, it was only until I checked your pulse that I realised that you had just been knocked unconscious. So are you going to tell us what happened?” Said Conrad as he started to walk around Yannish.
What happened…what happened? Were the words rolling through Yannish’s mind. As they continued to flash past pictures of the night’s events popped into his head.

“I was running after someone. I wanted to see where they were going. I knew that if they got to the wood I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them anymore. But he turned round and I got scared so ducked. I got scared because he had a gun. Why did he have a gun?”

“I don’t know, but why were you chasing someone that had a gun?” Asked Peter, in an inquisitive tone.

“Shit. The garage. It was robbed.”

“Pardon?” said Peter.

The adrenaline flowed through his body once again as if it were a prize for remembering what had happened. Yannish started to stand up, his legs shaking but he was able to get up.

“The man, I was chasing, he robbed the garage. I’ve got to get back and see how Clarence is doing.”

The moment he thought he had died was now clear in his head. He wanted to see Clarence, see she was alright and also because he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t like seeing that moment in his head, replaying in slow motion.

“You can’t go back there you’ve barely enough strength to walk back.” Said Conrad looking at him with some concern.

“I need to go.” And as he said that Yannish pushed himself to start walking. Very slowly he managed a few steps before his knees buckled and finds himself crumpled on the floor.

Admitting defeat, he lies back on the ground and begins to touch the source of pain. The bruise is bubbling nicely on his forehead and when touched sends an excruciating jolt of anguish through him.

“Did you guys, hear a gun shot? There was a shot from the garage. He didn’t want to kill us, he wanted to terrify us. Make sure we were broken humans, our spirits snapped or at least stretched to breaking point. The fucker.”

“Look what you need is to go to the hospital.” We can help you get you there.

“No, I want to go back to the garage, I want to see Clarence.” He wanted to see the garage, to see exactly what state it was in when he left. He wanted to go to the office and see the remaining bits of the safe and the table which he crashed on.

“Please, help me get back to the garage.”

“There will be police there. You know how we all feel about the law.”

“Look just help me up to the top of the heath and I’ll make me own way down there. You don’t need to worry about the police. It’s the fucking police who are likely to find this stranger, who could easily still be out there watching us all. It’s them who have the skills to catch him, catch him before he tries anything like this again.”

There was a silence.

“Ok, George help him up.”

Yannish felt weary now, it was only a ten minute walk but it seemed so very long. George was a ruthless carrier and flung him from side to side. Peter and Conrad walked behind him, he could see in both their eyes that they wanted to talk to him but respected the fact he wanted to return to the garage. Yannish himself thought it strange he craved so much to go back, he’d rather go there first than seek medical help or go home. He knew that the feeling of terror was still within him, he’d never felt so scared for his life, his life was snatched from him by this masked stranger and it was up to the clown to decide if he was to die tonight.

“That’s far enough George.” Said Yannish.

George put him back down and walked back over to Conrad and Peter.

“I’ll come back to see you three. I don’t know when as you can see I’m a bit of a state both in appearance and in mind. But we’ll chat. Thank you George for carrying my down.”

“Ok Yannish.” Said Conrad.

Yannish turned round and started to hobble his way down the heath, past the bushes until he could see blue flashing emanating from below. He followed the light, letting gravity pull him further down until he was at standing at the garage forecourt. He looked at the garage, the lights were back on and the place seemed alive full of policemen. Seeing the building like this settled him down inside again.

Carrying On

Today, I'm actually feeling a lot better. The cold is evaporating now even though I am still really weak. In fact I'm sure Ian Hislop could swing a haymaker at me now and I'll crumble on the floor screaming for no more pain. After work I went into town and bought Kanye West's first album as I stumbled across Late Registration the other month and surprisingly thought it was excellent. He's definitely a lyricist who considers his words carefully and someone that has an ego but is fortunate and able enough to have talent to back up his bravura. College Dropout seems to be just as good even though I haven't heard it in it's entirety, it's actually playing as I'm scribbling this gibberish down. Any how, "We don't care" definitely stands out with its comedic theme and serious lyrics… Shit, I'm starting to sound like a critic so I'll stop.

Anyhow, I need to go get me some sleep as I've got to, like many tomorrow, hurdle the last day of the working week before I can rest up for two days at the finishing line. Here's a bit more progressive prose, although this contribution is a bit shorter because I'm knackered and towards the end what I was writing wasn't even legible.


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It’s the guilt that would gnaw away at his mind. Eating slowly at his thoughts, bit by bit seeping the remembrance of murder more and more into what he’s thinking and eventually taking over his head. He can’t comprehend killing someone, not like this, only if it was fully justified and Yannish couldn’t justify it to himself what he was considering doing. But he needs the pistol. It’s so powerful, visually, obviously for its ability to maim or end life but perhaps more because of its connotations. People who would see it cowl in terror knowing that a gun could mean death unless utter compliance was given. He wouldn’t have choose words to convey that he was serious, the gun would do it for him, no one was going to mess with him while he held it in his hands or at least showed it to people. He could really only choose this weapon because of the power, a baseball bat, although dangerous can still be over powered by more than one person. The thought of carrying a knife and stabbing someone made him queasy as he imaged the squelching sound as he pierced through skin. No, a pistol, was the best choice, he could show everyone what he’s carrying, wave it above his head or hold it out straight and his intentions will be obeyed. No one would dare try and stop him. No one. Or would they? It would be someone filled with the virtues of integrity and pride that might tackle him. They would see this man waving a gun in the air harshly as if it controlled him, not the other way round. He would gage the possibilities of any sign of weakness and measure them up with the risk of his own safety. And being someone so virtuous they would rather risk their own life to try and save someone else’s than stay still and watch someone get shot. Yannish didn’t want to kill anyone, let alone the person he imagined with integrity and pride, they would be the last type of person he would want to shoot. He didn’t want to murder someone he wanted to be himself. Killing someone who Yannish wanted to be, and briefly was in his early pre-pubescent years, would be like shooting the shadow he was chasing. How could he be possibly be a virtuous person after he’s just committed murder, a pointless murder and not some serial killer or rapist, no, someone who had enough guts to tackle the psychotic fool waving a gun over his head shouting at anyone within eye sight.

Yannish backs away from the door and scrunches his eyes. “I can’t kill. It’s too much.” The pistol slides along the floor as he tosses it away like an empty cigarette packet. In fact a fag was the exact thing he lusted for now, to help calm those twitching nerves from snapping but all he has is his thoughts to help or torment him. He kneels down and starts to think of what could happen. “No shots need to be fired, I can just stick it in peoples faces, get what I want and get out. No shots, nothing.” Thinks Yannish as he looks at the floor following the trail of where the gun slid. “Ok, ok, if someone does try it I’ll just shoot it in the air or above their heads.” But as soon as he thinks that, he considers the alternatives that could happen. He could miss and end up shooting someone in the head or the heart. “Fuck” whispers Yannish. He knows the risks and if it came down to it he’d consider killing himself if he was boxed into a choice of ending another’s life. He gets up and walks over and picks up then gun. He wipes the floor dust from his jacket and places the side of his head to the door, pushes the handle down and pushes the door forward very slowly so that if it began to creak he could immediately begin to retract it before anyone knew what was going on. He briefly feels like a boy creeping down the stairs at Christmas eve, opening the lounge door ever so slowly until a gap large enough appears to spy through. A small gap opens up now and Yannish brings his eyes towards it and looks through.