So today was a return to normality where you try to get back into the routine of waking up, getting ready, going to work and attending it for the duration of the day. For me in order to complete this process I need a routine that needs to be followed explicitly, even slightly deviating from it means I’m going to be late. So I guess, sometimes I am late. This routine involves being woken up by the Saved By The Bell theme tune at 06:45 that’s set on my mobile. A hand will squirm out of the duvet and scuttle around until it finds the mobile and presses the snooze button. The snoozing will continue until 07:00 where getting up is imperative in order to stay on time. I fling my body out of bed and make my way to the shower. That’ll take about 10 minutes in which upon my return my mobile alarm would have gone off again making it extra annoying as I start throwing my duvet and pillow all over the place trying to search it. Once that’s turned off I’ll start putting on my office armour (shirt and trousers) and then have some breakfast. I’ll arrive at work around 8:30 and start checking my emails.
Now as it stands this is going to be the routine for the rest of my working life, certainly the best years of them. It’s difficult to swallow when it’s thought of like that, it sounds restrictive without accomplishment. Going to an office for another forty or fifty years preceded by the same thing as I mentioned above almost makes me shake with fear writing it. My only solace is the imagination and ideas that frequently pop into my head. The most recent one being should I find a leprechaun and mug him of his pot of gold I’d leave England now and go somewhere hot. Maybe Oz, maybe Thailand or somewhere in South America, either way I just want to skip winter. I’d love to wake up with the heat of the sun licking my face instead of a mobile ringing out aloud in my ears. The idea of drinking a rum and coke and sitting in some place that has a view of how beautiful earth can be, really appeals to me. Then, when summer returns to England so would I. I’d visit a few people go see a few places and wait for the incessant rain to begin once more.
I guess this keeps me motivated from falling into some sort of mild depression at the thought of going to work in an office for decades upon decades. I’ll always keep an eye out for ‘the exit plan’ but for the time being and like most of us I’ll be doing my own morning ritual to get me to work on time.
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Then it started trickle down more faster as more tears appeared, so much so that they kept rolling onto his lips, allowing him to taste them. Soon his vision started to blur with the tears pouring out. He stands up and screams. He screams loud and hard, with passion. He can feel himself shaking now, he can feel the tears burst out freely. His mouth starts to dry but he doesn’t care, he can’t feel any pain when he is screaming so carries on. His body doesn’t hurt but his mind is damaged. He sucks in breath wipes his eyes quickly and then screams again.
His body tingles all over with little sharp jolts of pain so he lets himself fall on the ground. The cries are almost silent apart from the need to inhale, he can’t understand why he’s crying but he can feel pain. It’s not the little jolts circulating around his body, it’s his head. His head is hurting inside. He feels that his emotional box has been shattered and every emotion is free to go wherever it pleases confusing him. At first he thinks it’s funny what’s just happened. Going to work, getting robbed by a man with a gun, chasing him and then being questioned by the police, that’ll be a nice tale to tell. He smiles, as he imagines telling the tale to Keith today in the pub. Keith wouldn’t believe him at first but when the news came out publicly he’d be the first round his flat banging on the door demanding a more in depth version. How would Tommy react? Probably as always, with an occasional nod but an intense looking gaze letting you know although he’s in between two states of consciousness he is still fully aware of what you’re saying. Yannish almost feels what happened to him is ‘cool’ but as he turns his head round to stare at the sky he feels another wave of emotion ride over his body. What had happened to him was very serious. He was a young man, trying to achieve success in life by studying and paying his way through the present by working. Why should someone who has to work so hard be a victim of armed robbery? That’s what it is, armed robbery. A serious crime had been committed leaving a middle aged woman in a traumatised state and a young man confused. If this criminal is caught he is facing years of imprisonment. The police should consider this an extremely serious case. His life is going to change for a little while because of this. Attention will be focused on him, unwanted attention. No one of his age should have to endure the experience of feeling threatened with the termination of their life.
Yannish is now staring at the sky but not looking at anything, the seriousness of the crime is seeping into his mind causing more confliction with his emotions. It was only a few moments ago he was laughing about the whole things and now he’s starting to understand that this was the sort of thing you would read in the local if not national newspaper and think ‘shit’. Even though this feeling seems more realistic and a better description of the impact of the crime it sits uncomfortable with him and he closes his eyes as another surfaces to take control of his mind. He remembers the feeling of humiliation. He’d already felt it once already when he thought he was killed. No one had the right to kill someone else, let alone for a couple of thousand pounds stashed in a safe. This arrogant human, thinking that he had the right to end life with a gun should be caught and tortured. But why torture? He briefly thought. And then he realised that what he was feeling now was torture, his mind in utter torment and scared. He doesn’t know when he’ll feel truly safe again, he knows that his shell is hard on the exterior and that he’d be able to talk about it to friends and the authorities but inside he can feel the fear. The fear of death, the fear knowing there are people that will end life for the sake of a percentage. Something so bland as money makes them prepared to kill in order to get it. And for what? A new car? A house? And now he’s feeling a mess on the ground rolling around with the slugs and snails trying to work it all out. What about Clarence? How must she be feeling, she urinated herself during the whole ordeal, she must be a wreck. When he last saw her she shivering and silent. But Yannish can only think about settling himself down first before trying to help others.
Monday, 7 January 2008
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Boring Being
Today I met probably the most boring man I’ve ever encountered. He wasn’t offensive, or irritating, he was just boring.
I was sitting in the library reading the paper when I felt someone looking at me. I peered over to see this man staring. His face was expressionless. He just looked plain. His face reminded me of the stickmen drawings I used to do at school, two little peepers and a line for a mouth.
He asked me what I was reading in a slow monotone voice. It was so slow I could guess what he was about to ask me before he even finished. I looked over at the front of the paper facing him and told him a newspaper. He incidentally was reading Cooking Basics for Dummies so decided best not to venture down that path. The boring man waited for me to speak, and in conversational etiquette it was my que to ask him something but I couldn’t be bothered. His peepers just blinked in anticipation and when he realised I wasn’t going to say anything and not wanting to lose the moment of communication that was fast diminishing he asked me what I did. I told him.
“Oh.” Was all he could say in his slow voice. I just stared and thought even his clothes were boring, a plain beige jumper with a frayed collar and grey jack-up trousers. His hair was short and, well, just uninteresting. I was completely uninspired by this guy to even share a few words so quickly returned to my paper. After reading the first few words about the rioting in Kenya it dawned on me that maybe everyone thinks he’s boring. Maybe it’s hard for him to make friends because he speaks so slow and looking so characterless that people would just walk away before he finished his sentence. Getting girls must be hard for him too, thinking of a witty comment during a moment to impress is half the job but timing and delivery is crucial and he doesn’t seem to have the tools for that. Then I thought what does he do for a living. Is he on the dole? That would explain him sitting in the library on a Thursday afternoon staring at people. Maybe he was an undercover police officer who often use the library to keep surveillance on the local brothels. If he was undercover he definitely was doing a good job. I suddenly realised that I was now intrigued by this person and wanted to find out more about him so I looked over my paper to ask him what he does but he was gone. Boring being had vanished.
He’s probably writing on his blog right now saying how he met a twat who was too aloof to speak to him.
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
Yannish rocked back the wooden chair and slid out. He’d never been interviewed by the police before in an interview room. He imagined he’d be questioned by an aggressive policeman who’d slam his fist on the table so that his glass of water would wobble. He was expecting the interrogator to push his face right in and invade Yannish’s personal space, so that when he spoke his saliva would sprinkle all over his face. Instead this middle aged policeman sat calmly stroking the last piece of his body that reminded him of his youth, his blond moustache.
“Aren’t you going to ask me more questions?” Said Yannish now standing next to the officer and feeling slightly that it was he who was about to do the interviewing.
“No.” Came the swift reply. The officer didn’t even look up to acknowledge him.
“This isn’t right, but I’m tired and I’m going to get some rest. You should be out there looking on the field for clues and evidence or even for him. He could still be in the woods hiding. You should be bringing in an artist so I can tell them what he looked like and so they can sketch it and we can plaster a poster all over the place and you can show it on local television, or something.”
“No, not today. Now go.”
Fuck. Thought Yannish as he walked out where another policeman was waiting for him ready to escort him to the first aid room. Yannish refused, he didn’t want to be in this building anymore. He was tricked into coming here and now he wanted to leave. The constable offered him a lift but Yannish vehemently shook his head until his neck started to hurt. He turned his back on the constable not even bothering to say good bye, nothing, and started to stride out of the building.
Even after about fifteen minutes walking down the street he was still peeved with the police. They didn’t seem to care what he told them. They should’ve been looking to lift out key information, not stroke their moustache and look out for ques when to nod. He noticed a park bench not too far away and decided to head for it. Once settled he brought out his rolling equipment from his pocket. He pulled of the rolling papers and then got the tobacco, he withdrew one paper and scooped a small amount of tobacco and started to spread it. He noticed that it was difficult to do and was missing the rolling paper. He was shaking. He looked at his right hand and he could see moving intensively but beyond the control of him. He tried to stop it but it was still moving. He used his left hand to hold it still knocking it his smoking gear all on to the ground and scatter everywhere. Still it was shaking. He began to cry, it was silent at first with a few tears pushing themselves through his eye lids and trickling down slowly.
I was sitting in the library reading the paper when I felt someone looking at me. I peered over to see this man staring. His face was expressionless. He just looked plain. His face reminded me of the stickmen drawings I used to do at school, two little peepers and a line for a mouth.
He asked me what I was reading in a slow monotone voice. It was so slow I could guess what he was about to ask me before he even finished. I looked over at the front of the paper facing him and told him a newspaper. He incidentally was reading Cooking Basics for Dummies so decided best not to venture down that path. The boring man waited for me to speak, and in conversational etiquette it was my que to ask him something but I couldn’t be bothered. His peepers just blinked in anticipation and when he realised I wasn’t going to say anything and not wanting to lose the moment of communication that was fast diminishing he asked me what I did. I told him.
“Oh.” Was all he could say in his slow voice. I just stared and thought even his clothes were boring, a plain beige jumper with a frayed collar and grey jack-up trousers. His hair was short and, well, just uninteresting. I was completely uninspired by this guy to even share a few words so quickly returned to my paper. After reading the first few words about the rioting in Kenya it dawned on me that maybe everyone thinks he’s boring. Maybe it’s hard for him to make friends because he speaks so slow and looking so characterless that people would just walk away before he finished his sentence. Getting girls must be hard for him too, thinking of a witty comment during a moment to impress is half the job but timing and delivery is crucial and he doesn’t seem to have the tools for that. Then I thought what does he do for a living. Is he on the dole? That would explain him sitting in the library on a Thursday afternoon staring at people. Maybe he was an undercover police officer who often use the library to keep surveillance on the local brothels. If he was undercover he definitely was doing a good job. I suddenly realised that I was now intrigued by this person and wanted to find out more about him so I looked over my paper to ask him what he does but he was gone. Boring being had vanished.
He’s probably writing on his blog right now saying how he met a twat who was too aloof to speak to him.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Is that it?”
“Yes.”
Yannish rocked back the wooden chair and slid out. He’d never been interviewed by the police before in an interview room. He imagined he’d be questioned by an aggressive policeman who’d slam his fist on the table so that his glass of water would wobble. He was expecting the interrogator to push his face right in and invade Yannish’s personal space, so that when he spoke his saliva would sprinkle all over his face. Instead this middle aged policeman sat calmly stroking the last piece of his body that reminded him of his youth, his blond moustache.
“Aren’t you going to ask me more questions?” Said Yannish now standing next to the officer and feeling slightly that it was he who was about to do the interviewing.
“No.” Came the swift reply. The officer didn’t even look up to acknowledge him.
“This isn’t right, but I’m tired and I’m going to get some rest. You should be out there looking on the field for clues and evidence or even for him. He could still be in the woods hiding. You should be bringing in an artist so I can tell them what he looked like and so they can sketch it and we can plaster a poster all over the place and you can show it on local television, or something.”
“No, not today. Now go.”
Fuck. Thought Yannish as he walked out where another policeman was waiting for him ready to escort him to the first aid room. Yannish refused, he didn’t want to be in this building anymore. He was tricked into coming here and now he wanted to leave. The constable offered him a lift but Yannish vehemently shook his head until his neck started to hurt. He turned his back on the constable not even bothering to say good bye, nothing, and started to stride out of the building.
Even after about fifteen minutes walking down the street he was still peeved with the police. They didn’t seem to care what he told them. They should’ve been looking to lift out key information, not stroke their moustache and look out for ques when to nod. He noticed a park bench not too far away and decided to head for it. Once settled he brought out his rolling equipment from his pocket. He pulled of the rolling papers and then got the tobacco, he withdrew one paper and scooped a small amount of tobacco and started to spread it. He noticed that it was difficult to do and was missing the rolling paper. He was shaking. He looked at his right hand and he could see moving intensively but beyond the control of him. He tried to stop it but it was still moving. He used his left hand to hold it still knocking it his smoking gear all on to the ground and scatter everywhere. Still it was shaking. He began to cry, it was silent at first with a few tears pushing themselves through his eye lids and trickling down slowly.
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
Two Thousand And Eight
So it’s 2008, I hope 2007 proved better than expected for you. Hmm, I suppose I better think of some New Year resolutions. Let me see, the first imperfection (or character trait) I’d like to improve on is:
Tardiness
I’m late for every social meeting with people regardless of how well I plan I just don’t get to the place on time. I know it vexes people so I plan to implement a step-by-step walk-through to get me to every pre-arranged meet on time.
Get More But Decent Tunes On To My ipod
When I first got it I uploaded any tune I could get my hands on just so I could fill up the oceans of memory space I had. However after a few months I looked back one day on what was on it and almost fell off the bench I was sitting on. A cold sobering shiver ran over me as I realised there is no place in my musical life for the likes of Eminem et al. Subsequently I imposed a strict upload control vetting system that the government’s border control department would be proud of and now on my pod I have 827 tunes that create the soundtrack of my day/life. Thing is I need more of them.
Cut Down On Meat
I’m not saying I’m a rabid carnivore who hunts bunny rabbits for food. I just feel like I eat quite a lot of meat. In fact I think the majority of people do. I look upon in jealousy at the vegetarians I know who easily go through their day with out any of it whereas I can only think about meat based dishes when thinking about food.
Get Buff
Yep, I too have enlarged due to the Christmas festivities. The amount of cheese and biscuits I consumed were the main perpetrators. I’m not a rotund gent but the life long quest of all men to reach the holy grail of a six-pack is well out of the question at the moment. Not sure if I want to join a gym full of muscle men in weird multicoloured baggy trousers so I think I’ll stick to playing sports and the occasional push up. Really I just want to look good naked and if I manage that then…
Go To Another Continent
I fancy visiting another continent for my holiday this year. I find seeing another cultures in full working flow really mind blowing. To me it’s like being shown how to live life in another way. Due to listening to Brand on Radio 2 I’m quite intrigued to visit Marrakech in Morocco.
Go To Noel Fielding’s Art Exhibition
Well this is a short term goal but I must remember to go to his art exhibition in London which I think runs till the beginning of March. If not I’ll regret it and kick something in frustration and end up hurting my toe.
I think that’s enough for the moment. I’m sure I’ll forget them all in my mind but at least I have it here on record should I wonder what they are. In other events I got In A Safe Place by The Album Leaf. If you’re into or remotely interested in chilled electronica then I strongly recommend it (click here and scroll down to listen to some samples).
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Yannish broke from his thoughts and looked up and then pushed his face against the railings. He found a gap where he could see the officer driving.
“I’m seriously not the robber. I’m not joking, I’m not him. Look at me, do I look like someone capable of holding up a garage with a gun?” He yells in exasperation with saliva spluttering from his mouth all over the officer’s shoulder.
“Perhaps. But you are certainly in a position to help a robber.” Came the cold reply of the officer.
Yannish felt like spitting on the policeman but didn’t want to aggravate the situation. The officer was young maybe three or four years older than him. He probably thought he caught the criminal and managed to cleverly trick him into the police car. Yannish didn’t want to think or fight any more, he flung himself back and deliberately rested his feet on the back seat and closed his eyes to get some rest before his inevitable interrogation.
He found himself in a damp smelling room. It was grey coloured but dirt marks could be seen all over it, even on the ceiling. He was on a chair, it was a wooden one, nothing fancy and a little wobbly. In front of him was a table which had one of its sides against the wall where a recording machine was set. In front of him was an officer a lot older than the one who’d brought him in. He still had his hat on and looked rather calm and not the intimidating monster he was expecting. He kept stroking his moustache and watching Yannish.
The interrogating was thin, in fact Yannish didn’t feel interrogated at all. They asked him questions and he answered them. They didn’t follow anything up.
“What did you do today?”
“I had my last exam, went to the pub to celebrate then went home and then went to work.”
“Was there anything odd you noticed about the building, certain electrics that weren’t working?”
“No everything seemed fine. The only thing not similar to the usually shift was that Clarence was working tonight.”
“I see. Do you think she had anything to do with the robbery?”
“No, of course not.”
“What happened when you were being robbed?”
“A man entered while I was at the counter, he didn’t look strange but he brought in an aura of distrust so I kept my eye on him. He then walked out of sight I walked over and then he pulled a gun out on me and Clarence. We took him to the safe and he blasted it open.”
“And then what happened?”
“He left, I thought I had just been killed but hadn’t. I was enraged so decided to chase him. I after him all across the field above the garage and then he entered the woods, I followed and I was struck by something hard that knocked me out.”
“Do you know what he looked like?”
“I didn’t see his face he wore a clown’s mask. But he had brown hair that went just past his ears. You see that stuck out from the clown’s mask. And when he got close he stared directly at me. It was strange, like he was jealous of me or something. I just saw him, he had blue eyes, large blue eyes. And as soon as he could tell I was scanning his features he pulled himself away. He was a bit taller than me so I’d say about just under 6 foot, he wore a what looked like a beige suede jacket and jeans. That’s all I can remember right now.”
“Thank Yannish. We will contact you further if we require you, now please follow the directions to the first aid room.”
Tardiness
I’m late for every social meeting with people regardless of how well I plan I just don’t get to the place on time. I know it vexes people so I plan to implement a step-by-step walk-through to get me to every pre-arranged meet on time.
Get More But Decent Tunes On To My ipod
When I first got it I uploaded any tune I could get my hands on just so I could fill up the oceans of memory space I had. However after a few months I looked back one day on what was on it and almost fell off the bench I was sitting on. A cold sobering shiver ran over me as I realised there is no place in my musical life for the likes of Eminem et al. Subsequently I imposed a strict upload control vetting system that the government’s border control department would be proud of and now on my pod I have 827 tunes that create the soundtrack of my day/life. Thing is I need more of them.
Cut Down On Meat
I’m not saying I’m a rabid carnivore who hunts bunny rabbits for food. I just feel like I eat quite a lot of meat. In fact I think the majority of people do. I look upon in jealousy at the vegetarians I know who easily go through their day with out any of it whereas I can only think about meat based dishes when thinking about food.
Get Buff
Yep, I too have enlarged due to the Christmas festivities. The amount of cheese and biscuits I consumed were the main perpetrators. I’m not a rotund gent but the life long quest of all men to reach the holy grail of a six-pack is well out of the question at the moment. Not sure if I want to join a gym full of muscle men in weird multicoloured baggy trousers so I think I’ll stick to playing sports and the occasional push up. Really I just want to look good naked and if I manage that then…
Go To Another Continent
I fancy visiting another continent for my holiday this year. I find seeing another cultures in full working flow really mind blowing. To me it’s like being shown how to live life in another way. Due to listening to Brand on Radio 2 I’m quite intrigued to visit Marrakech in Morocco.
Go To Noel Fielding’s Art Exhibition
Well this is a short term goal but I must remember to go to his art exhibition in London which I think runs till the beginning of March. If not I’ll regret it and kick something in frustration and end up hurting my toe.
I think that’s enough for the moment. I’m sure I’ll forget them all in my mind but at least I have it here on record should I wonder what they are. In other events I got In A Safe Place by The Album Leaf. If you’re into or remotely interested in chilled electronica then I strongly recommend it (click here and scroll down to listen to some samples).
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Yannish broke from his thoughts and looked up and then pushed his face against the railings. He found a gap where he could see the officer driving.
“I’m seriously not the robber. I’m not joking, I’m not him. Look at me, do I look like someone capable of holding up a garage with a gun?” He yells in exasperation with saliva spluttering from his mouth all over the officer’s shoulder.
“Perhaps. But you are certainly in a position to help a robber.” Came the cold reply of the officer.
Yannish felt like spitting on the policeman but didn’t want to aggravate the situation. The officer was young maybe three or four years older than him. He probably thought he caught the criminal and managed to cleverly trick him into the police car. Yannish didn’t want to think or fight any more, he flung himself back and deliberately rested his feet on the back seat and closed his eyes to get some rest before his inevitable interrogation.
He found himself in a damp smelling room. It was grey coloured but dirt marks could be seen all over it, even on the ceiling. He was on a chair, it was a wooden one, nothing fancy and a little wobbly. In front of him was a table which had one of its sides against the wall where a recording machine was set. In front of him was an officer a lot older than the one who’d brought him in. He still had his hat on and looked rather calm and not the intimidating monster he was expecting. He kept stroking his moustache and watching Yannish.
The interrogating was thin, in fact Yannish didn’t feel interrogated at all. They asked him questions and he answered them. They didn’t follow anything up.
“What did you do today?”
“I had my last exam, went to the pub to celebrate then went home and then went to work.”
“Was there anything odd you noticed about the building, certain electrics that weren’t working?”
“No everything seemed fine. The only thing not similar to the usually shift was that Clarence was working tonight.”
“I see. Do you think she had anything to do with the robbery?”
“No, of course not.”
“What happened when you were being robbed?”
“A man entered while I was at the counter, he didn’t look strange but he brought in an aura of distrust so I kept my eye on him. He then walked out of sight I walked over and then he pulled a gun out on me and Clarence. We took him to the safe and he blasted it open.”
“And then what happened?”
“He left, I thought I had just been killed but hadn’t. I was enraged so decided to chase him. I after him all across the field above the garage and then he entered the woods, I followed and I was struck by something hard that knocked me out.”
“Do you know what he looked like?”
“I didn’t see his face he wore a clown’s mask. But he had brown hair that went just past his ears. You see that stuck out from the clown’s mask. And when he got close he stared directly at me. It was strange, like he was jealous of me or something. I just saw him, he had blue eyes, large blue eyes. And as soon as he could tell I was scanning his features he pulled himself away. He was a bit taller than me so I’d say about just under 6 foot, he wore a what looked like a beige suede jacket and jeans. That’s all I can remember right now.”
“Thank Yannish. We will contact you further if we require you, now please follow the directions to the first aid room.”
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Stumbling Along
I know I’m no longer on the cusp of the technological edge, so this news may somewhat be redundant to you. The fact my latest IT discovery has made me feel all warm and funny inside over the endless possibilities makes me obliged to tell you. I recently installed StumbleUpon (click here to get hooked up) on my laptop after a conversation with the IT bod from work. It was water cooler conversation again, where none of us know what to say really, so I fill up the time asking him questions while he spends it answering them. It’s a silent agreement we have and are both happy with. In this particular occasion I asked him if he knew of any websites that may share my interests and he told me about StumbleUpon.
You install it on your computer and when you run it it asks you a series of questions about your interests like, comedy, sport, writing, etc. You then tick all the boxes you are interested in and then open your browser. Then you’ll see a little sumbleupon icon button. Press that and you’re taken to a random website that’s about a particular interest you have chosen. It’s great, I’ve spent ages checking out sites I’d never find on a google search. I learnt about William Borrughs cut-up method of writing which has for many years perplexed me since buying Naked Lunch. It was one of those things that I meant to get to the bottom of but obviously there’s more pressing daily matters to attend. However, Stumbleupon brought me to a site that explained his technique so now that’s something I can tick off my list of things to do before I die. If you’ve got the odd half hour to kill I’d strongly recommended it.
In other news I discovered that Dyson LTD are expanding thier product range. I was in the shopping centre the other day and needed to use the public toilet. Once I’d finished I washed my hands and was drying them when I noticed this small device next to the conventional dryer with the Dyson logo on it. It read that it can dry hands within 5 seconds so I thought I’d dip my hands in between this device. Sure enough you put your hands in and slowly pull them out whilst a serious jolt of air comes flying out. It’s almost like drying your hands with the turbines of an aeroplane but without getting yourself entangled. I have to say I was impressed and went and told everyone about this new device claiming it is called the Dyson Dribble. Turns out it’s the Dyson Air Blade. I think the name I chose sounds better.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
His phone vibrates and he reaches into his pocket to get it out. He sips on his whisky as he looks at the message from Gregor. It reads, “Two hours, mine.” Charles throws his phone to the floor and swirls his drink around staring at the whisky sloshing around the glass. He’s not going to go this time. He told himself this earlier. Who is he going to betray his strength of mind or Gregor?
After an hour Charles gets up picks up his car keys and heads out to the car.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Yannish left the police station un-tucking his shirt collar from his neck and straightening it out until he felt comfortable. He couldn’t believe his experience. They were so polite. It was almost surreal. They saw him standing on the forecourt, chaos circulating around as policemen tried to wrap tape around the area while armed police could be seen bobbing up and down around the area looking for any unusual movements that could possibly be a lead. And there stood Yannish, who had appeared from no where, his eyes transfixed on the garage. An officer walked up to him and before he spoke Yannish said.
“The guy you want is over there, he ran into the woods.” Lifting his hand to indicate where he’d just come from.
The officer looked at him sceptically and didn’t look too convinced.
“How do you this?”
“Because I chased him.”
The officer looked at Yannish’s ruffled look, his garage uniform looked dusty, he had random scratches all over his face and arms. His hair was stuck in the air and he was quivering.
“Well you’d better come with me.” And with that stepped behind Yannish and ushered him forward without touching him. It was the movement of going behind that started Yannish walking, walking all the way until they got to police car, he noticed the steel railings separating the back seat and the front.
“Aren’t you going to tell your colleagues where to go?” He asked feeling a bit perplexed about what seemed to be happening. He had only ever been stopped once by a police man when he was 14. He had found a porno magazine in the bushes by his local park. He quickly swiped it and scurried off home only to be stopped by his local constable. Yannish looking anxious and just plain shifty was asked to show him what his sticking out of his jacket. Reluctantly but acquiescing with the constable’s demand he passed over his soggy porno magazine.
“Yes, yes I’ll tell them but first we must get you to the station, now get in please.”
Yannish although slightly confused and starting to feel irate that nothing was being done opened the door and slid into the back seat. The officer spoke into his radio controller but he was inaudible and ended talking once he’d got into the car. They set off.
There was silence in the back seat nothing was being said at all. Yannish didn’t want to speak, the moments of what had happened were beginning to catch up with him. He started to think about what would have happened if he’d walked out with Karen when she came to visit him. This would have all been different.
“I’m bringing in a suspect from the Cavendish garage, robbery.” Said the policeman on his car radio.
You install it on your computer and when you run it it asks you a series of questions about your interests like, comedy, sport, writing, etc. You then tick all the boxes you are interested in and then open your browser. Then you’ll see a little sumbleupon icon button. Press that and you’re taken to a random website that’s about a particular interest you have chosen. It’s great, I’ve spent ages checking out sites I’d never find on a google search. I learnt about William Borrughs cut-up method of writing which has for many years perplexed me since buying Naked Lunch. It was one of those things that I meant to get to the bottom of but obviously there’s more pressing daily matters to attend. However, Stumbleupon brought me to a site that explained his technique so now that’s something I can tick off my list of things to do before I die. If you’ve got the odd half hour to kill I’d strongly recommended it.
In other news I discovered that Dyson LTD are expanding thier product range. I was in the shopping centre the other day and needed to use the public toilet. Once I’d finished I washed my hands and was drying them when I noticed this small device next to the conventional dryer with the Dyson logo on it. It read that it can dry hands within 5 seconds so I thought I’d dip my hands in between this device. Sure enough you put your hands in and slowly pull them out whilst a serious jolt of air comes flying out. It’s almost like drying your hands with the turbines of an aeroplane but without getting yourself entangled. I have to say I was impressed and went and told everyone about this new device claiming it is called the Dyson Dribble. Turns out it’s the Dyson Air Blade. I think the name I chose sounds better.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
His phone vibrates and he reaches into his pocket to get it out. He sips on his whisky as he looks at the message from Gregor. It reads, “Two hours, mine.” Charles throws his phone to the floor and swirls his drink around staring at the whisky sloshing around the glass. He’s not going to go this time. He told himself this earlier. Who is he going to betray his strength of mind or Gregor?
After an hour Charles gets up picks up his car keys and heads out to the car.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Yannish left the police station un-tucking his shirt collar from his neck and straightening it out until he felt comfortable. He couldn’t believe his experience. They were so polite. It was almost surreal. They saw him standing on the forecourt, chaos circulating around as policemen tried to wrap tape around the area while armed police could be seen bobbing up and down around the area looking for any unusual movements that could possibly be a lead. And there stood Yannish, who had appeared from no where, his eyes transfixed on the garage. An officer walked up to him and before he spoke Yannish said.
“The guy you want is over there, he ran into the woods.” Lifting his hand to indicate where he’d just come from.
The officer looked at him sceptically and didn’t look too convinced.
“How do you this?”
“Because I chased him.”
The officer looked at Yannish’s ruffled look, his garage uniform looked dusty, he had random scratches all over his face and arms. His hair was stuck in the air and he was quivering.
“Well you’d better come with me.” And with that stepped behind Yannish and ushered him forward without touching him. It was the movement of going behind that started Yannish walking, walking all the way until they got to police car, he noticed the steel railings separating the back seat and the front.
“Aren’t you going to tell your colleagues where to go?” He asked feeling a bit perplexed about what seemed to be happening. He had only ever been stopped once by a police man when he was 14. He had found a porno magazine in the bushes by his local park. He quickly swiped it and scurried off home only to be stopped by his local constable. Yannish looking anxious and just plain shifty was asked to show him what his sticking out of his jacket. Reluctantly but acquiescing with the constable’s demand he passed over his soggy porno magazine.
“Yes, yes I’ll tell them but first we must get you to the station, now get in please.”
Yannish although slightly confused and starting to feel irate that nothing was being done opened the door and slid into the back seat. The officer spoke into his radio controller but he was inaudible and ended talking once he’d got into the car. They set off.
There was silence in the back seat nothing was being said at all. Yannish didn’t want to speak, the moments of what had happened were beginning to catch up with him. He started to think about what would have happened if he’d walked out with Karen when she came to visit him. This would have all been different.
“I’m bringing in a suspect from the Cavendish garage, robbery.” Said the policeman on his car radio.
Thursday, 13 December 2007
On Tap
I was out the other night and was unwittingly put on the spot. I was at the bar with a mate of mine and he asked what I would like to drink. I peered over and all I could see were the usual suspects on tap, Fosters, Stella, Strongbow and Peter Kay’s favourite John Smiths. As I looked at the symbol on each pump I let out an “ahh” sound in disappointment of not wanting any of those. Not because they’re all putrid pints of piss but because I’ve got history with them all due to them being only available on tap for the last decade. Fosters was the first beer I ever tried. I remember cringing as I tasted it and thinking, “shit I’ve got to be a man and pretend it tastes nice when really all I want to do is regurgitate it on my shoes so I have an excuse to leave.” I then moved onto Stella when I thought I was more of a refined drinker but that stopped once I started to lose my memory after five pints. I used to spend the next day patching it together with various texts from people I didn’t know I even saw the previous night. And of course most of it was embarrassing. Strongbow was the first cider I ever tasted and immediately thought it tasted like gone off boiled sweets so only drank it in desperation. I don’t mind John Smith’s bitter but at that moment in time I wanted something lighter. To be honest I fancied a pint of Becks but there’s no where I know that has it on tap. So after saying “ahh” for about thirty seconds I finally asked for a bottle of Becks even though I really fancied a pint. It may just be the places I visit but wherever I’m out I always find those drinks on tap or the majority of them. Granted I’ve noticed a few Kronenbourg Blanc’s and there is a pub near me that serves Red Stripe which I love but am scared of the locals to go there so I guess I’m stuck with those for the time being.
If anyone knows where they serve Becks on tap let me know.
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“Yeah maybe, but I know what I’m doing with those, I know how to hit someone with it. I can wave in front of them, smack them across the knees and watch them buckle. Then wait, wait for their co-operation and if they still refused I’d smack them across the jaw. But with a weapon like this, what can I do but either wave it in their faces or start firing at them as soon as they refuse to comply.”
“Don’t start chatting about not being able to control a weapon. It’s because you’re scared of using something new. I think you should take the plunge for once, be Gregor’s right hand man. He came to you first to show you his acquisitions. Be a fucking man.”
Charles looks at the pistol. He hates the way it looks, the way it feels all cold and hard. It was almost phallic but yet he couldn’t help but feel incapable if he didn’t accept it. Gregor would laugh at him before spitting on him at the disgust of his refusal. He wants to be part of this new era of theft. It was Marla though he really didn’t want to let down, she thought she married a rampaging hooligan but how can that be true if he wouldn’t even learn to use and carry a gun. The fifteen year old boys that hang round the local shop have air rifles shoved down their pants. It isn’t that much different. He stares at the gun once more then looks back up to Marla who has her eyes fixed on him, waiting for his answer.
“You’re right carrying a gun will make me all powerful, no one will mess with me if I shove this underneath their noses.”
Marla jumps at him and kisses him while wrapping her legs tightly round his waist.
They pull up outside their house. Marla gets out and slams the door and stomps towards the house. Charles then gets out of the car he walks in just as Marla crashes their bedroom door shut upstairs. He was fed up. He couldn’t cope with her tantrums right now and goes over to the kitchen retrieves a glass from the cupboard drops a few ice cubes before pouring some whisky. He slumps himself down on the chair making sure he flops so low that his chin and chest meet while almost all of his legs hang off the end.
The night had been weird. Peter had got him aggravated but he managed to come out on top in their verbal encounter. But soon he’d have to see Gregor about the latest job. Why did he feel in such bondage with this repulsive human? He couldn’t stand him now, his grey stubbly face, his dry peeling skin and his French crop hair style. The thought makes him want to punch Gregor square on the face. He was a weasel. And yet he’ll always do business with him, always invite him in when he comes banging on the door. Never mention not to spit on the door step just before knocking. Maybe for once he should just not get involved with him, slowly distance himself from him. He could hear Marla talking on the phone upstairs probably to Semmi. He decided he liked Semmi, she was a lot more honest with her feelings than her sister and certainly wasn’t as demanding as Marla. Marla wants it all and wants to give no one anything.
If anyone knows where they serve Becks on tap let me know.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Yeah maybe, but I know what I’m doing with those, I know how to hit someone with it. I can wave in front of them, smack them across the knees and watch them buckle. Then wait, wait for their co-operation and if they still refused I’d smack them across the jaw. But with a weapon like this, what can I do but either wave it in their faces or start firing at them as soon as they refuse to comply.”
“Don’t start chatting about not being able to control a weapon. It’s because you’re scared of using something new. I think you should take the plunge for once, be Gregor’s right hand man. He came to you first to show you his acquisitions. Be a fucking man.”
Charles looks at the pistol. He hates the way it looks, the way it feels all cold and hard. It was almost phallic but yet he couldn’t help but feel incapable if he didn’t accept it. Gregor would laugh at him before spitting on him at the disgust of his refusal. He wants to be part of this new era of theft. It was Marla though he really didn’t want to let down, she thought she married a rampaging hooligan but how can that be true if he wouldn’t even learn to use and carry a gun. The fifteen year old boys that hang round the local shop have air rifles shoved down their pants. It isn’t that much different. He stares at the gun once more then looks back up to Marla who has her eyes fixed on him, waiting for his answer.
“You’re right carrying a gun will make me all powerful, no one will mess with me if I shove this underneath their noses.”
Marla jumps at him and kisses him while wrapping her legs tightly round his waist.
They pull up outside their house. Marla gets out and slams the door and stomps towards the house. Charles then gets out of the car he walks in just as Marla crashes their bedroom door shut upstairs. He was fed up. He couldn’t cope with her tantrums right now and goes over to the kitchen retrieves a glass from the cupboard drops a few ice cubes before pouring some whisky. He slumps himself down on the chair making sure he flops so low that his chin and chest meet while almost all of his legs hang off the end.
The night had been weird. Peter had got him aggravated but he managed to come out on top in their verbal encounter. But soon he’d have to see Gregor about the latest job. Why did he feel in such bondage with this repulsive human? He couldn’t stand him now, his grey stubbly face, his dry peeling skin and his French crop hair style. The thought makes him want to punch Gregor square on the face. He was a weasel. And yet he’ll always do business with him, always invite him in when he comes banging on the door. Never mention not to spit on the door step just before knocking. Maybe for once he should just not get involved with him, slowly distance himself from him. He could hear Marla talking on the phone upstairs probably to Semmi. He decided he liked Semmi, she was a lot more honest with her feelings than her sister and certainly wasn’t as demanding as Marla. Marla wants it all and wants to give no one anything.
Monday, 10 December 2007
A Woeful Attempt At Christmas Shopping
Started my Christmas shopping the other day, it was for everything I hadn’t ordered online so ventured into town to pick up those bits. My first stop was HMV which seems such a dense hive of activity at first glance. You absolutely can’t move a muscle without a bit of jostling. I could see the Blue Planet DVD I wanted to get, it was only about fifteen feet away but there was so little room for manoeuvring. It wasn’t for the amount of people in there but for the crazy amount of aisles they have. Eventually I got there but as soon as I picked it up I realised I’ve got to go all the way back and the queue was fast growing. What a total pain in the arse I thought. It’s times like this when I’m put in a position where I may have to be patient that my mind starts sparking with ideas. Unfortunately these ideas are only on how to reduce my waiting time and nothing more. You see I abhor waiting and so does my brain. In fact whenever I arrange to meet someone for something I’m always late. I know its tardy behaviour but I just can’t stand waiting so I know if I’m late I won’t have to wait for the other person. Anyway, in this instance it dawned on me I could go upstairs where they sell posters, games and CD singles hardly anyone ever goes up there anymore. So I weaved my way through the rest of the potential punters and sure enough it was dead apart from a goth guy requesting an obscure death metal album to a confused and slightly scared sales girl. I paid for my goods and thought that pretty much the rest of shops round town are going to be like this so bailed on my trip. Not without passing this shop called Zavvi, where Virgin used to be. What’s all that about then?
Going to see The Darjeeling Limited on Wednesday so if it’s any good I might write about it.
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“Yeah maybe, but I know what I’m doing with those, I know how to hit someone with it. I can wave in front of them, smack them across the knees and watch them buckle. Then wait, wait for their co-operation and if they still refused I’d smack them across the jaw. But with a weapon like this, what can I do but either wave it in their faces or start firing at them as soon as they refuse to comply.”
“Don’t start chatting about not being able to control a weapon. It’s because you’re scared of using something new. I think you should take the plunge for once, be Gregor’s right hand man. He came to you first to show you his acquisitions. Be a fucking man.”
Charles looked at the pistol. He hated the way it looked, the way it felt all cold and hard. It was almost phallic but yet he couldn’t help but feel incapable if he didn’t accept it. Gregor would laugh at him before spitting on him at the disgust of his refusal. He wanted to be part of this new era of theft. It was Marla though he really didn’t want to let down, she thought she married a rampaging hooligan but how can that be true if he wouldn’t even learn to use and carry a gun. The fifteen year old boys that hang round the local shop have air rifles shoved down their pants. It isn’t that much different. He stared at the gun once more then looked back up to Marla who had her eyes fixed on him, waiting for his answer.
“You’re right carrying a gun will make me all powerful, no one will mess with me if I shove this underneath their noses.”
Marla jumped him and kissed him while wrapping her legs tightly round his waist.
They pulled up outside their house. Marla got out and slammed the door and stomped towards the house. Charles then got out of the car he walked in just as Marla slammed their bedroom door upstairs. He was fed up. He couldn’t cope with her tantrums right now and walked over to kitchen retrieved a glass from the cupboard walked to the kitchen and dropped a few ice cubes before pouring some whisky. He slumped himself down on the chair making sure he flopped so low that his chin and chest met while almost all of his legs hung off the end. The night had been weird. Peter had got him aggravated but he managed to come out on top with in their verbal encounter. But soon he’d have to see Gregor about the latest job. Why did he feel in such bondage with this repulsive human? He couldn’t stand him now, his grey stubbly face, his dry skinned face and his French crop hair style made him want to punch him square on the face. He was a weasel. And yet he’ll always do business with him, always invite him in when he came banging on the door. Never mention not to spit on the door step just before knocking. Maybe for once he should just not get involved with him, slowly distance himself from him. He could hear Marla talking on the phone upstairs probably to Semmi. He decided he liked Semmi, she was a lot more honest with her feelings than her sister and certainly wasn’t as demanding as Marla. Marla wants it all and wants to give no one anything.
His phone vibrates and he reaches into his pocket to get it out. He sips on his whisky as he looks at the message from Gregor. It reads, “Two hours, mine.” Charles throws his phone to the floor and swirls his drink around staring at the whisky slushing around the glass. He’s not going to go this time. He told himself this earlier. Who is he going to betray his strength of mind or Gregor?
After an hour Charles gets up picks up his car keys and heads out to the car.
Going to see The Darjeeling Limited on Wednesday so if it’s any good I might write about it.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Yeah maybe, but I know what I’m doing with those, I know how to hit someone with it. I can wave in front of them, smack them across the knees and watch them buckle. Then wait, wait for their co-operation and if they still refused I’d smack them across the jaw. But with a weapon like this, what can I do but either wave it in their faces or start firing at them as soon as they refuse to comply.”
“Don’t start chatting about not being able to control a weapon. It’s because you’re scared of using something new. I think you should take the plunge for once, be Gregor’s right hand man. He came to you first to show you his acquisitions. Be a fucking man.”
Charles looked at the pistol. He hated the way it looked, the way it felt all cold and hard. It was almost phallic but yet he couldn’t help but feel incapable if he didn’t accept it. Gregor would laugh at him before spitting on him at the disgust of his refusal. He wanted to be part of this new era of theft. It was Marla though he really didn’t want to let down, she thought she married a rampaging hooligan but how can that be true if he wouldn’t even learn to use and carry a gun. The fifteen year old boys that hang round the local shop have air rifles shoved down their pants. It isn’t that much different. He stared at the gun once more then looked back up to Marla who had her eyes fixed on him, waiting for his answer.
“You’re right carrying a gun will make me all powerful, no one will mess with me if I shove this underneath their noses.”
Marla jumped him and kissed him while wrapping her legs tightly round his waist.
They pulled up outside their house. Marla got out and slammed the door and stomped towards the house. Charles then got out of the car he walked in just as Marla slammed their bedroom door upstairs. He was fed up. He couldn’t cope with her tantrums right now and walked over to kitchen retrieved a glass from the cupboard walked to the kitchen and dropped a few ice cubes before pouring some whisky. He slumped himself down on the chair making sure he flopped so low that his chin and chest met while almost all of his legs hung off the end. The night had been weird. Peter had got him aggravated but he managed to come out on top with in their verbal encounter. But soon he’d have to see Gregor about the latest job. Why did he feel in such bondage with this repulsive human? He couldn’t stand him now, his grey stubbly face, his dry skinned face and his French crop hair style made him want to punch him square on the face. He was a weasel. And yet he’ll always do business with him, always invite him in when he came banging on the door. Never mention not to spit on the door step just before knocking. Maybe for once he should just not get involved with him, slowly distance himself from him. He could hear Marla talking on the phone upstairs probably to Semmi. He decided he liked Semmi, she was a lot more honest with her feelings than her sister and certainly wasn’t as demanding as Marla. Marla wants it all and wants to give no one anything.
His phone vibrates and he reaches into his pocket to get it out. He sips on his whisky as he looks at the message from Gregor. It reads, “Two hours, mine.” Charles throws his phone to the floor and swirls his drink around staring at the whisky slushing around the glass. He’s not going to go this time. He told himself this earlier. Who is he going to betray his strength of mind or Gregor?
After an hour Charles gets up picks up his car keys and heads out to the car.
Sunday, 2 December 2007
Glasses - Update
A couple of months ago I wrote about visiting the opticians to find out just how blind I am (click here). Well I finally made the appointment on Monday and at 6:00 on Thursday evening I found myself standing at the reception area letting them know I’ve got an eye appointment. The receptionist thought it was funny that I said eye appointment I thought that’s what most people say. She led me upstairs where another receptionist, greeted me and asked if I’d come here before for my eye tests. I shook my head that I hadn’t so he shoved some forms under my nose and told me to fill them out before seeing the optician. I had to fill out questions like, do I watch television? And, how often do I rest my eyes? Surely that’s another way to say how often do I sleep. Anyway, I answered them the best I could and waited for the optician who called out my name after a few moments in strong powerful assertive tone. I got up and followed him into his office. He was striding with an aura of self importance. He pointed to the chair which I guess is where I was supposed to sit and he snatched the form out of my hand in the same manner Emmet Brown ripped the Save The Clock Tower leaflet from Marty’s hand. He nodded then grabbed my chin moving my head side to side then asked if anything had got into my eye. I told him nothing to my knowledge. He thought I had a mark on my left cornea but to make sure he wanted to use some yellow dye. He produced a little pipette from no where and quickly dropped some fluid in my left eye and then one in my right. I guess he thought he might as well do them both. Immediately I started blinking profusely as this foreign substance invaded my pupil. When I finally managed to focus everything had a nice yellow tint to it, it was really weird but in a pleasant way. This mundane office had suddenly sprung to life in a flourish of yellow. I told the optician this but he didn’t care he just told me to nestle my chin on a piece of machinery and stare straight ahead. He went around the other side and started looking into my eyes examining this mark. A minute passed in silence while he looked into my eyes. Then another minute passed and still no one spoke. Usually when this happens my mind starts to drift, and sure enough it did. I don’t know why, I guess I was bored but something random popped into my head and it was this.
Soup Soup
That Tasty
Soup Soup
That Spicy Carrot and corriander
Chilli Chowder
Crouton Crouton
Crunchy friends in a liquid broth
I am gespatio (oh)
I am a summer soup (mmm)
Miso Miso Fighting in the Dojo
Miso Miso Oriental Prince from the land of soup
I was transfixed by this song, playing it over and over in my head. I wasn’t aware that the optician was calling my name. I felt the fool when he finally got my attention by rocking my shoulder but the song was still ringing round. He told me that there was a slight scratch on the cornea but not to worry. I wasn’t. He then made me wear glasses with one eye covered with a patch and told me to read the letters from the white board, when I finally got stuck on line 5 he replaced the lense with another one and things became clearer and I read all of them apart from the bottom line. I think that’s impossible anyway, and it’s just a joke that opticians do to amuse themselves. I then went through the whole process again with the other eye and again I got right until the bottom line. I took off the glasses and the optician told me I needed some spectacles for reading and watching and television. I expected this and he led me outside where a young eager salesgirl awaited me. The soup song was still in my head but I didn’t think it was clever to start singing it out loud. The salesgirl virtually held my hand guiding me to all these glasses but I wasn’t really interested in any of them. She showed me ones that looked like something an SS Nazi officer would wear, some rimless Sven Goran Eriksson one’s but they were far too expensive. I did quite like the look of some thick black rimmed ones but when I looked in the mirror I just looked like a dopey Clark Kent. I even enquired about a monocle but apparently they are no longer in fashion. So in the end I procured some half rimless ones that make me look sort of intelligent. I collect them next week.
In case you don’t know the soup song. Here’s how the professionals perform it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I29IjrCY6Wc&feature=related
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“You fucking are if you want to get a cut of some up and coming jobs. You’re supposed the hard nut of our set up.”
Charles looks at the gun. He stares at the scratched tally chart and thinks if he’ll ever add to it. He didn’t want to use the gun, he tried to justify it to himself that he wouldn’t have to use it just scare people by bringing it into sight. If he had to use it he could just hit them with the butt of the pistol.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“What’s there to think about you fucking pussy?”
The lounge door opens causing Gregor to spin round pointing the gun as Marla enters. She at first looks at Gregor’s serious expression. His eyes fiery with passion and his mouth open to bear his clenched teeth. Then she notices what he’s pointing towards her. Charles waits for the horrific scream that she is capable of but instead she looks at the object. She cranes her neck to examine it as Gregor gets up and embraces her, kissing her on the cheek. He places the gun in her hand and she stares in wonderment.
“This is amazing you’ve got a gun. A fully functional gun?” She asks still looking at the pistol in her hands.
“Of course, my dear, of course. It doesn’t seem you’re scared of these things, unlike your husband.”
“You’re scared of them Charlie? Why in earth?” She says as she starts pointing it around the room. She takes aim at the miniature statue of David that is standing on the fire place. Her eyes squinting slightly as she looks at the target.
“I’m not scared of it. I’m just, I don’t know. It sort of worries me that we might have to use them.”
“Ahhhh, so what if we have to shoot someone might do them some fucking good. I came here tonight to show you what I’ve spent months trying to get. Do you know how fucking hard it is to speak to a Ukrainian that understands only broken English? And it’s your wife that’s taken any genuine interest in them. Marla, talk some sense into him we need him for a job in a couple of weeks and he’ll need practice. I’m going to the pub.”
Gregor stands up, takes one last hard stare at Charles making sure he makes direct eye contact with his eyes. Then he leans over kisses Marla on the cheek again and takes the gun away from her grasp and slips it into his pocket nonchalantly like as if it was a wallet or his mobile phone. The door slams as he leaves them both.
Marla turns to Charles.
“Why are you scared of using a gun?”
“Why do you think I’m scared, I don’t want to kill anyone. I mean if in a fight someone was fatally wounded then so be it. But using a gun is so, so abrupt. There’s no control of pressure. Once I’ve pulled the trigger it’s more than likely the person will die. I don’t like that. I want to terrify them with my fists, my crow bar in my hand and play with them a little not terminate their lives if they don’t agree to what I ask. Fuck, I don’t even know how to use one.”
“Times are changing Charlie you need to be able to respond to every situation and by having a gun you’ll be able to do that. Who’d want to argue with someone pointing a ticket to visit death in their face? You shouldn’t be so scared, be a man take the gun. It’s not much different to your baseball bat or crow bar. If you hit someone across the head hard enough you’d kill them.
Soup Soup
That Tasty
Soup Soup
That Spicy Carrot and corriander
Chilli Chowder
Crouton Crouton
Crunchy friends in a liquid broth
I am gespatio (oh)
I am a summer soup (mmm)
Miso Miso Fighting in the Dojo
Miso Miso Oriental Prince from the land of soup
I was transfixed by this song, playing it over and over in my head. I wasn’t aware that the optician was calling my name. I felt the fool when he finally got my attention by rocking my shoulder but the song was still ringing round. He told me that there was a slight scratch on the cornea but not to worry. I wasn’t. He then made me wear glasses with one eye covered with a patch and told me to read the letters from the white board, when I finally got stuck on line 5 he replaced the lense with another one and things became clearer and I read all of them apart from the bottom line. I think that’s impossible anyway, and it’s just a joke that opticians do to amuse themselves. I then went through the whole process again with the other eye and again I got right until the bottom line. I took off the glasses and the optician told me I needed some spectacles for reading and watching and television. I expected this and he led me outside where a young eager salesgirl awaited me. The soup song was still in my head but I didn’t think it was clever to start singing it out loud. The salesgirl virtually held my hand guiding me to all these glasses but I wasn’t really interested in any of them. She showed me ones that looked like something an SS Nazi officer would wear, some rimless Sven Goran Eriksson one’s but they were far too expensive. I did quite like the look of some thick black rimmed ones but when I looked in the mirror I just looked like a dopey Clark Kent. I even enquired about a monocle but apparently they are no longer in fashion. So in the end I procured some half rimless ones that make me look sort of intelligent. I collect them next week.
In case you don’t know the soup song. Here’s how the professionals perform it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I29IjrCY6Wc&feature=related
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“You fucking are if you want to get a cut of some up and coming jobs. You’re supposed the hard nut of our set up.”
Charles looks at the gun. He stares at the scratched tally chart and thinks if he’ll ever add to it. He didn’t want to use the gun, he tried to justify it to himself that he wouldn’t have to use it just scare people by bringing it into sight. If he had to use it he could just hit them with the butt of the pistol.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“What’s there to think about you fucking pussy?”
The lounge door opens causing Gregor to spin round pointing the gun as Marla enters. She at first looks at Gregor’s serious expression. His eyes fiery with passion and his mouth open to bear his clenched teeth. Then she notices what he’s pointing towards her. Charles waits for the horrific scream that she is capable of but instead she looks at the object. She cranes her neck to examine it as Gregor gets up and embraces her, kissing her on the cheek. He places the gun in her hand and she stares in wonderment.
“This is amazing you’ve got a gun. A fully functional gun?” She asks still looking at the pistol in her hands.
“Of course, my dear, of course. It doesn’t seem you’re scared of these things, unlike your husband.”
“You’re scared of them Charlie? Why in earth?” She says as she starts pointing it around the room. She takes aim at the miniature statue of David that is standing on the fire place. Her eyes squinting slightly as she looks at the target.
“I’m not scared of it. I’m just, I don’t know. It sort of worries me that we might have to use them.”
“Ahhhh, so what if we have to shoot someone might do them some fucking good. I came here tonight to show you what I’ve spent months trying to get. Do you know how fucking hard it is to speak to a Ukrainian that understands only broken English? And it’s your wife that’s taken any genuine interest in them. Marla, talk some sense into him we need him for a job in a couple of weeks and he’ll need practice. I’m going to the pub.”
Gregor stands up, takes one last hard stare at Charles making sure he makes direct eye contact with his eyes. Then he leans over kisses Marla on the cheek again and takes the gun away from her grasp and slips it into his pocket nonchalantly like as if it was a wallet or his mobile phone. The door slams as he leaves them both.
Marla turns to Charles.
“Why are you scared of using a gun?”
“Why do you think I’m scared, I don’t want to kill anyone. I mean if in a fight someone was fatally wounded then so be it. But using a gun is so, so abrupt. There’s no control of pressure. Once I’ve pulled the trigger it’s more than likely the person will die. I don’t like that. I want to terrify them with my fists, my crow bar in my hand and play with them a little not terminate their lives if they don’t agree to what I ask. Fuck, I don’t even know how to use one.”
“Times are changing Charlie you need to be able to respond to every situation and by having a gun you’ll be able to do that. Who’d want to argue with someone pointing a ticket to visit death in their face? You shouldn’t be so scared, be a man take the gun. It’s not much different to your baseball bat or crow bar. If you hit someone across the head hard enough you’d kill them.
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Who is
- Paddington's Shadow
- I like listening to Rob da Bank, Mista Jam on 1Xtra, drinking coffee and ginger tea. I enjoy listening to the radio, particularly Radio 5Live and World Service and am also learning Spanish which seems to be going ok. Another thing I like doing is writing which is why I have this blog.