Due to my apparent ‘un-employ-ability’, despite having a degree (cheers economy!), many of my days of late have been occupied by rearranging the furniture in my room and as a result of this upheaval, a strange yet common phenomenon has come to my attention.
The phenomenon of ‘stuff’.
And lots of it!
As I root around the room that has remained relatively unaltered since before I went to Uni, I’m constantly coming across and array of utterly pointless items that for some unknown reason I have decided to keep.
And the worst part of it is wondering why I even had these items in the first place, let alone deemed it necessary to store it away in some dusty drawer for nearly ten years. For instance, amongst my top ten ‘why the hell do I own this?!’ collection was a sticker of Wolf from Gladiators, seven keys to doors/padlocks that I was unaware existed, a clay sculpture that I made at school in year seven, twelve empty perfume bottles, fifteen photos of my ENTIRE class on a year six excursion to a country manor in period dress and a yellow plastic beaker with my name on it which I got at nursery school! Yet despite all of these bizarre objects ranking highly, my absolute favourite item of utter uselessness had to be an unused paper Starbucks cup. Why of course! A must have for every home!
I can’t imagine what was going through my mind when I last did a purge, came across these items and actually thought, (within some degree of logic and reason), that they would even be of use to ma again! Of course there is the sentimentality of such items and the memories attached to them, although most of them are probably made up memories. What I mean by this is when one looks at a photograph of them self at an age where it is highly unlikely that any ‘real memories’ can still exist (for the sake of argument let’s say age four), fake ones replace them based on our parents’ stories or what we would like to think happened. Perhaps it is just me whom does this... Anyway I’ve completely sidetracked.
Back to the stuff. The worst part is it’s not just my bedroom that is under this curse. The entire house is full of literally pointless objects! Why, for example does my father have the cardboard box which his laptop came in stacked away in the spare room along with a telescope he’s never used, an exercise bike so dated I’m sure it’s from circa 1952 and three television sets?! If you think that’s bad then venturing into his office is a whole other dimension and gives a new meaning to the word ‘junk’. Is it really necessary to have three clarinets, six brand new, unused canvases of varying size and a fox skull in an office? Methinks not.
My musing upon all of these useless, material belongings and subsequent obliteration of all things pointless has prompted me to try to understand why it has only began to bother me so wretchedly now. I have come to two conclusions.
One: because I am in a period of strange, slow and tedious transition from the joys of irresponsibility towards the burdens of gritty reality (and at the moment a fairly bleak looking future - the inevitability of never being able to own my own home, massive debt, no job etc...), it would seem that I physically need to rid all of this baggage that I’m so desperately clinging on to in order to move forward. Yes, in some respects I am still a sentimental fool who can’t bring herself to throw away photos or birthday cards from four years ago. But the rest is just metaphorically holding me back.
My second conclusion is perhaps more reasoned and logical than the first. Maybe, just maybe, all of this doomsday media propaganda about the eventual and inevitable demise of oil, increasing globalisation, climate change and the rise of Communist China as an industrial superpower has made me realise that as a society we really do need to change our wasteful, consumerist ways.
More than half of the junk that I banished to the bin was made of plastic. It must be more than a happy coincidence that I’m reading a chapter in Michael Moore’s ‘Dude, Where’s My Country?’ about the western world’s dependency on Arab oil, as well as hearing non-stop about Obama’s and McCain’s stances on offshore drilling and alternative energy. I think we have just come to a point where we all need to say ‘enough is enough’ and stop all of this wasteful accumulation of stuff. If the climate change threats are to be believed, slowing down production and consumption of foreign oil and Chinese plastic goods may be our only saviour. The problem then lies with the cost to our already bleak global economic outlook ... At a time like this I don’t envy politicians one little bit! Watch this space...
Friday, 5 September 2008
Friday, 18 July 2008
Simple Pleasures
The other day my housemate and I were lazing about the flat, (shocking I know), waiting for our only form of routine or schedule to begin: Jeremy Kyle followed by Ricky Lake followed by Sally Jessy Raphael followed by Montel Williams, each programme punctuated with cups of tea and the occasional delirious outburst impersonating either the show’s eponymous host or one of the undesirable guests. Yes, it seems ITV2 daytime “sponsored by ITV Bingo” (Powered by Party Gaming don’t you know) has become a bit of an unwanted addiction for Chloe and I.
Anyway, whilst the tenth DNA test result of the day was revealed, we both noticed that it was rather hot. Pulling back the floral curtains to reveal beaming sunshine prompted a scene far too similar to one from the Hunchback of Notre Dame than I was comfortable with. It was at this point, whilst we both grimaced and squinted in the daylight that we realised how little time we had left to make the most of Bournemouth’s gorgeous beach.
We raced down to the seafront in record time and decided it was time that we both went for our first swim in the sea for 2008. Excluding a mini-surfing encounter in Polzeath a month earlier, neither Chloe nor I had been deeper than ankle-level in Bournemouth’s waters this year. Come to think of it, I hadn’t swam in the sea since the blissful summer heat of 2006; a time where almost everyday for a month the beach was mine and Sammy P’s alone for at least an hour each beautiful morning!
As we waded into the surprisingly warm waters a bout of girly giggles got the better of us, but nevertheless we ventured on. I maintain that even the grumpiest of sods would be reduced to childlike squeals if pressed into a good old-fashioned seaside paddle.
When we reached a point where the water was at shoulder height we stopped and bobbed, swam deeper then returned, splashed around in the waves and soaked up the atmosphere. The view of the promenade from the water is not one which is usually encountered and provided an interesting spot for people watching.
I can honestly say that nothing has brought me as much simple pleasure or contentment for a long time, than simply bobbing about in the sea, just being. The experience put me in a euphoric mood for the rest of the evening.
The following day was warm and pleasant, although not as picture-perfect as the day before, however we decided to re-enact our little excursion. Unfortunately, as is often the case, returning to a place that created such an important or enjoyable memory on one occasion, it was disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but in almost forcibly trying to have as good a time as the previous day, we inevitably didn’t. My mother, a wise woman as all mothers are, has often pointed this unfortunate fact out to me before – that revising somewhere you really loved would never be as special upon a second visit.
So it is with great sadness that I resign myself to the inevitability of change, the fact that once I have left Bournemouth a day trip here would never quite be the same. Yet I am comforted by the simple fact that I have made the most of every second of my time spent here – even on the numerous days spent vegetating in front of mindless daytime TV, because each and every moment spent at uni over the past three years has forged me into the person that I am now and for that, Jeremy Kyle, I am grateful.
Anyway, whilst the tenth DNA test result of the day was revealed, we both noticed that it was rather hot. Pulling back the floral curtains to reveal beaming sunshine prompted a scene far too similar to one from the Hunchback of Notre Dame than I was comfortable with. It was at this point, whilst we both grimaced and squinted in the daylight that we realised how little time we had left to make the most of Bournemouth’s gorgeous beach.
We raced down to the seafront in record time and decided it was time that we both went for our first swim in the sea for 2008. Excluding a mini-surfing encounter in Polzeath a month earlier, neither Chloe nor I had been deeper than ankle-level in Bournemouth’s waters this year. Come to think of it, I hadn’t swam in the sea since the blissful summer heat of 2006; a time where almost everyday for a month the beach was mine and Sammy P’s alone for at least an hour each beautiful morning!
As we waded into the surprisingly warm waters a bout of girly giggles got the better of us, but nevertheless we ventured on. I maintain that even the grumpiest of sods would be reduced to childlike squeals if pressed into a good old-fashioned seaside paddle.
When we reached a point where the water was at shoulder height we stopped and bobbed, swam deeper then returned, splashed around in the waves and soaked up the atmosphere. The view of the promenade from the water is not one which is usually encountered and provided an interesting spot for people watching.
I can honestly say that nothing has brought me as much simple pleasure or contentment for a long time, than simply bobbing about in the sea, just being. The experience put me in a euphoric mood for the rest of the evening.
The following day was warm and pleasant, although not as picture-perfect as the day before, however we decided to re-enact our little excursion. Unfortunately, as is often the case, returning to a place that created such an important or enjoyable memory on one occasion, it was disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but in almost forcibly trying to have as good a time as the previous day, we inevitably didn’t. My mother, a wise woman as all mothers are, has often pointed this unfortunate fact out to me before – that revising somewhere you really loved would never be as special upon a second visit.
So it is with great sadness that I resign myself to the inevitability of change, the fact that once I have left Bournemouth a day trip here would never quite be the same. Yet I am comforted by the simple fact that I have made the most of every second of my time spent here – even on the numerous days spent vegetating in front of mindless daytime TV, because each and every moment spent at uni over the past three years has forged me into the person that I am now and for that, Jeremy Kyle, I am grateful.
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
Just a thought...
Question: Is there anything more tedious than being in the house on your own, editing a fifteen thousand word dissertation?
Answers on a postcard please!
Answers on a postcard please!
Monday, 31 March 2008
Mind Clutter
I've got these jeans. Jeans that I haven't worn for over five years. But I just can't get rid of them. The pair, indigo denim with a beige trim of tatty faux-fur, and bell bottomed ankles, may sound like a heinous crime against fashion, but I still can't chuck them. I have come to some reasoned conclusions as to why this might be the case. Firstly, the battle I faced in order to obtain the jeans in the first place, was a struggle of gigantic proportions, that to throw them away now would be an unthinkable crime! You see, they are Miss Sixty jeans. Miss Sixty!I must have spent at least an hour-a-day for a month begging, pleading with my mother to part with seventy five (yes SEVENTY FIVE) pounds in exchange for the object of my dreams, before she finally gave in.
Another reason as to why I may be so attached to this garment may lie in their the symbolic connotations. The jeans reside in a white chest-of-drawers in my bedroom at home. The room in which I had lived for at least ten of the nineteen years that My family had owned this house... until, I went to uni. I've always felt a very strong attachment to my family home. Maybe it's because my first breaths of air, my first seconds of life, occurred in this very house. Or, maybe it's just the character that my home possesses. It's a grand structure, built in the Georgian era, painted white, with two columns supporting the solid awning above the front door. The garden is huge, (well perhaps not huge, but big enough, and exciting enough to occupy me and my brother in our outdoor adventures for hour upon hour when we were growing up.)There's something about it which I just love and anytime the mention of selling up and moving comes up I just can't bear the thought of leaving it. But back to the jeans. What I'm saying is, that this old, tiny (I used to be a scrawny size 6 up until the age of about seventeen)and unfashionable piece of attire resembles a piece of me, a tangible extension of my character, before I left home. A younger, more innocent, dependent 'me', who has now well and truly disappeared. Every holiday throughout university, I would without fail, open the drawer to check that they were still there, consider giving them to the charity shop, and then tuck them neatly back into their home. The place where they belong.
And it's not just the jeans. Every object that remains in my bedroom at home, every survivor of my termly purge, holds a story, a meaning, that to me, is too important to throw away.
I have but one term of university to complete until I graduate into certified, there's-no-going-back-now, adulthood. This fills me with dread. But I am safe in the knowledge, that when I eventually move back home, before finding a job and a place of my own, I can find comfort. I know where it is. It's where it always is. Tucked away in a white chest-of-drawers.
Another reason as to why I may be so attached to this garment may lie in their the symbolic connotations. The jeans reside in a white chest-of-drawers in my bedroom at home. The room in which I had lived for at least ten of the nineteen years that My family had owned this house... until, I went to uni. I've always felt a very strong attachment to my family home. Maybe it's because my first breaths of air, my first seconds of life, occurred in this very house. Or, maybe it's just the character that my home possesses. It's a grand structure, built in the Georgian era, painted white, with two columns supporting the solid awning above the front door. The garden is huge, (well perhaps not huge, but big enough, and exciting enough to occupy me and my brother in our outdoor adventures for hour upon hour when we were growing up.)There's something about it which I just love and anytime the mention of selling up and moving comes up I just can't bear the thought of leaving it. But back to the jeans. What I'm saying is, that this old, tiny (I used to be a scrawny size 6 up until the age of about seventeen)and unfashionable piece of attire resembles a piece of me, a tangible extension of my character, before I left home. A younger, more innocent, dependent 'me', who has now well and truly disappeared. Every holiday throughout university, I would without fail, open the drawer to check that they were still there, consider giving them to the charity shop, and then tuck them neatly back into their home. The place where they belong.
And it's not just the jeans. Every object that remains in my bedroom at home, every survivor of my termly purge, holds a story, a meaning, that to me, is too important to throw away.
I have but one term of university to complete until I graduate into certified, there's-no-going-back-now, adulthood. This fills me with dread. But I am safe in the knowledge, that when I eventually move back home, before finding a job and a place of my own, I can find comfort. I know where it is. It's where it always is. Tucked away in a white chest-of-drawers.
Thursday, 28 February 2008
It's getting closer...
The point has come where I have to seriously start thinking about... Yep, you guessed it - THE FUTURE!!! A daunting prospect.
I am currently tapping the keys of my rather perfectly formed new laptop to the beat of Aerosmith's Love in An Elevator, (not a rare occurrance might I add!)But the life that, over the past three years, I have come to know so well, where sitting in my dimly lit room listening to 90's Rock, clad in a T-Shirt I got free from Walkabout's 'Snakebite Sunday' (yes it does exist) in the middle of the day is acceptable, is soon to be a thing of the past.
In the first year of Uni my Peter Pan mentality helped succesfully eradicate any possibile thoughts or conversations about jobs, graduating and 'The Real world.'However, now, the idea of earning a decent salary as opposed to scraping together the peanuts I earn at my part time job with my ever-diminishing loan, the prospect of coming home at 5pm and NOT having to think about an assignment deadline/scheduling in hangover days around assignment deadlines/overdue library books/wondering whether the festering pile of washing-up left to rot on the crumby surfaces in the kitchen will be there to greet me when I get home are all quite attractive prospects!
Three years at Uni is definitely long enough! Now it is time for a new chapter in my life. One that involves structure and routine. Forgive me if I'm boring you, or perhaps enraging you for not being grateful for easy I've got it by expressing a desire for the routine and mundane. But that is what I really feel I'm ready for...
Now there's just the problem of graduating and finding that dream job. The Journey continues...
I am currently tapping the keys of my rather perfectly formed new laptop to the beat of Aerosmith's Love in An Elevator, (not a rare occurrance might I add!)But the life that, over the past three years, I have come to know so well, where sitting in my dimly lit room listening to 90's Rock, clad in a T-Shirt I got free from Walkabout's 'Snakebite Sunday' (yes it does exist) in the middle of the day is acceptable, is soon to be a thing of the past.
In the first year of Uni my Peter Pan mentality helped succesfully eradicate any possibile thoughts or conversations about jobs, graduating and 'The Real world.'However, now, the idea of earning a decent salary as opposed to scraping together the peanuts I earn at my part time job with my ever-diminishing loan, the prospect of coming home at 5pm and NOT having to think about an assignment deadline/scheduling in hangover days around assignment deadlines/overdue library books/wondering whether the festering pile of washing-up left to rot on the crumby surfaces in the kitchen will be there to greet me when I get home are all quite attractive prospects!
Three years at Uni is definitely long enough! Now it is time for a new chapter in my life. One that involves structure and routine. Forgive me if I'm boring you, or perhaps enraging you for not being grateful for easy I've got it by expressing a desire for the routine and mundane. But that is what I really feel I'm ready for...
Now there's just the problem of graduating and finding that dream job. The Journey continues...
Best Served Cold
A Dark Short Story...
The rain is deafening me, beating hard and relentlessly against the thin and fragile panes of the phone box. My ankles are damp and cold. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, in any direction; I am completely alone in a ghost town. But I feel safe; I am alone, just close your eyes breathe in through your nostrils, out through your mouth, in the nose out of the mouth…
The date is September 13th. It is 2003, and the time is 2.37pm exactly and it is a Sunday. My name is Jacob Peter Spencer and I am 24. It was exactly 3 months ago that I met Katie. Katie’s eyes: deep and brown, so dark I would often get lost in them; melt into a euphoric silent, safe place. She had a way of tucking her fine caramel hair behind her tiny ear when it would fall in front of her amazing eyes, blocking my view of the windows to her mysterious soul. She saved me. But that was then…
On a mild June day I was feeding a sparrow in central park. So trusting it was. Fragile and naïve, and solely dependent on my donation: a morsel of bagel. I liked it best this way, just me, independent, ‘I don’t need anyone else’ I thought. Remembering my home town I shuddered and was cold. Quickly I swallowed one of my tablets. “They help me, I need them” I reassured myself, exhaling deeply and shutting my eyes. The sparrow fled, isolated again. Pulling my sleeves down around my hands and hugging my knees to my chest was my instinct, a reflex action. I could not bear to recall what happened, but erasing my past- impossible. She made me jump! A soft comforting palm rested on my shoulder, delicate fingers gently but firmly pressing down. “Excuse me, are you alright?” A soft voice questioned.
And that was how I met her.
That moment seemed to last forever, when our eyes met and I froze. “Is it ok if I sit with you? Its just I saw you were alone, and well like I guess I think you look like you could do with a friendly face?! Sorry, it’s Katie! You are?” she glowed extending her arm towards me. I suppose looking back it was too good to be true. Who was this girl? Why would she talk to a guy like me? “Jake” I answered. “Um uh…” I started before she cut me off: “Sorry if you want me to go I’ll just…” “No, no stay. Please. Talk with me.”
I will never forget That Day. Katie was like no one I have ever met before. Have you ever met someone that you are just in total awe of? Who you never tire of listening to? Is always willing to listen to you, when you think there is nobody left? That was her, and more. In the park we sat for hours. Time passed in a daze and all the while I thought to myself ‘this is not happening, it’s a dream’. We talked about so much. I was so lonely, if only she’d have known. But she understood me in other ways, ways that mattered. A friend. It was only when her cell shrieked a shrill sound she left. Gone suddenly, but not forgotten. I had to see her again. She must want to see me too I figured. Why would this amazing woman have spent the entire day listening to me? Caring?
That night, in The City That Never Sleeps I was alive. I drew. Her face was etched in my memory like a photograph. Sketching carefully I recalled those eyes so fascinating, delicate nose, rose blush cheeks.
The next morning I walked back through those trees, sun filtering between them, rays streaming onto the path. I sat on the bench again. And waited. And thought. And she came. The ecstasy that erupted inside me when I set eyes on her again was immense. “Hey!” She chirped merrily as she noticed me, like a bird at dawn. “Fancy seeing you again!” she joked. If only she knew what she meant to me. “Wanna grab a coffee before I get to work?” she suggested with a trace of Manhattan drawl. I obliged. Sitting in the corner of Starbucks sipping on a caramel macchiato, I was ignorant to the activity, the buzz all around. I was safe.
She left me that day.
It started to rain, small droplets splashed on my nose and I looked at the puddles around me. A web glistened in the corner frame of the window panes, a beautiful prison, a trapped fly.
It was a Thursday when saw her for the last time. I hadn’t been sleeping. Where was she? By now anxious to see her, desperate, I started out of my chair, when I froze. She hadn’t seen me, but I saw her. I watched. She kissed him. She kissed him again. Her beautiful face illuminated like an angel. But my heart pounded stronger, harder tearing out of my chest. Hot tears burned my cheeks. Why? Who is he? It was unbearable. It happened in a blur, flashes. I remember swallowing a fistful of pills. My head throbbed. She was mine. Mine! Not anyone else’s. I needed her. “Why?! I Don’t understand!”
She shrieked and yelled but I was deaf to her pleas. The rage! How could she have done this to me? Why?! I tossed her like a rag doll into my dark, stale apartment. And then I left her. Alone. Like she had left me. I turned the key and departed. Calmly, coolly. My sketch, her reflection. Her only companion in that room. Cold. Nobody knows where she is. But me.
The rain is ceasing. I thumb the small key in my hand so hard my palms are raw. And I let it go. Released. It falls down, dropping as if in slow motion, striking the grates of the drain cover, and then gone, forever. Placing a pill on my tongue it melts.
My bittersweet poison...
The rain is deafening me, beating hard and relentlessly against the thin and fragile panes of the phone box. My ankles are damp and cold. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, in any direction; I am completely alone in a ghost town. But I feel safe; I am alone, just close your eyes breathe in through your nostrils, out through your mouth, in the nose out of the mouth…
The date is September 13th. It is 2003, and the time is 2.37pm exactly and it is a Sunday. My name is Jacob Peter Spencer and I am 24. It was exactly 3 months ago that I met Katie. Katie’s eyes: deep and brown, so dark I would often get lost in them; melt into a euphoric silent, safe place. She had a way of tucking her fine caramel hair behind her tiny ear when it would fall in front of her amazing eyes, blocking my view of the windows to her mysterious soul. She saved me. But that was then…
On a mild June day I was feeding a sparrow in central park. So trusting it was. Fragile and naïve, and solely dependent on my donation: a morsel of bagel. I liked it best this way, just me, independent, ‘I don’t need anyone else’ I thought. Remembering my home town I shuddered and was cold. Quickly I swallowed one of my tablets. “They help me, I need them” I reassured myself, exhaling deeply and shutting my eyes. The sparrow fled, isolated again. Pulling my sleeves down around my hands and hugging my knees to my chest was my instinct, a reflex action. I could not bear to recall what happened, but erasing my past- impossible. She made me jump! A soft comforting palm rested on my shoulder, delicate fingers gently but firmly pressing down. “Excuse me, are you alright?” A soft voice questioned.
And that was how I met her.
That moment seemed to last forever, when our eyes met and I froze. “Is it ok if I sit with you? Its just I saw you were alone, and well like I guess I think you look like you could do with a friendly face?! Sorry, it’s Katie! You are?” she glowed extending her arm towards me. I suppose looking back it was too good to be true. Who was this girl? Why would she talk to a guy like me? “Jake” I answered. “Um uh…” I started before she cut me off: “Sorry if you want me to go I’ll just…” “No, no stay. Please. Talk with me.”
I will never forget That Day. Katie was like no one I have ever met before. Have you ever met someone that you are just in total awe of? Who you never tire of listening to? Is always willing to listen to you, when you think there is nobody left? That was her, and more. In the park we sat for hours. Time passed in a daze and all the while I thought to myself ‘this is not happening, it’s a dream’. We talked about so much. I was so lonely, if only she’d have known. But she understood me in other ways, ways that mattered. A friend. It was only when her cell shrieked a shrill sound she left. Gone suddenly, but not forgotten. I had to see her again. She must want to see me too I figured. Why would this amazing woman have spent the entire day listening to me? Caring?
That night, in The City That Never Sleeps I was alive. I drew. Her face was etched in my memory like a photograph. Sketching carefully I recalled those eyes so fascinating, delicate nose, rose blush cheeks.
The next morning I walked back through those trees, sun filtering between them, rays streaming onto the path. I sat on the bench again. And waited. And thought. And she came. The ecstasy that erupted inside me when I set eyes on her again was immense. “Hey!” She chirped merrily as she noticed me, like a bird at dawn. “Fancy seeing you again!” she joked. If only she knew what she meant to me. “Wanna grab a coffee before I get to work?” she suggested with a trace of Manhattan drawl. I obliged. Sitting in the corner of Starbucks sipping on a caramel macchiato, I was ignorant to the activity, the buzz all around. I was safe.
She left me that day.
It started to rain, small droplets splashed on my nose and I looked at the puddles around me. A web glistened in the corner frame of the window panes, a beautiful prison, a trapped fly.
It was a Thursday when saw her for the last time. I hadn’t been sleeping. Where was she? By now anxious to see her, desperate, I started out of my chair, when I froze. She hadn’t seen me, but I saw her. I watched. She kissed him. She kissed him again. Her beautiful face illuminated like an angel. But my heart pounded stronger, harder tearing out of my chest. Hot tears burned my cheeks. Why? Who is he? It was unbearable. It happened in a blur, flashes. I remember swallowing a fistful of pills. My head throbbed. She was mine. Mine! Not anyone else’s. I needed her. “Why?! I Don’t understand!”
She shrieked and yelled but I was deaf to her pleas. The rage! How could she have done this to me? Why?! I tossed her like a rag doll into my dark, stale apartment. And then I left her. Alone. Like she had left me. I turned the key and departed. Calmly, coolly. My sketch, her reflection. Her only companion in that room. Cold. Nobody knows where she is. But me.
The rain is ceasing. I thumb the small key in my hand so hard my palms are raw. And I let it go. Released. It falls down, dropping as if in slow motion, striking the grates of the drain cover, and then gone, forever. Placing a pill on my tongue it melts.
My bittersweet poison...
Circus of Horrors
A Dark Short Story...
Circling the sandy arena, (for the hundredth time,) placing each step delicately on top of last night’s horseshoe-prints, ‘The Magnificent Marty’, plain old Pete to most, ached over his pathetic existence.
“What the hell am I doing here, at the age of 27?” he asked himself.
“Oi! Pete! Get a move on, show’s on in 2 hours and Sharon needs you in make up soon.”
Pete waited for the answer to his own worthless question but the answer didn’t come. Remembering that time at school on careers day his future seemed so bright, glossy and exciting. Mr Collins had always assured Pete he had potential. “Could really go far you tried that bit harder.” Or so it seemed. But that was then. And now, an eternity later, reality had hit hard. Pete hadn’t spoken to Dan or Jay or any of the lads from back home in over 8 years.
Memories of times long gone turned to deeper thoughts and thoughts to questions. There were so many unanswered questions. Recalling such a simple, taken for granted piece of his life he was genuinely thankful to his mum and dad. To himself, he reflected.
“I can’t blame them. I’m not an ‘I blame the parents’ sob-story.”
Pete strangely yearned for some excuse, someone to blame for the way his life was going. Or not. “Going nowhere fast”, as he more recently than ever had put it. A broken home, an alcoholic dad, a victim of a lifetime of bullying maybe? At least having some disaster to blame this mess-of-a-situation that Pete called ‘life’ would ease the daily shame and self loathing felt by his obvious inadequacies.
“You deaf or somefin?! Come on!”
Suddenly and sharply disturbed from his anxieties Pete turned and bitterly traipsed through the terracotta dust, erasing the arched imprints he had previously so carefully trod.
In the trailer, watching a battered clockwork alarm, both dancing arms finally reached twelve, stretching on invisible tiptoes it seemed, and the clock pinged. Pete didn’t flinch. Noticing that the painted aeroplanes decorating the timepiece were starting to flake away, revealing the rancid and rusted tin beneath, suddenly Pete was burning inside. His realisation of the unavoidable decay of time upon his treasured childhood clock was too much. Unwanted and long ignored memories from childhood and innocence began to plague his mind. It was odd. He didn’t want to dwell on what had been, what had gone, his regrets and yet he needed to. Pete’s breathing became audible, strained. Like a junkie confessing their addiction for the first time, the only way he could come to terms with his life crisis was by facing it.
Carefully, Pete crafted a scruffy fag, sparked an ancient Zippo and teased the end of the cigarette with the dancing flames. Sucking the nicotine goodness into his veins was his therapy. Silent. Motionless, he sat.
Jade, his ‘beautiful assistant’ entered the trailer loudly, lugging a large black sports bag in tow, a scant sequin and Lycra creation on a tatty hanger in the other hand.
“Oh hi Pete. Give us a light babe, cheers.”
“So how’s things?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
“I’m so not up for tonight y’know? Just one day off that’s all I want” she continued.
Aggressively stubbing out his half smoked cigarette, Pete left the trailer. Showtime drew ever nearer.
Hearing the stadium fill with an expectant crowd was one of the things that still indistinctly drove him, the noises, the buzz, the energy of the crowd. Poking his head around the dirty plastic-coated canvas he noticed an early arrival, a little blonde boy, seven maybe eight. The kid’s face was a picture, the sort of thing you’d see in a Butlin’s magazine! But not to Pete. The expectant grin was lost on him, redundancy overwhelmed. No swell of emotion, not this time. No half smile crept onto his lips. Nothing at all. Just numbness.
Some time later, the drum roll he knew so well accompanied the dazzling spotlights and the crowd was gradually hushed. The rotund ringmaster, whom Pete had long detested, proudly took the floor, his thumbs arrogantly hooked in his high topped trouser pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your viewing pleasure, allow me, ‘The outrageous and audacious, Duke Archibald ’ to welcome you to a visual spectacular! A dazzling show brought to you by Culpepper’s Travelling Circus! For our first act may I proudly present Tania and Tracy, the tip-toeing, talented Trapeze-ing twins!”
The crowd roared cheered and clapped with delight as they marvelled at the balance and trickery displayed on the high ropes and swings as the performers floated weightlessly mid-air. Pete slumped, unimpressed, in the dank folds of the damp-smelling canvas which made his grotty unwanted home. Staring sharply toward a full length mirror tilted awkwardly against a tent rope, Pete observed his reflection. Starched shirt, gleaming black boots and crimson tails were his attire; visibly pleased with himself he straightened his spine and smiled sinisterly revealing a glistening row of teeth. Out of nowhere, Tony, AKA ‘Bozo’ the head clown seemingly floated from the darkness and towards where Pete was stood. The comedian’s face was different tonight, the curl in his painted scarlet lip strangely twisted, the black cross over his eye darker than usual and tainted.
“See you out there big man! Have a good show” the clown unexpectedly chirped, slapping Pete’s back almost too firmly.
“..Er yeah okay…”
Disturbed and yet now weirdly exhilarated at the thought of taking the stage, Pete the showman proceeded to make up, where he too would apply his persona, a façade to deceive the unwitting audience. Ghoulishly illuminated by a flickering bulb Sharon skilfully applied dark brushstrokes to Pete’s upper lip. His eyes were unusually still.
Night had fallen. With minutes to go until his grand performance Pete carefully drew his tools from their heavy dented case. The slim silvery blades glistened between his gloved fingertips and with painstaking accuracy; a rehearsed flick of the wrist, the sword was tossed and caught by the handle expertly. He was ready to perform.
In the arena the hot atmosphere, despite a forced tolerance for it, had always been uncomfortable for ‘The Magnificent Marty.’ Tonight was no exception. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he bounded into the arena and under the spotlight.
With stranger vigour than usual, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ introduced himself to the expectant audience.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will need a volunteer for my performance! May I have a volunteer please?”
Hands, young and old shot up enthusiastically reminding The Showman of his vulnerable clock and its keen arms. Momentarily Pete’s flair wavered. But his volunteer had already been selected. Scanning the crowd warily, the blonde boy Pete had noticed earlier was located. The mic crackled.
“Hey how about you my friend? Yes, you in the striped shirt. Would you like to come on down?”
The crowd, as hoped spurred the child on, whistling to encourage him. As he peeled himself from the dirty plastic chair that had seated so many hundreds of bums in its time, and approached the limelight Pete’s heart pumped harder.
“So then. What’s your name young man?”
“A… Andrew” he managed; a rabbit in the headlights.
Directing the child with great ease and panache the showman helped Andrew into the neatly painted box of yellow and red stars. Pete cushioned his performing accomplice’s head gently, with a white gloved-hand, as if supporting a newborn’s soft skull, preventing it oh-so-gently from banging down on the hard wood. Sliding closed the wooden peephole with a splintery screech the boy was encased in vulnerable darkness.
“And now my beautiful assistant Jade”
Hollywood grin upon her face, Jade masked her annoyance at having to work and elegantly passed her master his beautiful weapons, one by one. Sliding the platinum coloured blades precisely through the pre-cut holes in the painted box the audience gasped in awe at his magnificent skill. With such steadiness, despite incredible adrenaline the performer approached the climax of the act.
“And now, boys and girls for the final sword…maestro, drum roll please!”
With overwhelming arrogance the swordsman plunged the blade deep into the box, tilting his wrist with such speed that even Jade his glamorous assistant for four long years failed to notice his planned mistake. His eyes now wider open than ever, with a new clarity absorbed the worshipping followers as they stood for ovation, his appearance rejuvenated and exuberant. As he relished in his awestruck applause, grinning overtly, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ ignored the single crimson stream emerge from the box, staining Andrew’s decorated coffin.
Circling the sandy arena, (for the hundredth time,) placing each step delicately on top of last night’s horseshoe-prints, ‘The Magnificent Marty’, plain old Pete to most, ached over his pathetic existence.
“What the hell am I doing here, at the age of 27?” he asked himself.
“Oi! Pete! Get a move on, show’s on in 2 hours and Sharon needs you in make up soon.”
Pete waited for the answer to his own worthless question but the answer didn’t come. Remembering that time at school on careers day his future seemed so bright, glossy and exciting. Mr Collins had always assured Pete he had potential. “Could really go far you tried that bit harder.” Or so it seemed. But that was then. And now, an eternity later, reality had hit hard. Pete hadn’t spoken to Dan or Jay or any of the lads from back home in over 8 years.
Memories of times long gone turned to deeper thoughts and thoughts to questions. There were so many unanswered questions. Recalling such a simple, taken for granted piece of his life he was genuinely thankful to his mum and dad. To himself, he reflected.
“I can’t blame them. I’m not an ‘I blame the parents’ sob-story.”
Pete strangely yearned for some excuse, someone to blame for the way his life was going. Or not. “Going nowhere fast”, as he more recently than ever had put it. A broken home, an alcoholic dad, a victim of a lifetime of bullying maybe? At least having some disaster to blame this mess-of-a-situation that Pete called ‘life’ would ease the daily shame and self loathing felt by his obvious inadequacies.
“You deaf or somefin?! Come on!”
Suddenly and sharply disturbed from his anxieties Pete turned and bitterly traipsed through the terracotta dust, erasing the arched imprints he had previously so carefully trod.
In the trailer, watching a battered clockwork alarm, both dancing arms finally reached twelve, stretching on invisible tiptoes it seemed, and the clock pinged. Pete didn’t flinch. Noticing that the painted aeroplanes decorating the timepiece were starting to flake away, revealing the rancid and rusted tin beneath, suddenly Pete was burning inside. His realisation of the unavoidable decay of time upon his treasured childhood clock was too much. Unwanted and long ignored memories from childhood and innocence began to plague his mind. It was odd. He didn’t want to dwell on what had been, what had gone, his regrets and yet he needed to. Pete’s breathing became audible, strained. Like a junkie confessing their addiction for the first time, the only way he could come to terms with his life crisis was by facing it.
Carefully, Pete crafted a scruffy fag, sparked an ancient Zippo and teased the end of the cigarette with the dancing flames. Sucking the nicotine goodness into his veins was his therapy. Silent. Motionless, he sat.
Jade, his ‘beautiful assistant’ entered the trailer loudly, lugging a large black sports bag in tow, a scant sequin and Lycra creation on a tatty hanger in the other hand.
“Oh hi Pete. Give us a light babe, cheers.”
“So how’s things?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
“I’m so not up for tonight y’know? Just one day off that’s all I want” she continued.
Aggressively stubbing out his half smoked cigarette, Pete left the trailer. Showtime drew ever nearer.
Hearing the stadium fill with an expectant crowd was one of the things that still indistinctly drove him, the noises, the buzz, the energy of the crowd. Poking his head around the dirty plastic-coated canvas he noticed an early arrival, a little blonde boy, seven maybe eight. The kid’s face was a picture, the sort of thing you’d see in a Butlin’s magazine! But not to Pete. The expectant grin was lost on him, redundancy overwhelmed. No swell of emotion, not this time. No half smile crept onto his lips. Nothing at all. Just numbness.
Some time later, the drum roll he knew so well accompanied the dazzling spotlights and the crowd was gradually hushed. The rotund ringmaster, whom Pete had long detested, proudly took the floor, his thumbs arrogantly hooked in his high topped trouser pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your viewing pleasure, allow me, ‘The outrageous and audacious, Duke Archibald ’ to welcome you to a visual spectacular! A dazzling show brought to you by Culpepper’s Travelling Circus! For our first act may I proudly present Tania and Tracy, the tip-toeing, talented Trapeze-ing twins!”
The crowd roared cheered and clapped with delight as they marvelled at the balance and trickery displayed on the high ropes and swings as the performers floated weightlessly mid-air. Pete slumped, unimpressed, in the dank folds of the damp-smelling canvas which made his grotty unwanted home. Staring sharply toward a full length mirror tilted awkwardly against a tent rope, Pete observed his reflection. Starched shirt, gleaming black boots and crimson tails were his attire; visibly pleased with himself he straightened his spine and smiled sinisterly revealing a glistening row of teeth. Out of nowhere, Tony, AKA ‘Bozo’ the head clown seemingly floated from the darkness and towards where Pete was stood. The comedian’s face was different tonight, the curl in his painted scarlet lip strangely twisted, the black cross over his eye darker than usual and tainted.
“See you out there big man! Have a good show” the clown unexpectedly chirped, slapping Pete’s back almost too firmly.
“..Er yeah okay…”
Disturbed and yet now weirdly exhilarated at the thought of taking the stage, Pete the showman proceeded to make up, where he too would apply his persona, a façade to deceive the unwitting audience. Ghoulishly illuminated by a flickering bulb Sharon skilfully applied dark brushstrokes to Pete’s upper lip. His eyes were unusually still.
Night had fallen. With minutes to go until his grand performance Pete carefully drew his tools from their heavy dented case. The slim silvery blades glistened between his gloved fingertips and with painstaking accuracy; a rehearsed flick of the wrist, the sword was tossed and caught by the handle expertly. He was ready to perform.
In the arena the hot atmosphere, despite a forced tolerance for it, had always been uncomfortable for ‘The Magnificent Marty.’ Tonight was no exception. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he bounded into the arena and under the spotlight.
With stranger vigour than usual, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ introduced himself to the expectant audience.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will need a volunteer for my performance! May I have a volunteer please?”
Hands, young and old shot up enthusiastically reminding The Showman of his vulnerable clock and its keen arms. Momentarily Pete’s flair wavered. But his volunteer had already been selected. Scanning the crowd warily, the blonde boy Pete had noticed earlier was located. The mic crackled.
“Hey how about you my friend? Yes, you in the striped shirt. Would you like to come on down?”
The crowd, as hoped spurred the child on, whistling to encourage him. As he peeled himself from the dirty plastic chair that had seated so many hundreds of bums in its time, and approached the limelight Pete’s heart pumped harder.
“So then. What’s your name young man?”
“A… Andrew” he managed; a rabbit in the headlights.
Directing the child with great ease and panache the showman helped Andrew into the neatly painted box of yellow and red stars. Pete cushioned his performing accomplice’s head gently, with a white gloved-hand, as if supporting a newborn’s soft skull, preventing it oh-so-gently from banging down on the hard wood. Sliding closed the wooden peephole with a splintery screech the boy was encased in vulnerable darkness.
“And now my beautiful assistant Jade”
Hollywood grin upon her face, Jade masked her annoyance at having to work and elegantly passed her master his beautiful weapons, one by one. Sliding the platinum coloured blades precisely through the pre-cut holes in the painted box the audience gasped in awe at his magnificent skill. With such steadiness, despite incredible adrenaline the performer approached the climax of the act.
“And now, boys and girls for the final sword…maestro, drum roll please!”
With overwhelming arrogance the swordsman plunged the blade deep into the box, tilting his wrist with such speed that even Jade his glamorous assistant for four long years failed to notice his planned mistake. His eyes now wider open than ever, with a new clarity absorbed the worshipping followers as they stood for ovation, his appearance rejuvenated and exuberant. As he relished in his awestruck applause, grinning overtly, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ ignored the single crimson stream emerge from the box, staining Andrew’s decorated coffin.
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