Monday 13 December 2010

Are We Nearly There Yet?

I have just read Crysse Morrison's book of stories and poems, and was inspired, if that's the word, to write my first poem in about 45 years! It does not do justice to the book, but in the spirit of sharing, here goes anyway:


Are We Nearly There Yet?
asks Crysse in her prime.
The title makes me somewhat sad,
Was it written after wine?

The past is there, the present too,
and promise of her pastures new.
Are We Nearly Where Yet?
is the question in my mind.

I cannot fault the poems,
not least because they’re true.
They show the writer’s story
the way that writers do.

I love “the words she wants to write”,
and the peach that must be ravished,
I love the words that must be praised,
the emotions that are savaged.

She copes with love,
she lives with death,
she shares emotional belongings.

She writes it down
So it makes sense,
She questions all her longings.

The stories give us characters
that we’ve all seen before,
on streets, in homes, in lives past lived,
they give the book its soul.

I love Leonora with her erotic aura,
And Julie’s Mr Pemberley, who saw what he was meant to see.
But the page that tops the lot for me
Is the Epilogue’s discovery.
It helps me with my quandary,
Maybe there is still hope for me!

Another postcard from Farncombe Estate

I have had a request to upload the postcard I wrote about the writing weekend in the style of a schoolboy, so you can blame Matt for this!

Great gang of guys and gals.

Mega-nosh and room OK.

P.S. Ace Head Girl!

Friday 10 December 2010

A conversation with my mother

I was walking down the High Street with my mother and she just came right out with it, outside the bookshop, at the top of her voice.

“Explain this to me. I know I’m an old woman and I’m going mad, but what does this mean when you see it on a blackboard outside a pub? Free wife.”

“Free wife? Are you sure it said that?”

“Positive. Free wife. It’s like something out of Thomas Hardy. I don’t know how they get away with it.”

“Nor do I. But it can’t be true. They’ve probably used the word free – free pint or free chips or something – and for some reason the word wife appears somewhere else on the board and you’ve put them together.”

“No. I may seem addled but I’m not. I double checked.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Which pub was it anyway?”

“The one just back there, next to the travel agents. The Albion.”

“OK. Never been in there. I would have thought handing out free wives would have got them into the local papers though. Not to mention the TV news. I still can’t believe it, but if you’re sure, maybe it does mean something.”

“It means the world has gone mad. It must be some sort of game like a reality TV show. Like that one where they choose the next model, or Wife Swap.”

“I suppose it could be a combination of the two. The contestants live with different women for a day or two at a time – just shopping and DIY – no hanky panky – then at the end of the programme, or series, the women choose which man to take for a husband. But I can’t see that format working in a pub. Mind you, it would liven up a game of darts.”

“Why do people watch television programmes like that anyway? What’s wrong with Coronation Street?”

“Absolutely. Do you still watch Corrie then?”

"Sometimes, but it isn’t what it used to be. Too many young people, always on their mobile phones. Texting. E-mailing. Surfing. It’s all computers these days. They’re always communicating. We never communicated when we were young. We just talked.”

“But that’s what it’s like now. Look there’s one now.” I pointed at a teenager crossing the road, with one eye on the traffic, the other on her mobile, and both ears plugged into her iPod.

“And there’s too much adultery and people having it off with each other behind their backs, that’s not entertainment is it? And East Enders is worse. That’s, what do you call it, science fiction, no, something else, another word. That’s a parallel universe, that’s what it is. I wouldn’t want to live there. Why don’t they just move somewhere nicer?”

“I think they wouldn’t have a programme then Mum.”

“But no-one lives like that. Do they?”

“Luckily, I can honestly say I don’t know, but I suspect maybe there are people who are like that. Not around here though, so nothing to worry about eh?”

I drove her home, to her bungalow on the hill, saw her into the house and made sure she was safely ensconced with a cup of tea and her cat, then drove home. I made a detour to drive past The Albion, to take a look at the now infamous blackboard and sure enough, right at the top in big white capital letters, as bold as brass, it said:

FREE WI-FI.


Wednesday 8 December 2010

Lunch on 7 December

“You do compliment people on the most ridiculous things” she said.

We were sitting in a cafĂ© in Bournemouth, opposite the much-missed bus station and the space left by the winter migration of the tourists’ balloon to some warehouse in Southampton.

“What do you mean?”

“That guy, the one you were talking about.”

“I said I was impressed that he could eat fried egg and baked beans on toast without dropping it on his nice expensive scarf. I am still impressed by that. I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because to eat a runny egg dripping in tomato sauce with a fork you need to be inch perfect, millimetre perfect, or it drips. And he’s left his coat and scarf on so he’s leaning forward, which makes it even more difficult. Me? I’d have a big yellow stain down my front in about 10 seconds flat and I’d be scurrying back home with egg on my face and beans down my scarf. But not him. He’s very impressive.”

“You would never be wearing a scarf as nice as that anyway.”

“True. But that doesn’t diminish his dexterity with the old eating tools.”

“I was more impressed by his hair.”

“His hair?”

I looked again. The man was tall, well dressed and had very large feet. His hair was grey, a proper grey that was full of colour, not like the flecky grey on my head. It was long and shiny, falling down to his shoulders in wavy locks so he looked like a tramp who had found a locker key at the swimming baths and struck lucky.

“So you can’t see his expensive haircut?”

“No. It just looks like hair to me. It’s not scruffy mind, he’s definitely run a comb through it today.”

“It’s a very expensive cut. It’s been layered and shaped around the sides, over his ears.”

The tramp was now stood at the counter paying his bill. He was counting out his loose change from a little medicine bottle.

“I wonder what’s wrong with him?” she said. “I wonder what illness he had, or still has. Perhaps he’s come here to die. A lot of old people do that you know – come to Bournemouth to die so they don’t embarrass their family.”

“Hang on a minute” I said. “He’s my character. I found him. I noticed he could spoon egg and beans for England, not you.”

“But you didn’t notice the important bits. You may have discovered the character but I’m the one with the story!”

Monday 6 December 2010

A postcard from Farncombe Estate

I've just been on a weekend workshop for creative writers seeking their voice, led by Crysse Morrison, which was a lot of fun. One of the exercises was to write a postcard, in my case in an instructional style, so here goes:

Your instructions Jim, should you choose to accept, are to book now, without delay, and prepare for a treat. In the following order, you should flash the cash, talk the talk, then walk the walk. You will be enthralled, entertained, and motivated to write. P.S. Bring Trousers. This postcard will self destruct in 5 seconds . . . . .