Political roundabout

We're all dwelling in a well of hatred at the moment, the reds hate the blues, the blues hate the reds and plenty of hatred for the all the other parties too.

A thousand negative political promises - it's all someone else's fault, make them pay, stop their benefits. Nothing maters, nothing to achieve, just the hate and the need to make the others suffer - "Join with me and we'll stop the Tories", "Lets take our nation back from the foreigners", "We'll change the law to make it so".

And the press and pundits point their figures, mock and laugh  with their supercilious sneers and jeers - "He can't eat a Bacon sandwich, "He went to a posh school", "He's got no backbone". They tell their pre-fabricated lies, spout out their tired and trite opinions, all the while bowing their heads and scrapping up a few pennies tossed to them for service to their Baron's prejudices.

And the voters who stand by too apathetic to make a choice "It's too difficult to decide", "They're all the same", "You can't believe a word they say". They believe its all so easy to do but can't themselves make a single choice when called upon one year in five. Just give me something for nothing, take it away from someone else - the football chants ring out "You're gonna get your F***ing head kicked in".

And it's not just here, around the world the same sad refrain rings out, the Tea party, Fronte Nationale, Golden Dawn, ISIS each promising simple solutions to a complex world and blaming those who dare to be different. Only thier way is right no--one else can be trusted for they have committed the ultimate sin they are a different colour, a different class,a different  faith or a different nationality. Don't worry about doing something to help just hate them.

The Old Door.

Over the years the walls and woodwork had been repainted, re-plastered and re-varnished many times, reflecting the change of fashions and tastes of its inhabitants, or just to freshen up the gradual erosions of time.

But really the house remained fundamentally unchanged, an old, much loved, much loved home full of memories of children growing up, long cherished pets, and departed family members. The same repeated stories recurring down the years with the residents own little twists.

And amongst the many things its generations of dwellers had in common was that each of them ignored the small wooden door that hung on the east facing wall of the living room, just about a foot off the floor.

Of course every so often someone would try & open it. They’d pull for a bit, then give the brass handle a shake and try again. But it wouldn’t budge and without the key to the lock there seemed no way to open it. It might have been possible to try and force it as it didn’t appear particularly solid, but then that would have risked splintering the wood and each resident felt the damage would have been a shame.

In any case if you went around to the opposite side of the wall which formed part of the hallway, there was nothing to be seen. Just a plain piece of plastered wall, painted a pale salmon pink to match the carpet.

So it remained a strange anomaly, a door too firmly shut to open, too high to step through and without a destination. It served no purpose; it wasn’t a real door just an echo of a door, an illustration or museum piece of what one might be like.

Then one day that all changed.

  

Little star.

"Twinkle twinkle little star".

It had been a long awkward climb, up through the fencing, the ladders and scaffolding, all to get to this vantage point. But now, as she sat gazing out at the cityscape, the familiar sights and shapes enveloped by the nights blanket of darkness, with only the vague outline of streets and buildings, picked out in the reflected moonlight, to provide hints of what she might be seeing, it seemed well worth the effort.

"How I wonder what you are".

There in the distance an object glided along, illuminated by the chinks of light peeping out perhaps from carriage drawn curtains and flashing safety lights.

Up close Sarah imagined it would be making a terrible din as it passed by, but from this lofty distance it swept along its track or roadway in silence and serenity, driven on to meet its timetable or cargo schedule.

"Up above the world so high".

At this distance the whole world seemed perfect, peaceful and serene, and she felt a vague wave of sadness pass over her at the thought that it couldn't always be this way.

She stood up and moved to the very edge of the scaffold board, gazed one final time over the city and in one graceful movement stepped out over the edge and began her long dive into its cold embrace.

"Like a diamond in the sky".

Downpour

It was one of those sudden, unexpected rainfalls that sometimes break out in the middle of a hot sultry summer afternoon, just as your thinking how nice it might be to spread out on a sun lounger in the garden, or perhaps to check if there's a Choc ice lefty in the freezer.

But I wasn't in the garden, I didn't have any Choc ices in the freezer, so I'd wandered off down to the shops for provisions, and reached the High Road just at the moment the sky burst asunder.

Expecting it to rain itself out in a matter of minutes, I planted myself under the shelter of a nearby awning, not pressed against the window panes but close enough to avoid the dribble off the canvas and splashes from the pavement, and tried to pass the time studying the nearby shop signage, the paving stone patterns, soaking up the surroundings .

The water kept coming, running in from the slate roads, the gutters and drains of the nearby streets, building from a gentle to track to a rushing stream, a torrent of blues and grays, rushing towards the drains.
And then out of nowhere a speck of colour, standing out amongst the dull, drab surround, a speck of yellow popped up and bobbed and weaved through the swirling current. Tossed about like some heroic seaman, facing the swells of a might ocean, it burst free, a small rubber duck buoyed and triumphantly carried fourth on the voyage of adventure.

Again and again, the waters sort to sink this heroic duckling shaped vessel, yet each time this mighty maritime marvel fought its way back to the surface, undefeated, unstoppable, afloat on its strange cruise to some faraway shore. 

Have you ever wondered?

I wonder and wander cocooned in my prized thoughts, almost but not quiet oblivious to the distraction of the mob rushing by as it moves down the road.

They're each desperate to be on their way, frantic to catch the bus, get to the bakers before the last loaf is sold or just reluctant to be caught behind anyone else making their way down the street at a slower, more sedate pace. They’ve no time to wonder, to pause or even to slow down for a split second, for any delay could keep them from their dream or goal - feet up on the couch in front of the TV, soaking weary limbs in a warm bath, or telling their boss where he can stuff his job before leaving forever.

And so they weave their way around me like a school of fish in some tropical water way riding the warm currents, on the lookout for some tasty snack passing by in the flow, no conscious thought to dream or wonder they’re driven on by instinct and habit, primeval desire.

 

The sparks and bursts of energy, which each represent the ideas and actions coursing through their nervous system, a million thoughts shooting from their brains to their limbs in every millisecond and driving them forward. This is the stuff of imagination and thought, dreams and speculation, wondering and wonderment.

So am I all that different to any of them, are my thoughts and conjectures so very different from everyone else’s, any greater than my fellow travellers, the fish in the sea or the electrons and microbes in the conscious mass of life.  

I wonder and wander but my thoughts escaped too fleeting a fast for even my silver grey mind to hold onto for long. What was I thinking about?

 

Marooned

Once again I find myself stranded at the edge of the room, helplessly watching as the others in their little huddles chat inanely about the latest Soap Opera machinations or how their journey home from work was disrupted by traffic backed up by roadworks on the B28.

It flows so easily out of them .., this meaningless, pointless, trivia, a thousand unimaginative and unoriginal points of view.
Do they not realise how brief a time we each have, that the moments cannot be wasted with such lolly gaggle and piffle. Where are their great Concerto's, their eureka moments uncovering the fundamental principles that guide the Universe or their insights into how to tackle World poverty?
But am I any better, or just repeating some greater man's truths.
Once I was young and what plans and dreams I had. My models of form and function, the counter balance of spires and supporting pillars were to be things of beauty for all to marvel at, but they're nothing but an unrealised dream as I stand here marooned at the edge of the room.

Our Anniversary

I wait – it’s our second anniversary.  Sue is very late, but arrives just as the waiter comes over for the third time to ask me if I want to order drinks.
As I look up she steps in from the half lit street lights, into the harsh illumination of the Café

Lamps, picking her out like a spotlight against the terracotta walls and dark wooden panels. She walks half defensively shuffling across the wooden floor, her heels trying and failing to hold her back from completing the final few feet of her journey.

She reaches the table and mumbles something about the traffic and her problem’s finding a parking spot, but even though it’s clear above the background chatter and clink of glasses, I’m not really listening.

I’ve been brooding on this for the last 45 minutes - she could have phoned, she could have left earlier, she could have done something. So now my mood is dark, as black as that cat in the poster on the wall. I nod my acceptance, and in keeping with this Anglo-French hybrid, it’s some mixture of a Gallic shrug of indifference and an English reluctance to cause a fuss.

I start to stand to greet her, but it’s just a little too slowly and instead it’s the waiter who pulls the chair back offering Sue a seat, and we both sit back down in unison, for the first time in months. 
“I haven’t ordered anything yet” I say, “I thought it best to wait”.

“Oh that wasn’t necessary” she say’s forcing a smile across her face as she speaks.

“No, No.” I insist “We’ll I didn’t think it would be a long wait … at first”.

“Sorry” she say’s again and the slight wince of pain in her expression almost lifts my mood.

She gazes down at the dark red Menu laid out in front of her by the waiter, seeking out something to change the subject and move on. “This all looks very tempting, but I don’t want to have anything too fattening”.

It’s an olive branch, my chance to say something nice like, “Oh you don’t need to worry about your weight” but I’m still sulking, so I let it drift un-responded, “We’ll I’m going to go for the Steak Rouge” .

The forced smile again, “That sounds nice, I might just have the Goats cheese salad, and a coffee, something to warm me up.”

She starts to ask me about my day, but before she’s finished, the Waiter steps up – “Would you like to order some starters?”.

We each gaze briefly at each other, half tempted but feeling will seem like gluten’s so shake our heads, “No, well go straight to the main course”, I say “a Steak Rouge and a Salade de Cher-ver-er?”. I struggle over the pronunciation of the last part and make another mental note against Sue for choosing something difficult for me to say.

“And a coffee” she adds, “And two coffees” I correct.