The Big Bang

The silence is split asunder as the first of hundreds of tiny explosions erupt across the night sky.

Far off there are people Oowing, and Ahrring at the spectacle these coloured lights make at the climax of their brief lives.

Each light weaving and darting through the sky, like one of a shoal of tropical fish in some Caribbean lagoon, each darting round one another to reach their goal.

But unlike the gentle ripple and hushed breezes that accompany that far off lagoon, these crisscrossing lights are accompanied by the booms and whooshes that echo the explosion from the very birth of the universe. That awaken a remembrance of that primal Big Bang throwing forth the building blocks of our world and every other one circling those pick pricks of light that hang in each night sky.

Is that what were really seeking to celebrate, the burning sparks of light bringing the building blocks of life with them, building planets from which the eruption of molten rock explode and burst forth from the surface and the accompanying hiss and sizzle of steam as the congealing magma cools and seals.

Then in the billions of years that follow, the world finally falls silent save for the intermittent crash of Thunder heralding the patter of rain. But eventually life pours forth, with its roars and bellows, noise once more enveloping the planet.   

Maybe it’s the terror of that first mighty bellowing sound exploding in the dark, that’s led us to build new stories and tales forged around the light and its meaning. Legends of Demons and Plotters, of the triumph of light over dark and the battle of faith against heresy. New tales to tell and to celebrate, to help us face our anxieties and apprehensions.

But in the end it’s the memory that matters, at our core with each explosion we’ll still “Remember, Remember” that very first burst of light and noise, because nobody can hear a tale being told over the sound of the Big Bang.

Gym monologue

“Now slowly, lift.. two.. three.. four. Good, now brace and hold that weight for 60 seconds.”

He’ll be lucky to make it for 10 seconds, another of the week-end enthusiasts who turn up for an hour of gym work once a week and expect it will turn them into the next Arnold Schwarzenegger by the end of the week.

“No that’s fine Mr Feldman, just slowly down, gently does it. Now relax and take a few deep breaths to help re-oxygenate the blood. Lovely.”

Of course it’s not want I planned to do with my life, but I guess there’s worse ways to have to have to make a living. I’d wanted to be a Footballer, doesn’t every kid with a bit of skill, and I even once  had a trial with Tranford Wanderers, but even on the day I knew they weren’t really interested.

Yeah, we were just there because the clubs Assistant coach was a drinking buddy of our PE teacher Mr Lewis, and taking six of his half decent pupils down for a kick about trial was an easy day for each of them, and the sort of thing that looked good come their Annual evaluations.

“How are you feeling now Mr Feldman, ready to give it another go or would you prefer to move onto another machine? Right then, let’s give the Cross-trainer a go, work on building up that Cardio vascular stamina.”

Still it was a good day out for us too, got us off a few lessons and made the rest of the class a bit jealous. So everyone was in a fairly good mood as we got off the Mini-bus and were led round to a small hut where we could get changed into our kit and boots. Then after a few warm up exercises, we found ourselves lined up on one of the training pitches in front of a Goal manned by the Clubs number three keeper, who looked no more than about six months older than the rest of us but exuded the air of someone already bored by this waste of his time.   

“Go on then first boy” bellowed Mr Lewis, and Jenkinson stepped forward lined up the ball on the Penalty spot and belted towards the centre of goal. It was a powerful shot but no finesse and flew like a cannonball straight into the Keeper arms, who immediately rolled it back towards us boys.

I was next up and determined not to make the same mistake, so I targeted the ball towards the top right corner of the net, but a touch of nerves and lack of familiarity with the pitch meant I misjudged it and the instead to sailing in the ball ricocheted off the post, and shot off towards the next pitch.

 “Pathetic” called out Mr Lewis, “My one legged granny could do better than that. Well don’t just stand there like a cabbage boy, go and get the ball”. He waved his arm dispiritingly to signal the direction the ball had sailed off in and I trudged off to retrieve it.

“OK the Mr Feldman, if you’re feeling refreshed let’s take up the seated grip and get started”. 

So the Football trials went on and we generally fared badly. Each boy took his turn, and whilst there were a couple of moments of cheer when the ball went in, generally we kept failing to score and instead received a volley of abuse from Mr Lewis about our lack of talent and how easily he could do better. In fairness I’d have to say the Keeper wasn’t having a bad morning, and made quite a few impressive looking saves, even allowing for the fact that his competition was a bunch of 15 year old schoolboys

Finally it seemed to get too much for Mr Lewis and after a whispered conversation with the Assistant coach, he instructed us to take a break from the shots and instead to start running round the sides of the nearby practice pitches until he returned to show us how it was done properly.

Well we did about one round of the pitch watching Mr Lewis and co. depart, and then figuring we were now out of anyone’s sight stopped and begun bemoaning our fate and how unfair Mr Lewis was being. I think it was about then that Roberts probably meaning it as a joke put forward his idea and pointed to the sand hopper sat by some stands at that the far end of the pitch. It was fairly common for small clubs to have these, the sand ready to be sprinkled on water logged pitches as a means of soaking up some of the excess moisture after heavy rain. We examined the hopper and with a mixture of dares and jeers egged each other on until a proposed joke had become a plan of mischief.

“That’s it Mr Feldman, nice regular strokes. Now why don’t you try a brisker pace, I’ll set up the timer for 3 minutes.”

It was about 20 minutes later that Mr Lewis, the Assistant Coach and the Keeper returned from the clubhouse to find us all conscientiously trotting round the pitch as instructed. Mr Lewis called us all back together, and as he began to once again list our many failings, it was clear from the whiff of spirit on his breath that they had probably used the break as an opportunity to have a few drinks.

The ball sat where it had been left on the Penalty spot, and Mr Lewis began to explain how half knack of scoring was about mental preparation, knowing upfront where you were going to place the ball, but not giving it away. Then signalling to the keeper to take up his position again, Mr Lewis took a short run up to the ball and swung out his foot to make contact. Time seemed to slow, and we all watched as in the same moment the keeper - in what was no doubt a prearranged move- dived the wrong way leaving the goal unprotected, and with all his force Mr Lewis’s foot struck the ball.

But the ball didn’t move towards the goal. Instead Mr Lewis let out a howl of pain and fell to the ground clutching his foot, and rolling around on the ground in a performance many a modern Premiership Centre Forward could learn from, for the next time one of them take a dive”.

Subsequent examination of the day’s activities discovered that;

-          One , that the football innards had somehow become filled with wet sand, giving the ball a consistency and weight not dissimilar to that of a bowling ball.

-          Two that Mr Lewis’s toe was broken and would be in plaster for the next eight weeks, and

-          Three that for all his talk of our shortcomings, Mr Lewis had also failed to score a goal, and so like the rest of us was no better at football than his one legged granny. 

Of course when we got back to the School the Head Teacher wasn’t very happy, but we all stuck by the School boy code of silence and each claimed we had no idea how something like that could possibly have happened, some suggesting that possibly some local prankster had slipped by when we were off running round the pitches and performed the deed. In addition, Mr Lewis himself couldn’t admit to the Head Teacher that he’d left us unattended to go off drinking, so eventually we were each given 2 hours detention for unruly behaviour and it was decided that was the end of the matter. But for us it was well worth the price of that detention, as we each took on an almost legendary status with the other kids in the school, all desperate to get details of the inside story.

“That’s much more like it Mr Feldman, keep up the good work. Nice steady moves two… three… four…”

I never got another chance to be a professional football player, but after school the Careers teacher got me this opportunity as a Gym Fitness coach. I still have to go to Colleague once a week to do my Body Fitness GVNQ, and at times it can be a bit dull and repetitive, but on balance I enjoy, and it could have been worst, I could have ended up a PE Teacher. 

 

The Restorer

He looks down at the piece for a moment, just a glance, more for recognition than review since he's already had plenty of opportunity to study it in detail. Still, even though he knows his time is limited, he can't help but reflect on the detail in the engraving, the precision that went into the carvings, and the care taken in the moldings and construction. He wants to point each part out, share the feast with an eager young novice, and let them experience his knowledge and excitement, but there's no-one else there.

But if there was anyone else watching they wouldn't have noticed even a split-second pause, because despite his age and his occasionally wandering thoughts, his limbs have been drilled by repetition of his work, and instinctively know what's coming next they reach out and lift the piece from the bench and drawing it towards him. His moment of reverie ended, he's once more fully engaged and his mind focused on the task. Though it’s not a fragile piece, as he lifts it, there's still a gentle timidity to his grip and the urge to shelter the piece from damage. Even through his latex gloves he can feel the chill of the metal, feel the wax droplets on the stem and splattered onto the texture of the wings, and the dirt encrusted into the engravings of the body. This is the the part that cannot be taught, the feel and sense of the piece that only comes from years of tending and repair of the pieces. Carefully shifting the piece around sensing its weight and seeking out the centre, first he settles for a firmer grip at the base of the carving, then moving gradually upwards until he's holding the candles sticks stem, but at each point searching for its centre of balance. 

Now he's ready to  begin the hoers d’oeuvre - the preparatory cleansing of the grime that settled on the piece and tarnished it metalwork. He's already lain out all his tools and implements in preparation, for there's no longer an eager young apprentice, anticipating his next move and ready to pass him the next required tool. He reaches for the pack of wipes, and drawing out the first sheet, applies it to the feet and base and with light circular swirls begins washing the metal and clearing off any impurities or deposits of dirt encrusting the carvings. Even though he knows that he's pressed for time, it takes a good quarter of an hour and twenty-three wipes to complete the work sufficiently, that was something the young boys always rushed in their eagerness to get to the scrapping, but he's a craftsman and knows the basics cannot be rushed.

Then with the cleansing done he moves onto the first course, from the case he selects a fine needle nose tweezers and micro pick with which to work around the engravings ensuring each is kept clear and well defined, seeking out any encrusted dirt or old deposits of wax buried in the petals or fallen onto the figurine below. When he's completed his first manual review, he switches on the large angle poise lamp and holds the piece below the light, and behind the magnifying lens to get an even clearer view and begins the inspection anew, and a further round of cleaning.

Then once he's satisfied with that this second inspection has revealed all the secret dirt and detritus buried in the pieces folds, he opens up a new pack of wipes and begins again to rub and clean each part of the piece.

Next, he takes the piece over to the next desk where he's left two large blue plastic tub and stopping in front of the first, dips the piece into a solution of warm salt water and aionic sulphates to cut through any remaining grease and grime, and to ensure each edge and is as clear and crisp as possible. He hold's it there for a minute, shifting his grip to make sure each part is immersed, then lifts the piece out of the tub and dips it into the chill clean water of the second tub and watches as the small pool of chemicals drift off. Then he takes the piece out and gives it a few gentle shakes, before laying he gently layes it down on the freshly lain out blotting paper ready to gobble up the first few droplets that fall from the piece and gather each fresh fall of droplets as he continues to turn the piece. Once satisfied with that he brings over a regular hair dryer, now on it's lowest setting and extends the drying process, once again working around the piece from every angle to ensure each surface is cleared of water.

Only when he's satisfied that the dryings done begin the final course, as he takes out the small atomiser and spray's a fine mist of oil over the piece, to help preserve it's surfaces and maintain it's shine. For the few seconds whilst it dries he step’s back to appreciate his work and once more his voice want to share with someone the satisfaction and joy that he feels in a job well done, his ears to listen to the murmered appreciation of his skills and his hands want to point to the work that’s been done to his aprentice. But there’s no-one else there, so silently he moves onto the next piece for time is short and one day soon even he won't be there to apprecite them, the only the pieces will remain.

The first engagement

The moment he pulls the front door open, a wave of chill air rolls over him, shocking him like a sonic boom suddenly going off in a monastery. Gazing out, he surveys the scene before him, the landscape frozen, frosty and forsaken. But showing no fear he steps straight out, knowing retreat is not an option – that any hesitation will leave him vulnerable to the siren call of a still warm, soft bed waiting upstairs.

He stamps his foot down through the snow and onto the pathway, marking his territory and declaring his intent and he thinks he can hear the faint crackle and burst of breaking ice crystals like distant gunfire. Suddenly he’s aware of quite how unusually quiet it is – the silence of a thousand deserters’s each putting off the morning commute, surrendering to the cold and taking that extra five minutes in bed that the snooze button offers.

His now slowly refrigerated shoe finds its footing and takes a first tentative step, seeking safe ground, for whilst it feels solid, he knows below the freshly lain dusting of snow that settled in the night like a fresh lace table cloth, there lies an ice frozen treachery.  Another step forward ever so gingerly, assessing the lay of the land, seeking out that firm footing and fearing the sudden slip and slide that would launch him momentarily into the air like a wounded cargo plane before the inevitable pull of gravity drags him back to the ground – and the cry goes out “Man down”.

But despite this dread and the hesitant stop start progress, he gradually edges his way across the garden towards the driveway and the sheltering embrace offered by his comrade in arms, the car. Pausing momentarily, his eyes dart about surveying the terrain on the lookout for any hidden menace, but it looks all clear so he pulls the car key from this pocket, and in the same movement zaps the car to trigger the lock and is greeted by the friendly chirrup from the car alarm, “tweep, tweep” and flash of light to signal “All clear” as the car unlocks.  Like a million times before he reaches for the handle to open the car door but this time it doesn’t open, another tug this time a little firmer but the ice has glued it shut. A moments panic, perhaps he should return to the kitchen to seek out an ally – a kettle of boiling water to liberate the door – but he won’t admit defeat and gives it one more try, feet planted as firmly as possible in this terrain, shoulders locked, and muscles straining, he summons his full might and follows through with a sharp tug. For the merest   moment it seems like nothings changed, but then like a 6^th sense or a radar contact he can suddenly sense his moment of triumph, contact has been made and sure enough the mechanism shifts, the icicles snap and the door swings open. 

Smiling to himself despite the chill air tightening his cheeks, he reaches in, past the driver’s seat to the passenger box and there amongst the car handbook, pocket umbrella and packet of mints, ferrets out the ice scrapper. The thrill of combat surges through him once more, he doesn’t need a boiling kettle, this scrapper will be his weapon and with it he will force the ice into retreat and embark on his journey. He applies the scrapper to the front windscreen but this is not destined to be a quick victory, for rather than the easily vanquished gentle frost he had planned for, he finds a harsh rough ice that clings tenaciously to the glass and needs to carefully be scuffed, scratched and prized from the screen.  But slowly inch by inch, like clearing a minefield he carves out a clear pathway through the screen ice to ensure a good driving view.

Swelled with satisfaction from a first successful engagement, he can escape the grime of the trenches and slips into the Drivers seat, turning the key in the engine and as anticipated the motor grinds and splutters into life first time – the reward of a well maintained tool. With the well practiced ease of a man whose done this a thousand times, he throws the clutch into reverse ready to pull away, but no the enemy has a counter strike ready, and whilst the engine roars and churns ready to proceed the car doesn’t move. Is something broken? Sabotaged?  No the engine sounded all right and the car has been regularly serviced, he presses gingerly down on the accelerator and there’s a slight shudder and he can feel the wheels rotating but the car doesn’t  move.  He opens the driver’s door and peers out, and from this simple reconnaissance can immediately see that below the car the packed sheet ice is preventing any traction.

Time for a call to arms - he prepares to break out the heavy artillery. Abandoning the car he returns to the house but as he trudges back demoralised and his attention diverted, he almost looses his footing - a near slip, saved only by a supporting hand able to reach out to the side wall. Chastened by this near miss, he shortens his strides and returns to his cautious progression. Even so he completes the long slow march back to the safe ground of the hall way and when he reappears at the front door; he's brandishing his new tools - a garden spade and new tube of table salt. The journey back to the car is a little easier this time as the spade provides some additional balance, so his soon once again inspecting the snow and ice below the car wheels. Then he begins to implement his battle plan, sprinkling the salt behind the wheels, and instantly like a cloud of poison in some futuristic chemical warfare, he can see ice crystals under attack begin to breakdown and thaw. But he doesn’t give the enemy any opportunity to retrench, immediately following up with a surgical air strike from the spade, whistling on its downward trajectory like a dropped missile splitting the ice further, the ice shards like shrapnel propelled out from the centre. Methodically he scrapes and shovels up the remnants, discarding each blade full for burial in the slush pile at the edge of the garden path. 

Building on this foothold he continues to press the advantage, building two trails for the tyres to follow, like parallel army trenches lining up through the snow and streaming back from the wheels to the end of the drive and the open road. Its hard heavy work and he longer notices the cold, in fact he considers discarding his jacket but decides to retain its protective shelter a while longer.

Now he knows he has his enemy in retreat, but before putting the car once more to the test, he follows the approved drill and returns his weaponry to its housing (ready to be called out in support in some future conflict) and once again boards the car. He slips of his jacket and settles into the drivers seat, the key turns and the engine engages, and this time he even feels confident enough to bring in additional support from the heater fans to keep the windows clear, then with a shit of gear, this time the wheels begin to roll slowly backwards like the treads of a tank pressing through the mud and slurry. This is it the moment of victory; in his head he imagines the cheers from the troops, the victory flyby, and the ticker tape parade.

The car glides serenely backwards off the driveway and into the road, and the moment’s pause,    before swinging round the car in a graceful curve to draw itself into a forward position. Ready to go now, he first puts the local radio news on – ready for their traffic reports and weather bulletins on the road conditions he will face ahead. Then foot down on the accelerator the car moves off, chewing through the brown churned snow and ice left battered from encounters with other motorists … this battle is won – but now the war continues.