Dictionary Definition

Al·i·son

   [al-uh-suhn]

noun

1.  a female given name, form of Alice.

2.  a rare but formidable creature found in the harsh and little known land of Canada (kuhn-yah-duh).  Due to the unruly climate of Canada this creature has formed tough skin to withstand both icy temperatures and the icy words of bitchy snow beasts.  Though recently she has been sighted prowling around Sweden (sweed-n) and other parts of Europe. She is small so as to camouflage when needing to avoid unwanted male pursuit, but has also developed impressive vocal chords to attract wanted attention.  Quick to run she has proven hard to catch but can usually be found in the local bar or club.  Take care though, when startled, she has been known to lash out and bite those that get too close.  The easiest way to view this flighty creature is when sleeping, easy to spot by the gaping mouth and the snorting noises she emits.  All in all a pleasant addition to Vallgatan and one that will be missed greatly.

3.  Friend (frend).

 Sketch taken when spotted in Munich, Germany.

The Golden Orb

Bending over, I fixed the five inch serrated blade in my left boot.  The sheath had got twisted and that sort of thing could ruin a girls shoes.  Straightening up I stared at my reflection in the mirror and ran my fingers through my waist length black hair, the same hair that my mother had.  I looked just like her.  Darkly kohled dark eyes stared back at me from under a heavy fringe.  I readjusted the holsters of the two-barrel hollow-point Xarex 4.2 on my right thigh.  Father preferred us to carry his own guns as opposed to the competitors. 


Slipping my black leather jacket on, to cover the throwing stars stored in the small of my back, I turned around and walked out of my room and went left to the great hall.  Father had called a family meeting.  He liked to get us all together every once in a while, made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.


Sliding back the bolts, I pushed open the solid steel doors.  They were rigged to seal shut should there be another nuclear explosion.  All fifty-six rooms, the whole house, were programmed and kitted out to be individual panic rooms, should the worst happen.  As I slipped into the hall I saw that I was the last and that each of my seven siblings were already present.


“Ah, Jewel.  Good, now we’re all here.”


My Father sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped before him.  Sitting like that, with the cuffs of his pristine white shirt pulled back from his wrists, you could see the metal sealant that attached his left metal hand to his still real arm.  He had lost his hand in an accident in the factory before I was born, sliced off by a white hot blade.  He insisted on personally building the replacement.  His new hand was three times more efficient, he could handle extremely hot objects without damage and it was implanted with a tracking device, should he even go missing.  One of my first childhood memories was of my father taking me into the climate-control room so that he could push me on the swings, and noticing that when he pushed me only one hand was warm.


I sat down at my place at the table and nodded at my father.


“Let’s start with an update, shall we?” he began.  “Business is as good as ever.  With the new Pyro-Cannon prototypes Ethan perfected last month, Braxton was able to successfully negotiate a repeat contract with the PsyHawk district.  Every PsyHawk in the entire fifteenth district will be carrying a Xarex weapon by the end of the week.”   He paused to gaze proudly at my two oldest brothers. 


Ethan was getting closer every day to biting at my father’s heels.  He was inventing more and more powerful weapons, and Braxton was poised to assume control of the company.  With the two of them Father hoped to make Xarex Industries the dominant weapons dealer in the whole lower hemisphere.


We clapped and Ethan and Braxton nodded seriously. 


“Although today we are here on quite a different matter.”   He paused again and for the first time I noticed my sister, Perenne, beaming proudly.  


“Thank you, Father.” Perenne leant forward and paused for a moment before saying, “I’m pregnant.”


The hall erupted in noise immediately.  Perenne had married the leading steel provider’s eldest son, Samuel Stellick, last year.  It had been a very proud day for my Father.  Since then he had brokered a deal on first refusal on all the refined steel that was produced.  In return Stellick Steel’s security systems had been upgraded to the Xarex Mangum Plus.


We all clustered around my sister, she was glowing already.  The congratulations lasted about ten minutes until we were dismissed.  I was just about to leave when my Father called me.


“Jewel. Come here please.” 


I went to him and kneeled before him, laying my head in his lap, like I had done as a child.  He stroked my hair with his warm hand.


“Jewel, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how important it is for everyone in this family to do their part.  A family is like a machine, it can only run smoothly if all the pieces are fitted correctly.  If one charge or one circuit is loose in a Pyro-Cannon the whole thing will explode.  Do you understand me?”


I stared up at him and nodded.


“Good girl.  Now I have something for you.”  He pulled from his pocket a small golden sphere. “This is my newest invention, its called a Palantir Orb.” He pushed a button and the two golden rings that encompassed the sphere began to rotate around it.  They spun faster for a couple of seconds before reaching their optimum speed and created an image that seemed to come from the middle of the ball.  Inside the ball was a perfect 3-dimensial image of my mother.


“You look so like her.”


I stared with wonderment at the long black hair and dark eyes.


“Thank you Daddy,” I whispered.

I went for a walk later that day.  The sky was grey.  It was always grey.  The storm clouds and poisons held at bay by the buzzing Amphibios Force Field created a charcoal ceiling for our world.  My Father had made me a holographic screen for my window when I was little.  With it I could see sunshine when I woke up, and hear birds, but I had shut it down years ago. 

Walking in the still air, kicking up dust, I somehow ended up walking past the Amphibios Head Office.   Amphibios was the company responsible for restraining the effects of the nuclear explosion, it had a base in each District. No one would be able to survive without their force fields. 


I was thinking about what my Father had said.  He needed me to find my place.  He loved me the most for looking so like our Mother, but that didn’t detract from the need for me to find my place in the machine.


“Can’t be a wrong charge,” I murmured.


Spinning the golden orb in my hands I walked past the imposing building.  Three tall cylinders, pale green in colour, with the force field power generators on the roofs of each.  No one really knew what they did inside, the company was owned solely by the Amphibios family and they were notoriously reclusive.  Even the elements are treacherous.  You can only trust Family.  It was their dictum.


I heard a click.


“Don’t scream, you’ll only make it worse for yourself.”


Turning slightly to my left I saw a raggedly dressed man, aiming an old Glock 9mm at me.  The thing was an antique.  It still used bullets, for Christ’s sake.


“Now hand over that nice shiny ball I saw you had, and anything else you got on you.  Nice and easy and you won’t get hurt.”


He clearly had no idea who I was.


I turned to face him, rotating my left wrist so that the palm of my hand faced him.  Flexing my fingers, I activated the magnet implanted in the heel of my hand.  The gun flew into my grasp and I simultaneously drew my own and aimed carefully.  No one used Daddy’s inventions like I did.


I fired one shot, the heat energy explosive contained in a hollow-point casing hit an old metal oil can, to the man’s right.  It shattered instantly in the blast, shrapnel flying everywhere.


“Catch my meaning?” I said.


He looked at the weapon in my hand, now aimed at his head, and ran.  I watched him go.


I bent over to holster my gun and the orb fell out of my pocket.


“Shit,” I muttered, and then watched in horror as it rolled into the drain behind me.  “SHIT!”


Kneeling down, I looked into the murky waters of the sewer.  I groaned in frustration, the ball was nowhere to be seen.  I beat my fist against the ground and fought back the tears that were threatening to fall.


“How can someone who can scare off a mugger, be so easily defeated by a drain?” said a voice behind me.


I turned and looked up at a sewer worker.  He was dressed in green protective overalls and had his helmet and breathing apparatus in his hands.


“I dropped something,” I said rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand.


“Was it important to you?” the man asked.


“Yes,” I whispered.


“You’re Jewel Xarex, aren’t you? “  I nodded. “We had Military Defence classes together, at Kemberton Academy.  You would always argue with Mr Clarke, got thrown out a couple of times as well, as I remember. ”


I stared up at this strange man talking about school while I was crouched over a drain.


“The idiot didn’t know what he was talking about,” I managed finally. “His stratagems were ancient and based on inferior security systems.”


“I can get it for you, if you like?” He peered into the drain. “Your ball.  I can retrieve it for you.”


“Could you?” I stood hurriedly.


“I could, yes.  But what’s in it for me?”


“What do you want?”  My stomach tightened at the thought of being indebted to this man.


“I want you to let me share the food from your table, the drink from your cup and to sleep with you always, in your bed.”


“Marriage?” I blurted out in surprise.  He had just quoted the lines from the hand-fasting ritual.


The man smiled. “Yes.”


I thought for a minute, there was no way this sewer worker could make a daughter of Xarex Industries marry him.  It didn’t matter what I said, even if I agreed, Father would forbid it.


“Alright.”  I stared at the man’s face for the first time.  He was utterly filthy, but he had a nice smile.
“It’s a deal then.” 


With that he reattached his breathing apparatus and put on his helmet.  He slid down the drain and was quickly immersed in the murky waters.


I held my breath as I waited. I let it out explosively as his head came back out of the water.  He pulled himself up out of the drain and lifted the lid of his helmet. 


“Here you go.” He handed me the golden orb and I bit my lip in excitement until I saw that one of the two golden rings was missing.


“Oh,” I said alarmed.


“Don’t worry, it’s safe,” he said waving the ring at me. “I’m just going to hang on to this to make sure you keep your promise.  There is usually an exchanging of rings during these sorts of negotiations anyway.”


I stared with horror and shock into the green eyes of the sewer worker.


“Now run along and tell Daddy.  I will be along in a little while, after I clean myself up.”


I felt myself move away from him in silence.


Father is going to kill me, I thought.




Back at the house I finally found Father in his offices, after searching for some time.  It was a large room decorated to look like a nineteenth century office.  There was a large oak desk, almost eight feet in length, and the walls were filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves.  The shelves were filled with all the classic works of the nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first centuries.  He said that being surrounded by genius helped produce genius.


“Father…”


“Ah, Jewel, come here my darling and take a look at this.” He motioned me forward and held up the plans for what I saw was the Xarex Magnum 2.0. “What do you think?”


Momentarily distracted, I delved into the plans with gusto.


“You’ve re-routed the emergency panic trigger.”


“Yes, a gifted hacker managed to by-pass it in one of the western districts.  I’ve added two more fail-safes and a spiral codex.”


I pursed my lips. “Yes but in doing so you have left the panic-door locking system vulnerable. See the break point here?” I pointed to it.  Taking the plans from him and laying them out on the desk I began scribbling in pencil.  “Instead of rerouting through the doors, you can pass the codex through this circuit and by-pass the doors altogether.  Put a blocker here and you eliminate the break.”  I showed him my work.


He grinned. “You always were the best at spotting faults in security systems.  Do you remember when you got thrown out of Mr Clarke’s class for arguing with him?”


At that moment there was a beep on the desk and the holographic image of Father’s assistant appeared.  “Patrick Amphibios is here to see you, sir.”


“Amphibios?” Father said.  “As in Amphibios force fields?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Send him in.” My Father looked at me with raised eyebrows. “What could a member of the Amphibios family want with me?”


I was as shocked as he was. Amphibios didn’t do business with anyone, it was the one account my Father had never managed to get.  He had never even managed to get a meeting.


 I was even more shocked when my sewer worker walked in, now clean and wearing a suit.  His brown hair combed neatly out of his clear green eyes.   My Father stood to shake his hand.  “Mr Amphibios, very nice to meet you.”


“The pleasure is all mine Mr Xarex,” he replied, then smiled at me. “Oh good, Jewel is already here.  That makes things easier.”


I stared open mouthed.


“I have come to finalise the business transaction that I started this morning with Jewel,” he continued.


“Business Transaction?” my Father asked looking at me.  I couldn’t think of anything to say, my mouth opening and closing uselessly.


“I see Jewel hasn’t had a chance to tell you yet.”  Patrick Amphibios made a gesture to sit and my Father waved for him to do so. “My fault I’m afraid, at Amphibios we don’t like to hang around when making deals.  Jewel has agreed to come work for us, as a consultant from Xarex Industries, to overhaul our entire security system.”


“The entire security system?” My Father swallowed.


“Yes.  All three hundred and forty-six bases and the interconnecting systems.”


My Father looked at me, and after I didn’t say anything he looked back at Patrick.


“I first noticed your daughter’s talent at Kemberton Academy,” Patrick smiled. “And I have been tracking her progress ever since.  I believe she was responsible for designing the Trojan Dual-Checking process that added the plus to the Xarex Magnum Plus.  Was she not?”


“Yes she was.” My Father beamed at me. “And the tri-compartment function. But I thought Amphibios didn’t work with anyone outside of the family?”


“Yes.  That’s why Jewel has agreed to marry me.” He held up the gold ring. “She gave me this as her promise.”


My Father stared at the ring and then at me.


“Is this true?” he asked me.


“Well… Yes,” I said.


He blinked for a moment and exhaled loudly. “Well, if Jewel has already agreed…then who am I to stand in the way?  You have my blessing.”


“Excellent.” Patrick stood up. “Now, we won’t get into the details now, but I will have my legal team draw up the contracts and tell my mother about the wedding.  Would you care to join us for dinner this evening?”


“We would love to.” My Father answered standing to shake his hand.


“Good. This evening then.” 


Patrick nodded to us both before leaving the office.  My Father slumped back into his chair his hand on his head, shaking in disbelief.


“Three hundred and forty-six new systems.  Three hundred and forty-six new systems!”  He stared in wonderment at me.  “Even Braxton never managed that in one deal.  When I told you to find your place, I never expected…”


“Uh, Father… I’ll be right back.”


With that I ran out of the office and down the corridor, catching up with Patrick at the final door.  When I reached him I found I had nothing to say.


“I promise I will make you happy,” he said quietly.  “You never noticed me in those classes, did you?”


I shook my head. “You are risking a lot by doing this.  How do you know I won’t crash your entire company?”


“The same way you knew the lowly sewer worker wouldn’t steal from you.”


I looked at the face of the man I was going to marry, the sewer worker who had retrieved my golden ball.  Then he kissed me, and then everything changed.

My Mother…

She says, “Everyone else is doing it!”
I say, “If everyone else was gonna jump off a cliff would you do that too?!”
“Yes,” she replies, “I wouldn’t want to be alone.”

Ladies and Gentleman, my Mother...

Honestly

Hope

I find it funny that people most often associate hope with light.

I don't.

I think that hope is like sitting in the dark, with faith, and it only takes a single flame of doubt to cause shadows. It takes more courage, faith and hope to sit in the dark. Just as it only takes the smallest doubt to shatter the darkness, to cause shadows.

Think about it, is sleeping with the light on not doubting your own strength to sleep without it? To sleep in the dark?

Hope is sitting in the dark without turning the light on, ever.

Relationship Advice from Someone Who Has No Idea What They Are Talking About

Chapter 3: An Episode of the Over Analytical Mind


It has occurred to me that taking English Literature has led me to be overly analytical of inconsequential occurrences. To explain, Reader, I will detail two conversations.

The first was with Baby Player, which occurred before the events of chapter one transpired. We were doing one of the many various mindless tasks that restaurant work entails and, as doing, set our tongues-a-wagging.

“So how’s your love life then?” He asks me.

I laughed, “Same old shit!” I was still dating Posh Twat at the time.

“What about at Uni? Is there no one there you like?”

“There is nothing for me at Uni. They are all younger than me.”

Pay attention, here comes the interesting part.

“So? You’re hot enough to get a younger guy.” He replies.

Now this statement intrigued me and I started to unpick the implications in my mind.

First of all there was the inference that younger guys were of a higher calibre and therefore a girl needed to be particularly attractive to land one. It was as if being younger made them higher quality item. Their own attractiveness seemed to be of no moment; youth being the golden ticket.

Second, that Baby Player apparently deemed me worthy of this ticket.

Finally, it had not occurred to him that I did not want to date someone younger than me. It did not register to him that women usually date older men for a reason. Maturity levels, experience, money; there are countless reasons, but none of this seemed relevant to Baby Player. The sole reason, in his opinion, for most women not to date a younger man was that they were not ‘hot enough’ to do so.

Later on that week I relayed the conversation to Post Twat, who sat patiently as I explained my thought processes to him. He listened attentively as I detailed the inferences in this statement and the connotations that could be derived from it. I referred to the language; the use of the word enough as if there was a level to be achieved before one could enter into the toy-boy regime. I referred to the tone of the statement; the lack of doubt showing that it did not occur to him that I might not want to go for a younger man. I concluded that this was a fascinating insight into the mind and opinions of Baby Player.

To all this Posh Twat waited tolerantly before turning to me and saying, “Hun, Baby Player is younger than you. I think he wants to sleep with you.”

“Oh.”

Oh...

That hadn’t occurred to me.

Choices - A Short Story

I didn’t mean to be this way. I just am. Well that’s not true; I don’t have to do this. I could choose not to. I could go get help, but I don’t want to. I want to kill her. I want to. I choose to.
I sit in my car, watching her. She has shopping, and she is struggling to get in her door. Ah, she’s dropped her keys; I could have guessed that would happen, she does that a lot. She dropped something on six different occasions last Monday; I consult my notes, yes, six different items.

She’s put her shopping on the ground now, bending over to get her keys, her underwear peeps out over her jeans, a thong. Slut. She deserves what she’s gonna get. I look into the rear view mirror, it’s getting dark but I can still see. I see my own brown eyes.

You will go into that flat and you will do what you know you are going to do. You know you want her, you know she deserves it. You know what’s right. You know about her. You have made notes. You have watched her. You know what she is. You know she is a sinner. You open the door of your car, you step out, and you walk towards her. You are gonna cut her, watch her bleed, you’ll see. You will see it when she’s dead, you’ll see. It will be there, you’ll see.

I get out of the car and walk across the road. She has located her keys, they were under the bush. I could have told her that, she kicked them there when she tried to catch them. I saw her.

“Hold the door, please.”

She looks up, smiles. Whore.

“I do live here, fourth floor,” I say.

“That’s ok, I believe you!” She laughs, and pushes the door with her shoulder.

“Well you can never tell, the world is full of crazies these days.” I smile, charming. Yes. Good. “Do you want some help? The lift’s broken isn’t it?”

“Ummm, yeah it is.” Of course it is, you told your friend on the phone yesterday. “If you don’t mind, that would be great.”

I take a bag, the heaviest one. There is wine in it. Drunken Bitch.

I smile. “No problem!” And follow her up the stairs.



A boy is crouched in his garden; he is at the back by the shed. His mother walks towards him from the house; she can’t yet see what he is doing.

“Sweetie, you have to come inside now. Your dinner’s ready.” She is wearing an apron and her hair is honey blonde.

“In a minute,” he mutters.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he calls not looking; he is still crouched over something, using his hands.

“Well if you heard me why aren’t you coming then? It’s getting cold. Bring Monster with you, I’ll feed him too while I am at it.”

The mother turns and goes back into the house leaving the kitchen door open. She is humming to herself and opening a tin of dog food as the boy enters.

She turns, “It’s on the table, I...”

The boy is covered in blood; he is holding a small furry dog in his arms. The dog is dead.

He stares at his mother, “but I don’t like broccoli.”



“This is me.”

She flicks her hair as she approaches the door, and jingles her keys. She shoulder opens the door and steps inside, putting her bag down and reaching for the one I carried. I hand it to her.

“Thanks again,” she smiled. Slag.

She looks away for a second and then looks back at me, surprised. My foot was in the door so she was unable to shut it. I put one hand over her mouth and push her back into the flat, then with my other hand I grasp her throat and cut off her air supply. She struggles; she squeaks and squeals into my hand and beats at my arms with her tiny fists, but it was no use. I feel her getting weaker as her brain shuts down, then I let her breath again as she slumps into my arms.

There, there.

I pick her up and kick the door shut behind me, going into her bedroom, I lay her gently down on the bed and I start to get ready. I close all the curtains in the flat and turn off the lights. I find some candles in a cupboard and light them, to make it nicer. Then I push all the furniture back against the walls and create a big space in the living room. In the middle I put a chair.

You will see soon. It is nearly time. You put a chair there, yes, and you put her in it, yes; not too gently, she does not deserve such treatment. You bind her hands, good, and now her feet, yes! You go to the kitchen, looking, looking, ah, you have found it. Knives...



It is a school corridor; a tall handsome boy waits outside an office. His face is bored and subtly derisive; he clearly does not want to be there. He scuffs his feet and smiles ruefully at two boys that walk past, one of them mouths park -later at him and he nods.

“Mr Dawson, you can come in now.”

The boy goes in; he is maybe sixteen years old. There is a plaque on the front of the desk; it says Guidance Counsellor on it, a man in glasses sits behind it, steepling his fingers,

“Sit down, Dawson.” He does as he is told. “Do you know why you are here?”

The boy shrugged, his expression is polite but neutral

“Well, Miss Parker has left the school, you were aware? Yes? Well, there has been talk. She is being sent away, her family are insisting...Well, she is gone, anyway.” The man stared over his glasses at the boy. “They are going away for a while, it seems.”

“What this has to do with me, sir?” The boy looked into the man’s eyes without flinching.

“Miss Parker is suffering from an event. She is suffering from a ra... an incident that occurred earlier this week.”

The boy cocked his head to one side. “Oh my, that’s terrible. Is something being done?”

“She is refusing to name her assailant. I have been talking to some people from the night; they say that she was last seen leaving with you. Did you... Did you see anything?”

The man regarded the boy, searching for a reaction.

The boy shook his head. “No sir, nothing.”



She is waking up, she moans a little. I shiver. The knives clink in my hands. Her face starts to register the situation, confusion, understanding then fear.

She struggles in her bonds; her strap falls down over one shoulder. Slut.

You will not fall for that. You will not fall for this Jezebels charms.

“Hello,” I say quietly.

She whimpers.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers, “it’s not too late. I... I won’t, I won’t tell anyone. We can keep this just between us.”

I lick my lips and kneel by her, I look into her face.

“You don’t have to do this, it’s not too late. It’s not too late to stop.”

I laugh. “So I have a choice?”

“Yes.” She cried out on relief, she was shaking, the chair shivers with her. Her breath coming in short rapid gasps and her eyes rolling in her head, like a skittish horse.

“No. I don’t.”



A young man is standing by an open grave in a black suit, a casket lies in the ground but is yet uncovered; he is holding a white lily. The other mourners have long since gone but one other man stands behind him.

“I know you are there.” The young man said, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, he has been crying. “I know who you are, too.”

The older gentleman shifts from foot to foot, he looks uncomfortable.

“Your Mother was an incredible woman. I... I loved her very much. You should know that, I mean no disrespect. We loved each other.”

The younger man turned from the grave to look at the older gentleman. He was slightly scruffy, not a man of means, his mourning suit was tired.

“My mother was married,” the younger man whispered.

“Your father... We didn’t mean to.” He twisted his hands. “It just happened.” He looked helpless. Pathetic. Broken.

The young man stared into the eyes of his mother’s lover. He stared into the eyes of an adulterer and saw his mothers sins reflected in them

“Whore.”



I stand and walk over to the girl. She starts crying, sobbing, a dry racking noise. It was unproductive, no tears just raw emotions coming from her. I trace my fingers through her hair, it was soft, my mother’s hair was blonde, this girl’s hair was dark, but no matter.

I admire the colours in it, coppers and gold and chocolate.

I cut some off, a chunk from the left side. She cries out in shock.

I smell it, it is good.

“Please...”

No good begging, begging never got anyone anywhere. Begging is just another way of asking, and people who ask don’t get. I want never gets.

You have to take what you need.

“Please, don’t. Why are you doing this? Why me?”

I sigh. “Questions, questions, questions. Don’t you know we don’t decide these things? We are who we are. There is no choice in the matter.”

You will do it now, enough talk. You cut her now.

I hold the knife in my hand and draw one lean stroke from one side of her throat to another.

You see?

Ex

I remember the first time I realised that my Ex had issues with food. What I didn’t know at the time was what that meant for me and him. I remember the musky sweetness of his flat and the way his face darkened as he told me; but I didn’t really realise.


I was younger then.

I didn’t understand that in order to love someone else you need to love yourself. I heard someone say once that if you don’t like yourself then anyone who does is ultimately deemed a fool in their eyes; and who wants to go out with a fool?

I remember watching him look at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and all I could think of at the time was that he was mine, but then I was seeing the world with sex-tinted glasses. I missed the calculating and appraising way he viewed himself, twisting this way and that so to gain a better vantage point.

He would run his hands alone the contours of his perfectly flat stomach and say “I’m gonna go to the gym later.”

“Ok.” I would reply, thinking how healthy he was.

Then he would look at me.

“Why are you eating again?”

“I’m hungry.”

He would just shake his head, and then distract me and remove it later.

I often wonder what he is doing now; if he is ok; if he is happy. I hope he is happy, but then I also hope he is better. Anyone can convince themselves they are happy, so I guess I hope he is well.

He told me that he was able to make himself sick just by wanting to. If he felt like he had eaten too much he would just get rid of it. You know that bloated feeling you get when you are full? He didn’t like that.

I can’t even make myself sick by shoving my fist down my throat so the notion that one can think themselves sick is completely alien to me. Not to mention a waste, there are children starving in Africa you know? Or at least that’s what I was told when I didn’t want to finish my dinner.

It was no big deal though, he didn’t do it very often, and then only if he felt uncomfortable.

And I believed him.

As I said, I was younger then.

I should have known better though, when he asked me to keep it from everyone, even his friends. No one knew and I was the only one he had ever told.

I wonder if this is still the case?

Not my problem anymore I guess, he has people that care for him; I’m just not one of them anymore. Sounds harsh doesn’t it? Life and people move on, cliché but true.

All I think about now is whether or not I should have told someone about his occasional habit. Did they know? Would they ever know? Has he stopped? In keeping my promise, even after a messy break-up, was I hurting or helping?

Or was I making a big deal out of nothing? I am no expert, and when people feel nauseous they are sick. Why does there have to be a line on the ground? ‘Stand this side if you are normal, but if you vomit more the government quota allows we are pushing you over onto the disorder side.’

Hell, even I have had food poisoning, you look like shit and feel worse but there is no denying that being sick makes you feel better. I have also known people to make themselves sick when they have drunk too much, two fingers down the back of the throat and the world stops spinning long enough to get home.

One man’s solution is another man’s disorder.

So where is the line?

And who is fooling who?

Giving People What They Want

Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy Andy...............................
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There. You are in my Blog now stop pestering me and let me get on with some real writing, please.

Bryan - Part 1 (A Short Story)

I think of running water when I pee. It helps with blocking out all the distractions, and if someone else is in the room with me, forget it. I just hold it and wait for another opportunity. I don’t like public bathrooms at the best of times and having an audience was just another reason to wait. It’s a real thing, you know, it’s called Paruresis. It’s a mental disorder that means that some people feel unable to relieve themselves in public bathrooms; they feel that their own bathroom is the only one that’s safe. I read about it on the internet. I read a lot on the internet. I can, however, go in public bathrooms, conditions permitting. I can’t go in front of people though, or if there is any form of insect buzzing in the room. Or if there is an odd number of urinals. And I can’t go in the corner. The devil comes out of the corners, you know. My mother told me that, before she died. Her hospital bed was in the corner, you know, on the end of a row of beds. A row of five.

Good things always came in pairs, you know. Man and wife, salt and pepper, fish and chips, that sort of thing. “It’s all about balance” My mother used to say. She would often bring this up when I sat in my room too long, reading my books. “Life should have different parts, Bryan” she would say “Reading is good but you should go outside as well.” I remember she would smile encouragingly and I would nod. I would read outside to make her happy. One time my neighbour hit me with his football, he had been playing in the park where I was reading. He asked me if I wanted to play but I hadn’t finished my story yet, and everyone knows that once you start something you have to finish it. Finish the circle, otherwise you leave gaps, and you can’t leave gaps. That’s how they get in.


I was much younger then, my mother died when I was fifteen. An odd number. It’s just me and my father now, but I don’t see him much, he works late and is gone before I get up. I’m at college; I decided not to stay at my school for sixth form. College is better, the teacher’s don’t try to make me participate in things the way they did at school. Chess club, Art club, Drama club, Squash club, Athletics, Choir, Music Practice, Church group, the Tennis Team, the Football Team, the Rugby Team, the Quiz Team, the Debate Team... Lessons.

No, college is better, they just leave me be. I just want everyone to leave me be. If no one noticed me then He wouldn’t notice me either and I would be safe.

I hear footsteps, the scuffing of a rubber sole and then a greasy hood pushed its way into the bathroom with me. I will have to go later. Shoving my hands deep into my pockets I make sure not to make eye contact with anyone as I left the bathroom. Travelling down the beige grimy hallways I dart my eyes left and right, all the time listening intently for other people. One of the problems with keeping your head down is that if you’re not careful you can run into people. It’s better than looking ahead though; if you do that then you run the risk of catching people eyes.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. I count out my footsteps in my head as I walk. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. It helps to keep me calm when I do this, as long as my walk home is an even number I will be alright, I have to keep doing these things to keep me and my Dad safe.

Realising where I am I turn around abruptly; I have to take the stairs at the south end of this building as the north stairs has 23 steps. As I walk down the corridor I started thinking about how my Dad used to be when my Mother was alive. He smiled more and he worked less.

Once he surprised us all with a special trip to London. We all bundled on a train and ate sherbet lemons and éclairs during the journey. I must have been eight or ten years old, it was a good year. Once we got to London we spent hours wandering around the cobbled streets, I was so impressed with all the people and colours, it was cold, but not yet Christmas so maybe it was November? My Mother was wearing this blue coat that was the same colour as her eyes and she would ruffle my hair and smile when she looked at me. My Mother was beautiful, and my Dad would always have his arm around her, as if he wanted to shield her from the world, she was his to protect. She would hold my hand, squeezing it occasionally.

That was a good day.

A car horn blasts at me, another problem with not looking up is the dangers of traffic. I jump back onto the pavement and flick my eyes up quickly at the traffic lights, shifting nervously; I can’t stay here too long. I am too close to the town recreational ground, ‘The Rec’, and that’s where most of the college students go when they finish with their classes.

The little man finally goes green so I hurry across the road, fidgeting with the bracelet on my wrist. It was just a pendant on a leather string but I never take it off. It was a Taijitu, the classic symbol of ying and yang, a universally recognised symbol of two parts becoming one and being whole.

I remember when I found it, I was little, maybe four, and it had fallen off someone else’s wrist and lay there broken on the side of the road. I picked it up for some reason when I walked home from school. Later on that day my mother found it in my pocket.

“Where did you get this ?” she asked, I told her I found it, and she smiled. “But it’s broken.” She tucked my sandy blonde hair, the same colour as her own, behind my ears and kissed the top of my head. She smelled like cinnamon and flowers.

Later on that week my Mother was called into my Nursery to collect me. One of the other boys had pushed me into the swing-set and I had banged my head and nose on the metal pole. Nothing was broken but I had got a nosebleed and I still have a scar to this day from the cut I got on the head. I had been crying and she gently brushed away my tears with the handkerchiefs she always carried.

“There, there,” she told me “Don’t cry, I have a present for you.” That’s when she gave me the bracelet. She had fixed the clasp. Clipping it onto my wrist using the tightest setting, she held my hand and whispered. “Do you know what that is, Bryan? It’s ying and yang, dual forces which exist in everything to make it whole, two things which make the whole world ok. Now you have this you will be ok too.”

It is tight now, but I daren’t take it off. It keeps things ok. Rounding the corner I leave the Rec behind, only one alleyway and two roads to go before I can get home and out from under His gaze. I can feel his eyes beating down on my shoulders and the back of my neck, I speed up.

I am half way down the alley way when I hear the scuffing and crunching of gravel under many feet.

“Hey Loser!”

I speed up even more, I know who it is, I know who all of them are. They go to the local comprehensive school, they are a couple years younger than me but they all do things like sports and camping, resulting in a distinct size difference between us. The crunching increases as they start to run, panicking I run too but I am laden down with books and they catch up with me before I can reach the end of the alleyway.

One of them catch the back of my shirt and throw me into the wall, my bags and folders go crashing to the ground. I feel the air whoosh out of my lungs.

Now all I feet is pain. Warmth. Now pain again.

A fist flies towards my nose. Gasping, I spit the blood that has trickled into my mouth. I am coughing as I try to keep breathing.

They snicker, I can see three of four pairs of shiny white trainers but everything is blurry, the pain makes tears spring into my eyes. I throw my arms up to protect my face and feel two hands grip my wrists, the cold of their gold rings bites into my skin.

A knee goes hard into my stomach.

I fall to my knees and although my vision is still blurry I am able to make out the black and white interlocking symbols of my bracelet over by one white trainer, it had fallen off somehow, the fixed clasp proving fickle in the face of adversity.

No.

I reach for it and am rewarded with a heel coming sharply down on the back of my hand, I hear bones crunch, and I cry out in response.

“Aw...poor thing.” A sarcastic voice sneered from above, and I am thrown back into one of my last memories of my mother.



The hospital walls were pale green and the entire building smelt like death and antiseptic. I went to get coffee even though I didn’t want any, but that’s what people did at hospitals, they got coffee. The nurse didn’t see me behind her. I had learnt to walk silently by then, and she was talking to another nurse looking at my mother.

“Poor thing, she hasn’t got long now.”

“Family?” The other asked.

“A husband and a son, so sad.” They shake their heads pityingly.

I hurried past, back to my mother. She took the coffee I gave her and smiled gratefully, though I knew it was an effort for her. She was so pale; all the light had left her face and her once bright blue eyes were like stagnant water. She held my hand.

“Why you? Why is this happening?” I clasped her frail bony hand with both of mine. “Why is this happening to us?”

She shushed me gently and ran her other hand over the back of my head. “God has decided he wants me with him, is all. We have to trust in him, have faith and he will watch over you, always.”

“That doesn’t explain why! There are so many bad people, why is he taking you!”

“Honey...” she soothed.

“No!” I shouted angrily, causing the nurses to look over in alarm. “It doesn’t make sense.” I am crying silently, tears running down my face. I clung to her hand and felt her cling to mine “It doesn’t make sense....” I whispered “it’s not... ok.”

Another fast kick to my lower stomach and I feel the uncomfortable warmness spread in my trousers.

“Oh my God, he’s pissed himself!”

They shriek with laughter, and a flurry of further kicking and punching follows. It wasn’t until one last kick was delivered to my face causing me to cough and spit out a whole mouthful of blood that they stop. They run off into the darkness, back to their families no doubt.

I lay there for a moment; I lay there and picture my father’s furious face on that day. His chiseled featured contorted with fury and disgust.

“How could you do that to your Mother!” he snarled at me “Do you have any idea how upset she is now? Do you have any idea of what you have done to her? Can’t I even trust you to hold it together for one afternoon? For her sake?”

Limping down the road in the darkness I resume my counting, one, two, three, four. I can feel Him up there, watching me. Yes, I know you are there, I thought. I know He did this, like the way he took my Mother from me. Fingering the bracelet in my pocket I limp on. I must have let Him in somehow, must have missed a step, or maybe I forgot to knock twice on a door before I entered a room.

Dual forces which exist in everything to make it whole, two things which make the whole world ok.

I would make the world ok again; I had to, for my Dad’s sake. I couldn’t let him down again. Dual Forces. Everything comes in pairs, you know. God and the Devil. One and the same. Ying and Yang.

Shaking slightly I finally manage to get the key in the door, no one is home, no one ever was. I hurry up the stairs as fast as my injuries would let me, my hand ached and it hurt to breathe. My Dad may want me to go to the hospital but I’m not going back there, I know what happens when you go there. The place is full of corners, they invite Him in, they want Him there, but I know better.

Dumping my stuff on the floor of my bedroom I begin rifling through the box I kept under my bed, I know it is in here somewhere. Ah, got it. I stagger into the ebathroom and look into the mirror, my nose is definitely broken and my eyes, bloodshot and watering, have started to go purple underneath. I have a cut on my lip and it has started to swell. My whole face looks like a fruit salad that someone has dropped. I pull the sleeve of my shirt up on my left arm, holding my Taijitsu in my left fist, palm down; I hold my bare forearm out in front of me. Then, taking the knife that I have found in the box under my bed, I hold my breath and cut two straight lines across, just below my elbow. The red spills out and creates crimson rivers in the sink.

There, I thought, you can’t make that fall off.

I hear a key in the door as my Dad arrives home; I quickly pulled my sleeve back down. I will have to go tell him what happened, he will be disappointed, but it will be alright, it won’t happen again. Not now, I will be ok, now.

As long as I keep away from corners.

The Big "Bad" Wolf

First of all I would like to point out that it is discrimination to assume someone is bad based on appearances. I am a big wolf. There! I said it! I have struggled with my weight all my life and no matter how many times a week I work out, no matter how many of those damn low calories fibre bars I eat, I will never be a size zero! Frankly, I am disgusted that in this day and age a person cannot be accepted for who there are. Does being a big wolf make me a bad person?
Secondly, I ask you how you would feel if three little pigs just upped and started building their houses on your land? The three rude little porkers stole building materials and literally threw up these monstrosities without a thought for planning permission or their neighbours. I feel I was quite within my rights to go round and discuss the matter with them. After all their smoky chimneys were blocking all the light into my garden and killing my Begonias.
Finally, I would like to point out that I am Jewish.
Now, I do not see how I should be blamed for my hay fever either, I mean, who builds their house out of straw anyway? So when I informed the little swine that I was going to ‘huff and puff and blow his house down’ I was warning him of a genuine danger. He chose to retort in a very rude manner "By the hair of my chinny chin chin, I will not let you come in" and not to vacate his premises. In my panic I ran to his brother house to get help but by then I had straw up my noise and another regrettable incident occurred.
By the time I got to the third house I was in such a state I was completely unprepared for his vigilante actions. Would you believe he tried to boil me alive?
So here I am facing jail time for the deaths of two piglet hoodies who were trespassing on my land in the first place! Whilst He sits pretty in his little brick house, now the proud owner of everything he inherited from his brothers and my cottage to boot! Lupine Discrimination!

Tease...

Right, let’s just get one thing straight…. I am not a Tease!

I don’t know which dull witted Neanderthal of a man decided that if a girl will kiss you and not sleep with you it makes her a Tease, but if I ever get a hold of him I will beat him with a blunt object.

Repeatedly.

Let me just bring to your attention a very old, and very common, injustice. Women who fool around are sluts, men who fool around are players. It isn’t fair and it isn’t strictly correct but the one thing that most women are aware of when it comes to men is how they are perceived. The last thing we want to be thought of is ‘that tart from down the road’.

‘Hey Bill! I heard you had it away with that Cindy from Windmill Street?’
‘Sure did, Bob. The only thing that spreads quicker than Cindy’s legs is my utterly butterly!’

So excuse me if I don’t sleep with you just because you have bought me a warm glass of chardonnay! If I like you, I'm gonna kiss you if you make your move, but don’t expect me to run back to yours and jump between the sheets just because you took me for a drink. (Especially when you are thirty and still live with you mother.)

Since when did a kiss mean intercourse anyway? I remember when everything was done in stages. You let the boy get to one stage, then the next, then the next. If he wanted the goods he would have to be patient and persistent. The PP for the Peepee. Now I am all grown up and men seem to want to skip stage three and four and go straight for the end game. Whatever happened to courting? Romance?! The third date rule?! Actually scratch the third date rule, if the three dates are during a six month period it doesn’t count, he hasn’t proved himself trustworthy or dependable. He hasn’t proved that he isn’t gonna bugger off and not call once he has inked his nib basically.

Well if kissing a guy but not sleeping with him because I don’t trust him yet makes me a Tease, then Miss Tease I am. I would rather be the village Tease than the village bike.

Emotional...?

Just a quick note about something that happened while I was away.

I was at a BBQ happliy sipping a beer and marvelling at the fact that although I had drunk four or five bottles of beer I was sober, if I had done that with glasses of wine I would be halfway to table dancing by then. I think the key was I don't really like the stuff so I tend to nurse them a little, averaging about a bottle per hour. Needless to say later on that evening, when I switched to wine, I became drunker than a fish in a whisky pond.

So, I was there quitely musing at this realisation when my Brother asked if I was bored, I told him that I wasn't and was quite enjoying the comapny of my little brother (I was, I don't see him very often). He rolled his eyes at me.

I then proceeded to tell him about my surprising soberness, to which he replied 'Your not sober.' I insisted I was but he just shook his head at me like he was correcting a child, or (as he thought he was) talking to a inebriated person.

Realising there was no convicing him I inquired as to the source of this observation, to which he replied 'Your getting all emotional.'

Because I said I was enjoying speding time with him.

Emotional?

Wait till he sees me later drunk and crying because I've dropped my crisps...

It’s Not Fair!

I have noticed that there is still a bit of a child in me, and not just my secret enjoyment of cartoons! You see I was seeing a man, but it wasn't going well, many many problems mostly deriving from the fact that I am outta here in 6-7 weeks, and I had come to the decision that I was not going to see him anymore. I could tell his interest was waning, he kept cancelling, rearranging rain check etc etc so I though to myself, "Self, is this good enough?" To which the answer was a resounding NO!

So I hatched a plan, it was arranged that we would meet up Saturday night, well Friday turned out to be a little heavier than anticipated and to cut a long story short I didn't get home till 6:30 pm the next day and understandably feeling less than my usual perky self, decided to cancel on him for a change. Then, horror of horrors, it gets to 8 pm and still no call from him, cheeky bugger is trying to stand me up! What if I had had a bath, got dressed, and done my face, all in anticipation? All dressed up and nowhere to go? So I text him and he doesn't want to go out because it’s raining... I'm assuming he will melt. Then it hits me, I will never hear from him again, he will forever believe that he ended it with me! He will get drunk with his friends and when asked what happened he will spout some nonsense about it not working out so he just never text me again! When the truth of the matter was both of us knew it wasn't working and I was just as prepared to end it as he was! The only difference being I was beaten to the punch!

Now the adult in me says who cares? The situation was resolved and neither party was hurt, everyone can move on with their lives now. Part of me though, can’t help but stomp my foot and say "But I wanted to dump him!!"

These Thing are Sent to Try Us…

People that put other people down to makes themselves look like a big man, or to get a laugh, or to make themselves feel better about their own pathetic lives are just petty, ignorant arseholes and deserve to been lined up and shot!

Everyone knows someone like that, I don't know where they learn that it is acceptable behaviour, but the bastards are everywhere!

The sort of person that will say things like "Well you don't have a dog and bark yourself!" about their co workers.

The person who will point out when someone leaves early and play the martyr with their own work hours.

The type of person who will humiliate a colleague just to get a laugh from the rest of the office.

I have mentioned this person before, I believe I described them as a crack addict of public attention. Meaning that they crave the laughter and recognition to the point where they will stop at nothing to get it. Resulting in a cruel and twisted person who whom nothing is sacred, who will mock and jeer at anyone about anything as long as there is an audience to watch.

I hate those sorts of people and unfortunately I have the misfortune of working very closely with such an odious little man. His behaviour to date never ceases to shock me, bitchier than a teenage girl and crueller than someone who drowns puppies for a living, he continues his reign of terror, and as long as someone laughs he is happy. To be honest I think people laugh because they are grateful his attention is diverted, with such witty repartee as "You Loser!" it can't be the content. Frankly I have heard enough homophobic, misogynistic, and racist jokes to last me a lifetime.

On a day like today when he has the audacity to call me stupid, me stupid, I can't help but close my eyes and chant 6 weeks to go... Coming from the man who barely finished school, whose conversation makes Homer Simpson look like Einstein, and has spent his youth binge drinking on street corners, this man is calling me stupid!

Oh well, in a couple of months I will be in a whole new town, with a whole new environment and with a whole new set of problems. Although in the mean time I may put superglue on his phone, give everyone else a laugh for a change...

Let's Think Outside the Box for a Moment...

You know what makes me laugh about working in HR and Recruitment? The secret language, there are code words and phrases that everyone used. Everyone knows what they mean really but we can't just say that can we? Nooooo, political correctness and HR propaganda gone bananas, so here's some examples of the guff we send to the agencies.

• We have candidates with similar exposure in a lower salary bracket - He's too damn expensive!
  
• We have stronger candidates in a lower salary bracket - He's too damn expensive and not worth the money even if we had it!
  
• You don't have the right exposure for our clients - You don't have enough experience. Yeah I said it, experience feel free to call the age discriminating police!
  
• We have stronger candidates in the mix - What is this shit you have sent us?
  

See what I mean? Utter lunacy! And don’t even get me started on the Buzz Words…

“We are going to socialise this idea.” – Socialise? Socialise? So we are going to take the idea out get it drunk and introduce it to new people are we?

“We need to think outside the box on this one.” – Dear God! Have I been in a box this whole time and didn’t realise?

“Candidates in the mix…” - Mix? We are talking about people not raisins, they are not in a mix, mix is what you do when baking.

“We need someone who can hit the ground running.” – As opposed to all those people we hire who are just there to stand around looking pretty.

“There need to be as much visibility on this as possible.” – You there, open your eyes! Look at this!

Yes, Yes, I know what they mean, and I have even used them (it’s catching) but they are silly really…

To Cuddle or not to Cuddle?

Now, gentlemen, your attention please. When it comes to the end of the evening, just before you go to sleep and the cuddling issue comes up, I ask you to consider a few points.

Women are at their most vulnerable directly after sex. Cuddling is more about reassurance than anything else. Reassurance that we haven’t just done something that we will regret.

For men sex is about possession. For women sex is about giving something away. That’s why when women are raped they feel that they are robbed, that something is stolen from them.

Men take women. Women give themselves to men.

When you think about it, it’s just Biology. Women have to allow something into their body, an alien appendage.

So men need to understand why the post coital activities are important to women, it’s not pointless, try to think of it as calming an upset child. We revert back to our teenage selves worrying and unsure if we have just given our virginity to our first love or an asshole.

A few moments of your time, a little intimacy, a peck on the cheek and you’re done. Crisis averted.

Plus you have just put down the deposit for a morning blow-job.

Think about it.

One of Those Days

You know when you just have of those days? It’s like the big guy upstairs has a certain quota of unlucky per person but instead of spreading it out you will get a whole pile in one day for his amusement!

So far today I have managed to oversleep, then as a result of being late I ran out of the house with neither a brolly nor a coat. Upon my arrival at the train station it had started to rain. Still hoping to catch my train, I was unsuccessful of course, I made a mad dash to the station. In the 500 metres there is to the cover of the platform the clouds managed to pour out an entire weeks worth of rain, needless to say I was soaked through. So there I was soaked and shivering, cowering in the stairwell waiting for the next train, peering at the information board through rain spotted and slightly misty glasses.

Once I make it to work I have to go straight into a meeting with no time for coffee or breakfast and proceed to feel weak with hunger the whole way through, I’m just glad no one asked me any questions because my brain just doesn’t function when I’m hungry! Finally falling out of the meeting I proceed to squelch around the office, first locating a hair clip to hold back my unruly fringe (thanks rains) then breakfast. Once I was no longer malnourished I then turned my attention to the wet areas south of my ankles, remembering that a colleague had a small heater under her desk I decided to retrieve it. After bumping my head and crawling under not one but two desks I finally wiggled it free, and set it up under my own desk to dry out my shoes and feet.

Some how during my escapade under the desks I had managed to cut my leg, and fearing the cleanliness of whatever sharp object habituates under a dusty piece of furniture I though it prudent to clean the wound. Now bearing in mind I was still half asleep and already feeling a little dopey I figured I would uses some antibacterial gel for my hands in the absence of any wipes. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME! When I had finished jumping round pulling faces and breathing through my teeth, waiting for the pain to stop I reasoned that antibacterial gel was not supposed to go on open wounds, made a mental note.

The rest of the day has consisted of me banging my knee when I went to the toilet, dropping things, spilling my coffee, forgetting that I had put sugar in my coffee and having to drink it with two, breaking a nail, poking myself in the eye and falling over my own feet!

Anyone else think I should have taken a duvet day?

Still at least it is nearly the end, then I can go home and stay away from sharp objects until the day is over.

The Other Side of the Story - Blue Anchor

You know what I think is the most galling aspect of being let go? Not being able to have your say! I was recently let go of a pub I have worked in on and off since for the last five years and has been a big part of my life and the local community for as long as I can remember. I can name every landlord that has been in it during my lifetime, I have even worked for most of them. I know most of the regulars by sight if not by name, my family and friends drink there, and most importantly I care about what happens to the pub.

Most people my age grow up without a sense of community, it’s the times we live in, personally I feel like I have had community shoved down my throat during every meal and I think I am a better person for it! I believe I have the best of both worlds, I can go to work in the City and be anonymous but when I come home to my little village, with its little local pub, I get a sense of peace that is hard to describe to those who don’t know it. Some of the people I work with have lived in the big smoke their entire lives and have a real ‘London edge’ to them, this only proves to make me more grateful for living in a place where you can say good morning to a complete stranger and not receives an icy stare in response.

Now, having been a part of something for such a long time I find it particularly distasteful for an outsider to muscle in and tell me I don’t belong. It just makes my blood boil to hear stories that said stranger is running around telling people that this is “her pub” and that “she is the boss and people shouldn’t forget that”. Am I missing something? Correct me if I'm wrong but you wouldn’t have much of a trade if you continued to make your customers feel unwanted and unappreciated. That sort of you-can-like-it-or-lump-it attitude may be fine in a big city where you trade is different everyday but in a small country pub the locals and regulars have a say, well either they do or they will vote with their feet.

The Pub in question has been through a lot recently, the poor thing, one landlord leaving, a new set, then them leaving and then two sets of holding managers that leave a lot to be desired. All in the space of a year! Now no business will thrive with this much change but as long as they continue to do the basics i.e. serve beer, it will limp along, but no one ever stops to think of the staff. Every pub is run differently, this much I have learnt during my short years, everyone has their own style and how they want things to be done. As in every new job you get a probationary period to learn how to do things a certain way, but what if you are expected to just get on with it? New people, every other week but the staff is the same, desperately trying to please their new owners by learning as fast as they can how to do things their way.

Needless to say it didn’t work out for me, I was fired for doing something one way when she wanted it done another. Must have forgotten to power up my psychic powers that day as I didn’t quite manage to read her mind on that occasion. When I pleaded for another chance she informed me that this was “her licence” and basically that meant she could do what she pleased. Even when a valued customer implored on my behalf she retorted quite rudely that “she was the boss” and that “people should remember that”. Well my response to her is that she should remember that we have had four sets of Bosses this year alone and we aren’t the ones that are disposable.

As I started off by saying is that the most galling aspect of the whole situation is that while I am cast out in the cold she is sitting pretty inside her ivory tower, she is free to say whatever she want to deface my character and I cannot defend myself! Well, I'm afraid that just isn’t good enough! As ridiculous as it sounds I have been extremely upset by the whole situation, because you see it’s not just a job, I don’t do it for the money (although it is handy). I do it because I loved being part of something, and now that has been taken away from me, taken away by someone who doesn’t understand what that pile of bricks and mortar means.

So this is my way of fighting back! My way of getting my thoughts into the world and pushing back on those who would have me limp meekly away. This is my side of the story!

The Un-Dead in London

I realised the other day that I am a vampire. Yes, I am pale and partial to a nibble now and then, but that's not what I meant! I cannot enter a man's home uninvited, and like the mystical predator from ancient lore I am very particular about this. I have to be invited. I think this is some sort of reaction from the British politeness, manners and low self esteem, you do not enter someone else home without an invitation and I want to make sure you want me there.

So let me clear something up for you, 'You can stay if you want' is not an invitation, that is a statement that will always be met with the questions 'Do you want me to stay?', to which men always reply 'well I wouldn't have asked if I didn't.' Infuriating isn't it? But you didn't ask!! You made some vague reference to me staying if I had no one else to go or if I really wanted to, which puts me in league with a homeless person. Nice.

Let me let you in on a secret, if I stay... you. will. get. laid. Now, bearing that in mind I fell we can do better than 'You can stay if you want', how about please? It's a request on your part, you want to get some, we know it and you know it, so lets not beat around the bush. We have something you want, so the least you can do is put in your request. Would it really be so hard for you to say 'Would you like to stay over?' or even 'I would like you to stay' dare i say even a please?

I know you men are still labouring under the illusion that you need to treat them mean to keep them keen but let me point something out to the vast majority of you, blowing hot and cold is all very good, I am the first to admit it works, but the catch is when you are hot you need to be nice. Acting like you don't give a shit to our faces only pisses us off! The whole point is to treat us so nice that when you don't call for three weeks we are desperate for you to, then when you do we jump like a trained Chihuahua. If you act like you don't care, then don't call all we are going to think is what a prick and move on.

I speak from experience, I have fallen prey to it many a time, relationship games, don't you just love them! Actually no, I hate them, and have so far managed to avoid them (I almost fell off my chair when he called at the time he said he would.) So let's consider another thought, he's acting laid back because, shock of all shock, he’s a laid back guy. Which is fine, in my hectic, about to be turned upside-down life, a bit of nonchalance is welcome, we just need to work on the particulars.

Me = Vampire

All together now, 'Will you stay over, please?'

Of course, I will, in fact I would be delighted! Now I feel welcome and wanted, everyone's happy.

How far are you willing to let it go?

Everyone I know has a job, and with jobs come colleagues. Colleagues are an odd thing when you think about it, you spend more time with them than anyone else, they see you at your best and at your worst, and yet they aren't your friends. They are not people you choose to spend time with, you may not even like them very much, but you are forced into this situation of almost cohabitation during work hours. They are not friends, they are not strangers they are somewhere on the middle.

So here's the thing, a colleague of mine is going through some crazy personal issues, they are emotionally in turmoil. Of this I am all aware having made them tea and listen to their tales of woe, and to their plight I am sympathetic. Being a good colleague I have soothed and listened, especially when they started being brought to task with their work. Ay there's the rub. Their level of work is beginning to be affected, and being aware of what he/she is going through, how far are you willing to let it go?

You have sympathised with him/her, and listened when she needed you to but now he/she is dropping the ball with things and it's affecting you and your work, what now? Should you continue to let is go and hope that when he/she feels better things will improve? In other words behave like a friend. Or haul their ass over the coals until they bucks their ideas up? Neither options are great, either you are a doormat or the office bitch, not a persona you want to wear during office hours.

So is there a happy medium? Is it possible to be both a caring colleague and a whistle blower? What if the behaviour persists? It's not going to get better by itself, so biding your time is out, but is the answer really adding fuel to the fire that is already burning? What if you can't help yourself? I pride myself on doing a good job, when I am at work, my head is at work, and unfortunately this person's seems to be somewhere else. Is it acceptable for someone to bring down the team, like a lame doe at the back of the herd, or should the fat be trimmed?

Maybe it's kinder, as pandering to their needs doesn't seem to have helped, maybe some tough love is in order. I guess the big question is when someone's capability is being called into question, should their personal hardships be taken into account? If you look at their work with an ice cold eye and it doesn't come up to scratch, if you asses their recent abilities and find that they are not capable, then surely there's your answer. As harsh as it sound but should we really be taking into account people's personal issues when we are look at their ability to do the job?

Simple questions, are they performing to the standard required? No, but their dog died/brother is sick/husband left them... Here's the tricky bit, how much of their personal life should you be taking into account? If they are unable to perform the job that they are contracted to do then they are not capable. So in a review of their capabilities, the answer is no.

Harsh but true. One can always hope, though, maybe they will get the message and leave their personal stuff at home when they come to work, or maybe getting the boot is what they need. Yes, one can always hope for a happy ending, but London life, I find, is not always like that.