The Commuter Kid Strikes Again

Commuter Kid 1

Monday morning and I’m sitting on the train feeling pretty damn pleased with myself: I’ve skipped breakfast because I’m on this crazy new diet thing where you can only eat eight hours a day so I’ve managed to catch an earlier train. I pull out my water bottle and take a big glug. Even though I can never remember how much I’m supposed to drink each day, I try to take on a much fluid as possible because that’s healthy, right? Except I’m drinking so fast I nearly choke. So I start to think what would happen if I really did begin to choke, I mean really dramatic, gut wrenching stuff? Well it would be pretty embarrassing for a start, no it would be very embarrassing, but what else? Would someone rush to my aid and slap my back or, I dunno, perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre or something? I look around at the empty faces and wonder if they’d even notice my face turning blue as I retched my way into New Street Station.  I decide it’s unlikely: Angry Birds, or whatever it is these days, is probably way more appealing.

It’s a short journey so I don’t have too long to go before we’re pulling into New Street. I’m on a cross city line so, while most of the train empties out, there are just as many getting on. The platform is rammed with people waiting for their chance to change places.

In my carriage there are two queues coming from opposite directions and meeting at the doors. At the head of the opposite queue there’s a guy with one of those monster pushchairs, the sort that probably converts to a Porsche or something when the little tyke is old enough.Continue reading “The Commuter Kid Strikes Again”

Hello out there

Well hello. I do hope you’re all well and thriving. It’s been a good few weeks since my last blog: I’ve just been sooo very busy doing stuff that it’s been tricky to fir you in.

So what have I been up to you might ask? Well I’ve been doing far too much work, a bit of nice walking (when the sun was actually out), more work and then even more work. But don’t worry dear reader, I did also find the time do some really crackingingly good things too. Here are a couple of examples

I went to an arts and craft evening with lots of very nice ladies and we made some lovely things with wire, beads and stuff. I’m not making it sound like much am I?  That’s probably because I somehow managed to consume vast quantities of alcohol at the same time so I am a bit sketchy on the full content of the evening. Anyway I did manage to cobble together something resembling a wiry bird type creature that had been savagely pinned to a bit of canvas. Sadly, when I awoke the next morning and gave it a long, sober look I realised my judgement had been slightly impaired by the aforementioned alcohol and it wasn’t quite the masterpiece I had imagined. Still it was a fun night … I think.

I was also lucky enough to see two fab exhibitions in that London last weekend, a Roy Lichtenstein Retrospective at the Tate Modern ( you know, that Pop Art guy – comic book type stuff) and the David Bowie exhibition at the V &A. Both were excellent but, if I had to choose, I’d have to say Bowie was my absolute favourite. It was fascinating to understand the background to those costumes and to see them up close and also to map his different characters against the social history of that particular time, as well as my own personal history. Great stuff.

Anyway, I thought I’d post a couple of poems this week about the beginning and end of a relationship. Strangely they do also map to my own personal history if only because I wrote the first one, Beginnings, when I was in my late teens – very naive and possibly a little bit influenced by the Romantic poets while the second poem was written much, much later after I’d been around the block a bit and, at the time, was feeling a bit embittered. It was only very recently that I realised they were a good matching pair. I hope you enjoy them.

The beginning and end of a relationship

Beginnings

A nymph skips lightly across my heart

Painting it golden

In effect it leaves me breathless

Can this be love?

Shit

Sold on the false economy of your promises

I believed you were true.

Hooked on the desire for honesty

I told myself that you were the one

The one

The one who…

Then a heavy dose of reality

Showed me, too late,

It’s all just a series of fairy tales.

Same shit

Different face

 

Journey To Paradise

Minibus 4

It probably doesn’t happen much these days but it was quite common back then. A couple of hippies had put in a personal ad for five or six people to share their trip up to the top of Scotland.  “We’re moving to a commune up there. We’re committed to peace and love,” he said, as if announcing he was giving his life to God. “I hope that’s not a problem?”

“Only if you expect me to commit too,” I joked but they seemed nice enough on the phone and anyway, I couldn’t afford to be choosy. I needed to get away quickly and had very little money of my own. Scotland felt like it might be far enough and I had always liked the sound of Edinburgh.

The minibus was a ramshackle old thing with worn leather seats that were mostly taken up by the time it reached me. It was a chilly March morning but, even so, it was colder inside than out.  I said a polite hello to the other passengers and took a seat next to a small women wrapped tightly in a fur coat.  “It takes a while to warm up” advised Dawn, the other half of the couple, “you might want to keep your coat on.”

“It’s a bit slow too,” said one of the men in front of me. “Not in a hurry are you?”

“Not at all,” I said. The small woman gave me a faint smile as if she knew I was lying. Continue reading “Journey To Paradise”

Diary of an urban walker

 Canal Graffitti 5

I said walker not wan… oh never mind.

Anyway I’ve had a very busy few weeks hence the lack of blog last week. As well  as the usual work stuff Ricky Boy & I have been been out & about quite a lot lately. Nights out have included a Harry Hill extravaganza (not always my cup of tea but oh how I laughed) and the German opera, Lulu performed by the Welsh National Opera. Are we eclectic or what? It was pretty good actually although the story line could have done with a bit of work. Still I suppose it’s more about the music isn’t it?

On top of all that cultural stuff we have also been doing a bit of urban walking – mostly along the canals because, as you may know, Birmingham has more canals than Venice blah, blah, blah. So last weekend we took the train out to  Bournville, the home of chocolate & then walked back to the city centre.  It was a fabulous sunny day & RB brought along his big fat camera so we got lots of lovely photos of urban, arty type stuff as well as a few ducks & geese. Here are a few of my faves. Afterwards we found our way to a lovely Italian called Piccolino where we ate & drank ourselves silly before sloping off home in the early evening.Continue reading “Diary of an urban walker”

How do you break a heart?

Barbed Heart

Many of us have, at some time, felt the almost physical pain of losing someone we love either through the breakdown of a relationship or through bereavement.

For some a broken heart is caused by other experiences that can be equally devastating. Those who have been forced to leave their home through fear rather than choice may always leave a part of themselves behind and will never feel whole without it. For others the loss of livelihood leaves their confidence completely shattered and their spirit broken. With the economic situation as it is, the numbers in this category must be swelling by the day.

Some of us are able to fix the cause, or at least live through the pain long enough for it to become bearable, and we come out stronger for it but others are not so lucky. These people’s hearts will never mend completely and their lives will always remain a little  broken.

This week I’ve added a poem that could apply to any of these reasons personal catastrophes. It’s called Tremors.

In Memoriam

 

Sid vicious red

February 1979. Ten years ago but she remembers it clearly.

Thursdays to Saturdays were club nights then. Different clubs each night but nearly always the same tribes, like-minded characters who were drawn to their own kind. On Friday nights they went to Rudy’s an easy going, ramshackle place that specialised in Ska and Two Tone with a bit of Northern Soul and Punk thrown in. It was a bit shabby but the music was good and the Posers provided the missing glamour. So long as you didn’t murder anyone in Rudy’s you could do what you liked, no one cared.

They were also the nights she had guaranteed sex with Gez. He was always there, waiting for her. They’d skirt around each other to begin with, each one not wanting to be the first to move in, but eventually one of them would break. They’d make small talk for a while, maybe dance then go to his car.  It had been that way for eighteen months.Continue reading “In Memoriam”

What does it feel like to be consigned to history?

old woman

What indeed, and why do I ask you might say. Well, I’ll tell you.

I have had a couple of instances over the the last few years when it has been implied that my life experiences could be of historical interest to the wider society.

What, you might ask, are you dead already? No I would answer.

Well then, you might ask, are you approaching that time of life when people give you their seat for fear that a jolt on the bus could cause you to break your spindly, old lady bones and subsequently require a hip replacement operation? I sincerely hope not, I would answer, although I have always been a bit spindly.Continue reading “What does it feel like to be consigned to history?”