None Imaginative Liar

Attack can be the first sign of a liar who lacks imagination.

Clueless Fucking Bastards

I think our innate problem as a species is that everybody knows best

Break Up To Make Up

The leaves raced each other beneath my feet like a crimson tide washing my mind away, I was drifting ever closer towards my new home from Heaton Chapel Station, preferring the idea of remaining in the cold and rain. It was becoming somewhat of a routine after work this, certainly it had for the past few weeks now, a routine takes time to become routine ofcourse, and I reckon I'd actually been feeling this way from the start. Something just didn't feel right, I thought it might have been the change, missing my city centre converted mill apartment, the first place I could call my own, the place that had left me skint for years but allowed such invigorating freedoms, a portal into the urban stars, and the blended fun pot of culture, creativity and people, all in my own back yard. Yet somehow, I found that the urban stars had been replaced with the sparsely and dim amber glow of suburban street lights. The closing of an era is not like the closing of a season, an era tends to have been with you for longer, and as far as you know, never comes round again, so it takes longer to let go, longer to start looking forward to what's next. I rounded the corner onto Green Lane and could see my hedge; I took in every last detail of the final few metres, clinging to them, trying to prevent time from dragging me forward. As I got there, I imagined my head bobbing along the top of the hedge from the otherside, I felt awkward, silly, unwelcome. I would never feel like this again. The following evening after work I decided to take the initiative, as I climbed aboard my train at Piccadilly Station I knew I only had 10 minutes before I got off at Heaton Chapel and a further 15 minutes walk before my freshly cut key went into the door. I sent out a text, it read, 'Something just doesn't feel right, I think we need to talk when you get home tonight.' Almost instantaneously a text rocketed back in response, 'Agreed.' It was not my intention to call time on the relationship, the thought of losing her was far worse than living with her, I just needed somebody to talk to about how I was feeling, just to talk through it and find a solution, I thought it best that it should be her. I've always been one for laying my cards on the table, I had nothing to hide, and life's too short to get hung up, no problem is without solution, even if it hurts a little to start with. I thought quickly about what I wanted to say. Where to start? The bedroom, and it’s not what you're thinking, it is in fact the décor. The room was white; everything in it, white, from the gare of the shabby chic bed, wardrobe, draws and bedside set, to the glare of the white washed walls and soft furnishings, to the glee of the custom made blinds, chandelier and bedside lamps. This was not a room in which I felt at home, indeed I could never imagine being ill in such a room. This was a room in which I would always be a guest, it was somebody else’s. Some of my things remained in suitcases under the bed in the spare room, I had been rationed a little cupboard space and allocated a draw, but barely enough to be on holiday, the rest of my stuff remained back at my flat, for which I was dragging my feet to find a tenant. Indeed, the home in which I found myself was somebody else’s. That somebody had, in comparison to the length of time she had been with her husband, only very recently separated. When I met her she had been living in her girlhood room at her mother and father's address in Heaton Moor, a drawn out stop gap whilst she waited for the sale of the London assets from the dream that had come crashing down around her feet. The London house and flat had remained on the market for a couple of years by the time they sold, I don't think either of their owners had wanted to sell really, and so they never lowered the price in line with the falling market. I suppose it was one of the final links they had, an excuse for continued game playing and communication, like I said, it takes longer to let go of an era. Half of the value of half of a home in London is enough to buy you a whole home in most parts of Manchester, or, most of a rundown home requiring a lot of work in the Heaton Moor area of Manchester, or, the lot when there is half the value of two London homes. This particular Heaton Moor home had been on the radar for some time, indeed since girlhood, fortunately, in her haste to claw back her independence, all previous, yet half hearted offers, on all previous homes had been bettered, whilst in the meantime the two elderly spinsters had moved out of this particular home in order to be homed, after some fifty years without being decorated, with the exception of a new carpet her father and brother had put in some ten years previous, she made the spinsters an offer they couldn't refuse. It was always meant to be. Blood, tears, smelly guts, heart, soul and a shed load of money went into her perfect home. I suppose in hindsight it had been a form of marital breakdown therapy, not only that, but I'd heard her ex had been so tight he hadn't even let her spend her own money, so I guess under the same umbrella, it was an act of defiance or rebellion too. Problem was, I don't think I fitted into to this crossover of era's really, indeed, the pre-child of the marriage, her Springer spaniel, Barclay was much more of a consideration, I guess in the early days that had just made me want her more. In the more recent days, I had started to feature a little more, the novelty of the new home was being replaced by the reality of living alone, that was my guess anyway. She insisted I move in, so I did, I guess it was love, or as near as damnit. So now, here we are, it's not what I thought it would be, and I don't think it's what she thought it would be either, judging by her abrupt and apparently mutual response on the text. I guess she thought that she could just carry on where she left off in her former life, that comfortable, familiar and easy routine. That life was over though; it had been smashed by the husband that she thought I would simply replace. The truth was, I was somebody very different, and life with me, especially at that time, was no comfortable routine. I think the reality of that reminded her more of what she had lost, the new era was not shaping up in quite the same way, it's easy to put the past on a pedestal in hindsight, and she was choosing to forget why the era had ended, or was she? Perhaps also, she struggled to allow herself to let go again, precisely because of how the former era was ending, or indeed had ended; in fear of a reoccurrence. When I got in she was not yet there so I got myself a beer in nervous anticipation and sat forthrightly at the head of my prize possession, a darkly stained modern cut oak dining table. It was one of my prize possessions which had been no mean feat to move, but a pushover to take pride of place in the heart of the home, unlike some of my more obscure items which were less likely to see daylight ever again in this gaff. I had cigarettes in my bag should things go badly, I was buying them a lot at the time. Soon enough her key entered the front door and I braced myself. She seemed cold and distant as she came in and made her way to the kitchen to open the wine she was carrying before plonking her glass down next to me, followed by the bottle. She sat down forlorn and looked at her glass. I decided to open, I told her that she may have noticed I’d been somewhat down recently and that I was struggling to adjust, something just didn’t feel right, and that perhaps she didn’t want me there really. We had already separated before, she had dumped me less than twelve months earlier, a tough time, I had lost what I thought was my career job later that same week, and in extremely unfair circumstances which tore me apart. I was hoping that this time we could have worked something out, things had moved very quickly in this particularly short period within our two year relationship, perhaps it was time to take a few steps back before moving forward again more gradually. I hadn’t been able to advocate this at the time though, and I think she thought I was dumping her before I was able to, she had after all dumped me a year earlier for about a 6 week period. Before I could explain myself fully, she got it in quickly that she felt the relationship was over, I didn’t comprehend what she meant at first, but as I tried to re-interpret what I heard out loud, with no helpful responses, my heart sank helplessly deeper into shock. Clutching at branches as I fell, I quickly suggested we go to the pub to have one last drink together, perhaps in a hope that this would trip a nostalgic outburst that may make her reconsider, we had after all spent all of our good times together in the pub, something in itself that should have perhaps sent alarm bells ringing. She agreed, but then I’d never known her not agree to a drink, in hindsight however, I learnt that this was simply to keep me sweet, in an attempt to make the break-up as amicable as possible from there on in, and in fear that I might get upset and damage her home when moving my stuff out! How little she really knew me at that time. The nearest pub was the Moor Top and I got stuck in good and proper, as if I was drinking for my life, and she wasn’t too far behind me. The only time the stress and pain of the reality of the situation seemed to subside was when I was gulping back larger and smoking. It was decent of her in that she tried to explain her position, although unhelpful because she wasn’t really able to. I was such a ‘loving, giving, kind, fun and decent bloke,’ I didn’t deserve her. The last part of that sentence perhaps highlighted to me what the problem was, my first thought was, could it be that I didn’t deserve her because she has been sleeping around, and there you have it, the paranoid jealousy and mistrust that had plagued me, and therefore subsequently her throughout our time together. But no, that was not the reason. It must therefore be because she was not ready for another serious relationship just yet and so I empathetically suggested that she mustn’t blame herself for her husband having met somebody else and punish herself further by not letting anybody new into her life, for fear of history repeating all that terrible pain. After all, as a jealous but philosophical boyfriend in all of my failed relationships at that time, I was very much of the view that you only truly have control of yourself, and sometimes not even that, others however, they are an entity entirely of their own volition. Unsurprisingly, this didn’t help my cause; others are afterall influenced by others in their decision making, for instance husbands by wives, but even if they were not, I was in myself an entity of my own volition. I continued to blurt out my theories as to why she was making this decision, she wanted more time to enjoy her house, she wasn’t ready for us to get too serious, moving in together had all happened too quickly, I wasn’t her husband and we needed more time for her to get used to the idea, I needed to grow up and calm down, deal with my paranoid jealousies, all of this could and would be countered I promised. No, no no, I was not going to get the satisfaction of feedback, I really don’t think she knew what she was doing at the time, I know now that she certainly didn’t know what she wanted medium to long term, it was a confusing and difficult point in her life, and one I don’t think I will ever know the half of, one thing was for sure at that moment however, she knew what she wanted in the short term, and there was no changing her mind. We got up to leave and she re-assured me that she’d loved our time together, she really cared a great deal for me, and for my family, she was so so sorry about what she was doing, would probably regret it, was probably making a big mistake, and that it was her and not me. I phoned my mate to come and collect me an hour or so from then, and we went back so I could pack some stuff up, I’d have to come back with a van for my table. Back at my beloved flat that night, it really and truly hit home that the grass was always greener on the side that you make it so; the luscious pastures that I remembered were baron now, and the garish white room I had been staying in was the Garden of Eden. I longed for her as I writhed on my bed in a pain that was not actually there, wide awake in a terrible and exhausting tiredness, I called out her name many times before finally getting up to watch the dawn in with a pack of cigarettes. It’s strange witnessing the world wake up when you don’t want to be a part of it, it’s very existence, the reality of it means that what had happened really had happened, and that it is inevitable that there is no escape from it, it isn’t going to go away, and it’s going to get worse and take a very long time before it gets better. What if it didn’t get better, what if she was the fleeting of happiness? No-one else could cuddle like her; no-one else would ever be as compatible and chilled as her. Oh how I tortured myself, and yet, just prior to her dumping me, I had been looking at other women and thinking, hypothetically, that if she were to dump me again I’d make the most of it and never go back this time. I went into work the next day and felt truly horrendous, although there were kindly people around me who talked me through the slumber; it wasn’t until my old man called around mid afternoon that it all came out. Its one thing talking to colleagues, it’s quite another when your old dad asks how you are, a rare and very poignant moment, not good for holding in the tears when you’re already highly emotionally charged, and so out they burst, from eyes, nose and mouth. Dad said he would come down straight after work on the bike. We had a few pints, or atleast I did, down Liverpool Road, sitting outside at the White Lion, dad had a t-shirt on with a face scarf loose around his neck, his grey wizardry hair dishevelled from beneath his helmet, he wore his armoured Kevlar kecks and muckle great biker boots. He let me talk it out and kept the beers coming, although not saying much, his responses were short and perfectly timed, though probably prompted, he allowed for that, and they were exactly what I needed to hear. It was unusual that it was my dad that was the person sat there with me on that week night evening in Manchester, we had been somewhat estranged in what were for me, my wilder days, and for him, his busier days, and for both of us, our fairly recent days. This was something we’d done off our own backs too, I don’t even think anybody else knew. We rounded the evening off with a curry at Akbar’s, and after six poppadoms, two chilli chicken balti’s and a large family naan between us, I began to feel a little less scared about the prospects of my future, indeed, there was a warming of the heart, I’d touched base within the bosom of security that only family can provide, combine that with a hot curry and larger, and yes, there is a great comforting and warmth. We walked back to the flat, the air was cooling now and it was getting pretty dark. We got back to the bike in my open air garage. The old boy got kitted up in his big breathable biker jacket with skid trays and reflective strips, he clambered onboard and the bike roared into life, amplified by the cover of the garage and projected out of its open front to frighten the life out of the cool urbanites living in posh urban splash apartments around the courtyard. When the helmet went on, although he remained to put his giant armoured gloves on, he was gone, behind a veil of kit and noise, and ready for blast off. As I listened to the engine tear the old man through the night, from Hulme Hall Road, to Castlefield, to Salford, and then no more, a pang took hold of me and dragged me back into the world into which I had only recently be introduced, and that sense of loneliness and despair again, only this time, pangs grip, if only very very slightly, was loosening. I always knew that this was only ever going to be a reality for as long as it took; I just hadn’t until that moment known how long that would take, for until then, it hadn’t let up. If I could feel even very slightly better in a day, even with good days and bad days, I’d feel very much better in a month, and better still in six months. Lying in the dark I considered the old man in my mind’s eye, an hour into his journey, tearing up the M6, it would be lonely up there, exposed to the elements and nothing for miles upon miles but your thoughts, there were probably not many other vehicles on the road at that time, mid week. I was worried about him a little; there was no spare wheel on a bike. But then, to worry, I knew was to under estimate him, just as I had done his wisdom until that evening. I never did let myself get over Sam, although it got easier, I knew I didn’t want to get over her, and so I moved on after a few months, started living my life again, and she came back. We have a daughter now, Annie Rose, so I’m a dad and dad’s a granddad. Little does Annie Rose know how very nearly she may never have been; now that would be a tragedy for the world.

Syria

I hadn't realised that the Syrian crisis was largely due to sectarian differences, with minor religious differences at the heart of those... Cue mass genocide on both sides; cue 'civilised' western world; cue evil dictator and brutal regime; cue weapons inspectors; cue lots of use of the word 'evidence;' cue many more deaths. I don't know; what we advance with the brilliance of technology and medicine, we cull with stupidity, - it's damn right cyc..lical.