Change Takes Time, Too Much Damn Time

For 16 months now I have been turning off the lights in the small photocopying room at the top of Bury town hall, usually several times a day. However, for the last few days I haven't had to. Result I thought, I've finally got through to my colleagues, I'm sure chimpanzee’s would have taken less time, but the brain dead fuckers have finally learnt! I was wrong, this morning the caretaker was in there changing the strip bulbs and the damn things haven't been off since! It seems that for a large cross section of my fellow office workers, when they aren't footing the bill for leaving lights on, the cost to the environment and wastage of resources doesn't seem to even occur to them. I give up!

The Perils of Politeness continued...

I took the tram to my last court hearing of the year on ‘Black Eye Friday’ 2013, the reason being that I was due to be going to the pub straight after work later that day, so had left my car at home. It was whilst standing on the packed tram with my head down and my hefty files under one arm, my other arm clinging to a pole for stability so as not to knock one of the unsavoury individuals within all too close proximity, that I was about to have a further lesson in the perils of politeness. I knew that I was likely to be on the tram for a lot longer than most, I usually was, I would be taking it right into the city centre, through atleast eight stops. Therefore, my objective was to try and find a seat as soon as one became available, it would have to be a lone seat, my legs were too long and my baggage too cumbersome to fit into a twin seat with another person. After a couple of stops such a seat became available, I waited to see if the several people between me and the seat wanted to take it first, nobody made the move, so I carefully made my way through and sat on top of my heavy long coat with my files falling either side of me. Once the tram got underway again, a young lady nearby with red hair and Dr Martin boots said to nobody in particular, at conversational volume, ‘I was going to offer that seat to the elderly man over there.’ I looked around the carriage quickly, and sure enough, diagonally across from me, on the other side of the doors was an elderly gentleman, he was bent over both hands firmly clasped around a pole. He was surrounded by a number of taller people, and I had missed him completely as a result. I immediately leapt to my feet and agreed that the elderly gentleman should have the chair. The young lady repeated in the direction of the elderly man, ‘I was going to offer it to him.’ I agreed that she should do so, and got out of the way. Nothing then happened, the young lady was obviously relying on the elderly gentleman having already heard her, and for whatever reason, possibly embarrassment, was not going to do anything more, like address him directly in the first person. I noticed that the elderly chap was packing a hearing aid in his facing ear and had his head down, so I came forward and suggested I asked the chap instead, I gently tapped him, then gestured towards the empty seat and offered it to him, as I did so, the young lady said over me, ‘I was going to offer him that seat.’ The old man was grateful and shuffled over to take the seat. In attempt to be nice and acknowledge the young lady’s generosity of spirit, I said to her, ‘good spot by the way.’ She turned, scornfully tutted, and said with hostility, still without looking me in the eye, ‘that is because I've got manners, manners cost nothing.’ I backed away quietly and didn't respond. A couple of stops later, the tram still pretty packed, my head hung in sleepy meditation, the young lady was readying herself to disembark, I noticed this and rouse myself to make as much space for her to get passed as was possible. As the young lady made her way past me, with ample room to spare she made a point of saying loudly, ‘excuse me please,’ her face contorted with disgust for me. As she wondered off with her head held high, she was of the firm belief that I was an arsehole and that she was a saint. I thought on this for some time afterwards, before concluding that if she was indeed a saint, she would have had the inclination, the vision and empathy not only to have not so hugely miss-judged me, but not to have behaved so self righteously about it, and that those were in fact the only acts of bad manners committed.

God Help Us

The problem with dictatorships is human nature. The problem with national democracies is the descrepencies between them. The problem with a democracy is that nobody incharge dare rein in the democratic. We could do with a God really.

Can't Beat Them, Forced To Join Them

The world is so full of immediate distraction, few seem to really care about it enough, and so, beacuse the majority always take the easier, cheaper, more convenient path, we all march headlong towards oblivion.

A Lesson In Loss/Moving On

On the 19th September 2010, I sent a text message to my former girlfriend from opposite the Sunflowers in the National Gallery. I had not heard back from her for months, it was to be my last. In it, I explained that I was sorry if we had not been what she had wanted us to be, that she could move on without him, and without me. On the 20th September 2010 I boarded a Virgin Train at London Euston. I had no works mobile, no diary, no Manchester travel card, no 'Memoirs of A Geisha,' no empty lunchbox, no brand new faulty I-Phone still in its box, no flat keys, no wallet, no money, no train tickets home, no bag. But worst of all, the reason for my grey complexion, drawn ashen nicotine stained gauntness, the reason for my dry mouthed nausea; no note books, two to be precise, containing a running commentary of my life over the last 5 years through verse, ideas, thoughts and stories. I had committed nothing to memory. I feel as though this loss will always plague me, with each novel I read and play I see, I recognise snippets of my lost work, work for which I am responsible, and yet work that will never again exist, except in snippets for somebody else. These were the writings that caught my moments, evidenced my worth, may even have immortalised me. Whilst the violence of this loss still had me strung up by the feet, I was forced to take stock of my life, assess what was gone, and thus what I could move on from, what I had to move on from, but also what was essential to reclaim if possible, or replace if not, if only I were to move on. So, just before closing on one of those still raw nights at the Banyan Tree thereafter, having been talking to some wannabe's about love, I picked up my umbrella, zipped up my coat, left the table of shallow ships I thought I had successfully passed before, and walked out into the sheet rain and cold of the night. Two hours later, having lost my umbrella at a services and come face to face with a fox I was standing outside a window looking in. They were all up, the two best friends from London, who had always liked me, and her. She looked more radiant than ever and absence truely does make the dick grow longer. I took a deep breath, I knocked. It has taken me a long time to pick up a pen since then. I had all but completed my short stories back there in September 2010, and now I must write them all again. For a long time I was scared that I would never be able to re-create what I had lost, and so I never made any attempt. Now I know that it is not about ownership, not about recognition, my deeper sadness has been for another loss, the loss of something that made me happy, made me, me, it was to have stopped writing. It would seem that writing comes from elsewhere and the memory merely a catalyst. They say that everything happens for a reason, maybe it does. I know that I have emerged stronger in spirit, am better read, a father even, maybe now is the time to be a better writer. 12 Nov 2012