A Friend isn’t Just for Christmas

Julie: We always thought it was funny to dress the same and pretend to the guys that we were sisters. We used to have great times together, we were always in each other’s homes.

Now it just seems that she is stalking me.  Since I’ve been going out with Brad I find her presence unsettling. I wish she would find someone special for herself and leave me alone. 

Samantha: Julie always seems annoyed at me these days, I just don’t know what I’ve done.  That Brad is a right creep, she deserves someone better, and she just can’t see it.

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The Commissionaire and the Pea

  • With apologies to Hans Christian Anderson
Old Commissionaire outside the Museum of the Pea

Sol Western blanched as he regarded the display cabinet’s shattered glass. The outer strongroom door with its array of locks and tumblers was intact, the silken white cushion still there, but the pea had gone! Probably his job as well. After three decades in the Corps of Commissionaires, concluding his working life in The Museum of the Pea had promised an effortless journey towards a comfortable retirement. Now all was in question.

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JEALOUSY AS A VIRTUE

A DIALOGUE

Persons: Gilbert and Algernon. Scene: the drawing room of a house in Piccadilly, overlooking Green Park.

Algernon plays the piano; Gilbert reads a book.

Algernon: Gilbert my dear fellow, what is that book that has you so absorbed?

Gilbert: Oh, I’m just reading the latest from Christopher Crouch. Sorry, as I understand it, seeing anyone enjoy an author you thoroughly detest is torture.

Algernon: You like Crouch’s work? That’s fine, you’re perfectly entitled to bad taste. Although I find that getting angry at Christopher Crouch is rather like being enraged by a blank sheet of paper, what’s there to hate?

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Eavesdropping

As a writer yourself, you will know that lots of writers have given accounts of their craft. This doesn’t tend to progress much beyond the foothills of rocket science. They shut themselves in rooms without distraction, they stick to strict schedules and they eavesdrop on unwitting people. As someone slightly lacking in discipline for the first couple of points of writerly consensus, I embraced, for a while, the eavesdropping advice. And I have to say, this doesn’t always end well.

Like other writers wishing to capture ideas and observations, I too carry a notebook and pen everywhere I go. Get a small notebook – not so small you can’t fit much on one page – in an unobtrusive shade of beige, plus two biros. When I started out, I bought a pack of bright pink notebooks with ‘Britney is fab’ – reduced in Lidl – and a pencil with a pink feather on top to match. This may have seemed lacking in seriousness, and so many people commented on the pencil that it kind of blew my cover. Plus I didn’t have a sharpener. So beige and biros is the way to go, I think.

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Paintings of the Mind

Your two-up two-down is in a row of terraces on a scratch of land between Manchester and Stockport: a molehill overlooked by high-rise concrete. A secret pleasure is flicking through channels while he’s out at his club. A hundred stations yet nothing on. Then you are held by a figure, grey hair, less a face than a tombstone resting on a neck. An air of gravitas in that stony apparition. You pay attention.

            The figure, well-spoken, a smoker’s cough like brown smog, is talking about his ‘artistic evolution’. The Slade, the teachers and influencers, the bohemian friends: names are dropped like Pollock paint splashes. A commitment all his years to art and sculpture; up at six a.m., seven days a week. He mentions the well-off family he’d rebelled against. They’d come round when fame’s sprig had bedecked him. He could afford to rebel, of course. Opportunities in his palm like a purse of ducats.

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Poor Me

Jackie sighed as she heard the tap-tap of high heels approaching her office door. Forewarned by Lisa in accounts, she waited as her door swung open. Leoinie crashed through sobbing, “They all hate me. I’ve never been anything but generous to them; now they call me names and snigger behind my back.”

            Passing the tissues, Jackie told her to sit. “Why do you think this is happening again, Leoinie? You had the same problem in two different offices. I thought you had made friends with Dawn and were happy there?”

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Swan Song

Old lady scowls with silhouette of young woman in background

It’s hard to savour every moment when everyone is fussing so much. Honestly, did half the ward of nurses really need to come? They buzz around me like polyester flies.

My daughter adjusts the deckchair, almost tipping me over in the process, asking me again and again if I’m ok.

‘The tide’s coming in, Mum, so you can’t stay here long. Are you sure you don’t want me to sit with you?’

I sigh. ‘I’m fine. You can leave me now.’

‘We’ll just be over there, ok?’

I nod, too tired to reply.

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The Pros and Cons of Resentment

Ensuring his surgical facemask and sunglasses cover enough of him to render his identity unrecognisable, Chris crosses the road to the dark frontage of Patel’s Stores and slides into the corner recess.

Wearing sunglasses and a mask at night might attract attention, except this is Pond Street W1, where the twenty per cent who aren’t are asking, “Would sir like to see the wine menu?”

His PR consultant boss, Gordon Price, is in the restaurant opposite. The bastard is wining and dining Clarissa Vroom, daughter of the recently ennobled Frank Vroom, a former car-salesperson, who is drinking buddies with the Minister for Greasing Palms. While as juiced as a fiddler at a barn dance, the Minister bemoaned the lack of cheap PPE to Frank.

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Envy

I worked hard in school but had few friends. When my classmates were out playing, I was busy working on my school projects or revising. My only friends were the librarians who would guide me to the books needed to help me in my revision. They taught me to use the computers and how to research for my projects.

My parents supported me in my attempts to do well in school, but through no fault of their own, both being badly disabled, there was no money to finance extras. My uniform came from the schools’ seconds’ shop. Because of this I was the outsider. Sometimes I lay in bed dreaming that one day I would be able to afford the expensive shoes and matching bags that Margaret Ford, one of the most popular girls in my class, sported. Along with her highlighted hair and manicured nails, she had everything, beauty, brains and personality.

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