The book is now available for purchase from Lulu.
Wherever you are, simply goto www.Lulu.com and when it comes up, go to 'buy' then type "The Chicken has found a New Worm" or simply "The Chicken" and it will take you to the page. Lulu will take care of the currency conversion etc. and your book will be specially printed for you.
The printer's proof which arrived today shows that the whole project has worked out exactly as I intended. 190 pages of stories, each one independent - about 30 of them. It's a 'dip into' book, or as the term goes, a 'coffee table' book, or I expect for some, a 'pick up and read straight through' book.
Either way, I sincerely hope that it proves enjoyable for you, as per my intention.
It is Royal size, which means that people like me will have no trouble handling it, nor will they have any trouble reading, as I have made the print 12 point size, to accommodate poor eyesight like mine.
There are illustrations too, which may or may not amuse.
Please don't forget, if you wish, I have available, a delightful bookplate for insertion inside. If you want one, then please mail me at: thechickenandtheworm@mantonwood.co.uk.
I will need your name and street address (for the mailing label), plus a few short words for the message, and I will be happy to write this onto the plate in my own fair hand before mailing to you.
Then I shall destroy all traces of your details. That is a solemn promise. I have no interest in collecting such things, except as apply to my friends and I certainly will not pass it on to anyone else.
Enjoy the book.
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Perils of Adolescence
Again, whiling away the time until The Chicken arrives for final approval, I wrote this story this very morning.
Please enjoy and feel free to comment, should you be moved to that extreme!
The Perils of One so Young ©
The Sports Club arranged a day out to Nottingham, specifically to see a show at the Ice Rink there. Ice skating was never one of my interests, mainly because I had never encountered it, but I went along for two reasons – one the bus was free and two, I would be with the lads. It was to be an afternoon at the show and an evening on the town, so it looked interesting.
The show turned out to be quite colourful and boisterous. I enjoyed it, but it was damned cold in there! Afterwards, we went somewhere else - I can’t remember where, but it filled an hour or so, then we went to The Trip.
Whether this was an impulse thing or whether it had been pre planned, I do not know, but I went with the lads from the table tennis team. Perhaps I should have known better, but I enjoyed their company, and they were good enough to entertain this gauche young teenager.
“The Trip” or to give the establishment its proper name, The Trip To Jerusalem, was claimed to be the oldest public house in England, dating back to the Crusades, hence the derivation of the name. It is situated virtually next door to the castle in the old part of town, but the building itself does not go that far back, only a couple of hundred years or so.
“The Trip” has, or had, a bit of a reputation, of which I was quite innocent. I had heard the name a few times, as part of ‘nudge nudge, wink wink’ conversations, but it meant nothing special to me at the time.
So, there we were, in The Trip, on Saturday night, enjoying the atmosphere, which, I have to say, was quite exciting for me as I had previously only ever been inside the one pub, The Badger, at Shirebrook, needless to say, in the company of these same lads. I should have smelled a rat, but, as I said, I was totally innocent.
There were lots of locals enjoying their night out and there were also lots of females on the same errand. There were also, I was told, several ladies on business, though the term was not explained to me. One certain girl attached herself to me.
To be honest, I was quite flattered, me, a sheltered young lad, meeting up with a nice young lady in a strange town in convivial company. Of course, the lads egged me on and I struck up a conversation with the young lady whose name, I learned, was June.
Not having much money, I was thankful that she accepted a glass of pale ale rather than an expensive spirit drink. I hesitated in going up to the bar, as I was not yet of age, so I was breaking the law by drinking in the place, and to buy one would compound the offence. I must have looked older than my meagre years, or perhaps the landlord wasn’t bothered.
When it came to my turn to be served, the landlord leaned over the bar and said quietly, “I see you’ve got company, lad!”
“Yes” I replied, and I’d like two pale ales please”.
“Fair enough” he said, “but before I serve you, you might like to know that June rattles”.
“Eh, what?” I answered, sharp as a button.
I should have known what he meant, for that was an expression that Our Mam had used on a couple of occasions.
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“She rattles. If you shake him, he rattles!”
I was looking at him gormlessly, so he went on, using simple terms, simple words for a simple youth.
“She stands up to pee, laddie, ‘she’ is a ‘he’ with a full set of tackle!”
Then, the penny dropped with a resounding clang and I dashed out into the street. One of the lads had been watching and followed me outside to make sure that I was all right and that I didn’t go wandering off on my own in the city centre and get lost, cast aside by the misfortunes of teenage first love!
*
Of course, everyone else had seen the episode and knew full well what was going off, but they had left me to experience the pleasure of meeting new people.
The people in the office used to partake in the usual sweepstakes based upon the classic horse races such as The Epsom Derby and the Grand National and I was invited to join in. One of the lads, my immediate boss, as a matter of fact, used to bet on horses quite a lot, making a tidy income out of it.
He told us that an uncle had left him a fair amount of money, and he had used this to finance his apprenticeship as a gambler. He used to maintain that it ceased to be gambling if you worked on those horses that stood the best chance of winning, keeping away from the donkeys. I suppose the problem lay in differentiating between them. He would think nothing of placing a £10 bet on a horse with a chance of winning £2, which meant that he would get his stake back plus the £2 winnings. Ten pounds was more than my weekly wage!
To me, horses were all the same, big animals having a leg at each corner, teeth at the front and with stinking farts and a nasty kick at the back. Some could run and others were destined to haul milk carts around the streets.
Those that were alleged to be runners were entered in the races and people wagered money on the outcome. So, when it came to the Grand National in April, I was asked did I want to partake in the office sweepstake. As the fee was small, six pence, I think, I said yes. The principal of this is that everyone who enters gets to pick the name of one of the runners from a hat, the winning horse deciding the winner of the sweep. One of the girls had the winner and won a nice little packet, equal to a weeks wages, but my ticket represented a far different outlook.
Alan, the betting man also placed bets with his bookie for anyone who wanted to make a bet on the actual race. I was persuaded to put a shilling on my horse. Fatal mistake.
The horse, my horse, fell badly at one of the fences and had to be put down. So began my short lived gambling career. The next sweep was also on a steeplechase. Again, my horse fell at the fence, fortunately unhurt, but the jockey broke his leg or something else equally nasty. So ended my gambling career.
The Social Club organised a trip to the races which would be a nice day out for everyone. As it was to Thirsk in North Yorkshire, I decided to go, not for the racing, but to visit an ancient Abbey which was, according to the map, close by the racecourse. Of course, 1 inch on the map was quite a distance when transferred to the actual countryside. I never made it.
I stayed on the racecourse with my friends and colleagues. I had budgeted for the cost of the trip, a bite to eat, some refreshment and a pint and a meal of some sort on the way home. As I wandered round, I took a fancy to one of the horses, by the magnificent name of Balaclava, for which the bookies were offering odds of 66 to 1.
I decided I would have a bite of that, so I cashed up, but found that I had no spare cash. I had just enough to buy a drink and a bag of fish and chips on the way home, so I let it pass. The bloody thing romped home!
On the way home, we stopped at a pub in Tadcaster, home of a couple of famous breweries. There was a chip shop close by, so I was all set up. As I was waiting for my fish and chips, I routed in my pockets for the money and, to my delight, I discovered a ten shilling note that I didn’t know I had. As the coat I was wearing only came out of the wardrobe for special occasions, I guessed the money must have been sitting there since the last time, some months before.
My euphoria soon fizzled out when I realised that, had I found it on the racecourse, I really would have put it on that damned horse, the one that romped home at 66/1! That would have made me more money than I earned in a month!
Needless to say, I never made a bet on a horse again.
Please enjoy and feel free to comment, should you be moved to that extreme!
The Perils of One so Young ©
The Sports Club arranged a day out to Nottingham, specifically to see a show at the Ice Rink there. Ice skating was never one of my interests, mainly because I had never encountered it, but I went along for two reasons – one the bus was free and two, I would be with the lads. It was to be an afternoon at the show and an evening on the town, so it looked interesting.
The show turned out to be quite colourful and boisterous. I enjoyed it, but it was damned cold in there! Afterwards, we went somewhere else - I can’t remember where, but it filled an hour or so, then we went to The Trip.
Whether this was an impulse thing or whether it had been pre planned, I do not know, but I went with the lads from the table tennis team. Perhaps I should have known better, but I enjoyed their company, and they were good enough to entertain this gauche young teenager.
“The Trip” or to give the establishment its proper name, The Trip To Jerusalem, was claimed to be the oldest public house in England, dating back to the Crusades, hence the derivation of the name. It is situated virtually next door to the castle in the old part of town, but the building itself does not go that far back, only a couple of hundred years or so.
“The Trip” has, or had, a bit of a reputation, of which I was quite innocent. I had heard the name a few times, as part of ‘nudge nudge, wink wink’ conversations, but it meant nothing special to me at the time.
So, there we were, in The Trip, on Saturday night, enjoying the atmosphere, which, I have to say, was quite exciting for me as I had previously only ever been inside the one pub, The Badger, at Shirebrook, needless to say, in the company of these same lads. I should have smelled a rat, but, as I said, I was totally innocent.
There were lots of locals enjoying their night out and there were also lots of females on the same errand. There were also, I was told, several ladies on business, though the term was not explained to me. One certain girl attached herself to me.
To be honest, I was quite flattered, me, a sheltered young lad, meeting up with a nice young lady in a strange town in convivial company. Of course, the lads egged me on and I struck up a conversation with the young lady whose name, I learned, was June.
Not having much money, I was thankful that she accepted a glass of pale ale rather than an expensive spirit drink. I hesitated in going up to the bar, as I was not yet of age, so I was breaking the law by drinking in the place, and to buy one would compound the offence. I must have looked older than my meagre years, or perhaps the landlord wasn’t bothered.
When it came to my turn to be served, the landlord leaned over the bar and said quietly, “I see you’ve got company, lad!”
“Yes” I replied, and I’d like two pale ales please”.
“Fair enough” he said, “but before I serve you, you might like to know that June rattles”.
“Eh, what?” I answered, sharp as a button.
I should have known what he meant, for that was an expression that Our Mam had used on a couple of occasions.
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“She rattles. If you shake him, he rattles!”
I was looking at him gormlessly, so he went on, using simple terms, simple words for a simple youth.
“She stands up to pee, laddie, ‘she’ is a ‘he’ with a full set of tackle!”
Then, the penny dropped with a resounding clang and I dashed out into the street. One of the lads had been watching and followed me outside to make sure that I was all right and that I didn’t go wandering off on my own in the city centre and get lost, cast aside by the misfortunes of teenage first love!
*
Of course, everyone else had seen the episode and knew full well what was going off, but they had left me to experience the pleasure of meeting new people.
The people in the office used to partake in the usual sweepstakes based upon the classic horse races such as The Epsom Derby and the Grand National and I was invited to join in. One of the lads, my immediate boss, as a matter of fact, used to bet on horses quite a lot, making a tidy income out of it.
He told us that an uncle had left him a fair amount of money, and he had used this to finance his apprenticeship as a gambler. He used to maintain that it ceased to be gambling if you worked on those horses that stood the best chance of winning, keeping away from the donkeys. I suppose the problem lay in differentiating between them. He would think nothing of placing a £10 bet on a horse with a chance of winning £2, which meant that he would get his stake back plus the £2 winnings. Ten pounds was more than my weekly wage!
To me, horses were all the same, big animals having a leg at each corner, teeth at the front and with stinking farts and a nasty kick at the back. Some could run and others were destined to haul milk carts around the streets.
Those that were alleged to be runners were entered in the races and people wagered money on the outcome. So, when it came to the Grand National in April, I was asked did I want to partake in the office sweepstake. As the fee was small, six pence, I think, I said yes. The principal of this is that everyone who enters gets to pick the name of one of the runners from a hat, the winning horse deciding the winner of the sweep. One of the girls had the winner and won a nice little packet, equal to a weeks wages, but my ticket represented a far different outlook.
Alan, the betting man also placed bets with his bookie for anyone who wanted to make a bet on the actual race. I was persuaded to put a shilling on my horse. Fatal mistake.
The horse, my horse, fell badly at one of the fences and had to be put down. So began my short lived gambling career. The next sweep was also on a steeplechase. Again, my horse fell at the fence, fortunately unhurt, but the jockey broke his leg or something else equally nasty. So ended my gambling career.
The Social Club organised a trip to the races which would be a nice day out for everyone. As it was to Thirsk in North Yorkshire, I decided to go, not for the racing, but to visit an ancient Abbey which was, according to the map, close by the racecourse. Of course, 1 inch on the map was quite a distance when transferred to the actual countryside. I never made it.
I stayed on the racecourse with my friends and colleagues. I had budgeted for the cost of the trip, a bite to eat, some refreshment and a pint and a meal of some sort on the way home. As I wandered round, I took a fancy to one of the horses, by the magnificent name of Balaclava, for which the bookies were offering odds of 66 to 1.
I decided I would have a bite of that, so I cashed up, but found that I had no spare cash. I had just enough to buy a drink and a bag of fish and chips on the way home, so I let it pass. The bloody thing romped home!
On the way home, we stopped at a pub in Tadcaster, home of a couple of famous breweries. There was a chip shop close by, so I was all set up. As I was waiting for my fish and chips, I routed in my pockets for the money and, to my delight, I discovered a ten shilling note that I didn’t know I had. As the coat I was wearing only came out of the wardrobe for special occasions, I guessed the money must have been sitting there since the last time, some months before.
My euphoria soon fizzled out when I realised that, had I found it on the racecourse, I really would have put it on that damned horse, the one that romped home at 66/1! That would have made me more money than I earned in a month!
Needless to say, I never made a bet on a horse again.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
Brand new tale
Yes, I know that you are probably here for the 'darker' story that I mentioned, but I'm conscious that some people are getting restless waiting for the book to be made available - at least, I hope so :-))
Whiling away the time more profitably than sucking my thumbs, I've started collation work on the second book "The Doggie". As I went through them early this morning before sun-up, I noticed a couple of small tales, conspicuous by their absence.
So, I knocked up this story this morning, and offer it for your amusement. Please don't be too harsh - it's hot from the keyboard, and needs more work before it's presentable.
I hope you enjoy it, but don't forget the other one!
Whiling away the time more profitably than sucking my thumbs, I've started collation work on the second book "The Doggie". As I went through them early this morning before sun-up, I noticed a couple of small tales, conspicuous by their absence.
So, I knocked up this story this morning, and offer it for your amusement. Please don't be too harsh - it's hot from the keyboard, and needs more work before it's presentable.
I hope you enjoy it, but don't forget the other one!
The Broken Lamp Post (Copyright)
Chesterfield town centre was a busy place especially on Market days. There was the usual one which had been there for centuries, having been granted a license by some ancient Monarch way back in medieval times. There was a cattle market as well, where farmers and producers traded their stock and all those things which go to keep the farming community running.
At Headquarters, I was given two books of forms and sent down to the cattle market with the instructions to issue the necessary licenses for the transport of animals as they were bought and sold. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what I was doing, but I survived the day. Only the Lord and the farmers knew what I was licensing; I could have been sanctioning all sorts of nefarious activities.
I mean, a bloke comes up to me, waving a piece of paper with the auctioneer’s name on it and asks, in a dialect that I had trouble understanding, for a license to transport “8 store pigs, Hamptons, Uttoxeter”.
What could I do but write it down on the license and sign it?
“Three Jersey kine in milk.” What on earth was that? I didn’t know, but I issued a movement license for it, or them.
“Eight heifers, store, Wilton, Macclesfield!” Eh, what?
Whatever needed a movement license, I issued the necessary. Whether my actions eased or hindered the smooth running of the farming industry, I shall never know, for this sort of thing never featured in the classes at Police College.
The one clear memory I have of my duty at that market is that I needed to wash my trousers. Close proximity to the rear ends of farm animals presents far too many risks under normal circumstances, but in confined spaces and under stress – well, I think they must have been programmed to wait for my arrival. Dressed as I was, in my nice, dark blue serge suit with shiny black boots, I was too good a target to miss!
Of course, with so many people milling around, there were bound to be opportunities for mishaps and incidents. I was plodding along near to the Shambles, a block of properties dating back hundreds of years, criss-crossed by narrow streets and buildings, some of them reaching out over the street below.
I paused on a street corner, wondering which way to go next, when I felt a tug at my trouser leg, and heard a small, polite voice say, “Excuse me officer!” I looked down to see a smartly dressed little boy.
“Hello,” I replied, “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” he said “I’ve come to do some shopping with my Daddy, and he’s gone and lost me!”
I asked if he could remember where they were last together, but he couldn’t tell me. We walked a little, looking where the lad thought he’d been, but there was no sign of his Dad, so I took him back to the Station.
On the way, he told me his name, his Dad’s name, his Mummy’s name and his sister’s name. By the time we’d reached the Station, I’d heard the entire family story, including his full address, including a description of their house.
The lad was as happy as a boy in a sand pit as we booked him in and recorded it all into the book. We had just finished writing it down, completing the necessary forms, when a harassed and flustered man rushed into the Station. It was the boy’s Dad, who had been searching the Shambles and neighbouring streets for him.
Boy, was he pleased to see the child, seated on a chair, happily chatting with a policewoman. He jumped up and ran to his Dad, delighted to be re-united. As they walked out of the door, the boy could be heard chatting away, relating his latest adventure to a man who was probably thinking on how he was going to explain to his wife! It was clear that he would not be able to avoid it, not with his son being such a little chatterbox!
Round about the same time, I was sent to a little street close by the Crooked Spire, just off the trunk road running through town centre. I can’t remember the name now, Stephenson Place, I think it was. I tried just now to refresh my memory by looking at a map, but the place has changed so much in the 45 years since I was there that I hardly recognise it from the map.
When I was there, the place had two railways serving it, but they closed one of them down and used the track bed to create a better road, taking the heavy through traffic away from town centre. Part of that construction involved removal of a railway tunnel, thereby doing away with a couple of roads. I did, in fact, drive through the town some little while ago, and got lost – me who had, at sometime or other, walked every damned street the town possessed!
Anyway, there I was on this little street, looking for the site of the incident, which I soon found. It was a lamp post which had been wrecked. It was smashed and was leaning over into the churchyard, its broken stump remaining on the footpath, with its innards sticking out, like some broken and discarded toy.
The responsible people had been notified, but in the meantime, I was to stand guard to prevent people coming into contact with it, as there was a danger of stray electricity.
I was there for perhaps an hour, warning people not to go near, when I was distracted by a motorist who had turned off the main road, asking for directions, which I was fortunately able to give.
As I turned back, I could see a gentleman walking along towards my charge, with a dog on a lead, preceding him. I called to him to steer clear. He understood, but the dog didn’t. It carried on, and, on reaching the stump, did what dogs are designed for – it peed on the post, and on the wires.
It jumped in the air, yelped and ran down the street, dragging the man behind him, so demonstrating that the fuses had not blown and that wires were still live!
Chesterfield town centre was a busy place especially on Market days. There was the usual one which had been there for centuries, having been granted a license by some ancient Monarch way back in medieval times. There was a cattle market as well, where farmers and producers traded their stock and all those things which go to keep the farming community running.
At Headquarters, I was given two books of forms and sent down to the cattle market with the instructions to issue the necessary licenses for the transport of animals as they were bought and sold. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of what I was doing, but I survived the day. Only the Lord and the farmers knew what I was licensing; I could have been sanctioning all sorts of nefarious activities.
I mean, a bloke comes up to me, waving a piece of paper with the auctioneer’s name on it and asks, in a dialect that I had trouble understanding, for a license to transport “8 store pigs, Hamptons, Uttoxeter”.
What could I do but write it down on the license and sign it?
“Three Jersey kine in milk.” What on earth was that? I didn’t know, but I issued a movement license for it, or them.
“Eight heifers, store, Wilton, Macclesfield!” Eh, what?
Whatever needed a movement license, I issued the necessary. Whether my actions eased or hindered the smooth running of the farming industry, I shall never know, for this sort of thing never featured in the classes at Police College.
The one clear memory I have of my duty at that market is that I needed to wash my trousers. Close proximity to the rear ends of farm animals presents far too many risks under normal circumstances, but in confined spaces and under stress – well, I think they must have been programmed to wait for my arrival. Dressed as I was, in my nice, dark blue serge suit with shiny black boots, I was too good a target to miss!
Of course, with so many people milling around, there were bound to be opportunities for mishaps and incidents. I was plodding along near to the Shambles, a block of properties dating back hundreds of years, criss-crossed by narrow streets and buildings, some of them reaching out over the street below.
I paused on a street corner, wondering which way to go next, when I felt a tug at my trouser leg, and heard a small, polite voice say, “Excuse me officer!” I looked down to see a smartly dressed little boy.
“Hello,” I replied, “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” he said “I’ve come to do some shopping with my Daddy, and he’s gone and lost me!”
I asked if he could remember where they were last together, but he couldn’t tell me. We walked a little, looking where the lad thought he’d been, but there was no sign of his Dad, so I took him back to the Station.
On the way, he told me his name, his Dad’s name, his Mummy’s name and his sister’s name. By the time we’d reached the Station, I’d heard the entire family story, including his full address, including a description of their house.
The lad was as happy as a boy in a sand pit as we booked him in and recorded it all into the book. We had just finished writing it down, completing the necessary forms, when a harassed and flustered man rushed into the Station. It was the boy’s Dad, who had been searching the Shambles and neighbouring streets for him.
Boy, was he pleased to see the child, seated on a chair, happily chatting with a policewoman. He jumped up and ran to his Dad, delighted to be re-united. As they walked out of the door, the boy could be heard chatting away, relating his latest adventure to a man who was probably thinking on how he was going to explain to his wife! It was clear that he would not be able to avoid it, not with his son being such a little chatterbox!
Round about the same time, I was sent to a little street close by the Crooked Spire, just off the trunk road running through town centre. I can’t remember the name now, Stephenson Place, I think it was. I tried just now to refresh my memory by looking at a map, but the place has changed so much in the 45 years since I was there that I hardly recognise it from the map.
When I was there, the place had two railways serving it, but they closed one of them down and used the track bed to create a better road, taking the heavy through traffic away from town centre. Part of that construction involved removal of a railway tunnel, thereby doing away with a couple of roads. I did, in fact, drive through the town some little while ago, and got lost – me who had, at sometime or other, walked every damned street the town possessed!
Anyway, there I was on this little street, looking for the site of the incident, which I soon found. It was a lamp post which had been wrecked. It was smashed and was leaning over into the churchyard, its broken stump remaining on the footpath, with its innards sticking out, like some broken and discarded toy.
The responsible people had been notified, but in the meantime, I was to stand guard to prevent people coming into contact with it, as there was a danger of stray electricity.
I was there for perhaps an hour, warning people not to go near, when I was distracted by a motorist who had turned off the main road, asking for directions, which I was fortunately able to give.
As I turned back, I could see a gentleman walking along towards my charge, with a dog on a lead, preceding him. I called to him to steer clear. He understood, but the dog didn’t. It carried on, and, on reaching the stump, did what dogs are designed for – it peed on the post, and on the wires.
It jumped in the air, yelped and ran down the street, dragging the man behind him, so demonstrating that the fuses had not blown and that wires were still live!
A little consolation
Still waiting on my proof copy of Chicken, so I thought I would give everyone the chance to take a look at this little story.
It's one of mine, written under the pen name of my alter ego. Warning - it's rather darker than anything of mine that you made have read before.
It's one of mine, written under the pen name of my alter ego. Warning - it's rather darker than anything of mine that you made have read before.
Whatever happened to my dreams?
I don’t need an alarm to wake me up now; I have my own, inbuilt system to do that. The expensive radio alarm that my wife bought stands idly on the bedside cabinet, slowly and regularly clicking away the minutes of the night.
Sometimes I lay in what passes for wakedness, counting along with the numbers as they change. I can vouch that the clock does this correctly, so far it has not missed any numbers; they all seem to be there, making their appearance, one after the other in a regular, monotonous sequence, leading me towards daylight.
I wake, watching the numbers as they change, mocking me, challenging me to stay a while longer. I cannot stay, I must not delay, for my medicine beckons. Without my medicine, that senses-deadening potion, the dreams will return. I can’t allow that to happen. I drag myself from the clinging blankets, and step into the tingling cold of the bedroom.
I don’t need a light to see where I’m going. I know where I have to go. I know exactly where my medicine is, and stumble towards the dispensary where I keep my opiates, ready for use. It is eight short steps to the door, I know, because I have counted them thousands of times. From the door it is three more to the shelf where I know I will find the bottles. First the plain glass tumbler. I have no more crystal glasses left, but who cares? I don’t. They were all broken, some by accident, some by despair. These were another reminder of what was before, bought by Jennifer, before she walked away.
To the right of the tumbler is the whiskey, a large bottle, then the gin, a small one. The vodka standing tall next in line dwarfs the rum, pushed to the back of the shelf. I do not like the stuff for it makes me sick and being sick rids me of the medicine and its numbing properties. No, no rum, except when I have drunk everything else.
I remove the cap off the whisky; I savour the state of well-being it brings. I pride myself I can half fill the glass without spilling a drop of the precious liquid. Carefully, I replace the cap and put the bottle back in its place then return to my bed, where I sit on the edge, feet on the cold floor. I look for my shoes, but I can’t remember where I threw them.
Even in the dark, I can ‘see’ the liquid in the glass, I can smell the heady aroma, but what the hell, it isn’t the aroma I need. I take the first drink. I feel the warmth of the fire as it rushes down the gullet, on its way to extinguish the burning images of my son. One more swallow and the tumbler is empty, but the image is still there in my mind.
Quickly now, I take the ten and a half steps to my dispensary, the half being because I stumble a little and lean forward to reach for the vodka. I have found that a half measure of this will work faster than the whiskey. It burns more fiercely as I gulp it down. Holding on to the shelf, I start to cough as the fire engulfs my chest and stomach, then I finish the glass to ease the cough. This seems to work, and the images are receding too.
I take another measure of vodka and leave the closet, walking slowly out of the bedroom and downstairs. Now I can start my day with whatever it brings. The kitchen is another room in the apartment, just another place, nothing more. What was once a happy place is now a morgue, merely a shell containing memories of happy times. I shuffle past the spot where David used to take his breakfast and I switch on the kettle to make coffee.
Half and half is what I call it. Half coffee, half vodka from another bottle. Should I call it codka, voffee, I wonder? No, vodcoffee it is. Sustaining, nourishing and deadening, hot flavoured vodka. This helps keeps the nightmare at bay. The nightmares that attack me at all times of the day and night. Always the same. Never any change. Like a film, a multicoloured film, playing over and over again.
David, my son – no, our son, happy as ever he had a right to be, newly graduated, with his beautiful girlfriend. Smashed out of this life by a lowlife scum. One moment there, laughing and joking, next moment not. Suddenly, just like that, his life snatched away by a drunken driver, sozzled out of his mind at eight thirty in the morning.
David’s life, the young life that was so full of happiness and promise, so young and caring, my beautiful son, was snatched away, wiped away in one moment of horror. The drunken swine behind the wheel did not know. He did not know what devastation he had caused when his car swerved and crushed the boy against that wall. The bastard was immune from harm, he was well anaesthetised from the pain and havoc. He should have been the one to die. How I wish he had. I passionately wish he had perished in that crash - for this was my son we are talking about. My son, our son, who was dispatched from this world far too early.
I get myself another tumbler of medicine, whiskey for a change. As I gulp the stuff down, the realisation works its way to the forefront of my numbed brain. I have known for a long time who was responsible, who the driver was. I have always known who the craven, miserable, drunken, cowardly and worthless bastard was who took away my son’s life.
It was me.
© 2007 Ambrose Salathiel
I don’t need an alarm to wake me up now; I have my own, inbuilt system to do that. The expensive radio alarm that my wife bought stands idly on the bedside cabinet, slowly and regularly clicking away the minutes of the night.
Sometimes I lay in what passes for wakedness, counting along with the numbers as they change. I can vouch that the clock does this correctly, so far it has not missed any numbers; they all seem to be there, making their appearance, one after the other in a regular, monotonous sequence, leading me towards daylight.
I wake, watching the numbers as they change, mocking me, challenging me to stay a while longer. I cannot stay, I must not delay, for my medicine beckons. Without my medicine, that senses-deadening potion, the dreams will return. I can’t allow that to happen. I drag myself from the clinging blankets, and step into the tingling cold of the bedroom.
I don’t need a light to see where I’m going. I know where I have to go. I know exactly where my medicine is, and stumble towards the dispensary where I keep my opiates, ready for use. It is eight short steps to the door, I know, because I have counted them thousands of times. From the door it is three more to the shelf where I know I will find the bottles. First the plain glass tumbler. I have no more crystal glasses left, but who cares? I don’t. They were all broken, some by accident, some by despair. These were another reminder of what was before, bought by Jennifer, before she walked away.
To the right of the tumbler is the whiskey, a large bottle, then the gin, a small one. The vodka standing tall next in line dwarfs the rum, pushed to the back of the shelf. I do not like the stuff for it makes me sick and being sick rids me of the medicine and its numbing properties. No, no rum, except when I have drunk everything else.
I remove the cap off the whisky; I savour the state of well-being it brings. I pride myself I can half fill the glass without spilling a drop of the precious liquid. Carefully, I replace the cap and put the bottle back in its place then return to my bed, where I sit on the edge, feet on the cold floor. I look for my shoes, but I can’t remember where I threw them.
Even in the dark, I can ‘see’ the liquid in the glass, I can smell the heady aroma, but what the hell, it isn’t the aroma I need. I take the first drink. I feel the warmth of the fire as it rushes down the gullet, on its way to extinguish the burning images of my son. One more swallow and the tumbler is empty, but the image is still there in my mind.
Quickly now, I take the ten and a half steps to my dispensary, the half being because I stumble a little and lean forward to reach for the vodka. I have found that a half measure of this will work faster than the whiskey. It burns more fiercely as I gulp it down. Holding on to the shelf, I start to cough as the fire engulfs my chest and stomach, then I finish the glass to ease the cough. This seems to work, and the images are receding too.
I take another measure of vodka and leave the closet, walking slowly out of the bedroom and downstairs. Now I can start my day with whatever it brings. The kitchen is another room in the apartment, just another place, nothing more. What was once a happy place is now a morgue, merely a shell containing memories of happy times. I shuffle past the spot where David used to take his breakfast and I switch on the kettle to make coffee.
Half and half is what I call it. Half coffee, half vodka from another bottle. Should I call it codka, voffee, I wonder? No, vodcoffee it is. Sustaining, nourishing and deadening, hot flavoured vodka. This helps keeps the nightmare at bay. The nightmares that attack me at all times of the day and night. Always the same. Never any change. Like a film, a multicoloured film, playing over and over again.
David, my son – no, our son, happy as ever he had a right to be, newly graduated, with his beautiful girlfriend. Smashed out of this life by a lowlife scum. One moment there, laughing and joking, next moment not. Suddenly, just like that, his life snatched away by a drunken driver, sozzled out of his mind at eight thirty in the morning.
David’s life, the young life that was so full of happiness and promise, so young and caring, my beautiful son, was snatched away, wiped away in one moment of horror. The drunken swine behind the wheel did not know. He did not know what devastation he had caused when his car swerved and crushed the boy against that wall. The bastard was immune from harm, he was well anaesthetised from the pain and havoc. He should have been the one to die. How I wish he had. I passionately wish he had perished in that crash - for this was my son we are talking about. My son, our son, who was dispatched from this world far too early.
I get myself another tumbler of medicine, whiskey for a change. As I gulp the stuff down, the realisation works its way to the forefront of my numbed brain. I have known for a long time who was responsible, who the driver was. I have always known who the craven, miserable, drunken, cowardly and worthless bastard was who took away my son’s life.
It was me.
© 2007 Ambrose Salathiel
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Don't like this waiting business
OK, so I'm waiting for the first proof copy of "The Chicken" to arrive. According to Cocker, today is the last day of their '3 to 5 days printing' timeline, so it should arrive either this weekend or early next week.
I'm chewing me fingernails to the bone, anxious to see that I did not screw up with anything. I hope not! I can't think how that might be, but - well, you know, I ain't a technogeek, so anything is possible!
Meanwhile, I've started on Number 2 which has the working title 'The Dog is wanting a drink' which, like Number 1, takes the title from one of the stories. Actually, when I say 'I've started', I should say 'I started several years ago' for what I'm about now is to collate the many tales already written and filed.
Like previously, they are in different formats (Lotus, Works etc) and in various stages of composition (or decomposition, according to your point of view). I've placed about 25 of them into a single Word document to see how they look and to work out some sort of order. They add up to approximately 33000 words, and the bundle is looking good.
Naturally, I'm going to include the story which was sold and published in a National magazine - the copyright is still mine.
Many of them need a lot of work to get them into proper shape, and I know of a few that are still to be written and put into there.
Because these tales come from a later period than that of 'The Chicken', there are some tales which might be adjudged not quite suitable. If this be so, then it raises the question "suitable for whom?" Ok, a couple of them are a bit on the rude side, but then, so is life - especially that part of life into which I stumbled all those years ago.
However, the dictionary contains many words, and many of those words are interchangeable or can be substituted and not change a story, so I rather feel that this one may contain a few, shall we say "salty" tales. Whether or not they make it through to the book, my Little Team of Helpers are in for the arduous task of pre-reading them.
Oh - I've decided on the price for Chicken.
I'm not absolutley sure how it will work out in $$$$$, as I calculated in £££££££ then converted using the current exchange rates as a guide. Unfortunately, the webpage won't let me see the price in $$$$$ just yet.
With all costs, including printing and production, Lulu commission and my wages, the price will be $16.23 approx or £8.09 approx.
Also I have decided to allow downloads. How it works, I'm not sure - I think they convert it into the several formats. Anyway, the price for that is $7.52.
Of course, everyone knows how their own tax system applies. So does Lulu and they will apply as needed.
I'm chewing me fingernails to the bone, anxious to see that I did not screw up with anything. I hope not! I can't think how that might be, but - well, you know, I ain't a technogeek, so anything is possible!
Meanwhile, I've started on Number 2 which has the working title 'The Dog is wanting a drink' which, like Number 1, takes the title from one of the stories. Actually, when I say 'I've started', I should say 'I started several years ago' for what I'm about now is to collate the many tales already written and filed.
Like previously, they are in different formats (Lotus, Works etc) and in various stages of composition (or decomposition, according to your point of view). I've placed about 25 of them into a single Word document to see how they look and to work out some sort of order. They add up to approximately 33000 words, and the bundle is looking good.
Naturally, I'm going to include the story which was sold and published in a National magazine - the copyright is still mine.
Many of them need a lot of work to get them into proper shape, and I know of a few that are still to be written and put into there.
Because these tales come from a later period than that of 'The Chicken', there are some tales which might be adjudged not quite suitable. If this be so, then it raises the question "suitable for whom?" Ok, a couple of them are a bit on the rude side, but then, so is life - especially that part of life into which I stumbled all those years ago.
However, the dictionary contains many words, and many of those words are interchangeable or can be substituted and not change a story, so I rather feel that this one may contain a few, shall we say "salty" tales. Whether or not they make it through to the book, my Little Team of Helpers are in for the arduous task of pre-reading them.
Oh - I've decided on the price for Chicken.
I'm not absolutley sure how it will work out in $$$$$, as I calculated in £££££££ then converted using the current exchange rates as a guide. Unfortunately, the webpage won't let me see the price in $$$$$ just yet.
With all costs, including printing and production, Lulu commission and my wages, the price will be $16.23 approx or £8.09 approx.
Also I have decided to allow downloads. How it works, I'm not sure - I think they convert it into the several formats. Anyway, the price for that is $7.52.
Of course, everyone knows how their own tax system applies. So does Lulu and they will apply as needed.
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
Cockadoodledooooo!
We're there, we've arrived - nearly!
The book is finally complete and is almost ready for sale.
After some minor technical problems (major to me, but I am not too bright with these things - I'm a writer, not a computer geek!!!), the manuscript and the cover art were uploaded to Lulu early this week. I've ordered the proof copy which will allow me to ensure that everything is hunkey dory.
All being well, I should receive this over the coming weekend and then we shall hopefully be cooking with gas!
Published and on sale. What a relief!
It's taken me a very long time and has cost me a huge amount of labour to get there, and I must, here and now, pay tribute to all those who have helped and guided me through the intric - intriss- intrick - tricky parts of using MS Word and Adobe Photoshop. And of course, those wonderful ladies and gentlemen who very kindly read the early scripts - how their brains must have boiled!
However, their encouragement and kind words boosted my flagging ego no end, so that I was able to fight my way through. The end result will be very soon be out there for all to see.
So, what have we got? Being of 'that age' where I need help in reading etc, I decided that the book should make allowances for such as myself, that is, less than perfect eyesight and less than perfect agility.
I wanted a book that people such as I could handle, hold and manipulate so to read. To that end, I chose Royal size (9x6) with 12 point Palatino which is a nice, open and easy viewing typeface.
There are 30 separate tales in there, totalling 44 thousand words over 182 actual pages, with an introduction.
I haven't yet fixed the selling price but again, I have tried to be fair. There are certain costs related to the printing etc which I cannot control, but my wages I can control. I didn't want to be extortionate, nor did I want to give my labours away, so my part of the selling price will be something reasonable. I need to get some recompense for all those years of work, don't I?
I have to say, and I cannot be more certain - it will be extremely good value! 30 stories, 182 pages, 44000 words plus Mikal's magnificent cover work! That's got to be good value. I'm not the only one to say that, by the way!
As soon as I have more detail, I'll post it up.
The book is finally complete and is almost ready for sale.
After some minor technical problems (major to me, but I am not too bright with these things - I'm a writer, not a computer geek!!!), the manuscript and the cover art were uploaded to Lulu early this week. I've ordered the proof copy which will allow me to ensure that everything is hunkey dory.
All being well, I should receive this over the coming weekend and then we shall hopefully be cooking with gas!
Published and on sale. What a relief!
It's taken me a very long time and has cost me a huge amount of labour to get there, and I must, here and now, pay tribute to all those who have helped and guided me through the intric - intriss- intrick - tricky parts of using MS Word and Adobe Photoshop. And of course, those wonderful ladies and gentlemen who very kindly read the early scripts - how their brains must have boiled!
However, their encouragement and kind words boosted my flagging ego no end, so that I was able to fight my way through. The end result will be very soon be out there for all to see.
So, what have we got? Being of 'that age' where I need help in reading etc, I decided that the book should make allowances for such as myself, that is, less than perfect eyesight and less than perfect agility.
I wanted a book that people such as I could handle, hold and manipulate so to read. To that end, I chose Royal size (9x6) with 12 point Palatino which is a nice, open and easy viewing typeface.
There are 30 separate tales in there, totalling 44 thousand words over 182 actual pages, with an introduction.
I haven't yet fixed the selling price but again, I have tried to be fair. There are certain costs related to the printing etc which I cannot control, but my wages I can control. I didn't want to be extortionate, nor did I want to give my labours away, so my part of the selling price will be something reasonable. I need to get some recompense for all those years of work, don't I?
I have to say, and I cannot be more certain - it will be extremely good value! 30 stories, 182 pages, 44000 words plus Mikal's magnificent cover work! That's got to be good value. I'm not the only one to say that, by the way!
As soon as I have more detail, I'll post it up.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Rising nicely
I'm baking some bread right now, which seems an odd diversion, given that I should be working to finish the book. However, there is method in my madness.
After a great deal of hard work, made all the more difficult by periods of 'down', failure of the concentration circuits and constant tiredness, "The Chicken has found a new Worm" is almost there - virtually ready for uploading to Lulu.
I've completed all that is necessary to create the book, written and revised, edited and sub edited, formatted and laid out - everything that is needed and is normally done by the clever people employed by book publishers. I do not have a publisher, unless you count me, but I've had a lot of help.
So, there I was, giving the pages a final embellishment which is yet to be seen, but then I told myself that what was needed to put the cherry on the top, was an appropriate image at the end of a certain chapter.
I knew I had a pic somewhere because I can clearly remember creating it many moons ago after a baking session. But, as is often the case, I cannot find that picture. It's gone. So, there was only one thing to do, re-create it!
To do that, I needed to bake some bread, but to do that, I need to be in a condition to face the task. Yes, I know that baking bread is one of the simplest of cooking tasks, but it is so very easy to cock it up. If I feel right, I can produce delicious bread, but if not, then the garden rockery gets some more decorations.
So, I have made the bread and it is rising as I type. Once baked, I can make the picture. When I have taken the picture, I can strip it out and stick it in the book. After so many years of faffing about on the computer, I have learned in the past few days how to take a picture and strip the background away from the subject - just what I need.
So, once this picture is in place, I need only to check the cover containing Mikals glorious work to ensure everything is hunkey dory, then I can finally let go - up there, into cyberspace.
Then I will obtain my proof copy and if it shows that everything is true and as it should be, then you, dear people will be able to lay your hands on your very own copy of the masterwork!
Soon, very very soon!
Please be patient, for I'm positive it will be worth the wait!
More later!
Charles,
Genias at work!
After a great deal of hard work, made all the more difficult by periods of 'down', failure of the concentration circuits and constant tiredness, "The Chicken has found a new Worm" is almost there - virtually ready for uploading to Lulu.
I've completed all that is necessary to create the book, written and revised, edited and sub edited, formatted and laid out - everything that is needed and is normally done by the clever people employed by book publishers. I do not have a publisher, unless you count me, but I've had a lot of help.
So, there I was, giving the pages a final embellishment which is yet to be seen, but then I told myself that what was needed to put the cherry on the top, was an appropriate image at the end of a certain chapter.
I knew I had a pic somewhere because I can clearly remember creating it many moons ago after a baking session. But, as is often the case, I cannot find that picture. It's gone. So, there was only one thing to do, re-create it!
To do that, I needed to bake some bread, but to do that, I need to be in a condition to face the task. Yes, I know that baking bread is one of the simplest of cooking tasks, but it is so very easy to cock it up. If I feel right, I can produce delicious bread, but if not, then the garden rockery gets some more decorations.
So, I have made the bread and it is rising as I type. Once baked, I can make the picture. When I have taken the picture, I can strip it out and stick it in the book. After so many years of faffing about on the computer, I have learned in the past few days how to take a picture and strip the background away from the subject - just what I need.
So, once this picture is in place, I need only to check the cover containing Mikals glorious work to ensure everything is hunkey dory, then I can finally let go - up there, into cyberspace.
Then I will obtain my proof copy and if it shows that everything is true and as it should be, then you, dear people will be able to lay your hands on your very own copy of the masterwork!
Soon, very very soon!
Please be patient, for I'm positive it will be worth the wait!
More later!
Charles,
Genias at work!
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