The inevitable explanation

So, there it is. This is just a first draft. There is more to come.

I have actually written more on this story, completing a first (full) chapter just the other day. However, some changes have occurred and I haven't written these in to the main story. So, you'll have to make do with the prologue offered below. It sets the scene.

Until next year.

Do your usual. Read, think, comment.

purplesimon out...

Behind the Wall

As soon as you entered the house you could tell that something was awry, slightly amiss. That’s if you were tuned into those kinds of things. Like I was. For me it has been easy to detect the whiff of fear that the walls exuded like a thick fog rolling from room to room.

I don’t know why I hadn’t reacted to it, not like I had that time we had travelled out into the depths of the countryside and stayed at some God-awful hotel, a place that rang out with the ghosts of those who had been slain in their sleep, or murdered on the mud tracks that ran through the hills, a twisting accumulation of veins that fed the summit. The thing is I hadn’t done a single thing that could have allowed me to tell my story in the flesh. Not one single God damned thing.

If you had entered that house you would have come through the screen door that kept out the incessant bugs in the late summer evenings; you would be greeted by a sumptuous entrance hall, shadowed by the mounds of webs that the spiders had left behind, some still with the cocooned flies lying trapped in a silken tomb. A short step forward, allowing time for your eyes to get used to the gloom that penetrated despite the attempts of many of this house’s owners to bring in more light, and a door would loom from the wall. This is where I can be found.

But, no one ever came into the room first. They would leave this until last, always. Often, I thought that it were only a peculiarity of the real estate agents on the first few occasions that it happened, but even visitors were taken by the rooms at the back of the house and by the cavernous space that the cantilevered staircase gave the property. Perhaps everyone did sense what the house had to say, but chose to suppress it, to keep it down and hunkered into a foetal ball, and to explore the rest of the house so that, by the time they had toured the remaining rooms – all of them sizeable spaces with high ceilings framed with exquisitely moulded plasterwork – the effect the house had been trying to impress on its visitors was dissipating and barely noticeable when experienced for a second time.

Visitors were always led into the far room, the area of the house that held the kitchen and dining area. There they would be offered a drink, perhaps something light to eat – “Are you hungry after your travels?” – and, while the kettle chugged like an elderly statesmen as it sat above the gas flame from the oven (it would be years until electricity would be piped into the property, so rural was its location when I was brought here) the guests would walk from room-to-room and soak in the atmosphere of this quirky Victorian mansion.

Finally, they would enter the front room; the best room, as its original inhabitants would have known it. However, they would dwell long, for soon the kettle would be heard, its piercing whistle breaking the still air, the silence. The void. Voices would exclaim that tea would soon be ready and that, perhaps, it should be taken in the garden – “Oh, you must see the flowers, we’ve worked so hard this year to make it beautiful and you know how I value your opinion, dear.” The door would be shut and the dust would settle again. And I would be left alone again, as I had been for many years now. Lost and never to be found, for there is no map that can be followed to find me, the person that put me here is probably as dead as I am, or soon to be. No one can be convicted now.

If they had looked closer, had inspected the décor a little bit closer, maybe they would have noticed that something was definitely out of place. If they had seen past the enormous, yet elegant, marble fireplace, they might have spotted that a Victorian property would have indentations on either side, not a flat wall of bricks as this one did. Had they bothered to walk along and tap the walls they might have discovered that the mortar that held those very bricks together, nestled between them as if it were the cream in a sponge cake, was becoming old and loose. Should that have piqued their curiosity, they might have taken a finger, so pink and slender, and worked it into the gap that would open up. If, and only if, they had done that, they would have felt a slight breeze, a zephyr that would disturb their hair and be felt as a light touch, a caress on the cheek. Only then would they have known that the wall was not original, that it had been added over the years, that there was something to be discovered behind this wall, which had lain undisturbed for years. They would want to rip back those bricks, those red teeth that opened into the mouth of Hell. For they would have found my skeleton and then the story would unravel.

Except, they never, ever did.

Another year (almost) over

It's that horrible time of the year - the cusp of the New Year.

Why, perhaps you are asking, is it a horrible time; surely I mean that it's a generally lovely time, party atmospheres, etc. Well, maybe it is if you're still 16-25, or older with that mentality. Me, I prefer a quiet life contemplating rather than one which involves drinking more than all the beer/wine/whisky I have managed to down over the past 12 months.

Perhaps it is a sign of getting old. Perhaps it's a sign of differing financial constraints. Perhaps I've just realised that it's another load of bollocks invented by the media/establishment to make me spend the last few pennies in my bank account, leaving me bereft of excitement for the rest of the month as I attempt to shop, eat, pay the mortgage and bills, as well as get to work for a whole month (because I managed to secure some decent money for a pitch and the promise of more from an agency I worked for just prior to Christmas).

So, best leave it at: Happy New Year.

The other thing is: I don't make resolutions. Pointless. I know I will break them as soon as the bongs of Big Ben have quietened.

I will use this period of partying to write something new. I have a short story, which I started recently, that looks as if it might make something a bit longer. So, to whet your appetite, I will post the first chapter up.

Read, think, comment. As always.

purplesimon out...

I managed to survive it once again...

It's all over for another year. Three cheers.

As you can tell, I managed to survive the whole experience and come out of the other side if it relatively unscathed. I say relatively, mainly because I managed to see only my direct relatives, which is why I actually managed to get through things this year.

At this point in time, I don't know how Christmas 2005 will go. Here's hoping that it follows on this chilled pattern, the precedent having been set this particular year.

So, now we march on to New Year's Day. I used to celebrate this occasion every single year, never once missing a 5pm start to the evening's drinking and carrying on until the early hours of the morning; the hangover would settle sometime on the 3 January and I would be left feeling like shit for two days, vowing never to drink again (ever!) and pulling the duvet over me until the whole horrible thing melted away and I could get the courage to visit the pub again.

Now, at the grand old age of 31, I can't do that anymore - not just financially, but also my body is simply not able to cope with that amount of alcohol in one session, or certainly not the punishing hangover that, should I attempt to repeat the follies of my youth, would be so debilitating that I wouldn't be able to raise my head from the toilet bowl for 48 hours.

I have work to do, I can't afford the time off.

See, I bought a new kitchen on Monday. In one single purchase I managed to relieve myself of several thousands of pounds. It was simple: visited a showroom, made an appointment for that day to have a designer come around and plan the kitchen. After several hours and cups of tea we had our kitchen. Then came the price bombshell. Phew, who would have thought that kitchens could be this expensive? Not me. But, we threw caution to the wind and signed on the dotted line. Some idiot at the financial centre pressed the right button on his/her keyboard and we were approved for credit. Now all I have to do is work hard and pay the damn thing off!

However, the money won't be an issue once it is completed, as the kitchen I have now is - in a word - vile. Simply put, it is a rubbish layout with hardly any cupboards and about two feet of work surface. As a kitchen it serves a similar purpose as a chocolate tea pot: none.

So, that's my Christmas tale relayed to you in easy-to-read paragraphs.

I'm proud to say that I stayed away from televisions and computers for three whole days. This did mean that I missed all news coverage of the disaster in the Indian Ocean. I hate to say it, but this is a further example of a disaster that America could have averted but chose not to. The first was 9/11.

Let's debate that point, if you want to accept the gauntlet. I'm happy to hear your opinion, if constructive. Abuse just rams home the point that the ill-educated should be kept away from any form of publishing. I'm happy for you to disagree, but any person can type fuck you.

I've just proved that point myself.

Read, think, comment.

purplesimon out...

Twas the day before the silly season ended

Yeah, another year almost over and the silly season can be forgotten for the next 364 days. Thankfully.

I'm not a huge fan of the Christmas thing, mainly because I am not a Christian. I recognise that the festival has lost its meaning: it is really a Pagan celebration that was hijacked by the early adopters of Christianity, but even if that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, Christians around the world must be wondering if there's anyone out in this big bad world that really cares that much about Jesus. He hasn't come back yet, we're all bored of waiting. Why they can't see it's a con, I don't know. It is. Religion does nothing but cause problems, conflicts and arguments. It's a shame.

I am looking forward to the New Year, in the hope that it gets better. However, I think we might have to wait until 2008 before we really see progression. Why? That's the next year of American presidential elections.

Peace to all. See you in 2005.

purplesimon out...

Isn't it about time we caught up?

Yeah, it's been a while since I last popped a post on this, my very own blog. So, what's new?

Been busy doing the corporate thing, making my clients sound fantastic, whether they are or not. I have to say that all my clients are ethical - they have to fit in to my ideal otherwise I don't work with them. But, I am a slave to the... certainly not the rhythm, perhaps more likely the ability to purchase things in shops and to pay for a roof over my head. Much as I detest money, it is a necessity.

I do like to barter, if anyone has some ideas on how that might work on a blog.

Otherwise, I have been running around sorting out my parents' financial problems, which stem from a serious illness that my mother contracted part way through July 2004. It nearly killed her, now the UK Government is doing its best to try again. Thankfully, today is the last time I need to run around, as I became a legal representative of my mother's as of lunchtime. So, from now on it can be taken care of on the phone or by email (if the local offices have finally come into the 21st Century).

So, there you have it. The only other news is war, war and more war. It seems to me to be the topic of choice for the past three years, constant violence flaring up. And, it's not just faraway places, it happens on your doorstep. Maybe you're not plagued with drunken idiots patrolling your streets in packs while the police look on, pissing in your doorway, throwing rubbish in your driveway or, worse, causing criminal damage. Well, I can't think of a place that doesn't suffer in the UK. So, there are more personal wars we have to fight.

I want to leave this post with a saying that I wrote about eight or nine years ago, just after I had moved away from home for good after University. It's that old, but it will always be topical, which almost makes me want to weep... Anyway, here's the quote for you:

Peace is something to be achieved, not a cause to fight for.

I also wrote another one that currently sits on an image at the beginning of my portfolio. I might take it out and frame it, but I might just leave it where it is, as it serves to remind anyone that views my portfolio that I have an opinion, I am not afraid to express that opinion, and I don't care if it offends your beliefs. This one reads:

The absence of war breeds it.

This is to say that man cannot function without conflict. I believe that's never a truer word said.

Bush-bashing is commonplace nowadays, so I won't start anymore here. I have a healthy resentment for his policies, I believe him to be a dullard of the highest order, but all the while he has his fingers near the button I want everyone to tell him how great he is, just so he doesn't get bored and start world war III.

I leave you people for a while, so read, think and comment.

purplesimon out...

Did I disturb you?

So, was the desired effect evident there? Did you get (how shall I put this?) the willies? The shiver down the spine. Sorry, was that a yawn you're stifling?

Comments as usual, if you please.

purplesimon out...

Alibi

They took the tape off Johnson’s eyes just before they zipped him up.
“Not the best advert for Sellotape, is it?” remarked Clearmont.
Fersome just grunted; he was not a man of words at the best of times and seeing the dead body of his mate being zipped up into a thick plastic bag didn’t make for good conversation. Fersome turned his back on the scene and glanced around the disused, practically derelict, back room of what had once been his childhood home. Behind him, Clearmont sighed heavily, hissing air through his teeth as if someone had punctured his outer skin and the air in his body was leaking into the atmosphere. Fersome half-expected to see a flaccid pile of clothes and skin when he turned around, but Clearmont was simply staring at him.

“Where were you between the hours of 6pm and 10pm last night, if I may be so bold as to ask?” Clearmont was just doing his job, but Fersome was incensed at the accusation. He was smarting, not just because of the timing of the question, but also because he was with Clearmont last night, eating at a Chinese restaurant in the squalid back streets of China Town. He grunted again, his eyes telling Clearmont that he had better be asking him that out of a sense of duty and not because he believed that Fersome had slipped out between the fried baby Octopus and the green bean salad just to stick a knife in the heart of their best friend.

They had a clear set of prints off the Sellotape – like the killer either wanted them to discover who had killed Johnson or was simply a complete fuckwit; Fersome was thinking that it was probably the latter, unless someone was about to attempt to frame him for murder. He shook his head and coughed as he cleared his throat. Several policemen turned to stare at Fersome, his steely gaze told them to get back to their work and fuck anyone who might want to argue with that. Especially Clearmont.

--

A spot of blood dripped on the shirt collar of a big man in black suit; it was an ill fitting set of clothes and they bulged unnaturally as his bulk tried to escape the linen prison, to rip out from the constraint of the cloth. The blood diffused through the material and, as it slowly coagulated in the sun that streamed through the large windows set high in the wall, clumped in a way that made it look like ketchup, like stage blood. When the crash of the body echoed through the air, golden with motes of dust caught in sunlight, no one was there to hear it. No one would discover the body until rats and maggots had devoured it, when the weather had got so warm that the smell brought humans, hoping to find what was spoiling their family barbecue. Someone would state that they knew it wasn’t the marinade they had made from a selection of food found at the back of the fridge late on a Friday night. Others would say later that the body smelled better than the marinade.

The host would find legs of chicken buried in the garden for years to come and wonder how they had got there, failing to remember how she had tossed her own piece of food in the bin, wracking her brains for the reason no one had complained that it tasted like shit. The thoughts had been interrupted by the sounds of people discussing the smell from “that tired piece of shit architecture that should’ve been pulled down a long time back, don’t you agree Trevor?” All of them were middle-class wankers who bustled in front of the news channel camera, almost fighting to get into the shot, each looking for the moment when they could grasp their fifteen minutes of fame. All they got was the chance to sit in a police station for hours going over the details of where they were at the time of death, etc. Before long, the police would have worn most of them out and allowed them to leave, the words ‘we may need to see you again’ ringing in their ears.

--

The newspapers didn’t begin to use the phrase SERIAL KILLER for months, something that had surprised Fersome. He had languished in a cell for six weeks now, picking bugs off his pubic hair each morning, keeping his eye on the other prisoners. Who knew he was a policeman? He kept himself to himself, looked at no one and repeated the mantra in his head: I will be free, I am innocent; I will be free…

In the end they beat a confession out of another inmate. The patsy (he had a name, but no one could remember what it was and so they referred to him only by his prison number: 103BT6) was executed one bitterly cold morning in September. Fersome wasn’t there: he was at an award ceremony, receiving a medal for bravery. Four months inside a maximum security prison was worth it, apparently.

The killings stopped from that point on, which was all the police really wanted. Clearmont was off the case. In fact, no one had seen Clearmont for weeks. Only Fersome suspected. Only Fersome put two and two together and found that things didn’t really add up.

--

Nightmares plagued him. The sound of Sellotape being pulled across eyelids, the sound of it being ripped off dead skin and the bluish tinge to that same skin, around the mouth which had also been taped up. This was the only evidence that each body shared; they had little else in common. Apart from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, that is – they had this fact in common with every other murder victim in history. It didn’t help Clearmont sleep any better.

He was shaken awake in the early hours of the first Monday morning of January. Through blurry eyes he saw gloves and a bag from the stationers. As he began to scream, another pair of gloved hands reached around and placed a piece of tape over his mouth.

After that, we can only guess. Fersome wrote in his report that he thought death was painful and that a struggle had taken place. Others higher up in the hierarchy of the force thought he showed insight – not from being at the killing, but from being best friends with two murder victims. He had a cast iron alibi for each slaying. It would never stand up in court.

--

Fersome believed that he would be next. It was only a matter of time.

What's that all about, then?

The story below is something I wrote for the creative writing group I mentioned earlier in this blog. I quite liked it, I was trying to do more with the characters on this one and it turned out a lot better than expected.

I'm not part of the group anymore, which I may also have mentioned earlier in this blog - Hell, I don't read the thing I just post on it.

I don't know if anyone else will ever read it! We shall see. I am adding the blog address to my Hotmail account so that might get me the odd visitor.

I have another one I want to put up, just because others who have read it say that it disturbs them. I want to know if anyone else out there in blog-land feels the same.

purplesimon out...

Down the station

That’s me, there.
No, no, not the fat guy with the straining shirt buttons. I’m the other guy, the one standing; the one with the wiry, curly black hair and the beige chinos. Yes, that’s me.
It’s difficult, what with the sun glinting off my glasses, but also the distance, to see my piercing blue eyes, the slight hook of my nose and the lines on my forehead, but they are there. Here, take a look at this photo; my features are easier to see, even on a dog-eared example like this one. I was smiling there, a happier time.

But, I digress.

We’re not here to specifically notice me. I’m here to see the tall, slender blonde-haired woman that is standing just to my left. You can see that she has a somewhat austere look, but don’t be fooled by first impressions. I wasn’t, and I’m a testament to how loving she can be.
Obviously, this is merely a snapshot in our lives. Unlike the photo, the one I showed you earlier (remember?). This is not a happy time.

Only three hours before this, Claudia (that’s her name, by the way) informed me – because she was so formal about it, the words ‘told me’ don’t come close to describing how she gave me the news – that she was pregnant.
Normally, I would’ve been overjoyed. However, this particular day I’d just had other news which whipped away my joy at fatherhood like a waitress removing a soiled tablecloth: I’d found out from my doctor that I was completely infertile.

What would you do?

Me? I faked enthusiasm. In my job, it’s something I can do without blinking, blushing, scratching my nose (in fact, I’ve managed over the years to completely suppress my natural body language in these circumstances). I hugged, I whistled through my teeth, I smiled and whooped with delight: I made plans out loud. What I wanted to do was vomit, but I couldn’t.

Claudia, in case you hadn’t gathered, knew nothing of my illicit visits to the doctor. She knows very little, actually.

She still doesn’t, not at this particular juncture.

I see. Well, it’s like this… The reason she looks so pissed off is entirely down to the T-shirt I’m wearing. It’s covered up now, just to keep her momentarily appeased. She’s always hated this particular garment, mainly because of the slogan printed on the front. I printed it myself when I was a student – I studied costume design at St. Martins College – and I’m proud that, at the age of 35, it still fits me.

Of course! The footage is slightly grainy, so I’ll tell you what is says:

“You’re the reason abortion was made legal”.

I know, but it was a rebellious streak that I had back in the 1980s. I haven’t worn it since an ill-fated trip to Dublin, where the shirt caused something of a stir – although I think that the local paper likened it to a riot, but that’s a bit off. I forgot that they’re all Catholics.

I blame the alcohol I’d consumed.

I know this information is superfluous to your requirements, but I think it might help later on, when you want to paint a better picture for the rest of your crew. Yes, I think it might help.

I know exactly where we went after those images were shot. It was a friend’s wedding day. We all congregated at this little café, the one that you see on that freeze-frame. I had a double espresso to calm my nerves. I hadn’t changed into my suit at that point – I didn’t want to get it dirty with food and drink stains, something I’m rather prone to, I’m afraid – and so Claudia and I would have popped off round the corner to Jane’s flat. She, Jane that is, well, she’s a work colleague of Claudia’s. A bit prim and proper, but likeable enough I suppose.

Yes, I have nothing to hide! I was getting around to mentioning that we dated at University, Jane and I.

Well might I sound incredulous! You wanted me to tell you the whole story and I am. I won’t be rushed into it, only to be brought back in here, at some later date, to fill in the gaps.

Okay, I’ll calm down. Yes, I’d love a cup of tea, Earl Grey if you happen to have it? Sure, PG Tips will suffice. Thank you.

Shall I continue? No problem. Would you mind if I smoked while we wait for the tea to arrive? Do you happen to have a lighter I could borrow? Thanks. I do like a cigarette while telling a story, it makes me take the time to think things over and present them in the most coherent way. Yes, I do have one to spare. Please, help yourself to a cigarette. The packet is on the table.

Just help yourself.

Well, I must say that this tea is most refreshing. Many thanks again for bringing refreshments. Yes, let’s not be so impatient, there is plenty of time yet and we are only at the beginning of this story. You can’t rush the truth.

We left the café; Roger was boring us stupid and, even though there was over two hours until we were needed at the church, I wanted to get away. I think Claudia sensed how uncomfortable I was, she suggested that we make our way to Jane’s place. I didn’t want a scene on the pavement, so we went there. I thought we were going to have a fight, a right ding-dong, but instead she closed the door behind us and practically ripped my clothes off. She was like an animal. I hadn’t seen her like that, not since we were first going out, you know, when the sex is still new and exciting.

I’m sure you don’t need to hear the details of the next twenty minutes. Yes, well, you won’t be saving me from any embarrassment. The thought of it still brings a smile to my face and a spring to my step.

Anyway, we got dressed and went along to the wedding, as planned. It was a frightful affair, to be honest with you, not something I want to repeat for a long time. What? No, I never intend to get married. I think you’ll find that in my file you have in your hand. Among other things.

This conversation isn’t moving the story along, I need to get this off my chest – it’s like a confession, don’t you see?

Well, we left the party about 9 o’clock that evening. Nothing special had happened, not really; a couple of drunks fighting, speeches, more drinking and some terrible dancing to some songs I vaguely remember from my youth. Lots of back-slapping as we left, I remember that, mainly because I had been sunburned the previous day and it stung like fuck when idiots were coming up and saying how lovely it was to see us, Claudia and I.

We probably won’t ever see them again, that was what she said to me, but how little did she know how true those words would turn out to be.

I can remember the threadbare carpet that was on the stairs as we left the reception. There were holes that we had to tread around so that we didn’t trip and we were still tipsy from the sex. I can clearly picture my arm around Claudia’s waist, but I couldn’t get around to telling her my news. I needed some time to work out how I could accomplish what I had set out to do. I knew the baby wasn’t mine: that was all I knew.

Yes, that is definitely the two of us coming out of the flat. I think that we are picked up on camera that sits on top of the Royal Exchange building next. Yep, there we are. If you focus in on us, you should be able to tell that we are having words – her favourite expression for what any normal person would term an argument – not about the baby, but about whether we want to go home or on to another bar.

She wasn’t aware at all that I was stalling for time, that I had plans I needed to carry out.

In the end, as you can see from the camera that is situated about the bar door, that we did indeed decide to have a drink on our own. I had vodka on the rocks; she had a martini, I think.

As luck would have it, she went to the toilet just as you called me on my mobile. There, check out how it catches on my pocket, snags on something. I need to keep that from happening, just in case you don’t get there as quickly next time.

I cancelled the call as she approached the table, telling her that I was just checking the time. I don’t wear a watch, I told her. I do, but it’s hidden in my other pocket, somewhere I can glance at it, surreptitiously. Now, watch this closely. Can you pause it? No? Okay, just watch her actions now.

For some reason, she had gotten mad while in the ladies’ room. I don’t know what about. Should I have followed her in and listened at the cubicle? What do you think I am? No, it’s not in the job description, man. Let’s just move on. You can see us leaving and I hail the cab that I knew would be waiting on the corner.

I’ll fill in the gaps, as the camera in the taxi was on the blink – or did she place a coat over it?

It’s getting hard to remember now; this part is more of a haze than I thought it would be.

Well, as discussed with Central, I waited until we were riding along a back street. I don’t think she felt a thing. No remorse here, it wasn’t my fucking baby. I just followed instructions – that’s what I do. Pain? Pain! Do you really give a shit?

I didn’t think so.

Anyway, shortly after I left the cab, you picked me up and brought me here. Is there anything else you need to know? If not, I need some sleep. What? Oh, so he wants to see me now, does he? Sure, not a problem.

I expect that he has yet another job for me. I’m getting too old for this shit. I need some sleep. Three years I spent on this one. Three whole years.

There’s no need to lead me. I know the way.

Mission accomplished

I was chatting to a friend this weekend about deadlines and making sure that I stick to them, how this is a large part of my life and often dictates what I do each day. Deadlines are (almost) my raison d'être. So, I suddenly realised that I hadn't updated my blog with the Dolly story. Hmmmmm, a missed deadline!

However, no one seems to have visited this blog, so I think I got away with it. If you read this, pretend I made the deadline and don't ever mention it to me again, ok? Thanks.

Which brings me neatly to the next part of this blog.

The same friend sent me a recycled email joke in a PowerPoint file, the one where some important people are in an aeroplane and after the plane starts to go down three of the five take the only parachutes and save themselves. There is one parachute left, which the Pope gives to this young schoolboy, stating that he has lived his life, etc, etc. Of course, the schoolboy says that the super-intelligent President of the United States has mistakenly taken his school bag and there are two parachutes left. Cue a slide show of George W. Bush's most embarrassing moments. It might be old, but it's funny. I don't even care if the pictures have been doctored. I know from hearing with my own ears and seeing with my own eyes that he is what we term in the UK as a 'plonker'. If I ever get to meet him, I'm just going to ask him to change his name to Rodney.

If that means nothing to you, get on Google and search for Only Fools and Horses scripts. Then it'll make sense. Maybe King Tony, el presidenté - aka the Prime Minister - will explain it to him while feeding him the monkey nuts.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story, my own personal rant and will come back to see what's next.

purplesimon out...

500 words isn't very long

Let me set the scene for you: she (the child in this story) won’t stop screaming; sitting there, mouth open and the most high-pitched wail you’ve ever heard. And, do you know the reason behind this ear-piercing scream? She can’t find her dolly.

The problem is, neither can anyone else…

We join the action as there are twenty minutes left until the parents come back.

The cast:
Baby – Michelle Garson
Chris – James Commart
Harriet Lomand – Christine Farlow
Mrs. Harmmond – Sheila Carrow
Mr. Harmmond – Daniel Spencer

Chris buggered off like ages ago, soon as he got wind of my fuck-up. I mean, durr. He was over here quick enough when he thought he might get a grope, didn’t he. Like what’s that all about? Boys are weird.

That doesn’t help me find this fucking doll. Her parents are due back like in twenty minutes and they’ll go mental like if they hear her screaming like this. I bet the neighbours have already called them, you know, like the parents. Shit. That’s why they called, why they are rushing back here. Perhaps they think I’m some kinda torturer-type. Harriet Lomand: Child Torturer. That’s the headline in the local paper. Like I wanted to be famous you know, but not famous for being like a fuck-up.

Now there’s like ten minutes left. Is that the phone I can hear ringing? It might be, but with that kid squawking like that I can’t hear myself think like, let alone think about answering it if it is ringing. I wanna cry. I don’t want the dolly no more; I want my own Mummy. This ain’t worth the poxy coupla quid they’ll pay me. Or rather won’t pay me now.

Fuckertifuckertifuck.

We hear the sound of the doorbell in the distance. The baby still screams for her dolly.

That’s bound to be someone from next-door come to see what this brat is shouting about. I’ll peer through the curtains, see who it is and decide whether to answer it.

Oh, it’s Chris, come back.

Alright. Okay like don’t speak to me then. Tosser. Just forgot his ciggies. I never liked his smokey breath anyway, tasted like shit in an ashtray. He thought it made him look good, but he’s a tosser. Nuff said.

There are lights approaching on the road, so they’ll be here within minutes. I can’t stop this kid screaming, where the fuck is this bloody dolly? I can’t believe they like never mentioned it before they left: “the kid needs this dolly, don’t lose it, ok?” but they never said a word.

Typical. Surely I’ll be to blame, won’t get no more babysitting jobs from this, so there goes my extra pocket money.


Shut up! Shouting at her don’t help like.

Here they are. Fuck.

“Hello, Harriet, it’s Mrs. Harmmond here.”

“Hi there, this is Mr. Harmmond, where are you? We found her dolly in the back of the car and we know she screams without it and won’t sleep. Harriet? You there?”

The jury is still out

Don't be fooled, like I was, into thinking that jury service is anything but boring. Sitting around and reading (the only enjoyable part of the experience) is all it is good for. If you get called, refuse in the nicest possible way and get on with your life.

Instead of sitting the past two days, though, I have been relieved for the rest of the week and have spent it catching up on my work. This means that I haven't written anything new, nothing at all.

I intend to change this and tomorrow I am setting myself the following task:

In 500 words exactly, tell a complete story. The theme of the story should be a lost doll and a young girl's search for it.

Why not try this one yourself? Check back tomorrow to see what I could come up with. I like to think it'll be worth it.

purplesimon out...