“Harper, you bastard!” That bastard Harper’s been at it again. Give me strength. Listen to him, scurrying about like some sort of teenager whose furious masturbation session has been abruptly cut short by a grandparental intrusion. To be honest, that’s not too far from the truth. Swap the ages round and it fits well enough I suppose.

The door to his ‘study’ opens.

“Alright?” he asks. I glare. Christ, he stinks. He knows what he’s doing alright.

“What’s up with you anyway? Sand in the vagina again? Neeeeer.” He saunters into the kitchen. I’d love to go to town on that little pock-marked excuse for a face one of these days, perhaps with a claw hammer and a soldering iron… Sadly, this isn’t one of those days. I must endure.

As I’ve said before, he really is one of the best in the business; I just wish he wouldn’t make such an exhibition of himself. Fucker takes the discretion right out of indiscretion, if you get my meaning.

“Have you finished yet? Lomez wants proof before he makes the transfer, and if our guest is all trussed up like a fucking Christmas dinner, then he’s gonna want answers. Answers which, whilst I’m sure you’d be more than forthcoming with, none of us will want to hear.”

“Nearly. I’ve got some o’ them Fridge Raiders need using up. You can do what you want after that.”

I need to go to bed. This can’t be right.

Dig, dig, scrape, dig, dig.

Bark, bark, bark, BARK. Bark. Bark. Bark.

“Bugger.” (In Spanish.)

Paraguay: Stray dog’s barking foils prison break

I have issues with the concept of ‘when I grow up I want to be…’ Contrary to the obvious thought process, this isn’t because I’ll be thirty this year and am (apparently) meant to know what I’ll be when I grow up. Possibly because I’m actually meant to be grown up already.*

I think it’s more to do with the fact that I see only doing one thing as being incredibly limiting and, besides, I over analyse. I want to be me. I don’t want to be a something. Yes, I want to do things, lots of things, but I don’t want to be defined by a single label.

One of my three aims this year is to ‘Stand and Deliver’, something which (the last fortnight accepted, as this has been fraught with illness, exhaustion and a scattering of unpleasant situations) I feel like I am doing well. It’s only mid-February after all, and I do feel like things are moving. A few weeks ago I jotted down the things I wanted to do this year, and they are now presented in a neat little list that I glance at every now and then when I hit a block with one creative project or another. There’s always something on there that inspires me, so it’s a handy little thing for when I’m feeling frustrated.

Likewise, and entirely contradictorily, I refuse to be tied to my own deadlines this year. Given I do a lot of things and put a lot of energy into those things, I don’t want to feel rushed to complete something that is not quite right, or feel guilty if I haven’t progressed a particular project as much as I hoped I would have done. I don’t want to be a jack of all trades and master of none. If I’m going to do anything, I want to do it right. After all, I undertake all these projects not because of what I hope the final result will achieve for myself (though sometimes what the final product might achieve does come into it all), but for the process of the undertaking from start to finish. I want to learn.

I don’t like labels. It’s too easy to pigeonhole people these days by attributing a little mental tag to them. By insisting we use labels, we automatically colour our view of the world and blinker ourselves; we become less open to surprises because we’re not looking for them. We miss out on numerous little idiosyncratic delights because we program ourselves to thinking they’re not there.

Of course, I’m being slightly pedantic. When people say ‘when I grow up I want to be…’ what they’re actually saying is ‘when I grow up I want to earn my living by being…’ Perhaps we should put forward a plea for all future generations to use correct phrasing: to analyse what it is they’re actually saying, to be clear beyond all reasonable doubt.

Or, perhaps, the majority of people are actually content with being (entirely honourably) a specialist in a single area. Perhaps it’s just me and a few others who feel uncomfortable (and simultaneously delighted) at the thought of there being so much to learn, so much to experience, so much to see, do, and be. I guess the latter attitude sometimes makes for a more unpredictable life, a lack of stability. Well, if I have to play, then when I grow up I want to be a polymath.

I met an ex-boyfriend for coffee the other day, a couple of weeks after I had cut off most of my hair.

‘It looks good,’ he said, in that tone of voice men use when they actually think that all women should have hair no shorter than a bob. ‘It suits your personality.’

‘What’s that?’ I queried. ‘Boyish?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Alternative.’

I suppose, as labels go, I could do worse

*Don’t get me started on the term ‘grown up’. Surely we never want to stop growing…?

“I’m just saying, I think it’s an awesome name for a band.”

The three of them were all sprawled on the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of them, and gazing at the same spot on the ceiling. There was a fourth, but he hadn’t been engaging in conversation for some time: Woody was curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room, face turned away towards the wall.

“Yeah, I can see that,” one them replied. “Sort of, Bob Dylan meets Radiohead.”

“Lennon. You gotta have some Lennon,” mumbled another. It could have been the same one.

“I could play my guitar,” said the one in the middle. “You could sing – ” he feebly jabbed the one to the his right, “ – and you could play bass.” He nudged the one to his left.

They all nodded in unison, still staring at the spot on the ceiling that was exactly the same as the rest of the ceiling. Outside the window a siren moaned past, taking forever to disappear into the distance. The last track on the CD, a surprisingly good unlisted track in a raw state of completion that concluded an album of pretentious whining songs sung by a public schoolboy with a guitar, came to an end and the room slipped into silence.

“Lennon. Genius. You gotta have some Lennon.”

One by one, Chemocracy Coma fell asleep.

Woody continued to stare at the wall, unseeing eyes long since glazed over.

By: everylittlething

Richard of York gained battles in vain.  No he didn’t.  You’ve got to look at the bigger picture. . . you see, if he hadn’t . . . well, whatever – that’s the way I remember the order of the colours in the rainbow.  Mrs. Needham once told me about the magic of the rainbow for her.  She had been working in the fields, wearing her old fashioned Lincolnshire sun bonnet (she was at great pains to tell me how her mother used to make them), when they had been forced to take cover by the hedge.  It rained hard for a short time and, for some of that time, the sun had been shining.  A rainbow was duly spotted, arcing over the fields and hedgerows, and it remained there until work was completed just a little while later.  Mrs. Needham, who was not Mrs. Needham at that point, took up her basket and began the long trek homeward.  She kept the end of the rainbow in her sights and realised that it was waiting to be found.  She had made a decision as to where she believed her pot of gold would be buried, and walked straight into heaven.  There, in the corner of the north pasture, was Fred Needham, sitting with his back against an elm tree bole and with a neckerchief spread out between his legs.  On the neckerchief were dainties with ginger and crystallised flowers, and in the middle was a little cardboard cube with ribbon around it.  Mrs. Needham and her Fred had never once considered that they would not marry each other, but this rainbow-day was the day when Fred actually proposed to his sweetheart.  The rest was their own personal history.

For me, though, Richard of York still struts his stuff.  I never can remember the order which the colours take unless I think of this lieutenant of Ireland whose pate was somewhat hysterically displayed in York after having been removed from his body on the battlefield in Wakefield.

Red roses
Orange marigolds
Yellow sunflowers
Green grasses
Blue cornflowers
Indigo anils
Violet pansies

So much nicer than trying to imagine the demise of poor Richard.  He did live, however -  a long time ago, but he DID live.  He ate and slept and talked and walked as we do yet.  The lovely rainbow may be his best obituary.  I’m sure it is – what could be lovelier?  He gave us two kings – Edward the Fourth who was a good leader but died because of his own excesses, and the infamous Richard the Third.  Richard of York was not responsible for the rainbow.  Whatever your thoughts on Noah’s Ark, there were rainbows when Richard led men into battle in the fifteenth century and there were many rainbows before and after that.  Rainbows have inspired poets, have given hope to travellers and lifted the spirits of the lost.  I am an old man now but my special rainbow stays with me always.  It is the rainbow which led me to the grave of my son.  His mother and I had harnessed our grief, enabling us to make the journey to France.  It was to be a turning point for us.  We had no idea, however, that we would find such healing there.

The grave was not in an intimate country churchyard.  There were so many graves.  Line upon line of them.  How our hearts sank.  The April showers left our clothes clinging to us so that they dragged us down further.  A rainbow stretched overhead and in front and the very end of it seemed so far away.  We walked and walked and we found our boy – well – not him – but a place where they put his body.  As we stood in silence the April sunshine warmed us a little and the wetness gave up a wonderful perfume with the earth.  The rainbow, the rain, the sun, the earth – they had all conspired to give us peace.  No words have ever matched that peace for us.  Nothing anyone has said – no matter how kind – has soothed us like our rainbow-day.  It was as if we heard his voice – his laugh, saw his face – his grin.  It was as if he were with us again – and would stay with us forever.  We had found our pot of gold – our hero – no longer in a foreign land.

Man, I hate that thing. It’s been up on that wall ever since I can remember. When I think back to the days we’d come round after school, and she’d sit us down on the couch while she’d fetch the teacakes, it makes me shudder.

Being in the presence of it meant only one thing. She was drinking again. She’d be on a three-day bender or something and Dad’d bring us round here. ‘Sleepover at Nanna’s!’ he’d enthuse. On a Tuesday? Yeah, good one, Dad. I think he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. Still, points for effort.

Look at it though, sat there all ceramic and judgemental. Its cold gaze takes in everything, follows you round the room like one of those freaky paintings. You can’t escape. Even if you did, you’d still have to come back.

So here we find ourselves, some 14 years later. Same couch, same living room, same… it. Same grandkids, same confusion.

I wonder who’s going to get it. I hope to Hell that we don’t cop for it. She knows I’d only break the thing.

“For fuck sake.”

Paul continued to polish the glass he was holding and didn’t reply. He was used to this. His customer was hunched over an empty pint glass, his whole right hand curling round it, cradling it protectively as a new parent would their child.

“I mean, seriously. What kind of jacked up bollocks of a phrase is that?”

Paul made a non-committal grunt. He placed the glass, sparkling, on the shelf and picked up another from the dishwasher.

“It sounds like something she got from Buddy. Buddha. Whatever. Fat prick.”

Paul could sense that something more was expected of him. Sure enough, a moment later:-

“I mean, what do you think? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The man raised his head and glared accusatively at him. Paul took in his face, screwed up with bitterness, eyes red and small with alcohol. His patron continued.

“Stupid bitch. You know what? She can just fuck off and search all she likes. I’ll cut her off. I’ll fight her for the kids too. Never wanted the buggers anyway, but it would kill her not to have them.”

The man sneered, cruel and vicious. He climbed off the bar stool, struggling to stand unaided.

Paul watched him. He was his last customer, here out in the middle of nowhere. There would be no-one else on the road for miles.

Paul picked up the man’s car keys and tossed them to him.

“Time to go, mate. Safe drive home.”

We went to see Noises Off at the Old Vic for all the wrong reasons.  In actual fact, the sole reason we opted for that play in that location was because it starred an actor we all admire greatly: Robert Glenister.  The decision to travel 500 miles in the middle of winter was made before we even knew anything about the play.  It was only weeks after we had booked our travel, accommodation and (determined to “do the theatre experience properly”) tickets for the best seats in the house, that I began to wonder if maybe we hadn’t done things the wrong way around.

Our trip to London started off brilliantly, watching a film at the cinema in Inverness (a luxury at any time of the year but particularly in winter when the 215 mile round trip is not to be recommended), a beautiful train journey down the length of the country, and meeting my friend in the Royal Navy for the first time (which also doubled up as a fantastic – if speedy – tour of London!).  By the time Lydia, Ginny, Clemency and I had tucked into a delicious meal at our hotel, returned up to our eighth floor rooms, admired our sterling view of London At Night and dressed for the theatre, the play had a lot to live up to.

As anyone who has been to the Old Vic will know, the interior of the theatre is exquisite and, although our seats were hardly worth the extra £25 (each) we paid for them, we were pleased to have such a good view of the stage.  The play was immediately amusing, although the first act saw more restrained tittering than out-and-out belly laughing.  I was particularly pleased by the director’s decision to have members of the cast coming out of the audience, something that took me back to my days as an A Level drama student, although here it was done to far greater effect.

The interval came at the end of a promising first act which, although it provided a lot of entertainment, was also slightly too close to home for anyone who has been involved in amateur or small-time dramatics.  Ginny confided in me later that too many of the things in the first act reminded her of moments during her time with various amateur dramatics groups and I can’t help but agree with her.  During the interval we also sampled some extremely delicious ice-cream which can’t be faulted in any way other than that: a) it just didn’t last long enough, and; b) I was unsure as to how I was supposed to access the spoon!

It was really during the second act that the play ‘got going’ as far as I was concerned.  So many moments of pure comedy genius, delivered with fantastic timing by the cast, had me screaming with laughter, unable to stop myself breaking into spontaneous applause at the parts that appealed to me the most.  The play really went from strength to strength: the sequence with the flowers was hysterical, and Ginny had tears in her eyes from laughing so much when a cactus came in contact with Mr Glenister’s posterior.  (She’s a lovely girl.)  It really was a stroke of genius to set the second act backstage, especially as the set then reverted to its earlier layout for the third and final act, which was also so full of humour that we couldn’t stop laughing.

Every single member of the cast was superb in their roles, but I must admit to being particularly impressed by Jamie Glover.  Not only was his comic timing impeccable, but his excellent and untiring physical performance was both hilarious and inspiring.  I suppose I had previously identified him as “the son of Julian Glover” and so potentially it was for that reason that I was particularly impressed by his performance.  But I am henceforth far less cynical about his identity, having been more than convinced by his competence as an actor.

As Noises Off is still running at the Old Vic until the 10^th March, I won’t go into too much detail about exact moments in it, in case I ruin someone’s viewing experience!  However, what I will say is this: go and see this production of the play.  If you watch nothing else this year, watch Noises Off at the Old Vic.  It’s just the thing to beat off those vicious winter blues and set you thinking about just how many things in your life are actually a farce just waiting to be written!!!

A silence in the corridors,
A silence in the halls.
Then: whispering masses out of sight,
Out beyond the walls.

A low thrum of humming
Echoes from the lawn,
Ever getting louder:
The battleline is drawn.

The songs are almost deafening now,
The walls begin to crack.
Finally they start to see:
They are not turning back.

Gold-encrusted mannequins
Are shaken and they’re stirred:
Power to the people,
Voices must be heard.

Yes, that’s right. Today’s times in rhymes. Yesterday’s news in haiku. And, because clearly not all poetry rhymes (and also because we can’t think of any more rhyming examples off the top of our heads but think three examples would be quite neat and tidy), last week’s headlines in sonnet form.

Check back later this week for the first from Our Girl on the Outside.