Posts Tagged Family

the second episode of my tv show is finally out now!!!

Whether you saw the first episode of my tv show or have just stumbled across this post in amongst the mumbled mess of information that the internet is, give my second one a watch which recently came out. Enjoy!

Advertisements

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

Welcome to the Big, Wide World!

The time in someone’s life when they first step out into the big wide world can be an intimidating one. For some they know exactly what career path they are going to follow and for others it is a time to find any job to pay the bills while they look for something more suitable.

I have been fortunate enough to take a year out after school and before I go to university, and I believe this has taught me some valuable lessons. Before I started my gap year I thought the most important and influential period would be when I travelled abroad. While this did teach me a lot about living by myself and taking care of all the bills it did not teach me the value honest hard work, which is an important characteristic when it comes to university and a career. Instead I learnt this over the course of earning money to go abroad when I worked in a dog food factory for a little more than minimum wage. It is when you work at the bottom, that you can see the true importance of putting in the hours for a good degree. It is a true motivation to avoid this style of living, but it is also necessary to show you what others have to work for.

Your career is a huge proportion of your life, it is what your education is aimed at and it is there for your enjoyment, I feel with this learning curve in my gap year I have gained a foresight, one that I would not be able to have if ‘mummy and daddy’ just gave the money or handed me down a comfy job. As it is worth knowing that the things in life that you want are the effort in getting.

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

Fifty word fiction: No Action

The rope hung heavy in her mind. It was only instinct to run away. The hospital was one action, as was a cup of tea. The shop clerk did not see anything was wrong. Sarah was a little concerned, however, that her husband would not be returning from work again.

Chris Player

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

What does Snow mean to you?

For us English the snow is a rare chance to chuck precipitation at one another and have an unscheduled holiday, no matter how old you are. It is a rare occurence and for most years previous to the last one inthis country i had only seen a light sprinkling. The past two years have climaxed in about six or seven inches at a time for a couple of weeks. Whilst this may seem a lot to those who are lucky enough to live at a ski resort it does have a certain power to lift the spirits. Whilst there are fun and games there is also hard work that arrives with the snow: clearing the way for the cars on the driveway and salting the road outside. Whilst it is taxing it is worth the reward, and it is only half an hour of toiling or so.

The snow also gives an opportunity to help out our fellow man, as my parents willfull proved by helping out our neighbough who does not have the equiment or strength to shovel and brush the snow. In a strange way a natural phenomenom brings us together as we are transported back into melancholy colours and we come away from electricity and technology except to warm against the fire and come together by watching a film.

What snow means to me is a sense of togetherness, although our cars may not work and we know we are isolated, everyone is in the same position and therefore we are not alone. It is the only time the melancholy puts a smile on my face.

What does it mean to you?

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

Un-employment

“And finally, why do you think that you should get this job?”

I did not care much for the man’s answer, I knew it would be forced and heavily rehearsed. It was difficult to look at him without feeling slightly nauseous; he had a pinstripe suit which harbored a clean white shirt with a black silk tie. Overall he gave off a space aged look. He showed himself to be well groomed and on his nose there was a pair of heavy rimmed rectangular framed glasses perfectly balanced, that fitted in with his sharp jaw line and pronounced cheek bones. It made me uneasy to look at.

When he walked in to my office he brought a fresh quality to the air around him, and looked at me. When I met his eyes he smiled and that was when I decided I did not like this guy. I know he did not mean to but he let his guard slip, and I could have sworn I saw some pity there. It made me sneer at him behind my mask of potential employer, I kept thinking; ‘So you think you’re so much better than me do you!’

As expected his answers were so full of himself, “India” this and “helping the poor” that, just added to the bad taste at the back of my throat. The only other person to interview was some sweaty old woman, she had come bundling in, she had said that she was not completely sure what the job was, but I assume she was joking. In fact, she was because I laughed.

The man brought me back to the room when he finished talking. I caught the end of what he was saying and it had something to do with his time spent with underprivileged inner-city children, and how this experience helped with his perseverance and ability to communicate with other people. I nodded and pretended to note something down. I then smiled and pulled a handkerchief from my pocket mopping my brow, pausing a few seconds.

“Ok, thank you very much for your time; we will give you a call in the future.”

He stood up as did I, we shook hands, and he looked straight into my eye just as before. I quickly looked down to my desk, fully recoiling back into my chair. I tried to disguise the wince on my face with a smile but it came across crooked. I caught myself in the reflection of my kid’s photo and let my head fall when he stepped out of the room. A sobbing sigh was next to come from me before I straightened up.

The company did not seem like they needed more employees. I thought of this man being at work here. He wouldn’t fit in, if I did not employ him I would be doing him a favor, he would probably only quit after a few weeks to go on another of his trips abroad. The woman was the logical choice as she would fit in and be loyal to her work.

I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.

“Mrs. Jacobs?”

“Yes?”

“This is Devon plastics. I would like to inform you that we have decided to award you the position of assistant manager.”

“Oh… thanks.”

“For the job interview that you came to on Wednesday.”

“ok.”

“You start on Monday?”

“Monday’s not good for me.”

“Tuesday?”

I heard a grumble before the phone went dead; I placed it on the hook. I was expecting a better response, maybe I made a mistake. I picked the phone up and waited a few seconds before dialing.

“Mrs. Jacobs, yes it’s me again from Dorset plastics, I’m sorry there has been a mix up. Due to cut backs we can not hire you, I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

I heard a sigh down the phone.

“Ok.”

Then she hung up.

I smiled pleased with my work and started to look for the man’s details. They were not there.

, , , , , , , , , ,

2 Comments

Crying Fire

I took a step back after turning the key in the lock. The idea of a spending a week alone in your house would be daunting, if not depressing, to most. Even though my parents had only been absent for five minutes, the feeling of blissful independence had already surged back to me. The next time I would see them would be as they would take me to the airport to go skiing and that would just be a two hour car journey.

I placed the key in the draw and headed to the kitchen. I filled the cast iron kettle half full and placed it on the hot plate, before preparing a mug that could only be described as oversized on the counter next to it. The fridge was my next destination; for the milk, this would help pass some of the minutes before the familiar steam whistled indicating the water was ready. As I walked back I grabbed the rich tea biscuits for a complete teat time experience. I was far enough into my routine for the final steps to be done on autopilot and before I realised it I had a steaming cup of relaxation ready. Blue Peter would have been proud.

The next stop ion my routine was one that only happened at a specific time of year, and due to my travels next week, the timing was necessary. I placed the cup on the Aga, covering it with a small plate ensuring minimum heat loss and skipped up the stairs, too excited to maintain my supposed maturity that I should have acquired having left school. As I opened my wardrobe I felt the corners of my mouth curl upwards. I selected the wire hanger which held my skiing jacket and coat and laid them carefully on the ground. Before I got ahead of myself I donned my thermal underwear, having quickly lost my boring jeans and t-shirt. The zip on my jacket had already been half unzipped when I had previously succumbed to temptation earlier that week. This was one activity that did not warrant autopilot.

As soon as I had my jacket and trousers on, my goggles and socks were soon found. I could almost feel the smooth snow under the skis and boots that I was yet to rent. I took in the fabric and excitement that the clothes brought, I was ready for what was next; in this case it would be the sofa.

I sank into the forgiving leather already feeling the technology of well put together suits as I felt familiar perspiration start to form. When I thought I had reached full comfort my stomach in typical fashion reminded me that I had not. I placed some bread in the old fashioned iron gauze excuse for a toaster and subjected it to the heat of the Aga hot plate, closing the lid for full effect.

Once again I sank into the leather and started to sip at my tea which had quickly cooled to a drinkable temperature. Sweat had fully formed and I felt a slight dampness under my underarms, but a shrug of the shoulders was all the interest I could muster, no one was here to nag or order me about. This was the definition of freedom, and what better way to begin than a couple of hours of me time.

“Every man is an island,” I smugly said to the empty room in my best Marlon Brando impression. The adverts and programmes began to merge into one, so I closed my eyes and let my eyelids and heavy breathing take over.

It was not long before I was awoken by sweat trickling down my cheeks. Expecting to simply peel off a layer to combat this predicament was a foolish one, as my eyes opened and met smoke filled air that had the distinct smell of toast.

Instinct made me stand and go to the door, which was locked. I ran to the draw nearly sliding past on my dangerously sock covered feet. I scrambled back through the smoke to the door and fell out coughing in fits. The fresh air was like nectar although it did not completely banish the tickling throat that ensued.

The next step was calling the fire department, so I searched for my phone in my trousers before remembering its whereabouts, and it was not in my skiing trousers. The phone was not hard to find, even with the masses of adrenaline pumping around my system. As I was running out I heard every fire official that had ever come to any of my schools who had said never to enter a burning building at any time. I smiled thinking how I showed them up. Then I remembered my situation. I dialled 999 and they were on their way.

I cursed and ran inside as I realised that the cat was still locked in, opening the door to the cat’s room and seeing the outline of one haring outside. The room had cleared slightly in a short period of time with the door open, although the stench of burnt bread remained strong. Looking left I expected to see flames licking the kitchen soon to spread to the rest of the house. The room was a tangible grey, but there was no searing heat and no flaring orange. I ventured in.

When I got to the Aga I lifted the hot plate lid; two charcoaled slices of what used to be bread crisp from the exposure to the heat, but there was no fire. I started opening all the windows when I heard the sirens closing in. I panicked and began closing the windows I had previously opened. I moved the papers over by the Aga along with the cardboard and paper recycling. They had come and there would need to be a fire otherwise I would get in trouble. I chucked a match in and ran outside as the fire engines arrived. I was immediately attended to and asked if I was the only one inside, I nodded, stricken by the pure idiocy of what I had just done.

“The fire was found relatively early so nothing was damaged apart from a small amount of paintwork. Are your parents about?” A brisk Yorkshire accent asked me.

I shook my head unable to muster the strength to answer to what I had just done; it would take a lot for my parents to trust me again. I was scared, the firemen were about to leave and they had not told me the origin of the fire. Was it because it was so supposedly obvious? I hadn’t said in the phone call. Then the last fireman came out of the house and was striding towards me, as he came closer I could see; there was a single match in his hand.

, , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a comment

Mistakeout

Heaving myself over the wall, I caught my jeans on a stone that was jutting out; cutting the denim. Safety had come at a small price. The position I had acquired looked over the last junction in the neighbourhood which had not been vandalised. The streetlights illuminated every sign, so there was no place to hide. Every other junction’s signs were missing letters to spell inappropriate words and the culprit needed to be caught. ‘Frome’ had been turned to ‘Rome’, ‘Shepton Mallet’ to ‘She Male’ and most crudely of all, the c and s had been removed from Canal Street.

I took the last red bull out of my bag and slurped from the can as I peered through binoculars which had previously hung around my neck. The reason why I was here is because I had been the target of the blame. The town had chosen their scapegoat in the form of a fourteen year old boy and were not going to change their mind. Not at least without any convincing evidence. To which I felt particularly bitter as I had been given a guilty sentence without any trial or evidence. I was guilty before being proven innocent.

Their reasoning was that I had the heavy influences of Bart Simpson and Dennis the Menace, and I had chosen to create a prank of my own; defiling the signs and the dignity of the town. I would take credit for anything that I had done, but I had not committed this particular crime.

The blame had come in the shape of one particular old man; Mr Binks. He had stated that he had seen me and claimed that I had even threatened him when he told me to stop. I had stayed quiet when even my parents asked me to take responsibility for my actions and to stop bothering ‘that poor old man’. I gritted my teeth as I remembered; a slight adrenaline surge pumped through my veins and returned me from my memories. It was my third night in a row here, watching. I had the idea of a stakeout after watching some old police movies and I thought it would be the perfect way to clear my name.

Although my eyes stung and I felt drowsy I kept my concentration up by watching for any movement, the occasional passing car breaking my daydreams. I mused on the idea that I was some sort of vigilante, taking the law into my own hands, taking after Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, although I soon settled that I was closer to Bill Oddie or David Attenborough waiting in the bushes.

Movement on the other side of the junction had stirred me. A hunched over figure with a large brown coat and a hat pulled down over his face ambled down the pavement. However, he wondered off and into the darkness leaving no trace of his ever being there apart from the slight excitement in the pit of my stomach.

The sun was about to rise on yet another unsuccessful night. Disappointment hung in the air and I wondered how much longer I could lie in wait, how many more nights would it be as it was not even clear if they would strike again. These thoughts were dismissed with a wry smile as I clutched at the binoculars to see old man Binks hobbling along the pavement with a walking stick in hand. To take away his support just as he had done to my credibility, however tempting, would be too easy. It would also lead to my final condemning and my name would be forever doomed.

I was just about to reveal my hiding place when he turned and looked ever so shiftily around him, just before the sign. He had lifted his walking stick to the sign and was using whatever device was on the end to scrape the letters off, all the time giggling at his work. I could not believe it, although he was the person I least expected. I pulled my camera out from my bag and started to take some undeniable evidence.

Caffeinated anger coursed through my veins, whilst my body tempted me into action, but I willed myself to wait. I had to change my plan. Rather than taking the pictures to the police in the morning, I would confront the old man at home. I may as well get a little of my own justice out of the old man.

I kept my eyes on him and waited for him to leave not paying any attention to his vandalism. He was soon returning home, and I slid the camera into my bag, being careful to turn it off so there was no danger of it accidentally deleting in my bag.

I trailed the criminal home careful to stay out of his view. There was little chance of stopping me now, and as I watched him enter his house he seemed to have a skip in his step. He could enjoy this as much as he wanted as he would soon get his comeuppance. After composing myself I waited ten minutes and walked up to his front door. I knocked, and waited. I knocked again louder and he finally opened the door, looking very grumpy and in a dressing gown.

“Do you know what time it is?” He blurted out the door.

“Yes, yes I do. It’s a lovely time of day for a stroll wouldn’t you say, although it does tend to get a bit chilly if you don’t wear the right clothes. You wouldn’t be so kind as to let me in?” I tried to hint that I had little purpose about what I was saying. I saw a grimace and a snare contort on his face as he saw the complete arrogance and annoyance in me, which could only be distinguished after seeing his actions and mood less than half an hour before.

“No. Bugger off.” He went to close the door, but I put my foot in the way, similar to that in an 80’s cop show.

“I asked nicely because I believe that you need to let me in, you see, I saw you. Tonight. In a place where you shouldn’t have been, doing an act which you shouldn’t have been doing.” I saw his face change in a split second, the creases falling and then scrunching up to cover the lapse in his mask. He stuttered in his reply.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out. You have no right and no proof.”

I quickly replied, pleased that the situation had played out just as I had planned.

“You made a mistake coming out tonight didn’t you? I got the right when you wrongly accused me, and chose to dump the blame upon me. I have the proof in my bag. In the form of pictures, but I don’t suppose you know about this new technology do you old man?” The last quip added sting to its tail, that part wasn’t rehearsed but it seemed appropriate. I was expecting him to let me in and deny everything, with bitter retorts flying my way, what came instead was, somehow unexpected, and different.

He stepped back into the darkness and let his head hang, shame appearing to permeate him.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to siphon the blame on to you. It’s just; I have not been able to escape this place for anything other than the garden deck chair. My carer, she just…” He stopped. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t unload my problems; we do not know each other, apart from through accusations, false accusations. Please just forgive me. I thought a prank would liven this place up a bit; confuse those boring sods in the neighbourhood watch.”

I loomed in the doorway, unsure what to think, this bit never happened in any of the movies and I just had not imagined that I ever would confront the person, a pang of guilt slithered over me. I felt like a boy in front of a sorry old man and that was exactly what it was. It was not hard to put myself in his position and I had a glimpse into the loneliness and helplessness of his life as he drifted back. Old family photos of lost loved ones hung down the hall; in his home he was left to swim among his memories.

“It is so easy to be forgotten and yet so hard to be remembered, I am glad you caught me, but sad that I could not carry on my late night adventures. When you reach my age you will realise that there is little to look forward to and too much to look back on. I decided to change that view and remember with laughter the nights I defiled those signs. Who cares if people discover they are turning towards Bat, or Wit? I’m sure it puts more of a smile on their face to find they are travelling towards Frome rather than the capitol city of Italy. If I were you I would clear my name. But just remember me when you do it.”

His face had become enthused as I had never seen it before. His speech had gone from rasped to almost clear. It had been a mistake to confront him, but I would have never learnt his motives. I remember leaving his garden gate with muddled thoughts and a newly empty camera. On my way back home I started to rehearse a new speech, one part that was familiar and one that was not. It was an accumulation of apologies, one in case I got caught sneaking back, the other for the crime that I did not commit.

, , , , , ,

Leave a comment

%d bloggers like this: