My Phone is Broken by Andrew Shephard

I was on holiday walking through the countryside in Spain when my mobile phone broke. The screen went blank and that was it – dead. Back home, I tried a few tips from the internet, most of which involved violence towards the phone. The tips didn’t work, so I went to a mobile phone shop, attracted by a special offer which was too good to ignore.

The bright and modern shop was busy. Staff in casual uniforms were attending customers browsing the latest amazing gadgets. But the happy consumer paradise was being spoiled by a man who was ranting and raving into a phone. He seemed to be trying to explain a problem to a customer service or computer expert on the other end of the connection. He spoke loudly but slowly, as if speaking to an idiot who only understood simple words. He kept repeating himself. The man’s frustration was embarrassing; I saw the shop staff and customers exchange glances which said, 'What a rude man to speak like that.' People gave him a wide birth as if he might suddenly go crazy and lash out at them.

While I was completing my transaction, the shop computer froze and my transaction was lost in the works. The bright young assistant apologised and tried three times to get my details back, blaming a new computer system that was causing some teething problems. I told her not to worry, I would return in a couple of days when it was sorted out.

Three weeks, several return visits to the shop, and over two hours on the phone to ‘customer services’ later, I was back in the shop. I had received an email from the Customer Service Special Team (my problem had been escalated) giving me the great news that my transaction could now be completed. I could pick up my new phone and be in touch with the world again.

The sun was shining and I walked into the shop with a spring in my trainers. The shop manager smiled at me like an old friend – I had become a familiar face. But when the transaction to register my new phone would not ‘go through’ the computer, for a different reason this time, the clouds rolled over my sunny disposition. I demanded to speak to their Supreme Leader. I was given a phone to speak to Customer Services.

I began calmly enough, but after ten minutes or so of explaining, very slowly, as if I was speaking to an idiot, my voice became harsh and anger powered my words. Hearing my own account of the inconvenience, injustice, expense, lost business, lost messages, lost pictures, lost contacts I had endured, I felt a duty to put things right, to correct the glaring faults in their systems and management.

There was a pause while Customer Services attempted to transfer me to another department. I looked around the shop. Seeing the nervous looks of the other customers and the averted eyes of the staff, I knew my fate. I had become the raving man I had seen on my first visit to the mobile phone shop.

My phone is broken

I live in the age of the smarter machine

So clever, yes clever, right clever.

I’m happier talking to a human bean

But never, not ever, no never.

Glasgow, the Valleys, fair Sunderland

So concerned, so kindly, so friendly

But really it’s Alice in Wonderland.

I’m helpless, quite hopeless, it’s fruitless.

The bean’s a small cog, a part, a device

A just-in-time manual taught to be nice,

Trained to smooth my frustration

Until I have ceased,

And accept that at least

I’m part of the beast

Not outside of the feast.

How lucky I am to be fleeced.

You live in the age of the smarter machine

It gets better and better, so clever.

Don’t rave. Join us, be part of the team

Be with us, together, forever.

Ripples by Emma Harding

It's not a good day for sailing. There’s barely a breath of wind and the sea is lake-smooth. But it’s the first time we’ve had a weekend free in an absolute age so we’re determined to make the best of it. The boat rocks as we clamber aboard, as if in resentful greeting. It’s been over a year since we’ve done any decent sailing. 

Onboard, we quickly fall into a familiar rhythm. Bill is up on deck optimistically unfurling the mainsail from its cover, gathering ropes from the storage boxes under the seats and checking fuel and battery levels. Me, I’m in the cabin stowing away provisions for our trip, locating charts and the logbook and switching on the radio. The air is stale down here and the bunk cushions smell musty. There is a sheen of salt-sticky dust over everything and I resolve to spend at least some of the trip down here giving the place a bit of a spruce. While Bill prepares the sheets and the sail for hoisting I take the opportunity to put on my sailing gear. I have learnt from experience to dress for all weathers. However warm and sunny it might appear onshore, it can still be bitingly cold out at sea. I scrape my hair back and tuck it under an old baseball cap. It’s not an attractive look, I’ll grant you, but wind, salt-spray and hair are not a happy mix. Luckily, there are no mirrors onboard. 

Preparations complete, we set about the process of departing. Again we perform our allotted tasks wordlessly, a well-rehearsed, syncopated dance, each of our manoeuvres in time with the other’s. I’m on the pontoon, having loosened both the bow and stern mooring lines but still holding onto both. Bill starts the engine which coughs into life, disgorging a spurt of water out behind. I push the bow hard away from me and leap onto the boat giving a final push against the pontoon edge as I do so. As Bill steers us gently out of the marina I pull the protective fenders up from the side of the boat and put them away. A line of swans glides silently past us, trailing ripples behind them. 

The boat chugs its way out of the marina and into open sea. There’s still no wind to speak of and no point hoisting the sails. There’s nothing for me to do. The stench of diesel and the noise of the engine hangs heavy in the air. I look back at Bill from my position near the bow. His mouth is a tight line. He’s so determined to be out on the water but I know he’s frustrated. I turn my gaze forward again and shift my position so that I can lean my back against the empty mast. I’m supposed to be keeping a look out but there’s nothing else out here so I close my eyes. Sailing’s much more Bill’s thing than mine. I get seasick when it’s rough and I hate having to use marina facilities. But Bill’s had this dream since he was a teenager. He bought this boat with the hard-earned savings from many an unfulfilling job. He deserves this. But my heart’s not in it. I’d much rather be at home, if I’m honest, with a good book, or in my garden and within easy reach of a hot bath. And a proper toilet. 

We’re really very different, Bill and I. He’s outdoorsy, likes camping and hiking. I like home comforts and convenience, good food and a warm bed. We’ve been married for over twenty years though despite our differences. And, I’ll admit, we’ve had some real adventures on this boat. When the wind is up and waves are tipped with white, when the sails are taut and the boat leans and skims over the water as if greased. When your arms ache from winching and your eyes sting from seawater, voices hoarse from shouting at each other over the roar of the wind and the sea. That’s when I saw what Bill loves about all this. How exhilarating it can be, how it can make you feel alive. And that’s when I loved him the most, his skin tanned and glistening, his muscles taut with effort, his eyes bright with joy. 

But that feels like a lifetime ago. When we were both young enough to throw ourselves into it. When it was all new to us. Today I feel ancient. Bulky, dumpy and sweaty in all this clobber. I feel becalmed. Going nowhere fast.

A gull shrieks overhead and I open my eyes. The glare of the sun bouncing off the varnished waters makes me squint. Time for a cup of tea, I think. I heave myself up and make my way along the deck to the stern. Bill hasn’t changed position. Still standing stiffly upright with one hand on the tiller and the other on the railing, he stares grimly ahead. His skin is greyer now, like his thinning hair, and he has a portly look about him I hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t look at me. I don’t think he’s any happier than I am. 

I climb down into the cabin and set the kettle on the cantilevered stovetop. As it starts to boil, emitting a shrill whistle, I run a damp cloth over the wooden shelf that holds the mugs. The sticky residue doesn’t budge. It’s going to take more than that to clean it. I make the tea, carry the two mugs up on deck and hand one to Bill. I sit in the cockpit and we both silently sip.

I look out to sea once more. The light has become hazier and it’s difficult to make out the horizon. The boat continues to slip through the inert water causing barely a ripple in its surface. If only there were some wind.

Night Light by Virginia Hainsworth

It is night time in Krokom, a village in northern Sweden.  Minus 22 degrees.  I am standing outside and looking up into the sky.

What I can see takes my breath away.

The night sky has decided, on this rare evening, to dance.

Green swathes of what seems like fairy dust are sweeping backwards and forwards, and from left to right, becoming lighter in colour and then darker again.  Shards of pale green hang from the highest point in the sky down to the horizon, swaying like delicate silk curtains, moved by an unseen and unfelt breeze. It is utterly mesmerizing.

The sky is bathed in green crystals. I gaze up at the strands of phosphorescent light waltzing across their stage.  Shafts of light the colour of moss break free and chase each other across the darker green mantle, only to turn around and repeat their silent manoeuvres.

Huge bands of forest green move sedately, gliding diagonally across the firmament and then quicken, as if suddenly hurrying, turning to emerald on their journey.

The heavens are on fire but burning green instead of red, as the beautifully choreographed spectacle continues.  Time stands still.  Only the silent sky is moving.

I never knew there were so many shades of green.  Emerald.  Jade.  Sea-green.  And more.  As one band of fairy dust swoops down towards the horizon, another emerges from the left to take centre stage.  But only for an instant, as it too blows away across the sky, to be replaced by a stronger band of a different hue, then dying into the distance.

As one shaft of light swirls this way and that, another spins around and shimmers towards it, as if taunting it.  Like a swarm of tiny pine-green birds, each one individually unseen, but magnificent when flying together across the sky.

Each move is more stunning than the last.  No still or moving picture, no computer generated image, no brilliantly painted canvass or carefully designed fabric could ever match the glory of what I am witnessing.  I feel so small and insignificant under this exquisitely moving canopy.  And yet, at the same time, I feel hugely privileged, to think that what is an elusive phenomenon has chosen this one night on which to emerge from its shy retreat and perform.

How good it is to be alive.

Leipzig (Part Two) by Dave Rigby

(For Part One, see 25 May 2015)

The narrow street was crowded with tourists ambling slowly in the sun, licking ice creams, chatting and gazing in shop windows. Harz found it difficult to keep track of the white-haired man. At one point he lost him and realised he must have turned off somewhere. He backtracked, broke into a run, dodged around slow-moving pedestrians and caught sight of his man disappearing up a narrow alleyway. The cobbles were uneven and Harz had to take care with his footing. He slowed and tried to steady his breathing.

He wondered why he was chasing this man. He had no idea what he would do if he finally managed to confront him. The alley twisted and turned, the surface changing from cobbles to concrete and even to carpet for one section outside a wine shop.

The sun was dazzling when he emerged from the shade of the alley onto the main street, just in time to see the man jumping onto a tram. Harz followed, the doors slamming behind him. He slotted a euro into the ticket machine and slid into a vacant seat. The old woman next to him started talking immediately, rambling on about her husband’s illness, his recent operation, how she couldn’t leave him on his own, how things had been so much better in the old days. Her shopping bags fell over onto Harz’s knee, but she didn’t seem to notice. They travelled south out of the city, along a street where the pavements and half the road were dug up, pipes and spoil heaps everywhere. Every second building on the street seemed to be a bar or a club and Harz wondered how there could be enough customers in the city to support them all.

The tram turned left onto a suburban street, with new housing developments on either side. A road-side florist provided a brief splash of colour. When the old man started to move, Harz glanced out of the window. He recognised one of the few remaining older buildings. It was close to where his father had worked.

As the tram swept away from them, the man walked surprisingly briskly along a small tree-lined lane, past allotments and a small playground. The trees hid the gasworks until the last moment. Harz was taken aback by the sudden appearance of the circular brick structure and was once again that small boy, holding his mother’s hand, waiting outside for his father to finish work. But the building looked different. There were signs and banners and a new entrance. It was no longer a gas holder but an exhibition centre. Harz followed the man into the building. He found it hard to take in how it had been transformed. He managed to work out what was missing. It was the smell that used to catch the back of his throat as a boy.

 “Hey! Freidrich!” Harz didn’t know how he’d suddenly been able to recall the name. The man hesitated, turned and looked towards Harz. After staring at him for a short while, he walked off towards the café. Harz followed, took a seat at one of the tables and waited. To his surprise, Freidrich brought his tray across to the table, sat in the adjacent seat and spoke to him. 

“It’s Harz isn’t it?” Harz was taken aback. He’d planned an interrogation in his head and now he was the one being asked a question. He nodded. “You were arrested by the Stasi weren’t you?” Freidrich spoke confidently.

“And you were the one who told them all about me!” Harz’s voice was faltering. He was going on his gut feeling. Freidrich had lived a few doors away and rumour had it that he was one of the unpaid informants. Harz was sweating and he held his hands together to stop them from shaking. What was he hoping to achieve after all these years? He wasn’t after some clichéd idea of ‘closure’. It came as a shock when he realised he almost felt sorry for the man, the kind of man who could turn in his neighbour.

“I was the one who got you out,” Freidrich said quietly. “I told them about your father, a good man, not a troublemaker. I told them how you’d been misled, how you’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. They listened to me. They knew they could rely on my information.”

Harz had no idea whether the man was telling the truth. Maybe he’d dreamed up the story or maybe it had really happened like that. Freidrich held up his hand and walked away from the table, his coffee untouched. Harz watched him leave the building, the glass doors closing silently behind him. 

Harz heard his father’s voice telling him to go home.