Monday 25 April 2016

A Fine Art by Virginia Hainsworth


The art of doing nothing when on holiday is not one which is easily perfected.  It takes hours of planning, preparation and practice.

The trick is to make it look, to others, as though you are being idle.  You know that you have fine-tuned your version of indolence so that you can make it look effortless, but others will not recognise that.  They think you are being lazy.  That is their problem.  They do not have the wit to know that they are being deceived.

If you are a novice relaxee, you may need a companion, but you do need to choose wisely.  You need someone who is carefully trained to spot when you might be in danger of spontaneous activity, and who will immediately prevent such exertions.  They will, of course, not wish to strain themselves too much in restraining you from sudden movement.  A mere shake of the head will suffice.

Let me give you an example of the art. 

On one particular afternoon, in the height of a French summer, my companion and I were sitting outside a bar in a village square.  The sun was seeping through our bones like osmosis, warming our muscles and softening them so that they would melt, like ice-cream, into the chairs.  Passers –by would no doubt think that we were indulging in idleness.   Their un-trained eyes would think that the only activity was the occasional reaching of an arm to pick up a coffee cup.  However, the expert eye of a fellow indolent would immediately spot that we were, in fact, undertaking observations. We were observing the bus stop on the other side of the square.  We were waiting for the bus.  New to the area, we needed to ensure that it was the correct bus stop for our imminent journey to the nearest town; that any approaching bus was the one we wanted; and that it was going in the correct direction.

If we were lazy, just standing at the stop and looking for an approaching bus would be enough.  However, making observations demands much more.  Refreshments, for example.  And questions to be answered.  And so, after the first coffee, we asked ourselves ….  Would we have time for another drink before the expected bus would emerge in the distance?  When a bus did appear, would we see – no, sorry, observe – from this angle, the direction board on the front?  How soon would we have to stand up and walk to the stop, when we did observe the bus? One must be especially careful not to stand up too soon, for fear of having to wait too long, in a standing position, at the bus stop.  And, for an indolent, the indignity of having to run was too much to contemplate. 

So busy were we in discussing the potential outcomes of our observations, that we did not see the bus coming and, indeed, missed it.

However, for professional relaxees such as us, this did not present a problem.  The next bus – or the next day- would suffice.

Two more coffees, please, waiter.

Monday 18 April 2016

A Proper Circus Wedding by Clair Wright



It was inevitable that Leda and Troy would fall in love. How could they not? What could be more romantic than risking certain death together on the high wire, falling together, plunging through the air into the net below? The tension, the elation, the adoration and gasps from the crowd as they performed high in the circus tent, were intoxicating. Though watched by hundreds of eager eyes, yet they were alone, isolated on the high wire.

A proper circus wedding. There was some discussion as to whether the Circus Master should give the bride away, or perform the role of best man. But as Mr Byzantine was a rather portly gentleman, not known for his lightness of step, it was felt that to attempt to stand on the high wire might be a step too far. It was agreed that he could give Leda away, handing her onto the wire from the safety of his turret, high above the congregation. He would be symbolically setting her on her journey to join her groom.

The trapeze artists wanted a role too. They couldn’t bear to be earth-bound when all the action was high in the air. They were accustomed to soaring above the audience, even above the tight rope, to swinging past Leda and Troy as they waited for their drum roll cue.  So it was agreed that the trapeze troupe could be attendants, swinging above the congregation and scattering rose petals.

Leda insisted that the clowns stay on the ground. She didn’t want her beautiful moment being ruined by their silly antics. Leda was impatient, and a little wary, of the clowns. Sometimes, behind their painted smiles, she sensed jealousy, even hatred in their eyes. Perhaps they resented the skill, the grace of the high wire artists. After all, thought Leda, who would ever fall in love with a clown?

So, the clowns were to sit in the congregation, awkward in their big shoes and giant bow-ties, to sing the hymns and make up the numbers.

Troy wanted them to wear their circus costumes. He only felt right when he was decked out in his harlequin colours, with his taut muscles rippling under the fabric. He thought Leda was at her most beautiful in her high wire costume, lithe and strong, like a cat.

But Leda had other ideas. She was an old-fashioned girl underneath the glitter.  She wanted the wedding she had dreamed of when she was a little girl in the back of her parents’ circus wagon, looking at pictures of Cinderella and happy ever after.  She wouldn’t feel like a bride, she thought, without the billowing skirt, the white lace, the filmy veil. Troy looked awkward in his suit, but Leda insisted.

The vicar didn’t have much of a head for heights. After Mr Byzantium slipped him an extra £50 ‘for the bell fund,’ he agreed to conduct the ceremony from the top of a ladder. 

        ‘At least the sermon will be short,’ smirked the clowns, who were looking forward to the ‘do’ at the Dog and Duck afterwards.

And so they were ready. Leda and Mr Byzantium climbed the spiral staircase to the window in the tower. Leda held her skirt away from the dusty stairs, and climbed daintily in her white ballet slippers. Mr Byzantium took her hand, a tear in his eye, and held it as she stepped lightly onto the wire.  Across the courtyard, Leda could see Troy setting out from his tower.

Their eyes met as they walked in unison towards each other. Like reflections they stepped one, two, along the wire.  The clowns sniggered as they looked up and caught a glimpse of thigh through Leda’s petticoats.

The vicar chose his moment and began to climb the ladder. His sticky palms slipped on the rungs as he held his breath and counted the steps, his prayer book knocking against his ribs in time with his hammering heart.

‘Dearly Beloved...’ he began, and the congregation strained to hear his quavering words, high above their heads.

‘Do you, Troy, take Leda...’

The vows were repeated. The bride and groom were motionless, perfectly balanced on their wire.

The vicar began to feel a little better. The ceremony was reaching its climax, then he would be able to get off this awful ladder.

‘The rings?’ he whispered, and the groom reached for his breast pocket. He dropped them onto the vicar’s open prayer book.

The vicar leaned forward, a little too far, and began to wobble. He panicked, grabbed the ladder, and the prayer book tipped. The rings slid, spun for a moment glinting in the sun, then fell.

Leda saw, Troy saw. They gasped; they swayed; they fell. They tumbled and turned, they twisted and spun – the congregation froze, mid-breath.

Gold streaked from right and left; caught the falling pair and swept them up in mirroring arcs as the trapezes swung away.  The crowd gasped, then broke into rapturous applause. It ran on and on as Leda and Guy swung back and forth above them.

‘I now pronounce you man and wife!’ the vicar blurted, as he scrambled down the ladder. He mopped his sweating forehead and collapsed into a chair.

The trapezes were lowered to the ground; the bride and groom took their bows. Mr Byzantium held out the rings, and wiped away a tear.

Toe to toe, the clowns formed a guard of honour as the happy couple danced in up the aisle. Leda paused, ran back, and planted a kiss on each red nose.

The congregation, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, all agreed it was a proper circus wedding.

Monday 11 April 2016

Sister, Dear by Annabel Howarth




Sister, Dear


I picture you in snow-crisp white,
Slight fingers, clasping fur rimmed hood,
Round, chestnut curled, smiling face,
Light-reflecting, pinkened cheeks.

Stronger than I, when I feel strong,
Weaker than I, when I feel weak,
Integral part of life, of me,
No need to speak, when silence speaks.

It sometimes strikes me, sister, how,
I seldom speak to friends your name,
As of the others oft I do,
With powered passion or in pain.

I’ve pondered, timely, question why,
To this the simple answer clear,
For you just Are, as Tao in Pooh,
With tender love, my sister, dear.

by Annabel Howarth


Monday 4 April 2016

Rubber bands by Emma Harding

I didn’t notice the man at first. He was sat on the other side of the bar, nursing a pint and a crossword. Older, perhaps late sixties, early seventies, dressed in an unremarkable fashion - beige anorak, grey slacks. Ordinary. Invisible.

It was only when he passed by our table on the way back from the gents, that I caught sight of his shoes. Or what was left of his shoes. Tattered, full of holes, and with three rubber bands round each shoe, holding them together and onto his feet.

The sight of these shoes made me sad. Really sad. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. After all, other than his shoes he looked reasonably well-kept, if not well-off. 

As I tried to reconcile his mostly tidy and clean appearance with the catastrophe that were his shoes, I wondered what had happened in this man’s life to bring him to this point? How did he live? What was his story?

While I couldn’t envisage him being on the streets, perhaps he was homeless, making what he could of life in a hostel. Where a change of clothes was welcome but wearing another man’s shoes was unpalatable, even dishonourable. A life of carrying one’s belongings around in a plastic bag. Taking a moment’s comfort in a local boozer, a moment of peace, of normality.

Or perhaps he had a perfectly good home to go to, with an electric fire and books on the shelves. Plus stacks of old newspapers filling the hallway and collections of empty tins, toilet roll inner tubes, plastic bags and paperclips accumulating in the lounge and on the stairs. A home he could only squeeze in and out of. A life where a pint in a pub offered relief but only briefly, before he slipped back to the cramped security of his home.

Wait a minute though. Wasn’t I being just a little over-dramatic? Where had these images of a meagre life, half-lived, come from? Why would the sight of rubber bands holding a man’s shoes in place inspire such inventions?

Perhaps he was just an ordinary guy who simply hated shoe shopping. His rubber banded shoes were lived in, comfortable and who cared what anyone else thought about it. 

Then it struck me. What those rubber bands meant. Why they made me so sad. 

Loneliness. Having no one in your life to tell you to get some new shoes. That you can’t possibly go out like that. That you’ll catch your death. Having no one who cares enough to care about the state of your shoes. 

These shoes were the last thing his wife bought him. Not as a gift. She always bought his shoes. He could never face it. And she always knew the right ones to get. Comfortable, hard-wearing, smart - but not too smart. Like these ones once were. It makes him sad to think of how much she’d hate that he was still wearing the same but now falling-apart shoes after all this time. How she’d be horrified by the rubber bands. He can hear her voice telling him, gently, that he needs to take better care of himself. That it’s more than time to consign these old things to the bin and buy a new pair. 

But it’s the only time he can hear her voice now, so that’s not something he can ever do.