GLITTER IS OFF THE MENU

Number 5 grandson stood waiting patiently for me to take his photo outside Kelvingrove art galleries, beside a row of glitzy red xmas trees; I was busy admiring the reflection of an old lamppost in a puddle. I am constantly amazed by the delight I find in the throw-away parts of life. One of the first black and white photographs I took and developed by myself, was of a car wheel hub; a sharp, silver stunning thing that charmed everyone who came across it in my portfolio. Only car enthusiasts ever take notice of wheels and what’s on them. I’d been sent out of the class with an unfamiliar camera and barely enough knowledge of how to operate it; I had half an hour to capture interesting images to practice the art of the dark room – only the car park in range. I discovered that bicycles are beautiful when you lose the colour; chrome reflects the world in all its mystery. Wing mirrors and dashboards, dials and tire-tracks transform themselves into abstract arty-farty photographic paraphernalia…and the sky in water speaks for itself.

COUPLING

Ooooo, Harrison Ford or Richard Gere? Well I choose both and add Bruce Willis, James Woods, Rob lowe, Bon Jovi, Tim Mathieson, Bruce Springsteen and of course the beautiful bald black guy from Weeds – not to mention the beautiful bald black guy from Dexter. I didn’t plan on adding younger men but those last two just popped into my old head so it can’t be helped; there are tons of luscious young men out there but I don’t want to be slavering over them – that would be unseemly. I’m happy with the wrinklies, and they are much more interesting to me, what with their malleable and fabulous faces; I don’t want them for sex – I just want to look and admire their regal standing, their greying and white hair…well okay I’d do the sex thing if I had to but these days I really can’t be bothered. It’s enough to look at men and sometimes I like to listen to them but only if they’re lying, playing a part; they’re more reliable that way.

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SNAPSHOTS

Through a crack in my life

my mother’s heavy white breasts

on Christmas eve – that mother

was black and white, a Tiller Girl

with friends on a park bench

wind in their hair, legs swinging left.

Slim and shapely beside my father

sparkling brooch and earings,

his presence a bonus.

Standing in lush grey grass, cooing

to my shape in a shawl, a cat

called Sandy curled round her feet.

Colour creeps in, urine trickling

down her legs in the lemon hallway

turning from my father’s death bed.

Then a gladiator sweeping her up

retiring her at sixty, kissing goodbye

to staff nights out.

Thin, padded out in blue chunky

in the park of my childhood showing

my son secret paths, teaching him

how to spend time like a waterfall.

I see the speed of death is flat

worn as a photograph.

Published in SLOW DANCER 1992

THE INVISIBLES

Flying from infirm and disabled to confused or lonely, we are one-to-one carers, playing musical chairs with public transport. We wash, dress, lift and lay, casting capable webs with smiling ease. Our clients are soft rocks in quiet ponds. Calm rings around us, centres our mass. Soups in freezers and cakes in tins, we care for each other, passing the baton across airwaves, painting pictures of falls, broken bones, mini-strokes. I do have time to stand and stare, listen to tales of war and peace, nod and smile at repeats.

RUNAWAY GRANNY

is a writer (and blogger) easily distracted by arts & crafts; born in Glasgow; 3 children and 6 grandchildren; no husband to tie her down; studied drama in Gateshead, pottery and photography in Glasgow; keeping music for her old age. If she could only restrain herself from going off at tangents she might actually finish something longer than a poem!

She fell into middle age at 40; sensible overnight – payback for the years of sex, alcohol and trashy high-heels. So, flat-shoed since the mid-80s while her idiot pal stumbled around Gateshead in the snow, falling in and out of multi-story footwear - now, the sparkling, intelligent, unruffled and together older woman, she is bursting with laid-back enthusiasm for life, and death. ‘In order to feel happy with the outside body you have to live happily within it.’

She often finds herself tidying up the pile; the novels, short stories, flash, poetry, plays, sketches blah blah blah; the autobiography, the blogging; the ideas; the future projects; the half-done synopses; the floating bits; the old bits; the morphic bits; and always, the sneaky little tadpoles tickling her memory with half-remembered dreams. If only she had someone with a whip to pin her down; failing that she’ll have to wait until the universe aligns her with her dreams.

FATTY McSLOB

Ode To Chocolate

Oh Cadbury your Galaxy is just Heaven

beTwix Mars and the Milky Way –

Black Magic dreams come true.

Coffee Creams transport me, and

Turkish Delight insinuates itself into

my very soul, to Fry my intentions.

I am fragmented by Flakes, crumbling

their impossible wreck upon my tongue

I’m set adrift on the good ship Bounty.

Tunnock’s Teacakes swell with cream

tantalizing, crushing promises of diets.

Oh Caramel me a Chocolate Orange Terry.

Wagon Wheels Yoyo, soft on an Aero

cloud, we fly After Eight White Mice

and Ruffles of Raspberry Snicker softly.

Oh Yorkie! Malteeser me to Bourneville

don’t let Lions Bar the way; Crunchie

is on the Topic of cancer and obesity.

Diabetic Thornton’s Fudge the milk;

fat prayers bring Minstrels and manic

moments – time is worth a Dime.

Oh Universe, send me the power of Jaffa

Cake sensibility, build me a fountain

of chocolate and bloody drown me in it!

EPISTOLARY FICTION

Dear Psychic Pam

I was wondering if you’d do another reading for me...I know it’s not long since the last one, less than a month, well actually maybe about a week, and I know you said you didn’t want people bothering you all the time and not listening, but this is not the case; everything is hanging in the air and it’s impossible to breathe. My son and his family are away and everyone else seems to have just disappeared - haven’t been across the door in days. I promised myself a trip out tomorrow to post this, but I might just nip up to the box on the corner when it’s finished  – better to get it away ASAP, then I can look forward to your reply in a couple of days. I’ve already paid the twenty-five pounds by Cash-Ex.

If you could concentrate on Dean’s calendar and where he’s going to be for the next month – maybe I can pop over if he’s going to be near me; he doesn’t answer my letters and I can’t get his staff to bring him to the phone. You were spot on with the last reading; I couldn’t believe it when you described him right down to his great sense of humour – that’s what caught me when I first met him. He was so kind. You’d never think a TV personality would be so generous with his time but he was marvellous; he made me tell him all about the media course I’d taken last year. I said I wasn’t going to let it all go to waste and that’s when he offered me the job, helping him with the audience, so he would know what they were thinking; he thought I’d be good at that. I’d been worrying that my age would stop me getting work; there aren’t many companies wanting pensioners even though I’m a brand new one.

The job information should’ve been here by now; it’s been over five months. I’ve checked at the post office a few times but, nothing. There’s a strong connection between us, I can still feel it, and in some ways it’s stronger – I think the distance makes the pull even more powerful...don’t you think? Why are his people keeping us apart? They answer the phone as though they’d never heard of me and send standard reply letters as if I was just any old fan. That’s not right. How can they get away with it?

You don’t have to spend any time on other areas. I know he wants me to sort this out; he’s waiting for me to get in touch. Thanks very much in advance Pam, I know you’ll do all you can to help. I feel such a great connection with you too.

Isabel   X                   read more

MY WORLD

I’d rather be a cleaner than a teacher; when people tramp all over your work they apologise, and sometimes ask your permission to continue. Students don’t usually say that they’re sorry for giggling in your class and disrupting the lesson plan you spent ages working out. Thank the stars I didn’t spend time in that area. I did quite enjoy popping in at Book-week and doing creative writing workshops, or reading something with the younger years. Teaching English to ten 10yr old Spanish kids just makes you paranoid. I couldn’t hack it – give me a mop every time.

I like adults; people should be born at nineteen, with all the angst already flashed through their dreams, although babies are nice – maybe we could have babies as toys. But I quite like four-year-olds, they’re funny, and intense. Though I have seen some awful little beasts on the streets here; I saw a male one last week, belting around on a bike, swearing and growling to himself. He looked about five! And I have seen worse on the streets in the west end of Newcastle; carrying their booty from houses the older boys had broken into. Even comparing kids in the same family, the cousins, my God! When Amazon took her lovely, only child up to visit the Loch Lomond mob she was traumatised watching ToughGuy put the half-nelson on her little red PowerRanger. My older son, TocToc has five children and they all just tumble over each other. One of them can be sitting watching television, quietly, and another will suddenly leap on him. It’s a mad house. Just watching PowerRanger’s face is great entertainment.

I don’t visit often – I like to talk to them on the phone. Though, maybe that’s why they all go a bit hysterical when they do see me. On their own they’re fine, and I would take them most places without having to go back and apologise. I once took three of them out, together…oh my God! Never again. Comedian was about two and I had him in the buggy. As we walked around the west end of Glasgow he leaned out, calling ‘Dickhead!’ at people passing by. I was mortified. My oldest grandson said, ‘Just ignore him granny, he’s a bad boy.’ But they are usually good, and they stop swearing before they turn three. When PowerRanger was about 14mths I held his hand at the top of the stairs, in TocToc’s house, and went to take hold of ToughGuy, he suddenly sat and slid down the stairs on his straight legs! I don’t know why I was surprised. My only granddaughter is three, and is as tough as any of them; they used to drag her around like a rag doll.

It’s a wonderfully strange world; I’m told that their teachers love them, but it wouldn’t be me.

RE-NAMING GRANDCHILDREN

Number 1 & 2 came to spend a week with me in Spain a couple of years ago; at the end of the visit I came up with a new name for those two grandsons: No1 will now be known as Bouncer because he upsets my equalibrium with all that movement - he actually made me feel sick and dizzy. No2 is now Shouts at The Sea; we had an hysterical evening,   walking along the shoreline; Bouncer raced way ahead of us but Shouts At The Sea was standing like a boxer and roaring at the waves. I don´t know what he was shouting but it was fantastic. He shook his fists; a little 8 year old in a navy T-shirt and pants, facing the wild waves, and speaking his mind. So...

Number one grandson is, Bouncer
Number two, Shouts at the Sea
Number three, Comedian
Number four, Tough-guy
Number five, Power Ranger
Grandaughter is, Grubby Angel

Translation to the photos here:

Bouncer is 3-D grandson

Shouts at The Sea is Cool grandson

Comedian is Grandson in a box 2

Tough Guy is Grandson in a box

Power Ranger is Ghostly grandson

Grubby Angel is Blurred granddaughter

CONFESSION

My name is Irene and I am a blogaholic! There, I’ve said it. Oh, the loneliness of the serial blogger.  I switch on in the mornings, check email, wonder why no-one has left me any comments, then swing right on over there to the blogs; checking stats is also becoming addictive – when I first got a site-counter at Blogger I was all over that map and it was soooo exciting, but I got bored with the non-readers, all those searchers looking for granny-sex.

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I'M A WRITER?

Down a lazy writing road procrastination climbs into TV drama, making me lie about time spent couching: not sifting the experience for technique or inspiration but consuming repeated CSIs and Law (without) Order. I am Missing Without a Trace, a Cold Case desperately seeking my fugitive self. I'm a Special Victim, call Grissom! Let Dr House do the Numb3rs on me. Maybe hypnosis would work.

NIGHTMARE

I’m in a fork-lift truck, in a freezer store but I’m wearing a T-shirt and dungarees. A sign on the wall flashes WEDNESDAY 10:45. There’s something I should’ve done by now, 10:47. I can’t make the fork-lift work, a stack of crates are high in front of me. I know that if I get out, the truck will topple over.

10:49 THURSDAY. My feet are bare in thonged sandals, toe-nails painted pink. I smell sprouts, and steak’n kidney pie, and there’s a man shouting, ‘It’s not fair. I’ll fight them all the way,’ he shakes a fist. Two others join him, punching the air. I can’t hear their voices, they seem to be singing, swaying, laughing, daring me to move the truck. I reach for the controls and lower the crates. It’s easy. I’ve always known what to do.

     The men are walking away down the centre of the warehouse, arms around each other, their wives waiting at the door for them, waving little union jacks. When I look back they’ve parted to let a man take the podium. It’s Tony Blair. Across the way one of the women has done the same. She begins to shout at the Prime minister about eating disorders, and points at me. I walk towards them; a Chinese meal is steaming up my arm. The Minister tells me to come forward. He wants to put me on a plane to Afghanistan. ‘Don’t give me a gun’. When I look down the meal is gone. A great puddle of vomit is seeping beneath the crates. ‘Look at your hands,’ the women shout. I have teeth marks on the back of my right hand.

      I turn my hand around, it’s pointing at the ceiling; my nails need clipped, my rings have gone. I look for the monster from Aliens, women are screaming. I’m hungry. I don’t want frozen food.

It’s Friday 14:13 and I’m standing at the door. All the trucks are loaded and my mother is beside me.

 ‘The Japanese are buying up Canada because the Canadians can’t get mortgages,’ she says. ‘If you fill up your truck you can race for land. I’ll come out when you’re settled.’

14.19 flashes. We’re supposed to be out of the building by three.

 ‘Don’t forget to pull out all of the plugs,’ she shouts. The light flickers off. I’m too hot in the new thermal underwear. I think of the wind icing my earlobes and Scottish pipers playing us across the border, their kilts swinging.