Coffee stains dot the table
like footprints on the moon.
Records, untouched, of travellers past.
Monday, 19 March 2012
Friday, 16 March 2012
Five Minutes a Day: Six (The Travelling Salesman)
The Travelling Salesman
We’d been walking for six days, Bell, Barker and I. Six days trudging along this sandy road. It was, as I’m sure you can imagine, with great surprise that we greeted the sight of a large mahogany trestle table. It was just standing there, by the side of the road. As we approached, we saw that it was covered in small, shallow boxes. Behind it stood a man, tall and comically thin - a fact that his brightly-coloured cape, which fell in pleats over his shoulder, did little to conceal.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” he called as we approached.
“Is it?” Barker asked.
“It is, most certainly, my good fellow. For you have had the enormous good fortune to stumble across the finest travelling merchant currently this side of the River Tor.”
It was quite a relief to see this man. Our provisions were running low. It would be a good chance to stock up on food. It suddenly occurred to me that the mahogany table was slightly impractical for a travelling merchant.
“I can see” he said, twirling his moustache, “from your expression that you’re admiring my table.”
“Erm”
“And you’re right, my boy. A mahogany trestle table would be a tad cumbersome for your conventional travelling merchant. Not exactly conducive to travel.”
He rapped on the table with his knuckles.
“But this is no mahogany table.”
He winked.
“It’s teak with a varnish.”
We didn’t really know what to say to this.
“I surmise that you pray I am a purveyor of comestibles?”
“No, we’d hoped that you’d sell us some food” piped Bell.
“Forgive my friend,” I said. “He’s not the sharpest arrow in the quiver.”
“I’m not an arrow.” Bell said, indignantly.
“Well, you’re in luck,” the merchant said, addressing Bell. “For this week only, I have decided to diversify my skills base; I am a travelling baker.”
With a flourish, he reached onto the table and opened one of the shallow boxes.
“Behold!” he said “The Victorian Sponge.”
“Don’t you mean Victoria Sponge?” asked Barker.
“No, this is a Victorian Sponge. Two layers of vanilla sponge, with a filling of jam, cream, colonialism, the o-ppression of women, re-pression of men, and an o-bsession with ‘cleanliness’.”
He leapt forward, grabbing another box.
“Or if that’s not your proverbial cup of tea, how about a Rainforest Gateau? Chocolate, cream, cherries, and high rates of specific endemism.”
He grabbed another box, and offered it towards us
“Cinnamon Mobius Strip?”
He picked up another
“Billionaire’s Shortbread?”
Barker stood forwards.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing towards a small, round cake
“A cupcake.” The merchant said, dismissively.
“Could we take three of those?” I asked.
“Of course, sir. Excellent choice” the merchant replied, “Can I interest you in a beverage to accompany your victuals?”
“He has a wife.” Bell chimed.
I gestured apologetically.
“What do you stock?”
“I have Lemonade, Lime aid, Cherryade, Live aid, Colonade, Arcade, Balustrade, Crusade, Escapade, Brocade, Masquerade, and Edmondson, Ade.”
“What’s that?” asked Barker, picking up a bottle.
“That,” the merchant said “Is invisibility potion.”
“What is it really?” I asked.
“Lucozade”
Bell began to drink.
“and dog’s urine.”
--
I probably won't have time to write over the weekend; I'm going to be taking part in a twenty-four hour film-making challenge. I'll start posting again on Monday, hopefully.
We’d been walking for six days, Bell, Barker and I. Six days trudging along this sandy road. It was, as I’m sure you can imagine, with great surprise that we greeted the sight of a large mahogany trestle table. It was just standing there, by the side of the road. As we approached, we saw that it was covered in small, shallow boxes. Behind it stood a man, tall and comically thin - a fact that his brightly-coloured cape, which fell in pleats over his shoulder, did little to conceal.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” he called as we approached.
“Is it?” Barker asked.
“It is, most certainly, my good fellow. For you have had the enormous good fortune to stumble across the finest travelling merchant currently this side of the River Tor.”
It was quite a relief to see this man. Our provisions were running low. It would be a good chance to stock up on food. It suddenly occurred to me that the mahogany table was slightly impractical for a travelling merchant.
“I can see” he said, twirling his moustache, “from your expression that you’re admiring my table.”
“Erm”
“And you’re right, my boy. A mahogany trestle table would be a tad cumbersome for your conventional travelling merchant. Not exactly conducive to travel.”
He rapped on the table with his knuckles.
“But this is no mahogany table.”
He winked.
“It’s teak with a varnish.”
We didn’t really know what to say to this.
“I surmise that you pray I am a purveyor of comestibles?”
“No, we’d hoped that you’d sell us some food” piped Bell.
“Forgive my friend,” I said. “He’s not the sharpest arrow in the quiver.”
“I’m not an arrow.” Bell said, indignantly.
“Well, you’re in luck,” the merchant said, addressing Bell. “For this week only, I have decided to diversify my skills base; I am a travelling baker.”
With a flourish, he reached onto the table and opened one of the shallow boxes.
“Behold!” he said “The Victorian Sponge.”
“Don’t you mean Victoria Sponge?” asked Barker.
“No, this is a Victorian Sponge. Two layers of vanilla sponge, with a filling of jam, cream, colonialism, the o-ppression of women, re-pression of men, and an o-bsession with ‘cleanliness’.”
He leapt forward, grabbing another box.
“Or if that’s not your proverbial cup of tea, how about a Rainforest Gateau? Chocolate, cream, cherries, and high rates of specific endemism.”
He grabbed another box, and offered it towards us
“Cinnamon Mobius Strip?”
He picked up another
“Billionaire’s Shortbread?”
Barker stood forwards.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing towards a small, round cake
“A cupcake.” The merchant said, dismissively.
“Could we take three of those?” I asked.
“Of course, sir. Excellent choice” the merchant replied, “Can I interest you in a beverage to accompany your victuals?”
“He has a wife.” Bell chimed.
I gestured apologetically.
“What do you stock?”
“I have Lemonade, Lime aid, Cherryade, Live aid, Colonade, Arcade, Balustrade, Crusade, Escapade, Brocade, Masquerade, and Edmondson, Ade.”
“What’s that?” asked Barker, picking up a bottle.
“That,” the merchant said “Is invisibility potion.”
“What is it really?” I asked.
“Lucozade”
Bell began to drink.
“and dog’s urine.”
--
I probably won't have time to write over the weekend; I'm going to be taking part in a twenty-four hour film-making challenge. I'll start posting again on Monday, hopefully.
Thursday, 15 March 2012
Five Minutes a Day: Five (Amnesia)
I am walking.
Two legs. Two feet. One in front of the other. Left, right, left, right. I am wearing trainers. Was I exercising? I don’t feel tired. I’m wearing a suit. Why am I wearing trainers and a suit? They’re new. Suspiciously white, like the teeth of an American. Why am I wearing new trainers?
A man is walking on the other side of the road. He holds a phone to his ear. “I just wish he hadn’t got tickets for this Thursday” he says, staring glumly at his shoes. A homeless man stares glumly at the man, wishing he could have his shoes.
The suit might offer some clues. I reach inside the pockets. A wallet! If I find a wallet, that’ll probably have my name in it. My fingers probe the lining. It’s soft and smooth. It’s a nice suit. I must be doing well for myself.
Across the street, the man takes out his phone again. He holds it at a distance, reluctantly, as if it were a sour bottle of milk which he has just discovered in the furthest reaches of the fridge. He pauses, then dials a number. “Yes”, he says “I’ve spoken to him.” He pauses. “No, I understand that. But what do you expect me to say?”
I continue to explore my pockets. Nothing. It seems strange. I mean, I must have kept something on my person. Unless I did keep things, and they were taken. If someone found me on the ground, they might have taken a wallet. But I must have been carrying something else. A stick of gum. A paperclip. A bus ticket. People don’t just walk around in empty suits, wearing pristine trainers, do they?
The man listens. He winces. The phone is held a few inches from his ear, as if he wants to get as far away from the other end without actually being unable to hear. “No,” he says “I don’t think-.” Pause. He makes an apologetic noise. His arm drops to his side. He pockets the phone.
Perhaps if I could see my face? There’s a car parked on the other side of the street. I’ll cross over and look at my reflection in the tinted windows.
The man gets out a set of keys. It must be his car.
I speed up my walk. Left, right, left, right. I don’t know why, but it seems important to me that I make it to the car.
The man looks right at me. It’s not a normal glance. Is that recognition?
I slow down. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. What if he’s the man who took my wallet?
The man starts walking towards me.
I stand still.
“I haven’t seen you” he says “for quite some time.”
His tone is measured. Considered. It sounds quite stilted, like he’s afraid he’s going to make a mistake in front of me. What should I say?
The man is looking right at me. I’m expected to say something.
Should I admit that I don’t remember anything beyond the last five minutes? He doesn’t sound hostile, but that way he looked at me. It wasn’t with enthusiasm.
“Still not one for small talk, I see”. He says, saving me from the silence.
I shuffle my feet. He notices the trainers.
“Strange choice of footwear” he remarks.
I nod.
“So, do you want a lift?”
Where would I go?
“I’m alright, thanks.”
He drives away.
I have two legs. Two feet. One in front of the other.
I am walking.
Two legs. Two feet. One in front of the other. Left, right, left, right. I am wearing trainers. Was I exercising? I don’t feel tired. I’m wearing a suit. Why am I wearing trainers and a suit? They’re new. Suspiciously white, like the teeth of an American. Why am I wearing new trainers?
A man is walking on the other side of the road. He holds a phone to his ear. “I just wish he hadn’t got tickets for this Thursday” he says, staring glumly at his shoes. A homeless man stares glumly at the man, wishing he could have his shoes.
The suit might offer some clues. I reach inside the pockets. A wallet! If I find a wallet, that’ll probably have my name in it. My fingers probe the lining. It’s soft and smooth. It’s a nice suit. I must be doing well for myself.
Across the street, the man takes out his phone again. He holds it at a distance, reluctantly, as if it were a sour bottle of milk which he has just discovered in the furthest reaches of the fridge. He pauses, then dials a number. “Yes”, he says “I’ve spoken to him.” He pauses. “No, I understand that. But what do you expect me to say?”
I continue to explore my pockets. Nothing. It seems strange. I mean, I must have kept something on my person. Unless I did keep things, and they were taken. If someone found me on the ground, they might have taken a wallet. But I must have been carrying something else. A stick of gum. A paperclip. A bus ticket. People don’t just walk around in empty suits, wearing pristine trainers, do they?
The man listens. He winces. The phone is held a few inches from his ear, as if he wants to get as far away from the other end without actually being unable to hear. “No,” he says “I don’t think-.” Pause. He makes an apologetic noise. His arm drops to his side. He pockets the phone.
Perhaps if I could see my face? There’s a car parked on the other side of the street. I’ll cross over and look at my reflection in the tinted windows.
The man gets out a set of keys. It must be his car.
I speed up my walk. Left, right, left, right. I don’t know why, but it seems important to me that I make it to the car.
The man looks right at me. It’s not a normal glance. Is that recognition?
I slow down. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. What if he’s the man who took my wallet?
The man starts walking towards me.
I stand still.
“I haven’t seen you” he says “for quite some time.”
His tone is measured. Considered. It sounds quite stilted, like he’s afraid he’s going to make a mistake in front of me. What should I say?
The man is looking right at me. I’m expected to say something.
Should I admit that I don’t remember anything beyond the last five minutes? He doesn’t sound hostile, but that way he looked at me. It wasn’t with enthusiasm.
“Still not one for small talk, I see”. He says, saving me from the silence.
I shuffle my feet. He notices the trainers.
“Strange choice of footwear” he remarks.
I nod.
“So, do you want a lift?”
Where would I go?
“I’m alright, thanks.”
He drives away.
I have two legs. Two feet. One in front of the other.
I am walking.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
Five Minutes a Day: Four (Ballad of the Invisible Man)
Ask what power people would like
More often than not they’ll say
After a pause, that curséd clause
“Invisible for a day.”
Heed these words my listener
Against this I’d advise
For things do tend to oft depend
On being seen by other’s eyes.
I’m forced to commit shoplifting
Each and every day
It’s not that I want to commit this affront
But no-one will serve me to pay.
Which is just as well for my finance:
I’m having trouble with my career.
When I get through to the interview
They assume that I’ve failed to appear.
My best friend thinks he’s schizophrenic
And has started ignoring me
It’s one of the choices, when you start to hear voices
His psychiatrist said to, you see.
So next time you find yourself thinking
‘I’ll be unseen, as a drop in a brook’
Before you commit, please remember that it’s
Not as fun as Claude Rains makes it look.
More often than not they’ll say
After a pause, that curséd clause
“Invisible for a day.”
Heed these words my listener
Against this I’d advise
For things do tend to oft depend
On being seen by other’s eyes.
I’m forced to commit shoplifting
Each and every day
It’s not that I want to commit this affront
But no-one will serve me to pay.
Which is just as well for my finance:
I’m having trouble with my career.
When I get through to the interview
They assume that I’ve failed to appear.
My best friend thinks he’s schizophrenic
And has started ignoring me
It’s one of the choices, when you start to hear voices
His psychiatrist said to, you see.
So next time you find yourself thinking
‘I’ll be unseen, as a drop in a brook’
Before you commit, please remember that it’s
Not as fun as Claude Rains makes it look.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
Five Minutes a Day: Three (Similies)
War is a lot like a dead stripper. It’s embarrassing to have one in the garden when the vicar comes round.
War is a lot like a garden centre. You wouldn’t want to have to go back if you left your coat.
War is a lot like the assassination of the Queen. In twenty years, it’ll make a great film, providing light sabres are involved.
War is a lot like sawing a badger in half. A bloody spectacle, and the hosts of the dinner party tend to want you to leave afterwards.
Wars are a lot like the Guy Ritchie Sherlock films; I find it hard to believe that anyone genuinely enjoys them.
--
Our love is like a box of chocolates; I bought it.
--
Electoral reform is a lot like an oak tree; it looks out of place in a municipal swimming pool.
--
His opinions are a lot like French cheeses; there are a surprising number of them, and almost all of them are unpleasant.
War is a lot like a garden centre. You wouldn’t want to have to go back if you left your coat.
War is a lot like the assassination of the Queen. In twenty years, it’ll make a great film, providing light sabres are involved.
War is a lot like sawing a badger in half. A bloody spectacle, and the hosts of the dinner party tend to want you to leave afterwards.
Wars are a lot like the Guy Ritchie Sherlock films; I find it hard to believe that anyone genuinely enjoys them.
--
Our love is like a box of chocolates; I bought it.
--
Electoral reform is a lot like an oak tree; it looks out of place in a municipal swimming pool.
--
His opinions are a lot like French cheeses; there are a surprising number of them, and almost all of them are unpleasant.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Five Minutes a Day: Two (Lists)
Unlikely candidates for a themed children’s breakfast cereal
Appendicitis
Ennui (Ennuitabix)
Joseph Kony
Ketamine (Special Special K?)
Semantic jokes
Everyone makes generalisations.
I know to never split infinitives.
You know what annoys me? Rhetorical questions.
Exceptions to adages
It’s the thought that counts.
(Changing the batteries in the smoke alarm.)
Ignorance is bliss.
(Your t-shirt is on fire.)
Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.
(Opinions splinter: Nuclear winter?)
Tannoy announcements I’d like to make
Would the parents of Tarquin, Quentin, and Medusa please take a minute to reflect on the years of trauma they have inflicted upon their progeny.
Would the parents of Jack, John, Sarah, Rachel, Ellie, Mike, Tom, Harry, Alex, Katie, Sophie, and Sam please consider some form of birth control?
Unlikely conclusions to a whodunit
It was a heart attack, and all of the evidence was completely coincidental.
Unlikely military tactics
Deploying a single battleship, howitzer, racing car, wheelbarrow, top hat, thimble, iron, and Scottie dog.
Fact about myself
I carry a ‘get out of jail free’ card in my wallet.
Just in case.
Unconvincing alibis
Collecting incriminating evidence is a hobby of mine.
I was fighting Saladin at the time.
Strangely aggressive shop names
Curl up and Dye (hairdressers)
Just Jet Out (Travel agents)
I hope that you, and all of the people that you truly care about, experience a painful and protracted death (Stationers)
What I would really like at this moment in time
some contrived way to end this list of lists.
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Five Minutes a Day: One (Ritual)
I have entered into a contract with myself: for the next month, I will attempt to write for five minutes a day, each and every day. Here goes.
Day One: Ritual
Instructions:
Remove sleeve.
Pierce film.
Heat at full power for three minutes.
Stir.
Return to microwave and cook for a further three minutes.
Leave to stand for one minute.
Check your phone. No texts.
Serve.
Carry through to the lounge
balancing your drink in the crook of your arm.
Eat alone.
Well, not truly alone.
With the flickering glow of the television for company.
Question whether that actor is whatsisface,
oh, you know the one.
He’s on that other show,
the one with those two other men.
You know.
They drive around in cars.
Check your phone.
Perhaps there was a hold-up at the office?
Continue watching television.
Question whether your attention to the box is entirely voluntary.
Is it me, or are the presenters getting younger and younger?
Check your phone.
Watch, no, feel the hours grinding by.
It’s tangible.
At 11pm, after three episodes of ‘Come Dine With Me’, decide to go to bed.
Stripped of its comforting entrails, the meal’s container now looks rather small and forlorn.
Leave the empty plastic husk where it lies.
You’ll clean it up tomorrow.
Day One: Ritual
Instructions:
Remove sleeve.
Pierce film.
Heat at full power for three minutes.
Stir.
Return to microwave and cook for a further three minutes.
Leave to stand for one minute.
Check your phone. No texts.
Serve.
Carry through to the lounge
balancing your drink in the crook of your arm.
Eat alone.
Well, not truly alone.
With the flickering glow of the television for company.
Question whether that actor is whatsisface,
oh, you know the one.
He’s on that other show,
the one with those two other men.
You know.
They drive around in cars.
Check your phone.
Perhaps there was a hold-up at the office?
Continue watching television.
Question whether your attention to the box is entirely voluntary.
Is it me, or are the presenters getting younger and younger?
Check your phone.
Watch, no, feel the hours grinding by.
It’s tangible.
At 11pm, after three episodes of ‘Come Dine With Me’, decide to go to bed.
Stripped of its comforting entrails, the meal’s container now looks rather small and forlorn.
Leave the empty plastic husk where it lies.
You’ll clean it up tomorrow.
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