'It is a decision for you and you alone,' counsel explained, 'we need an answer.' Unyielding, apparently unmoved, the client continued to stare into the oak beams, it dawning on counsel that no decision would - or perhaps could - be forthcoming.
.
Showing posts with label BadLad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BadLad. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
fowl
We have become friends with a really rather cool mother and son, plus grandparents, who live in a massive, rambling, tree-lined property that's close to us. Having done a lot of running about last week and over the weekend, by Sunday afternoon I felt the need to unwind. So we took up an invite to join said mother and son, at their place - for drinks in the shade.
As I looked over some outbuildings, Emma was given the formal tour of the gardens, and Alex took a turn towards the vast hen enclosure (later showing off at being able to gently gather up the more dull-witted of hens). Later, as we exited Rambling Manor, I mentioned that I'd needed that break. The Lady of the Manor seemed glad for the remark.
Then. Yesterday evening. Just before bed-time.
Alex: (casually having a wee) Shane.
Shane: (pasteing up the toothbrushes) Mm?
Alex: Y' know when I was with the hens yesterday?
Shane: Mm.
Alex: Well, now don't tell me off for this cos it wasn't my fault -
Shane: (not impressed) What did you do?
Alex: I didn't do anything, it was the hen.
Shane: (oh Lord) What?
Alex: Well I needed a wee, so I went down to the bottom - behind the shed, near the weeds. I weed in the weeds.
Shane: Did a hen peck your pecker?
Alex: (amused) No. It tried to peck my wee.
Shane: What?
Alex: The hen tried to peck my wee! And I ended up weeing on its head.
Shane: (he weed on the hen's head!) A tiny bit funny, but really not very cool.
Alex: It wasn't my fault! It was too lazy to go up to the water buckets, so it tried to drink my wee.
Shane: That's foul. And that was it, was it?
Alex: I turned the tap on for it, but it ran back up to near the gate, so I turned it off.
Shane: Hmm.
It is with the 'Hmm' expression that I convey the moral significance of non-human animals. This, I imagine, is what The Boy reads from the Hmm, too.
If you were out, I hope you wore sun-block.
As I looked over some outbuildings, Emma was given the formal tour of the gardens, and Alex took a turn towards the vast hen enclosure (later showing off at being able to gently gather up the more dull-witted of hens). Later, as we exited Rambling Manor, I mentioned that I'd needed that break. The Lady of the Manor seemed glad for the remark.
Then. Yesterday evening. Just before bed-time.
Alex: (casually having a wee) Shane.
Shane: (pasteing up the toothbrushes) Mm?
Alex: Y' know when I was with the hens yesterday?
Shane: Mm.
Alex: Well, now don't tell me off for this cos it wasn't my fault -
Shane: (not impressed) What did you do?
Alex: I didn't do anything, it was the hen.
Shane: (oh Lord) What?
Alex: Well I needed a wee, so I went down to the bottom - behind the shed, near the weeds. I weed in the weeds.
Shane: Did a hen peck your pecker?
Alex: (amused) No. It tried to peck my wee.
Shane: What?
Alex: The hen tried to peck my wee! And I ended up weeing on its head.
Shane: (he weed on the hen's head!) A tiny bit funny, but really not very cool.
Alex: It wasn't my fault! It was too lazy to go up to the water buckets, so it tried to drink my wee.
Shane: That's foul. And that was it, was it?
Alex: I turned the tap on for it, but it ran back up to near the gate, so I turned it off.
Shane: Hmm.
It is with the 'Hmm' expression that I convey the moral significance of non-human animals. This, I imagine, is what The Boy reads from the Hmm, too.
If you were out, I hope you wore sun-block.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
six movements
Friday evening:
'Did I tell y' about the doctors' surgery?' asks mother.
'No', says I.
Soon after, I'm looking at this:
...And my sister and I are laughing at the very twenty-first century apology, from So So Sorry, of Spennymoor, that appeared on the local newspaper's website. (It was his kid wot dun it, apparently - burned the doctors' surgery down.) Confirming the gravitas of the blaze, mother grimly adds, 'They had to close Asda'.
On Saturday, my mother laid some flowers in the walled remembrance garden at the crematorium, in Durham. It was a bittersweet moment. She cried, I patted her back.
Later, in Durham, sister and I were on a Day-Before-Mothers-Day mission.
'Do we need wrapping paper?' I ask.
Sister locates the wrapping paper in Waterstones, swears, and re-directs us. 'Haway. Indoor market'll be cheaper.' A daughter's love, a daughter's economy.
Later still on Saturday, I recognise some things about mother's life in the small town that I'd previously undervalued. As she's describing the trials and tribulations that various friends and faces have been dealing with, I ask where she gets all of this information from. Seems that a walk through town is sufficient. People on the street. Tiny details, good for the soul.
Sunday, we went out for lunch, prior to my drive back. In the family restaurant, it seemed like tattoos were en vogue. But then I notice that many of said tattoos have that slightly blurred - stretched - quality. And I listen to how some of the fellow diners are speaking. 'More on rogue, than en vogue', I decide, admiring the line, but choosing not to share it. Wouldn't want to offend, see. Or get beaten up.
I get back to Stoke-on-Trent at around 6:45pm, and Emma gives me the lowdown on her weekend. 'I missed you', she adds. Fifteen minutes later, The Boy - returned by his Dad - steps in, throws his arms open and around me for a big hug, and says, 'We didn't win the talent show, but everyone laughed when we mixed the cat food into the rice pudding. And Miss Stokes asked who wrote our script. She wants you to help her with something, I think.'
And not to miss out on this lo-fi reunion, the cat wanders in, heads for the fireplace, and starts to bite the tulip stems.
Kettle on.
'Did I tell y' about the doctors' surgery?' asks mother.
'No', says I.
Soon after, I'm looking at this:
...And my sister and I are laughing at the very twenty-first century apology, from So So Sorry, of Spennymoor, that appeared on the local newspaper's website. (It was his kid wot dun it, apparently - burned the doctors' surgery down.) Confirming the gravitas of the blaze, mother grimly adds, 'They had to close Asda'.
On Saturday, my mother laid some flowers in the walled remembrance garden at the crematorium, in Durham. It was a bittersweet moment. She cried, I patted her back.
Later, in Durham, sister and I were on a Day-Before-Mothers-Day mission.
'Do we need wrapping paper?' I ask.
Sister locates the wrapping paper in Waterstones, swears, and re-directs us. 'Haway. Indoor market'll be cheaper.' A daughter's love, a daughter's economy.
Later still on Saturday, I recognise some things about mother's life in the small town that I'd previously undervalued. As she's describing the trials and tribulations that various friends and faces have been dealing with, I ask where she gets all of this information from. Seems that a walk through town is sufficient. People on the street. Tiny details, good for the soul.
Sunday, we went out for lunch, prior to my drive back. In the family restaurant, it seemed like tattoos were en vogue. But then I notice that many of said tattoos have that slightly blurred - stretched - quality. And I listen to how some of the fellow diners are speaking. 'More on rogue, than en vogue', I decide, admiring the line, but choosing not to share it. Wouldn't want to offend, see. Or get beaten up.
I get back to Stoke-on-Trent at around 6:45pm, and Emma gives me the lowdown on her weekend. 'I missed you', she adds. Fifteen minutes later, The Boy - returned by his Dad - steps in, throws his arms open and around me for a big hug, and says, 'We didn't win the talent show, but everyone laughed when we mixed the cat food into the rice pudding. And Miss Stokes asked who wrote our script. She wants you to help her with something, I think.'
And not to miss out on this lo-fi reunion, the cat wanders in, heads for the fireplace, and starts to bite the tulip stems.
Kettle on.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Weltanschauung
It was Christmas Eve, babe:
Manc.: (bright-eyed, amused) So? Which Premiership manager d' y' reckon it is, then?
Shane: Is what?
Manc.: Y' haven't heard?
Shane: No.
Manc.: Some Premier League manager has been caught leaving a brothel - hasn't been named, though. When I heard, my heart sank. I just thought 'Pulis'.
A conversation ensues, in which I explain that I can't believe that it would have been the Manc's beloved Pulis, manager of Stoke City.
Manc's Wife: The article said he was wearing branded sportswear as he left the building - which was on an industrial estate.
Shane: Sounds a bit Midlands, could be anywhere, though.
An alternative festive game develops, in which we compare guesswork and thinking. Our collective intellectual might forms a pointless Poirot.
Shane: So from what you tell me, we can identify three characteristics of the punter... he's high profile, with a lot to lose - so he's a risk-taker. We can assume that he's able to be fairly amoral about paying for sex, or the sex economy. And we know that he's the sort of man who's willing to be out in public in branded sportswear.
We narrow the field to six or seven.
Manc.: So if you were a Premiership manager, would you have been ruled out yet?
Shane: Great question. Risk-taker - I can be. Amoral as regards the sex economy - tricky, but yes, I can be that. Out in public in branded sportwear?
Manc's Wife: That's the one, isn't it?
Shane: I wouldn't be out in branded sportswear - no way.
Manc.: That's the measure of a man, isn't it. Who'd be willing to be seen out in branded sportswear.
Shane: It's one measure, that's for sure.
I spend moments through the rest of the day wondering about how the story - such that it is one - will be played out elsewhere. In various football managers' households, in pubs and clubs, and in the 'wider press and public', I imagine many shrugging shoulders. Later, I notice in the Daily Mail coverage, a reference to the brothel as a 'Scene of Disgrace'. 'Disgrace' in what sense, I wonder.
Manc.: (bright-eyed, amused) So? Which Premiership manager d' y' reckon it is, then?
Shane: Is what?
Manc.: Y' haven't heard?
Shane: No.
Manc.: Some Premier League manager has been caught leaving a brothel - hasn't been named, though. When I heard, my heart sank. I just thought 'Pulis'.
A conversation ensues, in which I explain that I can't believe that it would have been the Manc's beloved Pulis, manager of Stoke City.
Manc's Wife: The article said he was wearing branded sportswear as he left the building - which was on an industrial estate.
Shane: Sounds a bit Midlands, could be anywhere, though.
An alternative festive game develops, in which we compare guesswork and thinking. Our collective intellectual might forms a pointless Poirot.
Shane: So from what you tell me, we can identify three characteristics of the punter... he's high profile, with a lot to lose - so he's a risk-taker. We can assume that he's able to be fairly amoral about paying for sex, or the sex economy. And we know that he's the sort of man who's willing to be out in public in branded sportswear.
We narrow the field to six or seven.
Manc.: So if you were a Premiership manager, would you have been ruled out yet?
Shane: Great question. Risk-taker - I can be. Amoral as regards the sex economy - tricky, but yes, I can be that. Out in public in branded sportwear?
Manc's Wife: That's the one, isn't it?
Shane: I wouldn't be out in branded sportswear - no way.
Manc.: That's the measure of a man, isn't it. Who'd be willing to be seen out in branded sportswear.
Shane: It's one measure, that's for sure.
I spend moments through the rest of the day wondering about how the story - such that it is one - will be played out elsewhere. In various football managers' households, in pubs and clubs, and in the 'wider press and public', I imagine many shrugging shoulders. Later, I notice in the Daily Mail coverage, a reference to the brothel as a 'Scene of Disgrace'. 'Disgrace' in what sense, I wonder.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Out
Hello and how do you do.
This was a far from typical past weekend, one that I feel has left a mark on me. Listfully, the weekend featured:-
A late though quiet Friday night – unwinding from a noisy week. [0 miles]
A 5:20am start on Saturday – Emma, Alex and I joined Emma’s Dad for a 2 hour walk through the Manifold Valley, as he carried out a ‘bird count’ – a voluntary undertaking for the British Trust for Ornithology. Driving to the Manifold Valley, I saw my first wild owl (a young tawny, sitting on a fence post). This made me happy. [54 miles return]
A Saturday afternoon school fete… with a difference. Canalside Primary serves a multi-racial and largely deprived part of town. Friends invited us along and so, anticipating much of the usual tombola, cake and ‘guess the name of the teddy’ pomp of such occasions, it was a breath of fresh post-industrial air to find something quite… Other. Worthy of note was the frankly bizarre ‘children’s martial arts’ (very young children invited to ‘pad up’ – gloves, body armour and head-guards – in order to batter seven bells out of each other), the food stall (especially the lentil curry) and ‘the stocks’ (children lobbing soaking wet sponges at their teachers and teachers’ assistants… a fun exercise which neatly took on the hue of a wet t-shirt contest as the afternoon wore on). [10 miles return]
A Saturday evening trip up to Lancashire for a birthday party at the Ley Inn, near Chorley. I was in a tiny minority for not being a part of any of the work-related, tennis-related or LGBT networks of the birthday boy, my old friend Franglaise. However, this ensured freeness, flightiness and mutual peculiar interest with fellow guests. It was good. [128 miles return… by 3am Sunday]
A Sunday morning trip to the Strawberry Moon festival (the likely cause of Glastonbury not selling out this year). There was music and art and making…
And temporary tattoos…
And sunshine and big downpours and Tittesworth Reservoir at its most buzzy and busy. Highlight: Alex storming up a rather large climbing wall. I sensed the Duke of Edinburgh Awards Leaders (climbing instructors) were genuinely impressed at the little man’s confidence and ‘can do’ attitude, ‘Make it harder next time’, he was heard advising one instructor. (Note to self: humility?!)
All followed by…
Sunday evening watching the European Championships football final, in which Spanish agility, creativity and hair gel triumphed over Germany.
Now, there’s no reason why any reader should be interested in any of the above, however, within this morass there is the seed of something rather large. One conversation this past weekend will stay with me for a very long time, and it is that that I shall make the subject of my next podcast.
This was a far from typical past weekend, one that I feel has left a mark on me. Listfully, the weekend featured:-
A late though quiet Friday night – unwinding from a noisy week. [0 miles]
A 5:20am start on Saturday – Emma, Alex and I joined Emma’s Dad for a 2 hour walk through the Manifold Valley, as he carried out a ‘bird count’ – a voluntary undertaking for the British Trust for Ornithology. Driving to the Manifold Valley, I saw my first wild owl (a young tawny, sitting on a fence post). This made me happy. [54 miles return]
A Saturday afternoon school fete… with a difference. Canalside Primary serves a multi-racial and largely deprived part of town. Friends invited us along and so, anticipating much of the usual tombola, cake and ‘guess the name of the teddy’ pomp of such occasions, it was a breath of fresh post-industrial air to find something quite… Other. Worthy of note was the frankly bizarre ‘children’s martial arts’ (very young children invited to ‘pad up’ – gloves, body armour and head-guards – in order to batter seven bells out of each other), the food stall (especially the lentil curry) and ‘the stocks’ (children lobbing soaking wet sponges at their teachers and teachers’ assistants… a fun exercise which neatly took on the hue of a wet t-shirt contest as the afternoon wore on). [10 miles return]
A Saturday evening trip up to Lancashire for a birthday party at the Ley Inn, near Chorley. I was in a tiny minority for not being a part of any of the work-related, tennis-related or LGBT networks of the birthday boy, my old friend Franglaise. However, this ensured freeness, flightiness and mutual peculiar interest with fellow guests. It was good. [128 miles return… by 3am Sunday]
A Sunday morning trip to the Strawberry Moon festival (the likely cause of Glastonbury not selling out this year). There was music and art and making…
And temporary tattoos…
And sunshine and big downpours and Tittesworth Reservoir at its most buzzy and busy. Highlight: Alex storming up a rather large climbing wall. I sensed the Duke of Edinburgh Awards Leaders (climbing instructors) were genuinely impressed at the little man’s confidence and ‘can do’ attitude, ‘Make it harder next time’, he was heard advising one instructor. (Note to self: humility?!)
All followed by….
A late Sunday afternoon transition to Rudyard Lake, near Leek. An open day at the scout hut allowed free access to sailing boats, canoes and the like. By now, I was feeling a little worn. But the sun shone and our fellow waterfolk were all good eggs – including a really nice reprographics man who I’d crossed paths with (briefly) some months ago - he remembered me and my BadLads. [44 miles return]
Sunday evening watching the European Championships football final, in which Spanish agility, creativity and hair gel triumphed over Germany.
Now, there’s no reason why any reader should be interested in any of the above, however, within this morass there is the seed of something rather large. One conversation this past weekend will stay with me for a very long time, and it is that that I shall make the subject of my next podcast.
.
And with that, I really must work.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Occupied
The One-Minute Wednesday (podcast?) will return - possibly on a Thursday, or a Monday - they'll be better, shorter, and will feature guests. Right now, I'm not making time to edit audio. In fact, I'm in a personal blogging lull. On the work front, one project is being turned into a blog.
We is busy, like.
For now, in the style of the great Trainspotting publicity materials, life is:
Get up. Don't shave. Sort boy. Nod at strangers. Email people. Call people. Visit people. Frown. Listen. Talk smart. Repeat thrice. Pick up messages. Re-arrange diary. Write stuff. Dodge bullets. Think big thoughts. Dodge clowns. Miss football. Consolation swim. Read to child. Stroke cat. Stasis. Go to bed. Repeat.
Normal flightiness will resume soon. Just felt like a general blah, or moan, was in order.
We is busy, like.
For now, in the style of the great Trainspotting publicity materials, life is:
Get up. Don't shave. Sort boy. Nod at strangers. Email people. Call people. Visit people. Frown. Listen. Talk smart. Repeat thrice. Pick up messages. Re-arrange diary. Write stuff. Dodge bullets. Think big thoughts. Dodge clowns. Miss football. Consolation swim. Read to child. Stroke cat. Stasis. Go to bed. Repeat.
Normal flightiness will resume soon. Just felt like a general blah, or moan, was in order.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Interruption (Overheard #1)
Emma: So what are you working on today?
Shane: Reading policy documents and getting my head into data.
Emma: So you’re at home all day?
Shane: No. I’m gonna do some of that at the museum’s café - I need to have a look at that place. We might be taking some of the young rowdies up there.
Emma: Mm. Good luck with that.
A quick jaunt around the museum presents me with more ceramic work than even the most ardent enthusiast could process in one visit, a load of industrial landscape photography, a load of other ‘bric-a-brac’ and finally, the café.
Shane: Reading policy documents and getting my head into data.
Emma: So you’re at home all day?
Shane: No. I’m gonna do some of that at the museum’s café - I need to have a look at that place. We might be taking some of the young rowdies up there.
Emma: Mm. Good luck with that.
A quick jaunt around the museum presents me with more ceramic work than even the most ardent enthusiast could process in one visit, a load of industrial landscape photography, a load of other ‘bric-a-brac’ and finally, the café.
Earl grey (£1.05) and a small plate of biscuits (28p) before me, I settle onto a comfortable sofa, in the quietest corner – out of sight, out of mind, papers out, snug behind. I get down to reading. Fifteen minutes pass before the jolting hollering:
Waitress (gritty, mid-50s): (calls out) Where’s me rubber?
Maintenance worker (male, 40s, confused): Y’ wha’?
Shane (male, 30s, an innocent): (thinks) Oh deary deary me, no – I am here, you are not alone!
Waitress: Me rubber! For me fridge!
Maintenance worker: Oh, right. I’ll get y’ it.
Shane: (thinks) For her fridge, of course. What a filthy mind I have.
An inconsequential hollering, I return to my reading.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
But
I’ve been working with a photographer-friend, Lily, on a project with ‘the bad lads’ – lads excluded from school, flirters with the criminal justice system, but far from lost causes. As an aid to improving their social skills, this project has seen us introducing the lads to people and places that they would be otherwise unfamiliar with, as the lads document – in words and images – experiences of change. Every now and again a lad will say something like ‘He’s changed his life, hasn’t he’, ‘Who’d have thought you’d get a place like that ‘round here’, ‘Can we go and see them again’, and so on. These comments please me. The other day, we were at a martial arts centre, whereupon we met Hughie – big, black, a very youthful mid-40s, and speaking the language of change - ‘Brought up in care, started training at a place like this, did well with it, got into training others – it saved me from prison really - that’s my story’. To the lads, Hughie was credible – they looked and they listened. Then Hughie got out his equipment:
Hughie: Shane, come here – hold this (proffers big rectangular pad).
Shane: Why?
Hughie: I need to demonstrate a good kick.
Shane: Why?
Hughie: Just to show the lads.
Shane: Hughie, what you need to recognise is that, well, you’re a proper man. See, I come into a place like this – and see you – and it reminds me that I’ve got string for arms.
Hughie: Y’ wha’?
Shane: (moving forward) See, look at you, (pointing) you’ve got proper man arms – whereas I have string for arms – (pointing) see!
Lads: (laughing)
Lily: (looking nervous for me)
Hughie: Come on, it’ll be fine – hold the pad close to your body – it won’t hurt.
Shane: You’re not gonna force me to take body-building drugs too, are you?
Lads: (laughing)
Hughie: No, we’re not into that sort of thing, ‘round here – that’s for the cowboys.
Shane: (takes pad, holds pad, adopts firm stance) Hughie. Let’s do this!
Hughie: (steps away, strangely twists back towards me – very graceful, foot comes out of nowhere – kicks pad)
Shane: (imperceptible squeal, rocks back, stands, frozen)
Lads: (collective intake of breath)
Lily: (jaw has dropped)
Hughie: Y’ alright?
Shane: (croaks) Fine.
Lads: Good one, Shane.
Shane: Yeah, good one. D’ y’ want a go?
Lad #1: No way – I’m not an idiot.
Lad #2: No thanks, Shane – you showed us how it’s done.
Shane: So I get to suffer for your art? How does that work?
Lad #1: Y’ wha’?
Shane: Never mind.
Later, Hughie quietly acknowledged that he’d kicked harder than he’d meant to. Obviously this gave me no end of pleasure in realising that it wasn’t just that I was being a weed.
Peace and safety be with you.
Hughie: Shane, come here – hold this (proffers big rectangular pad).
Shane: Why?
Hughie: I need to demonstrate a good kick.
Shane: Why?
Hughie: Just to show the lads.
Shane: Hughie, what you need to recognise is that, well, you’re a proper man. See, I come into a place like this – and see you – and it reminds me that I’ve got string for arms.
Hughie: Y’ wha’?
Shane: (moving forward) See, look at you, (pointing) you’ve got proper man arms – whereas I have string for arms – (pointing) see!
Lads: (laughing)
Lily: (looking nervous for me)
Hughie: Come on, it’ll be fine – hold the pad close to your body – it won’t hurt.
Shane: You’re not gonna force me to take body-building drugs too, are you?
Lads: (laughing)
Hughie: No, we’re not into that sort of thing, ‘round here – that’s for the cowboys.
Shane: (takes pad, holds pad, adopts firm stance) Hughie. Let’s do this!
Hughie: (steps away, strangely twists back towards me – very graceful, foot comes out of nowhere – kicks pad)
Shane: (imperceptible squeal, rocks back, stands, frozen)
Lads: (collective intake of breath)
Lily: (jaw has dropped)
Hughie: Y’ alright?
Shane: (croaks) Fine.
Lads: Good one, Shane.
Shane: Yeah, good one. D’ y’ want a go?
Lad #1: No way – I’m not an idiot.
Lad #2: No thanks, Shane – you showed us how it’s done.
Shane: So I get to suffer for your art? How does that work?
Lad #1: Y’ wha’?
Shane: Never mind.
Later, Hughie quietly acknowledged that he’d kicked harder than he’d meant to. Obviously this gave me no end of pleasure in realising that it wasn’t just that I was being a weed.
Peace and safety be with you.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Neighbours
I met Roy and Barbara, our neighbours-to-be.
Roy: …so your pitching in would be marvellous – a real treat. Can’t say we’ll pay you, but you can call it god’s work - helping us next door will be like helping him upstairs!
Shane: Just as long as you don’t ask me to shift any valuables, I’ll be happy to help.
Roy: Valuables? Ha! Listen to ‘im - he clearly doesn’t know us, eh Barb’.
Barb.: (sneezes) Whew! Excuse me. We’ve got a lot of clutter – books mostly, decrepit shelving and units – in fact, decrepit a lot of things. The only valuables, really, are the laptops and one or two family bits and pieces. And anyway, from what I’ve seen, one or two bumps during removals is about the norm.
Shane: You’ve moved a lot?
Barb.: I’ve moved… this’ll be my… fifth move in ten years. And it’s much the same for you isn’t it?
Roy: Yeah – different moves, but yeah, five or six.
Shane: You’ve been together for…?
Barb.: It’ll be our fifth anniversary on March 1st – of living together - we’re not married.
Shane: (slight frown)
Roy: We get frowned on quite a lot - due to the collar – people seem to think that because I work for God, we should be married –
Barb.: - and that I should be staying at home, baking scones and arranging flowers all day – which I’m sure would be all well and good, but it would hardly pay the bills.
Roy: It is a bit different though. As soon as people hear that I work at a prison, they take it to be ecumenical make-believe – but it’s certainly not that. Still, we all have our prejudices.
Barb.: We do?
Roy: Yes, we do – often petty and of no harm, but prejudices all the same.
Barb.: That’s a bit sweeping.
Roy: And it’s true.
Barb.: Says who?
Roy: Would you like me to get you started on Manchester United - here in front our new neighbour?
Barb.: (laughing) No, better not. (sneezes) Excuse me.
Shane: You like football?
Barb.: I love football!
Shane: Team?
Barb.: The Quakers.
Shane: Darlington?!
Barb.: You know them?
Shane: In passing. What is someone with your accent doing supporting Darlington?
Barb.: Now there’s a story!
Roy: A long story! Shane, would you mind if we don’t go there right now? It’s been lovely meeting you – and I’m sure it’ll be good to meet Emma and Alex, but we’ve got to get back for a telephone meeting – a small project that we’re working on.
Shane: No problem – we can talk again.
Barb.: Yes, better be off. Lovely to meet you.
Shane: And you.
Barb.: And maybe we’ll see the cat next time.
Shane: How –
Barb.: Allergy.
Shane: Ah. Yes, he’s probably upstairs on one of the beds.
Barb.: It’s a hard-knock life.
Roy: We’ll give you a knock, then – a week next Saturday – though you’ll probably hear the rumble of the lorry.
Shane: Ok. I’ll see you anon.
And that was that - nice people, interesting people, happy people – good sorts – pleasing additions to the neighbourhood. I hope.
Roy: …so your pitching in would be marvellous – a real treat. Can’t say we’ll pay you, but you can call it god’s work - helping us next door will be like helping him upstairs!
Shane: Just as long as you don’t ask me to shift any valuables, I’ll be happy to help.
Roy: Valuables? Ha! Listen to ‘im - he clearly doesn’t know us, eh Barb’.
Barb.: (sneezes) Whew! Excuse me. We’ve got a lot of clutter – books mostly, decrepit shelving and units – in fact, decrepit a lot of things. The only valuables, really, are the laptops and one or two family bits and pieces. And anyway, from what I’ve seen, one or two bumps during removals is about the norm.
Shane: You’ve moved a lot?
Barb.: I’ve moved… this’ll be my… fifth move in ten years. And it’s much the same for you isn’t it?
Roy: Yeah – different moves, but yeah, five or six.
Shane: You’ve been together for…?
Barb.: It’ll be our fifth anniversary on March 1st – of living together - we’re not married.
Shane: (slight frown)
Roy: We get frowned on quite a lot - due to the collar – people seem to think that because I work for God, we should be married –
Barb.: - and that I should be staying at home, baking scones and arranging flowers all day – which I’m sure would be all well and good, but it would hardly pay the bills.
Roy: It is a bit different though. As soon as people hear that I work at a prison, they take it to be ecumenical make-believe – but it’s certainly not that. Still, we all have our prejudices.
Barb.: We do?
Roy: Yes, we do – often petty and of no harm, but prejudices all the same.
Barb.: That’s a bit sweeping.
Roy: And it’s true.
Barb.: Says who?
Roy: Would you like me to get you started on Manchester United - here in front our new neighbour?
Barb.: (laughing) No, better not. (sneezes) Excuse me.
Shane: You like football?
Barb.: I love football!
Shane: Team?
Barb.: The Quakers.
Shane: Darlington?!
Barb.: You know them?
Shane: In passing. What is someone with your accent doing supporting Darlington?
Barb.: Now there’s a story!
Roy: A long story! Shane, would you mind if we don’t go there right now? It’s been lovely meeting you – and I’m sure it’ll be good to meet Emma and Alex, but we’ve got to get back for a telephone meeting – a small project that we’re working on.
Shane: No problem – we can talk again.
Barb.: Yes, better be off. Lovely to meet you.
Shane: And you.
Barb.: And maybe we’ll see the cat next time.
Shane: How –
Barb.: Allergy.
Shane: Ah. Yes, he’s probably upstairs on one of the beds.
Barb.: It’s a hard-knock life.
Roy: We’ll give you a knock, then – a week next Saturday – though you’ll probably hear the rumble of the lorry.
Shane: Ok. I’ll see you anon.
And that was that - nice people, interesting people, happy people – good sorts – pleasing additions to the neighbourhood. I hope.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Work
I answered the door, and in bounded Jo. After gushing in the general direction of Emma, I settled our visitor with a glass of wine, a poppadom and a comfortable chair. Jo anticipated moving house in ‘roughly three weeks’ – a staggeringly quick shift, I thought, whilst observing a minutely raised eyebrow from Emma. And so, with new neighbours on the horizon, I was keen to learn more.
Shane: So, our neighbours-to-be – should we brace ourselves for noisy parties - drink, drugs, debauchery – that sort of thing.
Jo: Oh, I don’t think so – they seemed quite settled, really.
Shane: Ah well, we’ll have to look elsewhere for that sort of thing.
Jo: (stunned look)
Shane: Joke.
Jo: Oh! I was gonna say!
Emma: Just ignore him.
Jo: Oh no, you’re fine – Keith’s brother’s got a very dry sense of humour – I often can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not.
Emma: I know what y’ mean.
Jo: Men, eh!
Emma: Mm.
A comfortable pause.
Shane: And so what about your buyers – you mentioned that he seemed like quite a character?
Jo: Oh yes – they seemed ever so lovely. He’s some kind of vicar – in a prison!
Shane: Really?
Jo: Ye-es, but not a proper prison – one for younger men - teenagers, he said.
Shane: Interesting.
Jo: Yeah, I thought so – but I couldn’t imagine him as a vicar, never mind in a prison!
Shane: So he's a chaplain?
Jo: That was it - chaplain! I kept thinkin’ of Charlie Chaplin after he mentioned it.
Shane: Don’t suppose you know where exactly he’s working, do you?
Jo: That’s why they’re moving – it’s that one over… that one just off the Barton Road.
Emma: One of your’s.
Shane: Mm.
Jo: You know it?
Shane: I did some work there last year.
Jo: Well there you go! You might know him then.
Shane: I don’t think so, but I imagine we’ll know some of the same people.
Jo: That’s good. But I should warn you – his wife says he’s very accident-prone – so you’ll have to be careful with him.
Shane: I’m sure we will be. And what is it that his wife does?
Jo: Well, she said – I nearly laughed when she said – you must never tell her that - but she said, that she was a writer! I mean, can you imagine a ‘writer’ living anywhere around here?
Emma: (smiling) Y’ never know.
Jo: (wistful) Y’ never know. (pause) So what were you doing at the prison, Shane?
Shane: Just helping out with a group of their lads – listening, mentoring, writing.
Jo: Writing?
Shane: Mm.
Jo: (puzzled) Good… good. Y’ should get on then.
Shane: I’m sure we will.
I shall be listening out for the removals lorry.
Shane: So, our neighbours-to-be – should we brace ourselves for noisy parties - drink, drugs, debauchery – that sort of thing.
Jo: Oh, I don’t think so – they seemed quite settled, really.
Shane: Ah well, we’ll have to look elsewhere for that sort of thing.
Jo: (stunned look)
Shane: Joke.
Jo: Oh! I was gonna say!
Emma: Just ignore him.
Jo: Oh no, you’re fine – Keith’s brother’s got a very dry sense of humour – I often can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not.
Emma: I know what y’ mean.
Jo: Men, eh!
Emma: Mm.
A comfortable pause.
Shane: And so what about your buyers – you mentioned that he seemed like quite a character?
Jo: Oh yes – they seemed ever so lovely. He’s some kind of vicar – in a prison!
Shane: Really?
Jo: Ye-es, but not a proper prison – one for younger men - teenagers, he said.
Shane: Interesting.
Jo: Yeah, I thought so – but I couldn’t imagine him as a vicar, never mind in a prison!
Shane: So he's a chaplain?
Jo: That was it - chaplain! I kept thinkin’ of Charlie Chaplin after he mentioned it.
Shane: Don’t suppose you know where exactly he’s working, do you?
Jo: That’s why they’re moving – it’s that one over… that one just off the Barton Road.
Emma: One of your’s.
Shane: Mm.
Jo: You know it?
Shane: I did some work there last year.
Jo: Well there you go! You might know him then.
Shane: I don’t think so, but I imagine we’ll know some of the same people.
Jo: That’s good. But I should warn you – his wife says he’s very accident-prone – so you’ll have to be careful with him.
Shane: I’m sure we will be. And what is it that his wife does?
Jo: Well, she said – I nearly laughed when she said – you must never tell her that - but she said, that she was a writer! I mean, can you imagine a ‘writer’ living anywhere around here?
Emma: (smiling) Y’ never know.
Jo: (wistful) Y’ never know. (pause) So what were you doing at the prison, Shane?
Shane: Just helping out with a group of their lads – listening, mentoring, writing.
Jo: Writing?
Shane: Mm.
Jo: (puzzled) Good… good. Y’ should get on then.
Shane: I’m sure we will.
I shall be listening out for the removals lorry.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Basics
They all wore grey jogging trousers and plain grey sweaters.
Working with the Bad Lads, my task was to encourage writing from which we could begin to explore pasts, presents and futures. And, what with a snort of professional artists aiding and abetting us, surely, we could not fail:
Shane: So, BadLad, how are you?
BadLad: Good, good, yeah.
Shane: Good. And you’re having a go at the lyric-writing?
BadLad.: Yeah, yeah.
Shane: Good. I see you’ve got some notes there –
BadLad.: Mm.
Shane: Does that mean that you’re ok to be getting on?
BadLad: Yeah, I know wha’ I’m doin’.
Shane: What are you writing about?
BadLad: Family an’ dat.
Shane: Ah, right! (thinking: ‘Family! Brilliant! Nice bit of reflection on core values and home and so on – marvellous!’) I’ll leave you with that then.
Twenty minutes later, BadLad is sitting back with a ‘job done’ look on his face and a lot of handwritten notes in front of him. He agrees to my reading his lyrics, so I do. There are many abbreviations, there is writing in text-message-speak, there is street-slang terminology. I need help to understand this:
Shane: Ok, good. So er-, what does ‘endz’ mean?
BadLad: (baffled by such ignorance) It’s like endz innit - like your digs an’ your bro’s an’ dat.
Shane: Like… where you’re from?
BadLad: Yeah, yeah, exactly.
Shane: Right, ok. And, er, ‘NSM’ – what’s that?
BadLad: North Side Mafia.
Shane: (thinking: ‘North Side Mafia? Eh? What’s that got to do with… ‘family’?... Oh godly god no’) So, NSM are- your family?
BadLad: Yeah.
Shane: (thinking: ‘Of course they are, my dear – which probably means that I just encouraged you to get on with writing about shootings and robbing and all kinds of misdemeanour – how very on-the-ball of me’)
I ask BadLad more questions and he becomes amused at my open ignorance of all matters ‘Real shit – how it is out dare’. I ask about what he gets from his family, the North Side Mafia.
BadLad: It’s jus’ like security innit – we look after each other an’… we jus’ dare, y’ know’ – keep’ an eye on da bro’s and dat. We' tight.
At this point, he looks at me with a bemused expression, as if to say ‘Well what do you think ‘family’ is for - fool’. His expression has a fair point.
Working with the Bad Lads, my task was to encourage writing from which we could begin to explore pasts, presents and futures. And, what with a snort of professional artists aiding and abetting us, surely, we could not fail:
Shane: So, BadLad, how are you?
BadLad: Good, good, yeah.
Shane: Good. And you’re having a go at the lyric-writing?
BadLad.: Yeah, yeah.
Shane: Good. I see you’ve got some notes there –
BadLad.: Mm.
Shane: Does that mean that you’re ok to be getting on?
BadLad: Yeah, I know wha’ I’m doin’.
Shane: What are you writing about?
BadLad: Family an’ dat.
Shane: Ah, right! (thinking: ‘Family! Brilliant! Nice bit of reflection on core values and home and so on – marvellous!’) I’ll leave you with that then.
Twenty minutes later, BadLad is sitting back with a ‘job done’ look on his face and a lot of handwritten notes in front of him. He agrees to my reading his lyrics, so I do. There are many abbreviations, there is writing in text-message-speak, there is street-slang terminology. I need help to understand this:
Shane: Ok, good. So er-, what does ‘endz’ mean?
BadLad: (baffled by such ignorance) It’s like endz innit - like your digs an’ your bro’s an’ dat.
Shane: Like… where you’re from?
BadLad: Yeah, yeah, exactly.
Shane: Right, ok. And, er, ‘NSM’ – what’s that?
BadLad: North Side Mafia.
Shane: (thinking: ‘North Side Mafia? Eh? What’s that got to do with… ‘family’?... Oh godly god no’) So, NSM are- your family?
BadLad: Yeah.
Shane: (thinking: ‘Of course they are, my dear – which probably means that I just encouraged you to get on with writing about shootings and robbing and all kinds of misdemeanour – how very on-the-ball of me’)
I ask BadLad more questions and he becomes amused at my open ignorance of all matters ‘Real shit – how it is out dare’. I ask about what he gets from his family, the North Side Mafia.
BadLad: It’s jus’ like security innit – we look after each other an’… we jus’ dare, y’ know’ – keep’ an eye on da bro’s and dat. We' tight.
At this point, he looks at me with a bemused expression, as if to say ‘Well what do you think ‘family’ is for - fool’. His expression has a fair point.
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