Solitaire - Alone

My mother loved her diamond solitaire ring and wore it all the time. It was a gift from my father, bought in Hatton Gardens on one of their trips to London. She was delighted with it and I watched it twinkling like a rainbow on her finger. It would have been dwarfed by Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond, but it was large enough to be the status symbol it was intended to be. Sadly, within the year, Mum became ill again and succumbed to the cancer she had battled off and on for three years. The ring was eventually passed on to my sister. It sparkles on her hand and looks lovely. I chose pieces of my mother’s jewellery for what they mean to me, yet I rarely wear them. There will always be the pain of loss and how life changed.

Singer Andy Williams cover of Neil Sedaka’s song, ‘Solitaire’. I can’t remember exactly when I first heard it, but for some reason I associate it with moving into the small bedroom – I think I’d swapped rooms with my sister – and sorting my belongings into the fitted furniture.  I listened to music all the time, records or radio and I really liked this song. For a week it was Radio Luxembourg’s powerplay, every hour, every show. To hear it now throws me right back to that moment in time and being seventeen.

‘Solitaire’ is a card game to play solo. I learnt it as ‘Patience’ but it’s the same thing. Cards are set out in a row of seven, first one face up, others face down. The next row, miss the first card, place a card face up on the second card then place cards face down along the rest of the row. Repeat until the last pile has six cards facing down and one facing up. Remaining cards will come into play as needed. The object of the game is to place cards in sequence, King at the top, Ace at the bottom, and alternating red and black. If a face-up card is moved on to another, the face down card can be turned over. Only a King can move into a space at the top. The remaining pile of cards can be turned one by one as needed. Completion would be four columns going from King to Ace in alternate colours. I’ve never introduced myself to a points system, I’ve just taken it as far as I can then either started again or made it work out –no, it’s not cheating when you’re playing by yourself.

I found this poem by John Updike,

Black queen on the red king,
the seven on the black
eight, eight goes on the nine, bring
the nine on over, place
jack on the queen. There is space
now for that black king who,
six or so cards back,
was buried in the pack.
Five on six, where's seven?
Under the ten. The ace
must be under the two.
Four, nine on ten, three, through.
It's after eleven.

 John Updike 1932 - 2009

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Object

You want a mind-blowingly open-to-interpretation prompt for the latest batch of Dead Good blog posts? Try this...

Object

(BOOM!)

 

If you can overlook the disconnect that comes with considering “object” as the subject, it’s still tough to think of a word better equipped to transport the imagination. You only need to look at other recent posts to see examples of how “object” might impact writers.

 

As you may have figured, something that fascinates me about “object” is that--just like  “overlook”, “disconnect”, “subject”, “transport”, “impact” and (gosh, they’re everywhere) “figure”--it’s seemingly just a mild-mannered noun, but also a word that can step up, take names and kick ass as a verb.

 

Like many such double-identity words, it has its accent on the first syllable when it’s wearing its geeky noun specs and accented on the last syllable when it changes into the cape and spandex of its verb identity.

 

Even if you remain unconvinced that a word can fly, consider “object's" many, seemingly disparate, meanings--several of which suggest some kind of challenge or conflict: It’s a goal! It’s the recipient of an action! No—it’s an unspecified visible thing! Or if you object to something, your response may involve going all out in your protest against it or perhaps weakly expressing your mild distaste for it.

 

The dictionary will tell you that the Latin roots of “object” (whether as a noun or verb) refer to something thrown in one's path--an obstacle to be acknowledged and, if possible, overcome. An unexpected illness that changes the plans of a day or a lifetime. A rival in love or in the workplace. Or perhaps just the lure of that gooey chocolate brownie when you’re trying to drop a pound or six. Such conflict is the stuff of drama and, of course, the stuff of life itself. All too often, the first difficulty lies in recognising the true nature of the objects that crowd in on our lives and those of people around us; thereafter, the challenge, how best to respond to them?

 

Thanks for reading, Alison Raouf

Read More

Objet

My paternal uncle Norman used to be a French teacher (hence the Gallic slant to this week's theme) and is a confirmed Francophile.

I've mentioned him before in these pages. He's the one suffering from rapidly advancing Alzheimer's dementia. He's 86 years old, a fact of which he was very proud until he could no longer remember his age. He never married and never had children (though the latter is not always necessarily a consequence of the former). He used to say his pupils were his children.

He wasn't a schoolmaster for all of his working life, however. He quit the profession in 1970, indignant at being expected to teach the subject he loved to 'mixed ability' classes. Instead, he opened an art gallery in the Midlands and spent the next twenty-one years exhibiting and selling beautiful objets d'art: paintings, lithographs, ceramics, sculpture, jewellery by modern British artists.

He has been retired for over two decades now and was living on his own in Leamington Spa. My brothers and I, as his next of kin (and with lasting power of attorney), have spent the last couple of years taking measures to extend his fiercely cherished independence for as long as possible, supplementing our contact with him by daily visits from a raft of ageUK helpers, daily hot meal deliveries and frequent (several times  a day and very repetitious) phone-calls.

Came the time, though, when even these measures weren't enough to keep him safe and reasonably well in his own home. He would forget to eat properly (vital for a diabetic), would forget to take his extensive array of medication, would go into town and forget how to get home. He was becoming frightened by his inability to manage and we agreed it was best to relocate him from leafy Leamington to be near one of his nephews. He is now happily settled in a residential care home close to me, where he is well looked after and can enjoy the beautiful grounds. He has almost forgotten where he used to live a mere four months ago, such are the ravages of the disease.

We are in the process of putting his home on the market and have been sorting through the accumulation of years, trying to decide what to bring up to Blackpool because it will be of use and support to him in his twilight and what to divest. By the way, Norman is convinced his twilight is going to be a short one, but I think he's physically fit and could be good for a few years yet, especially with our invigorating sea air.

His apartment is full of objects, paintings, old records (I came upon his copy of a record he'd bought us as kids for Christmas in 1960 - 'Je ne crois plus au Pere Noel' by Nina and Frederik! Thanks for the wising-up there, Norman), piles of receipts and manuals for devices he no longer has, boxes of photographs dating back to the 1920s, box files of share certificates for companies that he no longer has shares in and the companies don't even exist anymore, letters and Christmas cards brittle and yellow with age and...a packet of old passports, the earliest of which was issued by the Foreign Office in May 1948.

I showed the passports to him today in an attempt to unlock recollections from a past of which he can recall so very little now. He contracted his brow in a brave attempt to squeeze some compliance out of his renegade brain-cells, but the dates and the locations on the quaint old stamps and visas signify nothing to him anymore. His past truly is another country and his old passports proved no means of re-entry.

Old Passports
In a tatty Manila envelope
marked Old Passports,
a set of five of same,
substantial blue-card-covered beauties
each with the top-right corner clipped
precisely,
denoting cancellation.

The earliest,
issue of those immediate post-war years,
promised passage
throughout the British Empire
and all the countries of Europe,
plus Algeria.

You went to France.

The entry and exit stamps and a visa
tell the tale...
five short visits between '48 and '54
plus a long stay (douze mois)
as an assistant at a school in Bourges.
Today, you remember nothing,
certainly not the homesickness
and early return
that became part of family folklore,
though never spoken of in your presence
of course.

The second to be issued
recognised a change
from Empire to Commonwealth
and added superpowers
USA and USSR to the scope.

You went to France.

You visited in '57 and '59 and '62
as a leader of school trips.
(Now that would have been a time
to take in Algeria newly freed,
but Nice is the closest you came.)
Today, you remember nothing
of those forays,
opening your pupils to the wonders
of a different world,
but you can still speak impeccable French.

The third was valid
for all parts of the Commonwealth
and for all Foreign Countries.

You went to France (and Switzerland).

Variously in '64 and '66 and '67,
you led school trips from Hertfordshire,
often for the skiing as I recall.
Today, you remember nothing
of those jaunts at all,
though ex-pupils still write
and tell you what a joy they were.
life-changing for some.

The fourth and fifth
have fewer stamps
as borders eased.
You may have gone to France,
they just don't tell;
and all those visits
to your holiday villa in Spain
are as blank in your passports
as they are in your brain.
Today, you remember nothing at all
of your Almerian escapades.
Perhaps that's just as well.

Today, your ability to pass freely
without let or hindrance
through the empire of your memories
is revoked;
you with your top-right corner clipped
decisively,
denoting cancellation,
you remember
precisely
nothing.


Thanks for reading. Have a good week, Steve ;-)

Read More

I object!

I would like to start this blog with an apology. To say sorry for the distinct lack of posts from myself on this blog of late. I have writers block, pure and simple. What is annoying me more than anything is the fact that when it comes round to a theme that I have chosen (such as this week for example), my brain still can't get itself into gear. It is seemingly on strike, saying "I object!". And that, dear readers, is about as close as I can get to making a connection with this weeks' theme. I deliberately choose theme's which are open to translation by the people who write on this blog. So they may pick one of the many ways it can be translated and run with it. It also means that there is more variety on each theme, instead of us all writing about the same thing. But even this hasn't helped me this time. To be honest, it's really getting me down.

So, I am going to share a poem I wrote (an oldie) that will give me hope that I will come through this writers block in the end. Ever the optimist, eh?


POETICAL STORM

I can sit and the words come effortlessly,
Floating by on the breeze in my mind,
Plucked down and written upon the page,
Flowing smoothly, sometimes too easily I find.

A moment later as I sit engrossed,
Enjoying this freshness of air,
The Ethereal atmosphere changes,
And threatens to drive me into despair.

Storm clouds have gathered unnoticed,
The breeze picks up speed to a Gale,
Words rushing by too rapidly,
Unable to pluck, I seem doomed to fail.

Whooshing and whirling confusedly,
My pen unable to keep up the pace,
I scribble what I can greedily,
Trying to scribe what I can in all haste.

Ever faster and faster the wind goes round,
Becoming a Maelstrom within my mind,
The words now completely no distinct,
Just a blur which makes me almost blind.

Then …… Nothing …… A stillness envelops me,
A vacuum where nothing can stir,
Not a wisp or a breath, all is blank,
No word or picture can incur.

My pen lies helplessly upon the notepad,
Arms limply down at my side,
The fingers twitching, waiting to start once again,
But from my mind all the words hide.

How long do I spend in this wretched place?
I don’t know, it’s too hard to tell,
Minutes, hours or days go by,
With nothing to break the barren spell!

But wait! What was that? No, but  …… yes it is!
A whisper floating gently by,
Patiently waiting for the right time,
To express its sweetest of sighs.

Softly, softly, the words now return,
Emerging and drifting along,
Finally, I resume my task gladly,
Plucking words to finish my song!

I am currently at verse 8, desperately waiting for verse 9 to kick in ..... but hey-ho! Patience, patience ... *Sighs*

Any-hoo! Thank you for bearing with me. I WILL get back to writing properly again. ;-) x

Read More

To object or not to object? Fear is the factor.

The year is 1982. She is a confident and outgoing 26 year old, working in the city and living in the suburbs.  Her job is well- paid, she buys good quality, stylish clothes and stays in town a little later one evening a week to relax at a reputable dance studio.  Her manager is happy to leave her in sole charge for two weeks while she takes a vacation.

One perfectly ordinary day the telephone rings in the office and a male voice asks, “Are you the girl in the blue dress, sitting in the … office?” Alarm bells ring.  “Who is this please?” she asks the voice.

“I work in an office across the street,” he replies, “I can see you from up here. Are you aware that someone is following you?” The voice, (with no name) goes on to describe a man, wearing a black leather jacket, who he claims to have observed is following and watching her.

 

The girl is confused. The description could be anyone. The voice could be the stalker. The whole incident is un-nerving to say the least. As she locks up and leaves the office, she is frightened. She walks to her dance class, passing two newsagent stands for The Evening Standard with billboards that bear the same menacing headline, “Railway sidings attacker strikes again.” Two hours later, she walks into the station and boards a train home.  She reads a book but is aware of a presence, she feels eyes on her. Commuters don’t really look at each other. They live in their own little bubbles, don’t make conversation. This is a man, thirty to forty, black curly hair, navy pinstripe suit, navy and white polka dot tie, black shoes, blue eyes, beige mackintosh.  She takes in every possible detail. Everything she will need to remember.  After he rapes her!

 

She looks around the other passengers. They are leaving the train a few at a time. The compartment is not interconnected with the others: It only has doors at each side. She knows that when the last person gets off, she will be trapped alone with her assailant, so she makes a recalculation. She gets off at the next station. She knows that her usual stop has an automatic barrier and that she will be vulnerable. This station is manned.  She bolts. She runs as fast as she can, over the footbridge to the other platform and up the stone steps to the exit.  In her panic, she pushes herself inside the guard’s open door. “You have to help me,” she gasps, “a man is following me!”

 

The guard, surprised by her action, pushes her backwards and says, “There will be a taxi at the top of the stairs.” He has no intention of helping her. She walks tentatively to the top only to find that the taxi rank is empty. She looks around.  To her right, on the opposite side of the street is a row of shops, all shut apart from a Chinese take-away. To her left, on the street-lit opposite side, there is a Waitrose, (also closed), a telephone box and pub. She makes a judgement call and crosses the street.  It is a dreadful error. Before she reaches the telephone box, her stalker is standing between her and safety. This is a busy main road.  There should be cars passing, people walking.  She can hear music through the pub windows but no-one comes out.

 

 

It wasn’t rape. He grabbed her arm, pulled her back across the road into a disused railway building and forced her onto the ground. She had no voice. She couldn’t scream. She didn’t fight. He didn’t remove any of his clothing, just dropped his pants, did the deed and left.  It wasn’t rape.  She didn’t object.  She told no-one, just went back to her shared flat and showered, alone, ashamed and relieved to be alive.  Three weeks later, she saw him on the street outside her home. She asked the people she shared with to call the police. She gave them a description and told them all about the assault. (She couldn’t call it rape because she didn’t object. She didn’t fight. She did what she had to in order to preserve her life.)  She moved back to live with her family after that. She couldn’t travel alone on the train or go in a telephone box.

 

Twenty years later, she was buzzing about her house.  The TV was switched on for company.  She wasn’t watching. Suddenly his face was on the screen.  A Channel 4 documentary. Women who he had stalked and assaulted, families of women he had assaulted, were all trying to keep him behind bars. He had served a total of 17 years up to that date for assaulting and raping women.  He selected his victims by joining dance schools, country clubs and picking out lovely young women.  He stalked them, raped them and train-wrecked their lives. She telephoned the Metropolitan Police that night.  She gave them all the details, told them his name. They came north to speak to her a week later.

 

She couldn’t have her stalker charged with rape because to preserve her life, she did not object. But perhaps at last she could remove him from her nightmares. Women went missing in London in the 1980’s who have never been found. Perhaps they did object.

Adele 

Read More