At the end of a school day we congregated at the bus station, a hideous concrete monstrosity in the centre of Aylesbury. Our pockets filled with Coca Cola cubes and strawberry laces, we waited for the number 64 to arrive. As we knocked a slowly deflating football between us an ominous shadow materialised. The shadow belonged to one of the Sir Henry Floyd Grammar School's resident nutters, John Dent (not his real name).
Ordinarily when a nutter approached us, we would cower in fear and trepidation but this nutter was different - he was our nutter. Despite being three years our senior John had befriended us for no apparent reason one day and we saw no reason to convince him otherwise. As we saw it, the relationship was balanced quite well - he didn't kick the crap out of us and in return, we listened to his inane drivel. He was not an eloquent individual and frequently erred on the side of bigotry, misogyny and racism, which often made us visibly wince - a reaction that had to be quickly disguised for fear of violent reprisals. He was also an habitual smoker, more for image than relief I am sure.
So there we stood, wincing and coughing as a bus approached. Glancing up, John took a long drag on his cigarette and proclaimed "This is me boys, I'm off".
He then did something that will stick in my mind as long as I live. He flicked the cigarette with all the cool he could muster. A benign act in other circumstances but in this instance he hadn't accounted for a rogue cross wind that caught the fag end and blew it up and arching back over his head. We watched in awe as it sailed through the air and plopped casually into the centre of a blue fluffy hat that perched cosily on the head of an elderly lady.
We all froze.
Oblivious to the situation that had just occurred, the lady boarded the bus and waited patiently for her turn to have her ticket stamped.
We turned to John who by now had turned a sickly shade of white. He gulped visibly and tears welled in the corners of his eyes. "What should I do boys?" he asked.
"Well you should probably put her out John." came the reply.
John whipped round and ran to the bus, he pushed his way to the front of the queue just as the pensioner was walking down the aisle to take a back seat. The other passengers had not yet noticed the plumes of smoke that were drifting up from the folds of the fluffy hat, but we had. We watched as small flames began to lick the faux fur as the smouldering cigarette began to ignite.
Having pushed past the other passengers John reached the lady as the bus pulled away. The last sight we saw was John launching himself at the old dear, his arms flailing.
Friday, 30 September 2011
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Scared and bewildered - Rhesus Positive
Wrenched from the safety of sleep I blink fearfully up at the blazing light that suddenly fills the room. Pain and exhaustion flow through my body, taking my breath away. Then the screaming starts. She barks at me in a language I do not understand, which is both disorientating and terrifying. I plead for clemency but her wrath has overtaken her and she no longer acknowledges my attempts at meaningful communication. Glancing over, I notice that my fellow captive is unconscious. My mind reels at the horrors she has meted out and fear strikes me as I realise that I am next. I promise her that I will find food to sate her ever-increasing appetite but she just screams again and kicks out. I flinch and draw back, praying for the night to envelope me once again. Her shouts become louder and more insistent and my ears ring. I promise to change but she just flings faeces at me in protest. It hits my bare leg and runs down onto the already stained floor. I am now truly broken, at my lowest ebb. "What do you want?" I cry, "I don't know what you want, please tell me!" but she just stares impassively back. Her eyelids flicker, she is now looking past me. Her screams subside and she falls effortlessly to sleep.
I change her nappy, clean up the mess, redress her and slip her back into her cot. I take a long last look into my daughter's now angelic face before crawling back to bed and escape into sleep.
I change her nappy, clean up the mess, redress her and slip her back into her cot. I take a long last look into my daughter's now angelic face before crawling back to bed and escape into sleep.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
Hair - Rhesus Negative
On a grey day in Glenrothes - Fife, I was preparing to visit a friend in Glasgow. As a diehard punk I pulled on my most rock and roll attire and headed to the bathroom to get my hair in order. Until I discovered the joys of red Dax Wax I would use standard hair gel and tonnes of hairspray to scrape my hair into nasty spikes a la Sid Vicious. On this day I was dismayed to discover that that my supplies of hair product had run dry so I was forced to improvise. I grabbed a bar of soap and sprinkled it lightly with water to achieve a mild foam, which I massaged into my locks before administering a hair dryer to set the spikes in place. It worked better than I could have imagined and pleased with the result I headed out. By this time I was running late so I jogged towards the nearest bus stop as the ubiquitous Scottish drizzle stung my eyes. I saw the bus approaching over the crest of the hill and my jog turned to a sprint. The rain got heavier and I began to dodge puddles to avoid ruining my leopard print trainers. I made the bus just in time and jumped aboard. The driver looked at me with surprise in his eyes and as I walked down the aisle other passengers looked up with a mixture of fear and confusion. I strode to the back of the bus, satisfied that I must be looking pretty mean. I slouched on the back seat and gazed out of the window as the rain pummeled the glass. A trickle of water ran down my forehead, tickling my chilled skin. I reached up to wipe it away and as I drew my hand away I was shocked to find my fingers covered in a light foam. I panicked and rubbed my hand through my hair only to find more foam. I began to rub my hair ever more frantically in an attempt to remove the suds but the mixture of the Scottish rain and the heavily caked soap only made things worse. My fellow passengers began to glance back at me as I slowly lathered up on the back seat.
Had any passing motorists looked up at the bus, they would have seen a panicked young man in a studded jacket washing his hair.
Had any passing motorists looked up at the bus, they would have seen a panicked young man in a studded jacket washing his hair.
Thursday, 18 August 2011
Memory - Rhesus Positive
My Mother is allergic to fur so the only pets we were allowed as kids were goldfish (or dogs wrapped in clingfilm - we chose goldfish). When holiday time came around we had the dilemma of how to care for them while we were away. We decided to use shell-shaped fish-food blocks that slowly dissolved over a period of days. The idea was that flakes of food would be released into the water everyday to sustain our water-based companions until we reappeared.
Whenever we returned from our holiday we would find dead goldfish floating on the top of the water and a perfectly intact fish-food block at the bottom. We would pull the block out, pat it dry, pop it in a freezer bag and save it for the next time.
We buried the fish.
Whenever we returned from our holiday we would find dead goldfish floating on the top of the water and a perfectly intact fish-food block at the bottom. We would pull the block out, pat it dry, pop it in a freezer bag and save it for the next time.
We buried the fish.
Reminiscing - Rhesus Negative
When I was a young boy all I wanted to be when I grew up was a Zoologist, or a Vet. I used to devour books on the natural world and became an avid reader of Gerald Durrell who for a short while, became my hero.
Despite being stuck in rural Buckinghamsire instead of sunny Corfu, I did everything I could to emulate him. Any given day would find me exploring the garden, searching for weird and previously undiscovered creatures. But for me the holy grail was to find a sick or injured animal and to nurse it back to health. It stood to reason that to show it's gratitude, the animal would befriend me and follow me wherever I roamed.
After months of hoping and wishing and praying I returned home from school to discover a bird with a broken wing, flapping it's way sadly across the front lawn. In an instant I realised that this was my time, my opportunity to fulfill a lifelong dream. I knew exactly what to do, I had run this scenario over and over in my mind and had planned for every eventuality.
I dashed to the shed, pushing my way past all the usual shed-based ephemera until I found my tool of choice - a large fishing net. Clutching the net, I rushed back to the front lawn, terrified that the bird would disappear. I had nothing to fear as the bird was still racing around the lawn, trying in vain to take flight. I launched myself at the running bird and covered it in the folds of the fishing net where it thrashed violently. I had a glimmer of self-doubt but quickly dismissed it. As a self-proclaimed naturalist I knew that I had to remain dispassionate. I must on no account start questioning my decisions, I was there to do a job.
I left the bird tweeting sadly under the weight of the net and rushed back to the shed. From within it's cob-webbed depths I retrieved a large cardboard box. Placing it gently on the ground, I hopped over the garden fence into the neighbouring stables and pilfered an arm-full of straw. I carefully lined the base of the box with the straw, pausing a moment to build up a defined nesting area at one end.
Next I found myself shovel in hand, digging great holes in the vegetable garden and filling my pockets with the earthworms I found there.From the kitchen I pilfered chunks of bread and a saucer. In the bathroom I stole a wad of cotton wool.
Back in the garden I continued to build what I considered quite a fine avian recovery room within the box. The earthworms were distributed liberally amongst the straw and the bread torn into small chunks and sprinkled over the surface.
I was only too aware that the biggest hurdle would be how to keep the bird hydrated throughout it's recuperation. Without a proper bird bottle or suitable pipette I would struggle to get the necessary fluids into the creature. If I was to leave a bowl of water I risked the bird accidentally drowning when my back was turned. Luckily, my extensive research had uncovered a solution.
Into the saucer I placed the wad of cotton wool and saturated it with fresh drinking water. This nifty trick would allow the bird to suck on the cotton wool in order to quench it's thirst, without the risk of drowning.
Back at the net I gently eased the bird into it's new home and closed the flaps of the box to secure it. As I walked softly to the shed, the bird was violently throwing itself around the box. This shook me a bit but I steeled myself, knowing that I had to be cruel to be kind. The bird would thank me later I was sure. Probably from my shoulder, which he would inevitably make his new perch. We would laugh as friends. We would stride through the village and people would turn and look on jealously at this unlikely friendship, formed between man & bird and forged through adversity.
To keep the worst of the elements at bay I cleared a space in the shed, dropped the box inside and closed the door.
I sat on the step outside the shed until it got dark, listening to the terrible sounds of the bird as it threw itself angrily around the box. A sick feeling grew in my stomach and my earlier resolve began to disappear.
In bed that night I lay awake, worrying about what I had done and fighting back tears of self-doubt. I was out of my depth and I knew it.
As dawn broke I eschewed the lure of breakfast and ran straight to the shed. As I approached I slowed and crept to the door. My ear pressed against the door, I listened intently and was relieved to hear no thrashing. All was calm, the bird had settled into it's temporary home and today we could begin treatment.
Hope rose in my chest as I unbolted the door and retrieved the box. I admonished myself for having had any doubts about how I had dealt with the situation. I had been decisive, proactive and professional. Now a true Zoologist, I opened the box.
The bird was dead, killed by a huge glob of cotton wool that was wedged in its throat.
Despite being stuck in rural Buckinghamsire instead of sunny Corfu, I did everything I could to emulate him. Any given day would find me exploring the garden, searching for weird and previously undiscovered creatures. But for me the holy grail was to find a sick or injured animal and to nurse it back to health. It stood to reason that to show it's gratitude, the animal would befriend me and follow me wherever I roamed.
After months of hoping and wishing and praying I returned home from school to discover a bird with a broken wing, flapping it's way sadly across the front lawn. In an instant I realised that this was my time, my opportunity to fulfill a lifelong dream. I knew exactly what to do, I had run this scenario over and over in my mind and had planned for every eventuality.
I dashed to the shed, pushing my way past all the usual shed-based ephemera until I found my tool of choice - a large fishing net. Clutching the net, I rushed back to the front lawn, terrified that the bird would disappear. I had nothing to fear as the bird was still racing around the lawn, trying in vain to take flight. I launched myself at the running bird and covered it in the folds of the fishing net where it thrashed violently. I had a glimmer of self-doubt but quickly dismissed it. As a self-proclaimed naturalist I knew that I had to remain dispassionate. I must on no account start questioning my decisions, I was there to do a job.
I left the bird tweeting sadly under the weight of the net and rushed back to the shed. From within it's cob-webbed depths I retrieved a large cardboard box. Placing it gently on the ground, I hopped over the garden fence into the neighbouring stables and pilfered an arm-full of straw. I carefully lined the base of the box with the straw, pausing a moment to build up a defined nesting area at one end.
Next I found myself shovel in hand, digging great holes in the vegetable garden and filling my pockets with the earthworms I found there.From the kitchen I pilfered chunks of bread and a saucer. In the bathroom I stole a wad of cotton wool.
Back in the garden I continued to build what I considered quite a fine avian recovery room within the box. The earthworms were distributed liberally amongst the straw and the bread torn into small chunks and sprinkled over the surface.
I was only too aware that the biggest hurdle would be how to keep the bird hydrated throughout it's recuperation. Without a proper bird bottle or suitable pipette I would struggle to get the necessary fluids into the creature. If I was to leave a bowl of water I risked the bird accidentally drowning when my back was turned. Luckily, my extensive research had uncovered a solution.
Into the saucer I placed the wad of cotton wool and saturated it with fresh drinking water. This nifty trick would allow the bird to suck on the cotton wool in order to quench it's thirst, without the risk of drowning.
Back at the net I gently eased the bird into it's new home and closed the flaps of the box to secure it. As I walked softly to the shed, the bird was violently throwing itself around the box. This shook me a bit but I steeled myself, knowing that I had to be cruel to be kind. The bird would thank me later I was sure. Probably from my shoulder, which he would inevitably make his new perch. We would laugh as friends. We would stride through the village and people would turn and look on jealously at this unlikely friendship, formed between man & bird and forged through adversity.
To keep the worst of the elements at bay I cleared a space in the shed, dropped the box inside and closed the door.
I sat on the step outside the shed until it got dark, listening to the terrible sounds of the bird as it threw itself angrily around the box. A sick feeling grew in my stomach and my earlier resolve began to disappear.
In bed that night I lay awake, worrying about what I had done and fighting back tears of self-doubt. I was out of my depth and I knew it.
As dawn broke I eschewed the lure of breakfast and ran straight to the shed. As I approached I slowed and crept to the door. My ear pressed against the door, I listened intently and was relieved to hear no thrashing. All was calm, the bird had settled into it's temporary home and today we could begin treatment.
Hope rose in my chest as I unbolted the door and retrieved the box. I admonished myself for having had any doubts about how I had dealt with the situation. I had been decisive, proactive and professional. Now a true Zoologist, I opened the box.
The bird was dead, killed by a huge glob of cotton wool that was wedged in its throat.
Day One - Rhesus Positive
So here we are, day one. First blog, first post, first thoughts down in type. I'm not sure how long this blogging lark will continue for me but I am riding a wave of optimism and as a result I'm putting my best foot forward.
So here goes.
Today is the day I became an Uncle for the first time. My Nephew, Charlie Ian Cootes was born early this morning and has inspired me to write the first post of my blog. The morning was made remarkable by this event but became somewhat overshadowed by the even more remarkable sight that befell me on the usually unremarkable journey into work.
Still flushed with the joy of sudden Unclehood, I sat on the bus and stared into the middle distance. My thoughts were focused on the photograph of my new Nephew, his eyes closed and in the arms of his Grandmother, my Mother. I thought of this new life, this new hope and the joy he would bring to us as he learned to live in this confusing world.
I was wrenched out of my reverie as an unusual sight caught my eye. My attention was drawn to the upper floor window of a delightful Victorian terraced house. The curtains twitched violently as a small dog bounced up onto the windowsill. "How sweet" I thought, "he's awaiting the return of his master. Poor thing must be so lonely but he mustn't worry, someone will soon be back to love him and cuddle him and take him for a lovely walk. This world is beautiful," I thought. "Truly wonderful."
It was at this point the dog shat on the windowsill.
So here goes.
Today is the day I became an Uncle for the first time. My Nephew, Charlie Ian Cootes was born early this morning and has inspired me to write the first post of my blog. The morning was made remarkable by this event but became somewhat overshadowed by the even more remarkable sight that befell me on the usually unremarkable journey into work.
Still flushed with the joy of sudden Unclehood, I sat on the bus and stared into the middle distance. My thoughts were focused on the photograph of my new Nephew, his eyes closed and in the arms of his Grandmother, my Mother. I thought of this new life, this new hope and the joy he would bring to us as he learned to live in this confusing world.
I was wrenched out of my reverie as an unusual sight caught my eye. My attention was drawn to the upper floor window of a delightful Victorian terraced house. The curtains twitched violently as a small dog bounced up onto the windowsill. "How sweet" I thought, "he's awaiting the return of his master. Poor thing must be so lonely but he mustn't worry, someone will soon be back to love him and cuddle him and take him for a lovely walk. This world is beautiful," I thought. "Truly wonderful."
It was at this point the dog shat on the windowsill.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)