Perfection

To achieve perfection takes trial and error.

If others are involved in your task, they may see your experimentation as indecision.

Ignore that gnawing urge to placate them for an easier life, and press on with your goal.

Only then, will you hope to attain something that you can be 85 – 90% satisfied with.

Modigliani – In Memoriam

Amedeo Clemente Modigliani
Born 12th July 1884 – Died 24th January 1920

I know I’m a few days late with this, but seeing as though Amedeo Modigliani is one of my favourite artists, I thought better late than never.

Tragically, Modigliani died of tubercular meningitis on the 24th January 1920, aged just 35.

What is equally as tragic is that his wife, and muse, Jeanne Hébuterne, was so devastated that the following day she threw herself from the 5th floor of her parents’ home, killing herself and her unborn second child.

Fortunately, their first child, Jeanne Modigliani (1918 – 1984), was adopted by Amedeo’s sister and was brought up in Florence, Italy.

Jeanne Hébuterne

Jeanne Modigliani, daughter.

I was first introduced to Modigliani’s work by my mate, Markham, who very kindly gave me a sumptuously framed print of this piece…

Seated Nude

As you can see, Modigliani was very heavily influenced by African masks and sculpture, creating elongated forms and mask-like faces.

He died a pauper. But, as is the way of the world, in 2010 “La belle Romaine” sold for $69 million.

His work inspired me to write a short story, and subsequent screenplay, entitled: “Jeanne, reclining nude, 1917″, about a First World War veteran recuperating in the South of France after losing his left hand.

It isn’t a biographical piece, but moreover, explores the themes of physical and emotional cripples when he begins a relationship with his prostitute model.

Jeanne Hébuterene

Lunia Czechovska

Leopold Zborowski II

Reclining Nude

He was an extremely prolific artist, so if you get the chance to see any of his work in the flesh, I urge you to do so.

The world lost an undefinable prodigy 93 years ago.

RIP Amedeo Clemente Modigliani.

Jeanne Hébuterne

Reclining Nude with Loose Hair

 

I have a dream too, you know.

True, it may not be as ambitious and world-changing as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s. But it’s a dream nonetheless.

To be honest, I wasn’t going to post about it until I felt I was in more of a position to realise this dream. But short of winning the Euro Millions Lottery, it aint going to happen without some serious philanthropic backer.

So, what is my dream?

Well, it’s to build a School of Arts for under-privileged kids.

Kids from low socioeconomic backgrounds in large inner-city estates. Kids who might not ordinarily get the opportunity to explore the more creative aspects of their nature.

What good would that do society? We’re in a depression, don’t you know!

Problems in every field of human endeavour are virtually always solved by creative thinking. Even the great Albert Einstein said so himself. Creativity allows us to look at problems from different angles and apply new thinking to solve problems.

Moreover, I don’t see it as a school that produces an unprecedented amount of artists. But an unprecedented amount of creative thinkers – whichever vocation they choose to pursue later in life. Whether it be mathematics, science, business, computers, product design, or economics.

And yes, a few more more artists too. And what’s wrong with that? Art is seen as a dirty word in this country. If I tell people I write poetry, they shift uneasily in their seats. If I said I write poetry in Ireland the response would be a polite smile and a nod toward the back of the queue.

Do you think the first rocket flight to the moon was dreamed up by a scientist?

Sure, scientists and engineers made it a reality. But it is creative people who come up with the ideas and the original solutions of how they can be achieved.

What will the kids do?

The school will develop and encourage creative thinking and self-expression.

It will foster, nurture and encourage exploration of the arts in all its many and varied forms including: painting, drawing, sculpture, ceramics, poetry, literature, screenplays, theatre, drama, dance, music, design, digital arts, film, photography, humanities, languages, and the classics.

Where is this school?

I quite fancy the idea of transforming a derelict Victorian mill. There’s something quite ironic about that. Though it certainly wouldn’t be a prerequisite. (Salts Mill in Bradford is a good example.)

Initially, an inner-city campus close to urban populations that have a high level of low socioeconomic families. Basically, anywhere across the Manchester – Huddersfield – Halifax – Leeds belt. It’s also sufficiently ‘central’ enough to accommodate children from further afield.

It would also be good to have a rural retreat – somewhere like the Lake District, Peak District or the Yorkshire Dales, where children can attend week-long courses/classes which double up as a holiday.

I would also like to open an international sister school in India or Sri Lanka where people from distinctly different cultures can share ideas. These schools could also participate in exchange programmes. (Then subsequently, even further afield: China, South America, South Asia.)

What about science subjects?

This school wouldn’t be a replacement for existing schools and their curricula – more of an extension to them.

Would it exclude people from non low socioeconomic backgrounds?

Not at all. But opportunities for middle-class families in other schools are much more accessible, regardless of ability.

Intake for low income kids would be based as much on desire and enthusiasm to participate rather than ability. There would be a limited number of places for more affluent children. Sort of like Eton – in reverse.

What kind of courses will it run?

Day-long workshops for visiting schools.

After-school classes.

Week-long courses. (Which would include accommodation for traveling students.)

Weekend classes.

Full-time sixth form courses. (A-levels.)

Masters and PhD courses.

What ages are we talking about?

Key Stage 3, up to, and including, sixth form.

Undergraduate, Masters and PhD courses.

What else does the school have?

Apart from studios and classrooms?

There’d be accommodation for students who are visiting from further afield.

Cafe / restaurant.

Gallery to promote and sell students’ work.

Gallery featuring independent contemporary and traditional art.

Masterclasses from guest lecturers.

State of the art library. (Both on and off-line.)

Book shop.

Art-house cinema.

Who will pay for it?

Well, that’s the biggest question of all.

A like-minded philanthropist would be nice.

Arts Council grant.

Lottery funding.

A percentage of Masters and PhD students’ tuition fees could go towards funding.

Sales from restaurant and galleries.

Fundraising / donations.

An Ideal World School of Arts.

Salts Mill, Bradford.

David Hockney at Salts Mill.

Salts Mill interior.

Studio space?

Any constructive criticism and advice about how to get something like this funded and off the ground would be greatly appreciated.

The Volunteer – new poem

THE VOLUNTEER

© David Milligan-Croft.

 

The old man,

Shouts at cars

Hissing past,

In the warm

September rain.

 

He pivots ’round,

On his one good leg,

Outside the Volunteer Bar.

 

The stench of fags

And stale piss

Cling to his shabby

Tweed suit.

 

Discovering a pocket

Full of puke

He karate chops

Thin air.

 

 

N.B. For the benefit of my American readers, ‘fags’, in this context, is a colloquialism for cigarettes.

Mudslide Bride – Short Story

Mudslide Bride

The story of Roman & Millie.

© David Milligan-Croft

Ethan died back in ‘48. But his two brothers managed to live right through till the ‘80s, though God knows how. Admittedly, they weren’t in the best of health and, Roman, the eldest, has been housebound for the past fifteen years. Luke could just about manage some chores around the house and garden but, would soon tire and have to rest on the verandah with a cold glass of lemonade that Millie had made.

Millie came up from the town each and every day to clean up the place and cook the old boys some food. In all probability she would have to clean Roman’s bed as he would have soiled it.

Today, she was baking a steak pie with onions, mushrooms and kidneys. The brothers would like that, she thought. Seeing as though she was baking, she may as well rustle up a blackberry pie as it wouldn’t be too much extra trouble for her.

Millie busied herself in the kitchen getting flour on just about everything from her nose to the light shade. The sun was splitting through the Black Willow trees and bathed Millie in an aura of light that made her look like some old angel as she worked at the kitchen table. She had been a very beautiful woman in her youth, but most of her golden hair had turned white as snow now. She still kept her figure though – slim as a twig she was.

She was off in a daydream – probably thinking about Roman. And how they used to go on bicycle rides down to the river and fish for freshwater crabs using a mussel on a piece of string as bait. Roman would dangle the string over the side of the jetty and let the mussel nestle between the rocks. Soon enough, a crab would tippy-toe along and grab hold of it with its claws. Roman would slowly pull the mussel out of the water, with the stubborn crab still attached. He would go on about how stupid crabs were when he was putting them in his bucket. A little smile crept across Millie’s face when, all of a sudden, she was startled by a rap on the window. Millie nearly jumped out of her skin with fright. Lucy’s dazzling smile almost blinded her. In her outstretched fists she held two Jack rabbits. Millie held both her palms to her bosom trying to calm down.

‘Come inside, you silly girl,’ Millie said. ‘You scared me half to death.’

‘Look what I got!’ Lucy shrieked.

‘You ought not to go sneaking up on people like that. Especially if they’re working.’

‘Look what I caught down by the stream. They’d be great in a pie or stew or something, don’t you think?’

‘Just you think now what would have happened if Luke or Roman were sitting here while you did that? I’ll tell you exactly what would’ve happened, they wouldn’t be here to tell the tale, that’s what.’

‘Oh relax, Millie. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing. Well, not all the birds aren’t singing, ’cause I bagged a couple of pheasants earlier this afternoon. But I gave one to Mrs Taylor and I sold the other one to Midway Johnson.’

‘You shouldn’t be exploiting Mr Johnson that way. His mind ain’t what it used to be.’ Millie was inspecting the rabbits. Feeling how much meat was on them, how old they were. She even sniffed the fur. ‘Lucy, where exactly did you catch these rabbits?’

‘I told you. Down by the creek.’

‘This one’s turning,’ Millie said.

Lucy began to shift on her feet and fumble with the tails of her grubby cotton shirt. ‘I caught them with my own bare hands.’ Lucy proffered her dirty hands to Millie for inspection.

‘How exactly did you catch them?’

‘You know – the usual way – with a trap.’

‘What kind of trap?’

‘What difference does it make what type of trap I used!’

‘You no more caught these than I climbed Mount Entwhistle before breakfast. Now you just go and take them back to exactly where you took them from,’ Millie said. ‘Before the old boys see them. They’ll have them skinned and eaten before I get a chance to warm a pot.’

Lucy smiled a little. ‘They are silly old birds aren’t they? Maybe I should return one of them and you could cook the other?’

‘Millie, if one of the old boys tells the postman that he ate rabbit stew for supper, then Jack Parker will tell everyone in town ’cause there isn’t enough gossip as it is. Then whoever you took them from will find out. And who will they coming looking for, Lucy? Me, that’s who. They won’t be looking for Lucy Langdon, oh no, they’ll be looking for Millie Preston.’

‘Alright, alright! I’ll take them back. You don’t have to go on about it.’

‘And if you’re quick about it, you might make it back in time for some blackberry pie.’

Lucy’s eyes lit up as she grabbed the two rabbits and darted out of the kitchen door. Millie smiled as she watched her vault the fence at the end of the vegetable garden and tear a trail through the corn field.

Lucy Langdon was an orphan. No one really knew how old she was. Least of all Lucy. But Millie reckoned she must be in her fifteenth summer by now. Her folks were killed in the mud slide of ‘48. Her aunt Angeline cared for her until it all got too much and she moved away. By that time, Lucy was fairly well able to look after herself. Whether it was by catching things, stealing things or doing the odd job for people in town. She still lives in Angeline’s old house at the edge of town, but it’s pretty much a shell now it needs so much work doing to it.

There’d been a rumour that she’d got hooked up with a vagrant but, like everyone else, he seemed to move on. She wasn’t much of a catch for anyone. Her blonde straggly hair hadn’t seen water, except for rain water of course, for many a year. And you could grow sweet potatoes with the dirt from under her fingernails.

Luke doddered into the kitchen, completely ignoring Millie, with a bed pan that he tipped into the sink.

‘What on earth are you doing!’ Millie cried.

Luke almost fell over with fright. ‘Good God, woman! Don’t be sneaking up on me like that. Are you insane?’

Luke was slavering as he spoke. Millie thought it was due to one of the minor strokes the doctor kept telling her about. He already had a limp in his left leg and didn’t have much use from his right hand anymore.

Millie sighed. ‘Luke, why are you pouring a bed pan down the sink?’

‘It’s Roman’s. He’s all messed up again.’

‘You know you shouldn’t be doing that.’ Millie clutched the front of her apron and moved towards the door. ‘Thank you for trying to help, Luke,’ she said as she climbed the stairs.

When Millie got to Roman’s bedroom she almost wretched on the stench. She pulled back the curtains and swung open the windows. Sunlight streamed into the room, highlighting a dust cloud from the curtains. Roman groaned and stirred, shielding his eyes from the light.

‘Is that you, Millie?’ he asked.

‘Yes, dear, it is.’

‘Go away! I don’t want you to see me like this.’

‘Don’t be silly, Roman. I’ve seen you in worse states.’

‘It’s not right. It’s humiliating.’

Millie sat down on the edge of the bed and held Roman’s hand between her palms.

‘Why can’t you just let me die?’’ he pleaded.

‘Because you’re not ready to leave me just yet,’ she said. ‘Besides, what would Luke do without you?’

‘You’d look after him.’

‘Not all the time, I couldn’t.’

‘He’d manage. He’s completely insane you know. He should be the one locked up in a darkened room all day.’

‘Don’t be saying that about your own brother. You know you don’t mean it. Now move over this side a little so I can pull the sheet from under you.’

After Millie had washed up and finished cleaning Roman she went back to the kitchen to pop the pies in the oven and peel some vegetables. It was while she was scraping the skin off some potatoes that her mind began to wander back to when she and Roman used to go walking together. Millie and Roman had been sweethearts ever since they were children.

Roman, being the eldest, always looked out for his two brothers. Maybe this is what Millie liked in him. He was a big man, with the gentlest of touches. He would hold Millie’s hand like he was cradling a fledgling. They would’ve married too if it hadn’t been for the accident up at the goldmine.

Back in ’48 there had been a terrible rain. The rain seemed to last for weeks, though it only actually lasted for eight days. But for that eight days it sheeted down relentlessly, causing a mist, like a net curtain, over the whole town.

Eventually, the mountain had enough of the rain and decided to move on. It looked like half of Mount Entwhistle slid down into the river. Two mine shafts collapsed, killing twenty nine miners. That’s when Ethan died. Roman was one of the last to be dug out of the mud. When they eventually found him underneath a support beam, his spine had been broken clean in two. Luke had never been the same since. Roman says it’s on account of all the mud that seeped into his brain. But Millie knew that it was because of seeing all of their friends die like that. Right there in front of them. Screaming as they were engulfed by the liquified mud.

There wasn’t one person in the whole town that didn’t know someone who had been killed or injured in the mudslide. The town grieved for years after.

To add insult to injury; the mining company closed down the mine, leaving most of the men in the surrounding area unemployed, and without even a sniff of compensation. The owners said it was an act of God, and that they weren’t liable. So everyone prayed to God on Sunday, but he wasn’t liable and didn’t give them any compensation either.

It wasn’t long before the town dried up, both literally and metaphorically. With the mainstay of the town gone, so had most of the families. Now, it was mostly populated by old folks and a few middle-class people who wanted a little bolt-hole in the country.

Millie looked out of the window and saw Luke pottering about in the garden, between the tomato vines and the artichoke stems. Probably doing more harm than good. She could smell the pastry from the oven.

She went to the refrigerator and made a fresh jug of lemonade, listening to the ice cubes clink as she stirred them around the glass.

Just then, Lucy came bounding in, her grubby yellow blouse sticking to her skin. ‘I put them back, Millie!’ she exclaimed.

‘Good girl. Now go and wash-up, dinner’s almost ready.

‘Awww, do I have to?’

‘If you don’t scrub those filthy nails you won’t get any dessert,’ she gave Lucy a whack on the behind with a tea towel as she ran past, up the staircase, taking them two at a time.

There was silence for a while, then the screech of copper pipes as the hot water started running. Suddenly, there was an almighty crash.

Millie threw down her apron and scurried up the stairs. Lucy was standing on the landing with her hands clamped across her mouth staring into Roman’s bedroom.

‘What on earth happened, Lucy?’

Lucy turned on her heels and bolted past Millie, who could now see what Lucy had been looking at. Roman had fallen out of bed onto the porcelain bedpan shattering it into a thousand pieces, whist managing to pull the dresser on top of him for good measure. Tiny porcelain fragments were protruding from his pyjamas and blood began to spread across the fabric. Millie rushed up, dragged the dresser off, and rolled him onto his back cradling his bruised face in her hands.

‘You silly thing! What on earth were you trying to do?’

‘I saw this on the dresser and I wanted to look at it.’ Roman held out his bleeding palm to show her a small framed photograph.

The glass was cracked and small splinters had embedded themselves into his fingers. Millie looked at the picture. It was an old sepia photo of Roman and Millie when they were in their late teens. She was wearing a floral dress and holding a straw hat in front of her, while he stood behind, hands upon her shoulders in his best blue linen suit. The picture had been taken the day they’d got engaged.

Just about the whole town came to the party. Long trestle tables had been set up in the garden. There was music and dancing. (Jerome had brought his fiddle.) They roasted a whole pig on the spit and baked stuffed beef tomatoes – as big as your fist – on the coals. Everyone had had a great day. There hadn’t been a wedding in the town since Helena Phelps married Butcher Bob Fielding, eight years previous.

The date had been set for June 1st, 1948. But that, as fate would have it, was eight days after the rain came. And the mud that washed away their lives.

Tears began to slip down Millie’s cheek onto the back of her wrinkled wrist.

‘You look so handsome,’ she said.

‘And you look as beautiful now as you did back then,’ he said stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.

‘Don’t be teasing,’ she said wiping her nose and sniffling.

‘I’m not teasing, Millie. I’d marry you tomorrow if it wasn’t for all of this,’ he said gesturing at his prone state.

‘You dozy dunderhead, I wasn’t bothered what physical state you were in,’ she said, slapping him with her tea towel. ‘Besides, we’re too old for all of that.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ he said, fingering the hem of her cotton dress.

Millie looked down at Roman, stroking his greying black hair. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ve been coming here for the past thirty years. That’s probably more than any woman could stand in a marriage.’

‘That’s not like a marriage.’

‘How’s it different?’

‘You know. We were never… intimate.’

‘You were intimate enough in the back row of the Odeon!’

‘That was just fooling around. We weren’t proper intimate like married couples are.’

‘I think you still have some of that mud in your head. Anyways, I didn’t care about your back. It’s what’s in here that counts,’ she said, tapping his skull with her knuckles.

‘You mean, you’d still have married me?’

‘Course I would.’

‘Guess that’s all as maybe now,’ he said.

Millie wiped away a trickle of blood from Roman’s nose. ‘Besides, I don’t think my wedding dress would fit me anymore.’

‘You still have it?’

‘Of course I do.’ Millie smiled. ‘I wonder if it would fit Lucy. It would make a right little madam out of her for the day.’

‘As a bridesmaid?’

‘No, you silly old fool. I thought you could marry her!’ she said batting him with the tea towel again.

Heart & Sold – Art Exhibition

Hi-de-hi, Campers,

I wanted to regale you about a unique art exhibition / initiative by Suzie and Paul Moffat, to aid people with Down Syndrome, called Heart and Sold.

All the art has been created by people with Down Syndrome, and some cracking stuff there is too.

Heart & Sold Art Exhibition logo.

But, like most things in life, it needs a few bob to make sure it can happen. So, it’d be great if you can make a donation – no matter how small. If not, then please try and generate a bit of noise about the event by Tweeting, Linked-In-ing and Facebooking about it.

I love this one by Lester Magoogan

“This pilot is to be remembered as the stepping stone to a fully recognised and respected exhibition tour, designed to evolve naturally, gather together other artists with Down Syndrome and allow them, their friends and family an opportunity to use the ‘Heart & Sold’ platform to create, educate, inspire, sell, encourage and prove that art is from the heart and should have no bearing on condition.” Suzie Moffat Exhibition Director

Fiona Stevenson

The Heart & Sold exhibition starts Today and is on at:

THE BARNABY FESTIVAL
 HERITAGE CENTRE
 MACCLESFIELD

21ST — 24TH JUNE 2012

This Pilot Exhibition is a small step
 towards what we hope will be a successful 
touring Exhibition in 2013.

Janine Beatson

If you can help, or want to come along, why not drop Suzie an email or give her a call.

CONTACT Suzie Moffat — Exhibition Director
TELEPHONE 07970 230 366
EMAIL Suzie@HeartandSold.org.uk

Christopher Lodge

David Kenward

Judith McClenaghan

Katie Charlotte Rickersey

Robbie Hampshaw

Rory Davis

Ryan Bogues

Sean Gray

Tazia Fawley

Classic Mercedes Requires Garage. Short story.

CLASSIC MERCEDES REQUIRES GARAGE.

© David Milligan-Croft.

I watched her walk out of the bedroom wearing only a pair of white cotton knickers. A few moments earlier I had tried to coax her back into bed, but she was having none of it. I had slipped my hand into the thin triangle of fabric only to have my hand slapped playfully.

Charlotte is one of those women who looks pretty conservative when she’s dressed. Perhaps that’s because people can’t see what I can see. What’s underneath. The scars around her left shoulder and bicep. The teeth mark in her calf that looked like a sewing pattern.

When she returned she was wearing her grey woolen suit. She leaned over the bed and kissed me good bye. ‘See you later,’ she said. ‘I’ll pick up your mother’s ribbon if you let me know what colour her dress is going to be.’

The ribbon was to bind an Order-of-Service booklet. Charlotte wanted both our mothers to have ribbon that matched their respective outfits. That’s the kind of detail she went into for our wedding.
‘Bye, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’ll defrost some chicken for dinner.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ she said as she walked out of the bedroom.

That’s the last time I ever saw Charlotte. Four days before our wedding.
I got out of bed and showered. The house was quiet. Peaceful. I could hear birds arguing away in the garden and the distant, monotonous beep of the baker’s truck reversing. I looked out over the fields as I dried myself. A mist hung over the moors.

I went down to the kitchen and made a cafetiere of Lavazza. The aroma flooded the kitchen and made me want to smoke a cigarette.

I went up to the office, a converted bedroom at the back of the house, and began to write: My dearest Charlotte, it began.

I read the four page letter over and over again. The first time it made me sob. The second time too. By the fourth time, my eyes just glazed over. I took the letter downstairs and sat on the front doorstep and smoked a slim cigar. I sat outside so’s not to smell the house up. The smoke was hard on my lungs. I was trying to pretend I didn’t really smoke. I’d been off cigarettes for a couple of years. But what with all of this going on, I capitulated and smoked the odd cigar. The only problem was, I smoked them like cigarettes, inhaling deeply. The first time I had one I almost passed out. But, like most ex-smokers, I persevered until it was natural for my lungs to be filled with carcinogens.

After the cigar I went into the kitchen and placed the letter on the table. I took the chicken fillets out of the freezer and peeled off the cellophane. I placed them into a Pyrex bowl and prised them apart with a knife. I went outside and smoked another cigar. The pain in my lungs felt as though an anvil had been placed on my chest, but I was determined not to go back on the cigarettes.

I walked down to the grocer’s store on the village main street. There was a sharp, cold gust buffeting me along. The man behind the counter looked irritated when he heard the tinkle of the shop bell. He looked up from his tabloid, over half-moon spectacles, sighed and closed the newspaper. I bought: courgettes; shallots; leeks; mushrooms and some fresh ginger root. All organic. That was on account of Charlotte’s illness.

She has Multiple Sclerosis and will only use homeopathic and holistic treatment. (As opposed to steroids which have bad side effects on her.) Sometimes her slender face swells up, other times she would find it difficult to walk. She visits an acupuncturist seventy miles away once a month, and a holistic healer who tries to unblock her energy channels using crystals. On one occasion, he told her he could sense another man in the room with them. The spirit said he was Charlotte’s soulmate and was just there to see if she was alright. When she told me about it I was a bit jealous because she had always said that I was her soulmate. You just never know who’s hanging around to steal your thunder.

When I got back to the house I placed the shopping on the counter and pricked the softening chicken with a knife to help it defrost quicker. I went back up to the office with the letter. I looked around the room at all my belongings. The books, c.d.s, disks, computer, more books, printer, scanner, files. Boxes and boxes of writing. I looked at my watch. It was four o’clock. I had lost the day somewhere in a box of thoughts that I had already mentally packed away and put in the car. I jumped out of the leather swivel chair that Charlotte had bought me for Christmas and began to throw some clothes in a bag. A box of books. Some unread, others were old favourites. Not much for thirty two years on this planet. ‘It’s only stuff,’ I told myself. ‘Nothing that can’t be replaced’.

I left the letter on the kitchen table. The chicken had completely defrosted. I walked into the hallway and paused by the mirror. The scratches on my throat were beginning to calm down, but the ones on my face had started to turn black as the scabs had dried.

‘How did you get those?’ Charlotte had said to me a couple of days previously. She must have looked worried judging by my incredulous expression.
‘Don’t you remember?’ I said. She looked scared. ‘You did them.’
Her hands trembled. ‘No I didn’t. You must have done it to yourself when you were looking for my engagement ring on the floor of the car.’
‘When you threw it at me?’
‘Because!’ her eyes filled and her brow furrowed. ‘You, you wouldn’t take my shoes back!’
‘I was going for an interview. I didn’t have time.’
‘Time! Time! I’ve done everything! Organising this fucking wedding! I only asked you to change my shoes while you were in town! How fucking much is that to ask?’

I’d smiled as sympathetically as I could, or was it patronisingly? I don’t recall. ‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘You didn’t do it on purpose. You were just having a bit of a wobbler, that’s all.’ Charlotte looked like Death had brushed His arm against her just out of mischief.

I turned away from my reflection and walked out the door. I put my stuff in the boot of the car and tried to start it up. Nothing. Ever since I’d moved up to the Moors I’d had problems starting my old Merc. It was a ‘67 Fintail and didn’t like the damp weather one bit. It didn’t like being outside either. Come to think of it, it didn’t like being driven too far. Charlotte used to call it “The Great White Shark” because of the fins on the back.

I lifted the bonnet and sprayed the plugs and points with WD 40 and waited. I waited long enough to smoke a cigar and look at the converted barn that was our home on the Yorkshire Moors. As I stubbed the cigar out I turned the ignition and the old engine rumbled into life. I had to wait another ten minutes until it had warmed up enough to move. So I called Charlotte’s sister on my cell phone and asked her if she’d be round at the house when Charlotte got home at six.
‘Why,’ she asked. ‘Has Charlie forgotten her key?’
‘No,’ I said and hung up. I wanted Jill to be there when Charlotte got home just so she wouldn’t do anything silly when she read the letter. And, by silly, I mean kill herself.

I found out later that while Jill was waiting for her sister to get home the phone rang. But Jill was afraid to answer it. It was Charlotte. The message went something like this: ‘Hi Lover, only me. Just ringing to say I’m on my way home. Just remembered; you might have gone to your mum’s for tea. I’ll try you on your mobile.’ Jill was sitting at the kitchen table staring at the envelope with Charlotte written on it when the message clicked on. She cried for her sister.

After driving for a while over the moors, I don’t know, it could have been about an hour, I got a text message. It was from Charlotte. It read: You’ve killed me. The shock has brought on a relapse. I can’t see. I can’t hear. I can’t feel my legs. Why have you done this to me? Why, why, why wh. Then the message ran out of space. I did ask myself why. ‘Why Michael? Why did you do that to her? How could you be so cruel? How could you destroy someone’s dreams? Their life?’

But no answer came. Not for a while anyway. Not until I remembered the arguments, the fighting, the hostility, the counseling, the Fluoxetine. Then the answer came. ‘Because Michael, it was either you or her.’

* * *

I had to resits his advances. I was late for work. And if I let his creeping fingers anywhere near me I would be even later. I slapped the back of his hand and he took it away. While I was getting dressed I was already looking forward to coming home from work so we could pick-up where we left off.

When I went back into the bedroom Michael was laying on my side of the bed. He said he liked to smell me when I wasn’t there. I leaned over and kissed him goodbye. He said something about chicken for dinner. But I had too much on my mind to be sure.

I drove all the way into work squeezing my thighs together, squirming on the seat. Trying to get rid of the tingling sensation he had already started in my knickers.

Everyone in the office was all excited for me. ‘Only four days to go!’ they said. Today was the day the girls in the office were taking me out to lunch. Sort of a pre-wedding treat. I wanted to go, but I also had to pop into town to get some ribbon for Michael’s mother’s order of service booklet. He’d said her outfit was green. Light-ish. I’d already got my own mum’s. Royal blue. What else? I had to finish off the place-name cards. We’d decided to write the definition of everyone’s name on the inside of the card. That was fine except for one. Mary. It means ‘Bitter’. Well, there was only one Mary coming and she was a bit miserable to tell the truth.

Oh, and Michael’s waistcoat. I have to sew the buttons on. I bought the Navy blue and silver fabric from an Indian dress makers store in Bradford. It was luxurious. Regal. The silver embroidery wove and intertwined around the chest like a medieval coat of arms. Blue is Michael’s favourite colour. It suits him, especially with his grey hair.

That’s it, I think. Except for the folding of the order of service. Dad can help with that on Thursday.

I rushed through all my work so I could sneak off early before lunch to buy the ribbon. I met up with the girls in Pizza Express on Cable Street. I love pizza. I could eat it all the time. The girls had wine, but I brought my own water. I stopped drinking alcohol when I was diagnosed with the M.S. I have a special water filter at home that takes all the acid out and leaves it alkaline, which is better for my body. It’s like medicine really. The only down-side is that I have to lug about four litres of the stuff with me every morning before I set off for work. Michael usually fills them for me and loads the car up. But he didn’t this morning, for some reason.

All the girls had bought presents. Jane got me some eyeliner. Prudence got flowers, Cathy some lippy, and Mary got me a cook book. Cheeky bitch. Susan, my boss, sent a bottle of champagne up from London. Well, okay, I have the odd glass of champers. I just think that if I’m going to have a drink I may as well have the best! If I’m going to fuck up my already fucked up body I might as well go out in style.

Things were going ballistic back at the office. The way they always do when you’re going to be away for a few weeks. It was tough enough trying to earn enough for the two of us without this extra hassle.

Michael had been out of work since we’d moved back from the States. He reckoned it was because the ad industry in Newcastle was jealous of the work he’d got to do in New York. I told him he should bite-the-bullet and take something below his experience. Just for the time being. But he had his principles. Well, stubborn or not, he’ll have to get something when we get back off honeymoon.

Just think; this time next week, I’ll be on my honeymoon! Mrs McEvoy. It feels like I haven’t had sun on my body for years. It’ll be nice just to unwind in the sun. With my husband. He’s probably preparing dinner right now. He only knows two chicken dishes. It’ll either be Thai green chicken curry, or a concoction I taught him. Marinading the chicken in olive oil, garlic, lemon and cumin. Then stir fry a few veg, a few leeks, courgettes, mushroom and onion with olive oil and soy sauce. Sometimes he’ll do noodles but it’ll probably be couscous.

I remember when he first cooked for me. It was when I visited him in Manhattan. There was nothing going on between us then, we’re cousins you see. We’d always been friends, ever since we were kids. If truth be known, I’d always had a crush on him, but he was older than me. Not a lot you can do when you’re eight years old and your cousin’s thirteen and into The Ramones. I suspect he had designs on older girls.

I’d gone to visit him just after I’d been diagnosed with the M.S. He’d said that if I needed to get away there was always a place for me. I woke up in his spare room to a knock on the door. ‘Do you like leeks?’ he’d said.

He’d made an omelette with soya milk instead of cow’s milk. Leeks, mushroom and spring onions. He topped it off with dill and some granary toast. No butter. He’d even gone out and bought some fresh ginger root to make my tea with. That was a glorious holiday. We went to a small fishing village in New England. We even made sand castles! Can you believe it? At the age of twenty seven, making sandcastles. That’s the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. It was that night, over dinner, that Michael told me he loved me. He said that he’d loved me for about twenty years.

I didn’t know how to react. This was my cousin. It was one thing having a crush on him, but quite another to actually get it together with your own family! It took me about two weeks to decide. Decide that I loved him that is.

I finished up early. Packed my stuff in the car and headed out of town trying to beat the rush-hour traffic. I called Michael just to let him know I was on my way home. ‘Hi Lover, only me. Just ringing to say I’m on my way home. Just remembered; you might have gone to your mum’s for tea. I’ll try you on your mobile.’ I tried his mobile but it was on call divert. He was probably in transit. He never answers the phone when he’s driving. Thinks it’s dangerous.

When I got home my sister, Jill, was sitting in the kitchen. ‘Hiya,’ I said. She smiled. And then I said, ‘He’s left me hasn’t he?’ She looked down at the table and that’s when I noticed the letter with my name on it. I felt sick. I thought I was going to pass out. Not now. How could he? Four days before the wedding. I opened the letter. My dearest Charlotte, it said.

I have never known pain like it. I didn’t know it existed. I thought I was going to die. Right there in the kitchen. I thought I was going to die of grief. How could he? My Michael, do this to me. After all these years, all those memories, the poems, the sand castles. No. It couldn’t be. I tried his mobile but he wouldn’t talk to me. I left message after message but he never returned my calls. I begged him. But he wouldn’t reply. I cried for England. I cried for month after month. There were so many questions I wanted to ask him but I couldn’t find him. I just wanted to know if he was alright, if he was safe. He might be dead. Maybe he’s had a nervous breakdown. You know, those pre-wedding jitters. But the wedding day passed. Then a week, then a month. It was three months before I was well enough to leave the house. Before my relapse remitted. For ages I couldn’t see very well, or feel my fingers. My legs trembled when I tried to walk. And my ears, God, my ears. Waaaooo, waaaooo, constantly. It almost drove me insane.

It was Jill and mum who got me back on my feet. Got me out of the house. I went to the local grocer’s to get some vegetables and some chicken. It was while I was waiting that I was looking at the notice board in the shop where locals put ads. There were ads for all sorts of stuff: Labrador puppy for sale; a pram; a kid’s bike; cleaners looking for a few hours a week. Then I noticed the ad Michael had put up a few months previously: “Classic Mercedes requires garage. Richmond area, call: 0927 591 470”. I took the ad down and placed it in my purse.
‘You alright, love?’ The grocer said.
‘Yes.’ My legs began to quiver. I walked out of the shop without my shopping and I never looked back. As I walked down the main street I remembered a time when I was young. It was when I was on holiday on the Gold Coast in Australia and I’d been attacked by a shark. I was only ten at the time. It grabbed my arm and pulled me under the water. It pulled me so far down that the sea went black. It shook me like a rag doll, rolling me around and around. For some reason it let me go. I scrambled to the surface, the flesh on my left arm hanging off. I gasped the air and breathed an ocean of screams. I was frantic. I was flapping around looking beneath the water to see if I could see the shark, but it had gone. I started swimming back to shore. To where the other kids were playing and my parents were sunbathing. I was almost there when it happened again. I felt the shark’s teeth sink into the flesh of my calf and pull me under the choking salty water. I screamed until all I could see in front of me was my own breath in the form of a billion tiny pink bubbles. I kicked and I struggled and I punched until the shark tired of me again.

This time it did not return. And my frantic flapping had attracted attention from the beach and a young man came out to rescue me. But even now, as I walk down the street with a reminder of my ex-fiance wrapped up in my purse, I am reminded that that’s what life’s like: A shark attack. Just when you think you’ve got away, it comes back to drag you back under again.

3hundredand65 tweets for Teenage Cancer Trust

3hundredand65 is a brilliant initiative by a guy called Dave Kirkwood.

Bottom line: 365 authors will tweet part of the story everyday for a year. Dave illustrates the tweets superbly as he goes along.

It’s sort of like Exquisite Corpse, except you can actually see what’s gone before.

Jan 4th by Dave Kirkwood

Why?

It’s to raise money for the Teenage Cancer Trust. A charity dedicated to improving the lives of teenagers and young adults with cancer.

I salute you, Sir. What a noble, (and daunting), task.

Jan 5th by Dave Kirkwood

There are still plenty of slots left if you want to join in. You don’t have to be a writer, so don’t be shy – be part of something amazing.

Jan 7th by Dave Kirkwood

But if you don’t fancy joining in with a tweet, you can always donate a few bob via the website.

In tandem with Tandem

I designed a logo recently for the Tandem Theatre company. “Set up by Rosarie Walsh and Frances Paterson, Tandem’s mission is to improve and enrich the lives of vulnerable and socially excluded people through drama and the creative arts.

“Through engaging in creative activities Tandem aims to improve the personal and social development of the target group as well as increase self-confidence, communication skills and appreciation of the arts.”

I won’t bore you with the intricacies of the design brief, but thankfully, one big no-no was definitely no references to tandem bikes.

What I wanted to achieve was – as the name suggests, working together, collaboration, support etc.

The ‘T’ within a ‘T’ reflects this simply and graphically. While the name of the company flows from the supporting graphic.

They don’t have a website yet, but here are a couple of links if you’d like to see some of the work they’ve been doing.

http://manchesterneetwomen.wordpress.com/

http://contactmcr.com/projects/its-your-turn/future-fires/future-fires-2011/rosarie-walsh-frances-paterson/

http://www.o2thinkbig.co.uk/en/Projects/Project-Home/?clubId=818

Droga5 – That’s the Creative Spirit.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Droga5.

They really do try to do different work.

Not just advertising, but work that helps humanity too.

Droga5 NY’s original work for the UNICEF Tap Project; getting New York restaurant goers to donate a dollar for every glass of free tap water they received.

Then I came across this amazing initiative by Droga5, Sydney called Creative Spirit.

Their goal is to get every one of Australia’s 32,000 registered creative companies to trial a person with a disability by 2021.

With the aim of making the creative industry the largest employer of disabled people in Australia.

What a fantastic, life-changing idea.

Watch this short film to see the (working) life of one such disabled person. I wish I loved working as much as he does!

Beautifully touching film. The scene at the beginning when he kisses his mother’s hands as she bathes his eyes will melt your heart.

This has got to be a bare minimum of a Cross of Iron Platinum Grand Prix inlaid with diamonds, rubies and gummy bears.

But ultimately, this initiative doesn’t just benefit Lloyd, but the entire morale of Droga5 Sydney.

We should do this here in the UK and Ireland now. It doesn’t take an initiative, just a desire to do the right thing.

Perhaps someone should have a word with those lovely chaps and chapeens at Nobel and put a word in for Dave, (and his colleagues of course).

Addendum.
After watching this film over a dozen times, I’ve shamefully neglected to also give credit to Break Thru People Solutions who helped make it all happen.