Harold and the Duck

So I've not written a lot for a while. I know. Well, not a lot that I've posted on here at least! The good news is that I've got the bug again. The bad news, at least in some way, is that I've started a Creative Writing Course with the Open University. Now that is in fact good news but it does mean that I am going to be writing mostly for the course for the next couple of months. Little pieces, projects and the like. However with the fact that any feedback is worth getting I decided that I'd post pieces here too.

The premise of the bit below is that we set challenges for one another based on a word or item. The item thrust my way (on a forum, not literally) was a stuffed duck that squeaked. The result, is Harold and the Duck.

Harold carried his toy duck through to Fiona. As he dropped it by the side of the bed a meek squeak crept out as if in fear of breaking the silence. The silence that had lasted for too long as far as Harold was concerned. Still Fiona didn’t stir, her tired eyes stayed fixed on the television but she was taking nothing in. A blur of colours and white noise to provide at least the sensory numbing she needed to hold back the tidal wave of despair. Harold was having none of this, he was tired of being ignored and more importantly, he was worried about Fiona.

He rested his head on the edge of the bed. No reaction. Finally he gave in and nudged Fiona’s arm. Startled she flinched, scaring Harold who immediately withdrew. “I’m sorry Harry, I’m so sorry mummy didn’t mean to scare you”. Tentatively he returned to the bedside as Fiona cooed and stroked the hair from his face. As his heartbeat calmed he paused, reached down and held the duck towards her, squeaking it, once, then twice. All of a sudden, as if something inside her had been switched on, Fiona took the duck and a faint suggestion of a sorrowful smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. She lifted Harold onto the bed and held him.

“I guess you think you haven’t got anyone to play with anymore don’t you young man? I just really miss him. But I know it’s been hard for you too. It's been tough on all of us. Still, you don’t have to worry anymore. We just have to be strong for each other now, starting today. What do you say?”

Harold said nothing but leant lovingly on her listening to her heart beating. It’d been three weeks since the accident and this was the first time that she’s spoken to him. It’d taken Harold ten days himself to realise that Steve wasn’t coming back. That explained the tears. The cards. The strangers who visited almost every day, talking to Fiona behind closed doors and away from the children. Harold was the man of the house now whether he liked it or not so it was his job to get Fiona back to the world of the living.

“So what do you want to do?” said Fiona, energized by his affection. I know. It’s been long overdue. I think it’s about time we went for a long walk in the snow – you love the snow don’t you?” Harold wasn’t waiting one moment. He leapt to his feet, tail wagging, and fetched his leash from downstairs. Finally she was back and he wasn’t going to let her slip away again.

Twitter is the New Paedophiles

Officials have announced that using Twitter is as bad as touching kids.

This may seem a disproportionate statement and I should apologise if anyone reading was inappropriately handled as a minor but, as a nation, we seem intent on having some kind of epidemic in our lives and Twitter is the new threat to humanity. In the late 90s we were all living next to a paedo. That curtain twitch wasn’t a caring neighbour ensuring that any local ne’er do wells aren’t robbing you blind, crapping on your lawn and spraying “Chaz 4 eva” across your driveway. No. They wanted to do your children. 

Obey!

The clamour faded as we realised that they probably didn’t want to touch anyone, they wanted to kill everyone! Yes 90 year olds Mr and Mrs Jones with their seventeen cats and rusting Fiesta were actually terrorists, intent on destroying you, your household, the whole street and everything you stand for or had ever considered standing for had it not looked like a bit too much effort. 

Now the maniacs Saddam, Osama and Mad Dog are all underground, Bush is ousted and there’s only Blair to be tracked and trialled, we need a new threat. Ever hungry to fill our insatiable need for villainy the press are more than happy to provide one. Only this time in the form of social media. Yes, the Premier League footballer, your local MP, the fit one from that forgettable girl band, some bloke at the hockey club and even the scruffy student next to you are all at it. Chances are the person sat opposite you now, seemingly just sending a carefree text to their mum are secretly doing it now! They are Tweeting! Terrifyingly, you might not like what they say. In fact, astonishingly in this day and age, you may even disagree with it! This must be stopped.


In the space of just 140 characters it would appear that anyone has the power to incite hatred, fear, disgust, disdain or a world-wide “trend”. Something akin to flares in the 60s, or the habit of singers scratching and screeching out lyrics of songs at the moment in order to infer passion and emotion in place of ability and musical talent. It matters not how obviously insane or irritatingly stupid you are. In fact the more so the better by all accounts! God forbid Joey Barton or Jordan, sorry, Katie Price hash tag some sort of revolutionary utterance or else we may be waking up to an entirely different world tomorrow!


My hockey club, my workplace, there is no escaping the fact that somewhere people are tweeting idiotic things they haven’t the mental capacity to think through and somewhere else a mass of people with not a lot else on are not only reading it but are literally incensed that they dare think such a thing let alone tell their tragic line of followers about it.

What happened to the common sense in the world? What happened to the naturally in-built filter that stopped us listening (equally dangerously one could argue) to the tried and tested academics, community leaders and national figureheads? Stephen Hawking? Nelson Mandella? Johnny Ball and Fred Dibnah!  How were we suddenly tuned in to the “thoughts” of some tart that screwed some guy on the last reality tv spin off? Most importantly of all – why do we care?

I am all for a free media for the one main reason that I can choose what I take in, what I ignore and most of all, the credence I award it. I will admit to you now that I do, on occasion, read The Sun. I say read. It has pretty pictures and it amuses me. I for not one second care about any of the contents; it has never stirred me to write a strongly worded letter of complaint, moved me to tears or for that matter initiated the batting of a single eyelid. It’s toss. Glossy, imaginative at best, toss. I find it embarrassing that as a nation, a race even, we can’t just take what Twitter is on face value.

Twitter is a way to while away precious seconds at work, to vent grievances, to report your daily life to the electronic vacuum in the vain attempt to believe that someone actually cares. The fact that people do should reflect more on their own empty lives than the Tweeter themselves shouldn’t it?

Big Announcement Time!

Dear Blog readers I have some big news. I’m not one for large Twitter announcements about my latest retirement from the England squad (I’ll play when asked Fabio), newest movie role (still available Mr Jackson) or window breaking episode (tut tut Matt Prior). But I have decided that this may be the best forum to announce this news. Ladies. Gentlemen. I’m in love!

I haven’t managed to tell the object of my affection this directly but, as any male reader will know, it’s blooming difficult! You don’t want to sound too needy, desperate, and we’ve only been together a couple of months. But the fact is when it is right it’s right and despite being totally different to “my type” I do get the buzz every time we’re together. The tingles of expectation, surge of confidence, the feeling of one-ness and unity that makes the whole world disappear each moment I hold her. It’s something I’ve not felt for a couple of years and I’d almost forgotten the elation. Just thinking about things now brings a broad smile to my face and wistful remembrance of the last time we spent time together.

It’s almost tragic to admit I know it won’t last. I mean I hope it will but the problem is I’ve learned several times in the past that these things just don’t. One, maybe two years at best before things seem cracked and no matter how much you tape over them, you know the cracks are there and things are just never the same. Sure, there are moments, but they become few and far between and the rest of the time you know that the connections aren’t as sweet. Then, one day, you just bite the bullet and there’s a replacement just around the corner.

Sorry for the melodrama - for now I’m enjoying the good times as I know it’s a rarity to be cherished, adored and savoured whilst I can, spending as much time together as possible. I don’t even care if Bill says you have no middle! I’m sure everyone else thinks theirs is equally as special but they just won’t have what I know we have, my beautiful CA Plus 5000 cricket bat.