Free-falling

Written for the Leeds savages writers meet on April 4th; inspired by a photograph by the documentarist Daniel Meadows


FREE-FALLING

Her husband would scoff if he knew how often she would leaf through the yellowed images which documented her sixteenth summer. If he could see her now, sat on the window ledge with one hand smoking an illicit cigarette like a teenager and the other holding the precious album, he would no doubt shout at her not to be so bloody stupid, to get down and get back to the important business of ironing his shirts.

Sometimes she found it hard to believe that almost forty more summers had passed since that time of ice creams and daydreams, so fresh in her mind were the memories. On other days however she struggled to reconcile the life-worn face that stared at her out of the mirror from beneath hooded eyes with the girl pouting in the photographs. With wrinkles now pursuing a relentless crusade from forehead to décolletage, it was hard to believe that she was carved of the same flesh as that girl who was all smiles and lean brown limbs; that long ago, decades before she gave up on hair dye and perms, she had once spent hour upon hour teasing her hair into those bouncy dark curls that were all the rage. That girl had turned heads; whereas this woman; well, this woman might as well be invisible.

It was to be the last holiday that she would take with her Ma and Pa; her next vacation being her honeymoon with Del on the Isle of Wight several years later. They’d been going to the holiday parks for a good few years; what with Pa usually spending nearly every waking hour at the factory where he was a supervisor; it was the one opportunity that the four of them got to spend any length of time together. At twelve her sister Karen had still been enthralled by the whole experience; donkey rides, competitions, hours spent splashing in the pool.  Helen on the other hand considered herself to be past such childish things. What she really wanted to get out of the holiday was a boyfriend; or at least the opportunity to lose the cumbersome burden of virginity before she started at Sixth Form College.

Ma had awkwardly broached the subject of sex with her just a few weeks prior to the holiday. She’d basically made out that it was a thoroughly unpleasant business that a woman would have to endure for the sake of her husband, and under no circumstances should she ever let a boy do anything to her beyond a chaste peck on the cheek outside of wedlock. Helen politely thanked her for her advice, and then promptly retreated to her room to re-read the hot sex tips column in a well thumbed copy of Cosmopolitan. If the contents of her favourite magazines were anything to go by, Ma clearly hadn’t ever done ‘it’ right. Cosmo and its many imitators had informed Helen that a great sex life was the right of every modern, liberated woman, and a wedding ring was certainly not a prerequisite these days. Deciding to follow the mantra of the magazines rather than her mother, she set off to Skegness with every hope that she would arrive there a girl, but leave a fully fledged woman.

Turning the pages of the photo album, Helen considered whether her Ma had perhaps been right all along, and that the whole bedroom business was hugely or, in her Derek’s case, averagely overrated. Fair enough it had given her two sons, but in last couple of decades it had played little part in her life. The screaming and shouting and swinging from the chandeliers type of activity still advocated by the magazines in the 21st century might be all well and good for the young ‘uns, but was not exactly an options with paper-thin walls and children prone to entering the bedroom at any time of night. The boys had both left home now; one at university and the other working; but the distance that had grown between herself and Del over the years was so great that it seemed unfeasible for them to just flick a switch, cast off the ‘Mum and Dad’ personas and rewind thirty years.

The next photo still never failed to send a shiver down her spine. Johnny Fish; oh so cool, oh so handsome, with his fashionable long, slick hair and hypnotic dark eyes. He was probably fat and bald these days, but in Helen’s dreams he would always be seventeen. She’d first laid eyes on him the afternoon that they arrived in Skegness; she’d been reluctantly playing tennis with Karen and he’d been stood by himself watching, smoking a cigarette. Helen blushed as she recalled how she had hitched up her skirt then deliberately bent over slowly to pick up the ball, ensuring that the mysterious stranger got a good flash of her knickers. Later on she’d plucked up the courage to go speak to him at the evening disco; to be honest once he started talking about the obscure bands that he was into and his passion for fishing and cars it was quickly apparently that they had very little in common, but that did little in the way of diminishing her attentions towards him. She remembered hurriedly taking the photo of him at the end of the night, her parents dragging her back to the chalet at 10pm much to her embarrassment. “I’m not a kid; I’m not a kid” she repeated with little effect as they took her by the hand and steered her away from Johnny.

The next day she sat next to the lake reading “Women in Love”; a book she’d borrowed from the library mainly on the grounds that she knew her Ma wouldn’t approve. She was struggling to get into it; Lawrence being a somewhat more challenging read than her usual boarding school or pony club yarns; but was persevering in hope that she would eventually stumble on the promised dirty bits.

“What you reading?”

Helen looked up to see Johnny and three of his friends, all boys of a similar age though none as visually appealing. 

“Oh, nothing, just a romance.” Blushes spreading across her cheeks, she scrambled to her feet.

“I’m not really into books;” one of Johnny’s friends replied. “Remind me too much of school.” Helen, in reality a voracious reader, shrugged her shoulders in what she hoped was a cool, nonchalant way.

“Do you fancy a swim?” Johnny asked. “Me and the boys were thinking of going for a dip”

The blush spread further at the thought of Johnny in his swimming trunks; messing about in the pool together, bare flesh touching.

“I’d love to but I don’t have my costume with me. I could go back to the chalet and get it though.”

“What do you think, lads?” one of the nameless boys asked. “We’re kind of in a hurry; places to go you know?”

“You don’t need a costume;” Johnny replied with a wink. “Just take off your dress and in you get!”

Beginning in spite of herself to feel a little uncomfortable with all the attention; Helen glanced around to see if her parents were nearby.

“I think I just heard my Ma calling; I’d better go see what she wants;” she said hurriedly.

“Don’t you go worrying about your Ma, you’re not a kid anymore, are you?” Johnny grabbed her wrist and held her in place. “If you want a swim, you don’t need your Mummy’s permission.”

“Like I said, I’ve not got my swimsuit;” she replied. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

The boys glanced at each other; a silent plan passing between them.

“Oh yes you can;” responded one of the boys who had until now been silent. Before she could even catch a breath to object Helen found their hands on her arms and shoulders, pushing hard. In an instant she was flying backwards through the air towards the cold water of the lake. The experience of freefalling through the air was exhilarating; in that brief moment between land and water the combination of fear and excitement created a sensation of intense pleasure that she had never felt before and, to be truthful, had never felt since. The last thing she saw before she hit the water, screams rising in her throat, was Johnny holding the camera that never left her side, beckoning her to smile as he pressed the shutter.

Pushing soaking hair away from her face and rubbing water from her eyes; screams of protest quickly transformed into shrieks of joy.

“Woo; it’s fresh! Are you boys not going to come join me?!”

“Helen Walker, get out of there this instant!” Stood on the bank with expressions of horror on their face were her parents; her Mum clasping her forehead, her Dad’s arm outstretched towards her. Reluctantly she took his hand and clambered out of the water. All eyes were on her as she stood there, soaking wet.  

“You’re a disgrace to yourself and to the family, Helen;” her father shouted. “Go dry yourself off then pack your things. This holiday is over. We’re going home.” Her mother gathered up her things and snatched the camera from Johnny’s hands.

Looking back Helen smiled as she recalled just how powerful she had felt for that minute; every boy and man seemed to be staring longingly at the thin cotton dress clinging tightly to every inch of her body, every woman trying and failing to disguise their envy at her youth. Her father’s anger was of no relevance – all that mattered was the way in which Johnny was looking her up and down.

“Nice knowing you;” he shouted as she was dragged away from him for the second time in as many days.

“Pity I didn’t get the chance to know you better;”she replied with a laugh.

She’d never seem him again, although he was the subject of many a fantasy over the next two years until she met Derek and instead channelled her energies into breaking his resolve to save himself until marriage, a resolve which lasted approximately 4 weeks after their first date.

Oh what she would give to have the chance to feel like that again, to be that person again! Legs swinging from the window ledge, she closed her eyes and imagined letting go, taking flight, freefalling.

Opening them again, she slammed the photo-album shut and climbed down from the ledge. Falling would be easy, sure, but there was a pile of washing to be done and the beds wouldn’t make themselves. She put aside the album and the promise it held, and set to work before her husband got home.

Lurgy and Turkey

I’m in the process of recovering from a bout of one of those stomach bugs that strikes without warning and provides an uninvited detox, a ruthlessly efficient purge of the system to put any health kick to shame. The house reeks of the delightful combination of bleach and febreeze with which I’ve doused every inch in the hope of eliminating all traces of the traumas recently passed. Solid food is making a hesitant but welcome return and with it energy and the ability to stay awake for more than an hour.

Fortunately the lurgy didn’t strike until Thursday, so I was able to make this week’s Leeds Savages writing meet. I hadn’t managed to complete anything on theme (‘A New Start’ being the topic of choice, and one on which I have more than a few ideas that i’ll try to put to paper soon), however the five minute writing task at the beginning of the meet resulted in the following random little piece – the subject was ‘It was cold’ and inspired a variety of weird and wonderful stories and poems. This effort is neither but quite fun!

IT WAS COLD in the gloom

Of the ice encrusted tomb

Where Boris came to take his final rest

Frozen with claustrophobic fear

Too bitter to shed a tear

Or voice the horror in his increasingly icy breast.

Only yesterday morn at the crack of dawn

He’d been running ‘round without a single care

A quick wring of his collar and Boris was a goner

And soon they’d plucked him bare.

He always knew it was his duty

As a much vaunted thirty pound beauty

To come to such a tragic Shakespearian fate

And come December’s winter chill

He’d inevitably be topping the bill

The prize turkey on the honoured Christmas plate.

Not at all autobiographical.... (hmmmm)

A light hearted piece written for the most recent Leeds Savages writing group meeting...


'Me, My Sofa and I'

Top of Form

The rain beating outside made her feel
That staying in was really no big deal
Why pound the sodden streets in uncomfortable clothes
When you could be living vicariously through TV dating shows
Come Sunday's early hours no better place
Than wrapped in a duvets warm embrace
As she pondered the quizzes in Heat Magazine
She tried to convince herself that this was living the dream
Trying not question whether she was onto a winner
Living it up with a microwave dinner
But slowly crept upon her a nagging fear
That if it continued like this where would she be in a year?
If only she had a crystal ball to see
If she was building an inevitable destiny
Of no boyfriends, no parties, no semblance of fun
But online bingo, a dozen cats, less social life than her mum
She didn't want the epitaph when she came to die
To read  'True friends to the end, Me my sofa and I'

So the following weekend she lovingly polished her finest dancing shoes
Invited all her contacts out for a night of gossip and booze
Come 2am when by habit she’d be curled up snug in bed
She was downing shots and trying to ignore the swimming in her head
And at 3am outside Chicken Cottage crying into cheesy chips
Her paralytic friends were offering sage advice whilst thinking 'get a grip'
Sunday morning texts flew to and fro, filling in the gaps
That somehow she’d managed to almost forget, a convenient memory lapse
A cigarette burn in her favourite dress, an empty wallet and blistered feet
Her favourite shoes and dignity discarded on some unknown city street
Her appetite for a more exciting night, and her liver more than sated
By an experience she wouldn’t rush to revisit; living it up was clearly overrated
So when the next Saturday came round she decided there was no shame
In admitting that clubbing was really not her game
Ten years ago she’d have carved up the floor
But now she didn’t care who thought her a bore
Alcopops and sticky floors could never contend
Now she’d found the recipe for the perfect weekend
And she couldn’t care less if her gravestone read ‘She loved pinot, pyjamas, trash tv
But not the company of me, my sofa and I, but my sofa, my friends and me.’

High Heels and Treadmills

It's official - I'm disappearing, fading away, shrinking from view. Not, alas, from dramatic weight loss (1 pound in two weeks definitely not worth shouting about), but from the scales at the gym's disturbing proclamation that I've shrunk an inch over the past seven days. I calculate that if my diminuation continues at such a rapid rate then by January 2017 I will have completely vanished, nothing left but a pair of shoes and some contact lenses. As I'd be beyond the help of even the highest of heels, any acquaintances or indeed passers by with size 3 and a half feet would be welcome to help themselves to my admittedly vast collection.

It could, on the other hand, just be that this morning my posture was abysmal. Hard as I try my default condition on a Sunday morning is to reluctantly drag myself onto the treadmill, making sideways glances to the neighbouring machines where I view with suspicion the army of super-charged gym bunnies for whom 300 press ups before 9am are as vital a routine as my morning cup of tea. I may not be enthusiastic, but hey, at least I'm there.

One of the best things about going to the gym is the opportunity for people watching. My destination of choice is the local council leisure centre, not only a mecca for those wishing to get a bit sweaty but also home to a cafe where you can undo all of your good work with a pint of bitter and a plate piled high with cheesey chips. You really do get people from all walks of life there, from boys barely in their teens trying desperately to bulk up; to senior citizens with dozens of marathons to their name. Stick thin girls in cropped t-shirts moan to their equally skinny mates about muffin tops and love handles that my naked eye certainly can't see. Overly enthusiastic newbies with all the gear and no idea jostle for equipment alongside frankly scary looking muscle men with weightlifting belts and arms that would give Popeye a run for his money. 

For each hardcore exercise nut there are probably three gym-goers just like me (ok, maybe not quite as unfit as me); those for whom exercise is something they begrudgingly do through a sense of duty; a desire to keep the body ticking over; or to atone for all those sneaky mid-week glasses of wine and crisps. Is it worth it? Hard to tell - on one hand, I haven't disappeared yet; but on the other - well, I haven't disappeared yet. Like most women I would love to drop a dress size or two, but if I were given a choice between being the size I am today or invisible - well, all those shoes need someone to wear them, and the joy of footwear is that it doesn't give a **** about a fat day.

Short Story - Preparing for the Worst

As promised; here's the short story that I wrote for this week's Leeds Savages writing group meeting...



PREPARING FOR THE WORST

Preparation is key; no, scrap that; preparation is everything. Be prepared for the worst of situations, the website said; and without fail things will only turn out for the best. I’ve always gone in for the mantra that a pessimist is never disappointed, and on the whole it’s served me alright. This time however I fear that things are going to go well beyond the realm of mere disappointment; based on what I’ve heard about what some of our guys across the pond have been put through recently I am, apologies for being crude, quite literally crapping my pants. Grown men reduced to tears; bodies shaking as these eternal control freaks for the first time ever learn what it’s like to lose their grip on a life previously diarised to the nth degree. No way was that going to be me; not if there was anything on this godless earth that I could do to help it.  

Hence my foray into the labyrinth of online advice so usefully available at ones fingertips these days, and hence why I’m currently tied to a cold table wearing only my boxers with a gag in my mouth and genuine terror painted across my sweat covered face. Her platform boots pound on the floorboards, each heavy thud like a punch to the chest. Shiny, thigh high; certainly footwear created with fetish in mind rather than engineered for running for the bus, doing the weekly shop or taking the kids to school.

THUD THUD THUD

She hovers above my shackled body, her face just beyond my gaze, eyes instead drawn to slightly mottled thighs, a blotchy artificial tan unsuccessfully trying to disguise the excess flab. A tiny skirt constructed from the same mock leather as the boots barely covers her dignity, underneath which I can see red knickers; not the flim flam, frilly and lacy sweet nothings of fantasy, but big, sturdy, practical garments. Like the ones in that film, you know, the one where that skinny blonde American plied herself with pies in order to portray the typical bloaty neurotic British bird. Bridget Jones, that’s the one. Bridget Jones pants.

THWACK!

She cracks her whip on the floor, its path spiralling mere millimetres from my ear.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Michael. And what do bad boys deserve?”

I try to reply, but given my current situation this is a rhetorical question; my mouth clearly otherwise engaged.

“Bad boys get punished, Michael. They get what they deserve.”

As the whip cracks again just a whisper away from my incapacitated jaw, I try to refocus my mind.

The Boy Scouts may have worn dreadful outfits and engaged in far too much wholesome, worthy activity for my liking, but they did have a pretty great motto. ‘Semper Paratus’. Be Prepared. Preparation, that’s what it’s all about. Preparation, physical and mental, is the path to success.

She turns and picks up one of the candles that provide the only light in this dark chamber. She holds the flickering flame over my naked torso, then slowly tips it until hot wax hits my chest and I writhe with exquisite pain.

“Enjoy that, do you, you sick, pathetic bitch? Well let’s see if you enjoy this.”

Putting the candle aside, she grabs my smarting wax encrusted nipple and twists hard. This is really not my scene at all, and I’m certainly not planning any repeat visits, but I’m determined to see this through. Michael Porter is not a quitter, never has been, never will be.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, you dirty little banker. Lowest of the low, that’s what you are.”

With her free hand she loosens the straps holding the gag in my mouth and I gratefully inhale a lung full of incense-laden air.

“Tell me, slave boy. Tell mistress exactly what you are.”

With a spluttering cough I clear my throat.

“I’m a bad boy, mistress. I’m a bad boy and a dirty little banker and I deserve all the punishment that I get.”

With a agonising flick she releases my nipple from her grasp.

“That’s correct; you’re the scum of the earth, you bankers; and don’t you know it.” She spits on the floor in emphasis of her disgust then starts to loosen the straps that are holding my arms in place.  “Yes, that’s why so many of you come here for mistress to put you in your place.” She slides down to the foot of the ankles and opens the clasps that have been securing my ankles. “Now then, before we send you on your merry way, I think it’s time that we turn you over and introduce you to mistress’s paddle. I hope you’re prepared for the spanking of your life.”

Preparation, bittersweet preparation; the very reason why I’m here. Fearing the potentially even more agonising consequences of non-compliance, I manoeuvre myself onto all fours and grit my teeth as I await the inevitable.

Fifteen minutes later, with red raw stinging buttocks hiding beneath my made to measure suit, I emerge from the dungeon into the bright light of the waiting area. Sat thumbing through magazines are a couple of guys just like me; one of whom I’m sure that I vaguely recognise from the trading floor. Deliberately avoiding eye contact I hurry from the building and make my way back to the office; the Rolex I treated myself to with last year’s bonus informing me that I don’t even have the time to grab a coffee before the dreaded appointment.

When I arrive, slightly out of breath and pumped with adrenaline, the door is closed and his personal assistant indicates for me to take a seat. Slowly I lower myself down, lips pursed, knuckles white, every fibre of my body trying not to wince as my stinging flesh makes contact with the chair. The next five or so minutes seem to pass inordinately slowly, and I begin to fear that the fire rushing through my veins will subside too quickly, will not achieve the desired effect. Just when I start to feel concern that all that preparation was for nothing, the dragon behind the desk calls my name. “Mr Porter? Mr Lancashire is ready to see you now.”

With a deep breath, I deliberately graze my buttocks against the arm of the chair, igniting a fresh surge of pain to carry me through. I’ve put myself through the most intense pain in order to numb myself to whatever agonies I’m about to face. Has all the preparation been worthwhile, and will it achieve the desired effect? Ask me again in a hour, once my appraisal is through, and I’ll let you know.

Less wobble - more productivity....

Decent start to the year - I've just managed to be disciplined enough to sit myself down and write a short story for this week's Leeds Savages Writing Group meeting. I'll publish it on here after debuting it at Wednesday's meet - it's a little 'adult' in nature (might be a bit much for your granny but no worse than that!) and a bit different from most of my writing but hopefully it'll get a decent reception.

Weekends seem to go so fast, it's nearly always impossible to fit in everything that you'd hoped. I'd hoped to get two trips to the gym in, but have settled with one long session plus some time chasing a friend's toddler around Golden Acre Park, which surely must burn off more than a few calories. Today marks the start of my efforts to get a bit more healthy - in a deliberate avoidance of the inevitably unsuccessful new year resolution I hereby declare 8th January the point at which I A: Start eating less rubbish and B: Make a concerted effort to move a lot more. My biggest stumbling block will surely be the fact that in my workplace barely a day goes past without some form of temptation, be it samples of tasty new products to 'test' (do calories consumed in the cause of research somehow not count?) or colleagues bringing in yummy treats (working alongside @Cupcakeleeds is always a pleasure, never a chore!). I've just got to try and stay focused on the goal and hopefully, a couple of months down the line, there will be 10% less Heather in volume terms, and 10% more Heather productivity.

Anyhow, check out my blog on Thursday if you want to read 'Preparing for the worst' - its only 1,000 words long so a quick read - though I won't guarantee that it'll be a 'painless' one.....

On New Years Resolutions

Congratulations! Give yourself a well deserved pat on the back, crack open the champagne - or at least that dusty supermarket perry that's been mouldering at the back of the cupboard since the nineties – it’s time to celebrate. The very fact that you’re reading this means that you've achieved something that was beyond Kim Jong-Il, Osama Bin Laden and Muammar Gaddafi - you've survived 2011. Good job!

At present it is virtually impossible to turn on the TV or radio or meander through the twitterverse without hearing those three ominous words; 'New Years Resolution'. Be it the shock of an alien date on the calendar, a reaction to the excess fest of Christmas or simply the expectations of modern culture that inspire the desire to publicly declare good intentions, in nine out of ten cases failure will be inevitable. Waking on January 1st with the headache from hell and somewhat hazy memories of the previous night's antics it can seem like a great idea to commit to giving up the demon drink. Grand plans are drawn up whereby those nights previously passed down the boozer will now be spent at an eye wateringly expensive gym where you will force your ill-equipped body to participate in activity well behind its physical capabilities. Such self flagellation can be masochistically pleasurable for a while, but a couple of weeks down the line the lure of a new glass of red whilst curled up on the sofa will  outweigh the questionable appeal of Boxercise and continued sobriety.

Setting and sharing personal goals can certainly be a worthwhile exercise, articulating your intentions to others potentially leading to support which will help you realise dreams that may never have been achieved if they’d remained confined to the back of the mind. The best intended resolutions can however also lead to disappointment; grand plans which never come to fruition resulting in a sense of failure which drags you down rather than propelling you to make the most out of life. In 2013 I'll turn 30 and at present it looks highly unlikely that by then I'll have achieved any of the things that I'd always imagined myself to have ticked off before I entered my fourth decade. What I've recently come to realise however, the knowledge of which would have saved the younger me a great deal of agony, is that it really doesn't matter. Sh*t happens – deal with it. Life is littered with highs and lows, and whilst the best laid plans may go awry sometimes the most rewarding experiences are those which are completely unexpected. Even the hardest times can, in retrospect, serve to strengthen us as individuals – if every life consisted purely of one perfectly choreographed rite of passage after another then the world would surely be a far duller place; our libraries empty, radios silent, tv screens blank.

So as you wave goodbye to 2011, don’t waste valuable hours trying to compose a mental script of the year ahead. If you want to quit smoking, lose weight or learn a foreign language by all means make the effort, but treat it as a continually evolving day by day challenge rather than making some goal plucked out of thin air the be all and end all without which the year will be doomed. Throughout our education and careers we are all subject to more than enough targets and performance evaluation – why make your personal life just another benchmarking exercise? Take pride in being you, and going forward see every day as worthy of celebration (champagne of course optional).