Modern Man

Prince Charles threw himself down theatrically onto the chaise longue.  “God these endless commitments are becoming so tedious,” he huffed, “I spend all my energies meeting heroic Mrs This and amazing Mr That and unveiling silly little plaques in community centres and going to boring functions where no-one quite has the guts to have a proper conversation with me.”
Camilla “aaahhed” and pulled her face the way one does to a tantrum fuelled child.
“This country is going to the dogs you know,” he said, suddenly resigned and left by his initial fire, “Mama’s washed her hands of it, can’t wait to saddle me with it.  The population is just so bloody miserable nowadays, despite having everything they want.  The more money they have, the more they want.  They never have time for anything or take time over anything and my god whatever happened to good taste?  Where did that disappear to?  Lost underneath the piles of money I suppose.”  Camilla could sense the fire returning.  She was becoming rather bored with these regular rants and was unable to see quite what His Royal Highness’ problem was.
“Sweet pea”, she cooed, “you know what I do when I’m feeling a bit het up about life don’t you?  Go and have a bloody good pampering that’s what.  Works wonders, you should try it.”
“Ah yes my little turtle dove”, he replied, a little too patronisingly for her liking, “but look where that got us the last time.  We almost had a revolution on our hands when they got wind of your indulgent hairdo.”
“£30k may seen like indulgence to some, but is cheap at half the price with Jean-Pierre”, she shot back on the defensive.  Camilla felt her feathers (and her hair) really quite ruffled now.
“Suit yourself dearest”, she said as she swanned out of the room, “I was only trying to help.”
Charles settled back into the chaise longue thoughtfully.  His good lady wife had sown the seed of something quite fabulous in his idle mind.

It could not be said that His Royal Highness was not passionate.  He was full of it and did not do very well at keeping it to himself and maintaining the air of impartiality that his dear Mama had mastered so well.  He was passionate about organic food, passionate about architecture and of course his big passion was nature, with which he chatted and of which he painted.  As well as talking the talk he was a man of action, with many ventures under his royal belt to date.  So, he was thinking, why not take some action on this one?  His future subjects of Great Britain needed enlightenment, they needed hope, inspiration, direction, a bit of good taste injecting into their daily drudgery and he would be their man.  More accurately, he would be the man for the men.  He would show his men the way, he would help them to become renaissance men, dandies for the 21st century.
Charles had been feeling for a while that something needed to be done about the lot of the great British man and had been pondering what he could do to help them for some time.  ‘The Modern Man’, a contradiction in terms believed Charles, today’s men are a down-trodden lot, beaten into submission by these bloody feminist women.  I mean, one asks oneself, should modern man be defined by an ability to do the housework, the shopping, the cooking and caring for the children?  No was his firm conviction.  It was not what nature intended.  In nature the males are to be admired, the peacocks, the clothes’ horses, the sparkling jewels of their species.
And so our Prince Charles began to plan his next venture.  His most personal and, he believed, potentially his most socially beneficial yet.  To bring the light back into the lives of British men and show them the way; help them find their truly modern man within.  He would make it his mission to revive the Great British dandy.

Charles rang one of his most trusted friends and advisors to bring him up to speed on his great plan.  The Prince’s excitement was received down the line with an initial pause, followed by a sharp intake of breath and, “Wonderful idea your Royal Highness, and one will be seeing this as a temporary activity until one’s time comes to take the throne of course.  As the Monarch one must be seen to be utterly impartial in all aspects of life.”
Of course this was no revelation to Charles, “So be it,” he stated, breathing an inward sigh of relief, “one is perfectly capable of stepping aside and letting William get on with the job, as one has finally found one’s true calling in life.”

Second Love

Across the sweaty mass of faces in the club my eyes land on his.
My body stalls.
I haven’t seen him for a year, not since he broke my heart.
“Do you want to leave?” asks Lisa, reading what is written all over my face.
“No.”  I want to look again at that face that was branded into my memory.  That face I had studied for hours so I wouldn’t ever forget it.  Hear his voice again.  Look into those blue eyes again.  His hair is cut differently, he never used to wear checked shirts.
“He’s coming over”, whispers Lisa.
We say hello.  We deal with the niceties.  He asks about my degree, I tell him about the first.  He looks like a proud father, “I always knew you could,” he smiles, “I probably did you a favour by getting out of your life.”
“I’m getting married” he fires a bull’s eye into my heart.
Someone he hardly knew, only just met, on the other side of the world.  “When you know, you just know,” he explains, dealing me the fatal blow whilst looking like the cat that got the cream.
“That’s exactly what I thought about him,” I wail later back at Lisa’s house as she puts her arm around my shoulders and tries to stroke away the pain.

Sharing

Sharing the shelter of the bus
waiting to be deposited around the city.
Sharing the damp air misting the windows.
Plugged into our own private worlds
through an ipod, a phone, a newspaper, a book.
We don’t want to share anything.

Gone

You’re not there; I haven’t heard you for a while.
It’s been ages since we sat outside your door; faces tilted for the sun.
When did we last share a bag of chips?
I can’t remember the last time I waited on the other end of the phone,
while you rattled and clattered to put it down at your end.
I want to hear you laugh.
You understood, you got it.  We could talk.
But you’re not there are you?
You are gone.
I will never hear you again.
But I leave your number in my phone, your address in my book.

21 again

You’re only 21 once.
That’s no secret,
but the secret booking
for the secret party
was.
Until it passed to me
by accident.
My secret 21st birthday party.
So, my secret
was keeping secret
from everyone
that I knew their secret.
Not hearing white lies,
pretending not to know.
I wished I didn’t know.
I didn’t want to know.
Didn’t want it to be real.

Why does she not know?
How can she not know?
She should know
it would be the last thing for me.
Why does she not know?
Centre of attention
not for me.
She tried so hard.
Tried to do the right thing
and got it so wrong.

Wrong boyfriend for a start.
Selfish, whingeing, whining,
pathetic that my attention
might not be all for him.
A wrong cocktail of family
mixed with work mates
mixed with school mates
mixed with his surly kin.
All hinged on
and pivoting around
me.
Pretending.
Wrong.

It was over and I was relieved
that I was released
from my role as pretender.
Guilty relief
just as fresh
14 years on.

The Last Christmas Do

Shining for no-one
January Christmas decorations
at the post Christmas work’s Christmas do.
Take your pick
Pernod and black, Gin and orange
something unknown and blue.

He won’t dance,
so it’s just you
new frock
and silent disapproval.
His sullen mardy face
a pathetic reaction too many.

And then
you’re on the outside inside
looking in and out.
It’s you but it’s not.
You see
what will be
a split second ahead.
And
it leaves your hand
slowed down by the rage
you’re throwing at him;
confidence chipping
days of silent rage
taken time
and a bottle
which misses
and smashes
beside his sulking face.

Now it’s all quiet
and it all settles
in the clean space of your head.
Everything in its right place.

How to make a good cup of tea

Take a cup
Better if it’s white
Bone china’s best
Freshest water into the kettle
Wait a while
Warm your cup
A bit of water
Sloosh it around
And away down the sink
In with your teabag
Wait for the boil
Straight into the cup
Squeeze the bag hard
Wait again
It’s mashing
Splash of full fat milk
Clatter your spoon
‘Til it’s the colour of slightly tanned skin
Don’t skimp a step
Everything’s crucial
It’s not a thing to be rushed
All good things worth waiting for
Especially this cup of tea.

How not to do PR

I met a grinning cynic last night
He used to be a travel journalist
“Lovely,” I said
“But I started asking, what’s the point,” he grinned “and I got very bored”
“What do you do now?” I asked the inevitable
“Oh I’m in PR,” he said, “it’s equally pointless but better paid”
“Have you got any clients?” I wanted to ask.

Sleeper

Two little girls in prams with mums on the bus.
One’s asleep sucking her dummy – an overgrown baby,
the other’s wide awake, dummy free and looking for someone to play with.
She strokes the face of the sleeper
who doesn’t stir.
She pulls out her dummy.
She knows she’s pushing it.
She gets a half-hearted telling-off.
Dummy goes back in.
She wants a proper reaction.
She pokes the sleeper’s eyes to try and open them.
Surprised tears announce the rude awakening.
“I squashed her eyes,” she explains with a smile.
Mum is embarrassed now.
I look out of the window.

Just the Ticket

Mary hit the enter key very hard, very quickly, more than a few times and then growled through gritted teeth. She wanted to do this about as much as she wanted to pull out her own teeth, but she picked up the phone and dialled. The first time through the oratory assault course she failed and ended up with a dead line. The second attempt was, she supposed, successful.
“Good Morning East Midland Trains how can I help you? You’re talking to Kevin.” The very un-Kevin-like voice greeted her.
“Hello,” sighed Mary as polite as she could muster, “I’d like to book a ticket I’ve seen on your website. I’ve booked it online but it’s stuck on the confirmation page.”
“Of course ma’am, which station are you travelling to?”
“From Brighton to Sheffield.”
“And the date?”
“The 23rd of February, the ticket I’ve seen is a single and leaves Brighton at 0637.”
“OK ma’am just checking for you.” There was a short pause and Mary held her breath for what she knew may be coming next.
“That train isn’t coming up on my system ma’am, there is no train at 0637.” Mary felt the frustration rising and took a deep breath.
“But it was showing as available and I booked it, but….”
“It will be the 0711 with 2 changes arriving in Sheffield 1207, at a price of £49. Would you like to book the ticket ma’am?”
“No no, hang on a minute, what about this 0637 train I saw on the website? Also the price was only £24.50.” Mary had the sneaking suspicion that Kevin was not actually listening to her.
“Ma’am the 0637 train does not exist and we only release a limited number of super duper saver advance like gold dust tickets.”
“But the website let me book it.”
“Website is not always 100% up to date ma’am.”
“What?” The agitation rose a few more centimetres, it had now climbed to the top of Mary’s chest. “I thought that was the whole point of a website?”
“Website is not real time ma’am. You must have tried to book a ticket that had actually been removed.”
“But, but it let me book it, it was advertised as available.” Mary was aware she was starting to sound less like the articulate no-nonsense woman who had initiated this exchange.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but it obviously is no longer available. I suggest you call back in a few days to see if any more tickets have been released at the time you want to travel.”
“No no no no no.” That was it, our Kevin had done it, he had sent Mary over the edge with just that one innocent word ‘obviously’ and she had not even heard the ridiculous instruction that came afterwards. In full flow she continued, “I want to buy the ticket as advertised on your website now, today, immediately please.”
“I’m sorry ma’am, I’m unable to do that.”
“Why not?”
“The computer won’t allow me to do that, there are no tickets.”
This was it, no more holding herself back, no more Mrs Reasonable, she did not give a damn how she sounded, “This is ridiculous, I’ve spent 2 hours of my morning trying to book this imaginary ticket. I’m only trying to get to Sheffield, not Narnia.”
“Excuse me ma’am?”
“Never mind. What’s the point in having a website if it’s not up to date?”
“I’m sorry about your experience today ma’am.” Replied Kevin who sounded as if he had heard it all before.
“I’d like to talk to your supervisor or manager about this please.”
“Yes of course ma’am.” There was a short pause, enough for Mary to think she had been cut off. Then the voice came back,
“I can put you through to my supervisor now ma’am.”
“Hang on hang on before you do, what’s their name? In case I get cut off.” Mary found a pen that didn’t work and the back of an old envelope.
“His name is Frank ma’am but you won’t be cut off.”
“OK, Frank,” she scored into the paper with the useless pen, “And what’s the direct telephone number?”
“It’s 08456……”
“That’s the main number I originally rang, don’t you have a direct number in case I get cut off?” Mary said, feeling the power slipping away.
“That is the number ma’am. Don’t worry ma’am I’ll put you through now, you won’t be cut off.” And with those merry words the inevitable happened. Nothing.