FIGURES OF SPEECH

MY LITTLE SWEET’EART

HEAD TABLE AT A WEDDING RECEPTION. A MAN IN HIS FIFTIES GETS UP, STAGGERS SLIGHTLY, STEADIES HIMSELF. HE’S A BIT FLUSHED AND HIS TIE IS ASKEW. HE TAPS A GLASS FOR ATTENTION.

Ladies and Gennelmen, thank you all for being 'ere today for the....conjoinment of my bootiful daughter Stacey and her new husband Kevin (HE’S SUDDENLY TUGGED BY SOMEONE AND HE LEANS DOWN).....Kelvin.

Now then, let's be honest…..Kelvin may not be the most perfect man in the world but compared to some o' the chinless wonders and dodgy lookin' desperado's she's dragged into my house, he's Brad bleedin' Pitt. The kid's alright. The actor Spencer Tracey once said to one of his students "Remember your lines and try not to bump into the furniture." Honestly, you can't ask more of anyone than that.

Apparently, they both wanted to do everythin’ traditional, like, so when they decided to hitch up he comes up to me, shakin' like a leaf, and says "M-m-mister Carpenter, sir, I've come to ask you for your daughter's hand." So I said to him "Well, son, you can have her hand, but the rest of her belongs to us." That's when I realised the poor kid needed to work on his sense of humour.

So, in line with the whole "traditional" thing, Stace told me and her mum it was her dream to get married in church, proper like. (PAUSE) I gotta say, this came as a bit of a surprise to me. For a start, the last time she was in church she was being baptised and probably can't remember the experience. And when she answered the door to a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses, she saw 'em off with somethin' like "Get a proper job you fucking low-life God botherers!" I'm just glad my little sweet’eart didn't say the same thing to the vicar marrying her.

Y'know, it’s gotta be one of the proudest moments in a man's life when he walks his daughter up the aisle. When I was asked to give Stacey away, I was pleased as punch. (PAUSE) Then I got the final bill for this shindig. D'you know how much it cost to "give away" my Stacey to Kevin (HE’S NUDGED AGAIN).....Kelvin? D'know how much? Thirty-one thousand, one hundred and eleven quid! Yeah, that's right, thirty-one grand. I mean, I don’t mean to sound a bit tight but was it really bloody necessary to buy everybody personalized napkins or hand-made chocolates or cards embossed with friggin’ gold? And the photographer (POINTS), yeah, yeah, you! Two and half thousand quid. You can get David Bailey for that. And don’t even get me started on the wedding dress. (GLANCES AT HIS DAUGHTER) Maybe next time you should marry a bloke who ain’t an orphan, we can split the cost. Oh, oh and that’s another thing…..why are there so many of you ‘ere? Who are you people? When did we get so popular we can ask three ‘undred guests to a wedding? I mean, I can see cousin Mike and his mob, Stacey’s crew lookin’ like they’ve had a rough night down a back street in Paris, me ol’ mucker Josh who threw up in the Gents, and Aunty Beryl who seems to have a colourful bird growing out of her hat. Seems to me, everyone’s got the call…..y’know like Uncle Ronnie’s second-cousin’s neighbour’s cat...

(SHAKES HIS HEAD. SIGHS) Ah, what the hell, it’s only money innit? And this is a day o’ celebration after all. So…alleged ladies and not so gentle men, chavs and chavettes, fellow drunkards, jokers and jesters and totally, totally uninvited guests, (RAISES HIS GLASS) I give you Stacey and Kevin…KELVIN! 

POOR LITTLE SCRAP

A WOMAN IN HER EARLY 40’S IS WASHING UP AND LOOKING INTENTLY OUT OF THE WINDOW WHILE WASHING UP.SHE’S TALKING TO HERSELF.

Look at them. Just look at them. Honestly, you're jumping around like you've just scored a goal for England. Hey, you're not at Wembley, you're in a back garden in Colchester. My back garden I should add. With my boy, not yours.

Anyone'd think you were his real dad the way you two carry on. Like you'd come into our life for him, not me.

And what about me, eh? I mean, when we met, you knew our story. You knew that bastard Andre had run out on me, left me totally on my own with Toby. You said you'd take it on like it was some sort of workload, like a huge weight to carry, like lifting heavy furniture up the stairs.

You said you'd support me. And you have. Course you have. I'm not a complete bitch. I can see your heart's in the right place. You've helped me with the rent, you clean up after yourself, even cook the meals sometimes....I mean, that lazy bastard Andre thought the kitchen was some sort of forbidden zone from one of his sci-fi films.

You take Toby to school, help him with his homework, play games with him on that bloody X Box. Andre couldn't do any of that. I've no idea why he wanted kids in the first place. Oh, that's right. He didn't. My famous 'accident'. As if I was responsible for his dodgy contraceptives. And Toby, you poor little scrap, you were just something to get under his feet, weren't you? All the tears in the world didn't get you the attention you needed, did it?

And me? And what about me, the famous single mother? I thought, I really thought that maybe the two of us we'd have that famous bond I'm always hearing about, that whole mother-son connection, like my umbilical cord had never been cut. But....But you didn't though, did you Toby? I was like a fisherman sitting by a river waiting for a bite on the hook that didn't really come about. Maybe sometimes, like your birthdays or feeding the ducks or that Bakewell tart I used to make for you. Maybe then. But there was this.....this empty space in you where there should have been a boy who loved his ma. Where were you, son? I kept looking and you were right in front of me but I couldn’t find you. But I live in hope. I mean, we have to, don’t we?

And as for you, ‘Ronaldo’. Yes, you with the big wide grin and your tousle of slightly greying hair and your big hands and that whole “What can I do to help?” look on your face all the time. I swear, you were an absolute Godsend at first. How could I even resist? And Toby? He thought you were Jesus bleeding Christ himself. You’ve never had kids but you took to this whole fatherhood thing like a duck to water. Y’know when they say “If something seems too good to be true then it probably is?” Well, you seemed too good to be true. I thought you might have been one of those predators who prey on helpless children. Or maybe one of those types who charm their way into the life of a lonely divorcee to do unspeakable things to her kids. But no, that’s not you at all. You really are completely, totally, utterly ‘decent’, aren’t you? Like a cross between David Beckham and David Attenborough. Honestly, it’s enough to make a go-getting twenty-first century woman quite sick. You breezed in here and then you had the cheek, the sheer audacity to be a better father to Toby than his own bloody father ever was. [SNORTS] Who do you think you are?

The deal was, you’d move in with me, we’d build a life and as a sort of “by the way” you promised to make sure Toby was alright. That was the deal, right? And now, here I am, staring out the kitchen window, and it looks to me like you got it the wrong way round; like you’re building a life with Toby and I’m the add-on, the spare help.

[GRINS] Well, mister, let me tell you this for free. You may think your bread’s buttered on this side but your days here are numbered. Once you’re gone, I can re-connect with my boy. When you’re out of the way, I’ll work on that whole Mother-Son bond and everything’ll work out fine. So, enjoy your footie and your x-box with my darling boy while you still can. This time next week you’ll have slung your hook and Tobes and I can start over.

It’ll be great. Just you wait and see.

MEETING THE FOLKS #1 - A PRETTY LITTLE PICTURE

DOROTHY, IN HER EARLY 50s, IS CREATING A VIDEO DIARY. SHE'S FAIRLY ATTRACTIVE AND CARRIES AN ANXIOUS EXPRESSION.

(PAUSE. DEEP BREATH) I don't know. Really… I don't know. I mean, Mikey, he's my son an' all and of course I want the best for him but these-these girls, women....I….I don't even know what to call them.

It's not like he's a bad looking boy. He may be a bit rough around the edges but, you know, it's that rugged kind of look that some of these women like.....isn't it? I mean, look at that Daniel Craig, he's not exactly one of your drop dead gorgeous hunks is he? And he was James Bond for Chrissakes!

(SIGHS). Alright, let's start with Sue....if we must. Mikey, he's a car salesman. He's good too, works at a dealership near the city centre. He's only 23 but he's picked up enough knowledge for a man twice his age. This Sue was a customer. He sold her an audi of some sort and she was well pleased. He’s got a real gift of the gab he has, my boy, so he asked her out on a date and….and before you know it, they’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.

I asked him what she was like. For a mouthy so-and-so, he can also be a bit…. sullen sometimes if you know what I mean. So, when I said to him “what’s she like?” he squirmed a bit then said she was “very modern.” When I asked him to explain, he said something like “well, y’know, she’s not backwards in coming forwards but she’s a good girl. Great legs.” Huh. Like a decent set of pins has always defined your personality. Still, I thought, don’t be judgmental before you’ve even met the poor girl. I really don’t want to be seen as some dreadful matriarch, the disapproving dragon or even, if it ever comes to it, some dreadful overbearing mother-in-law.

So, the big day arrives and he wants to bring her around to show her off. He’d already been round to meet her mum and dad. I asked him how it went and he hinted that it hadn’t gone too well. “Why,” I questioned him, “didn’t they take to you?”

“Oh” he said, “they liked me well enough.” I mean, who wouldn’t? Everyone likes Mikey. Then he sort of left it hanging in the air. What was I supposed to make of that? Tom, as usual, just shrugged and smiled. Never wants to get involved with the in’s and out’s. Honestly, he’s more like a sitting tenant than a husband sometimes.

So, they pull up in her Audi. She likes to be behind the driving wheel, I thought. Mikey’s there, big grin on his face. He wore a snazzy waistcoat and smart jeans. Always looking good.

And there was Sue. I wasn’t sure if the girl had mixed us up with some other event. She looked like she was off for a girlie night out rather than Sunday lunch with the fella and a couple of old folks. Dyed hair, streaked blond with sort of dark pink at the ends. Pencil thin eyebrows and so much slap it’d take you half a day to chisel it all off. And those earrings…..silver hoops so big you could put your hand through them. Unbuttoned scarlet blouse revealing a little too much bosom, black leather skirt and heels.

She swanned in like she was royalty.

We made the introductions and, I dunno how she did it but it was like she was scrutinizing us not the other way round. We had that really awkward physical introduction only the English suffer from. None of us knew whether to shake hands, hug or kiss on the cheek – so we did a clumsy mixture of all three. I was embarrassed but she just did a sort of half-laugh as if to say “well, that was amusing, wasn’t it? Shall we move on?”

We showed her into the lounge and it was all “How sweet”, the house was very “quaint” and our original painting of a rural Victorian scene she called “a pretty little picture.” It was like showing a new doll’s house to a child.

The dinner I’d slaved over – and was always appreciated by Tom and Mikey was “very tasty” but not as quite as good as Granny Bea who was the best cook ever.

Mikey, as she put it, was a lovely man but he should really apply himself. My best summer dress made her “nostalgic” for when she was a little girl. Everything was “very nice”, just not quite nice enough for the mistress of the house, Lady Sue.

Dear God, she even hinted at their sex life being not quite as adventurous as her last boyfriend which, trust me, is something a parent really doesn’t want to hear. Especially at the dinner table. Or any table, come to that. Even Mikey who laughs everything off, seemed to falter. He carried on grinning but….his eyes seemed to lose their shine.

Well, finally, we saw off her Ladyship. It was just as embarrassing as before. You’re supposed to be a bit more affectionate at this stage of the proceedings. I went to hug her but it was a bit half-hearted and, frankly, it felt like hugging an iceberg.

And that was the last we saw of her. She left Mikey a week later for a faster stallion. He really didn’t seem too bothered by it. Put it down to experience. Bad experience.

I asked him again about the meeting with her parents, y’know and why it didn’t go so well if they seemed to like him. “Oh,” he said…. “they can’t stand her.”

MEETING THE FOLKS #2 - APOCALYPSE NOW

DEBORAH IS ADDRESSING THE VIDEO CAMERA. SHE SEEMS LESS COMPOSED THAN BEFORE.

Right. Wednesday July 3rd. Like I mentioned in the last entry, we put the fragrant Sue down to one of life's little mishaps and all part of the great learning curve. (LICKS HER FINGER AND MARKS IT ON AN IMAGINARY BOARD). One down.

So....a little way down the line and Mikey says he's been seeing this beautiful girl for a few weeks.

Why didn't you mention it sooner I asked?

Well, k'know.....he mumbled.

So, where's she from then? I put it to him.

Oh, y'know, back east....and he shrugs.

What, like Epping or Chelmsford? I said.

"Er, no - Vietnam" he says and looks a bit sheepish.

So, there you have it. My boy dating a Vietnamese woman. Now don’t get me wrong, I've nothing against foreigners coming to this country, really I haven't, I'm just not sure if all this cross culture mixing makes people very compatible. You know, what with language and customs and lifestyles and everything. It's all.....not really in my horizon, like something I should be able to see but can't. I don't want to start saying things like "I'm not a racist but-" because those sort of people always follow up by actually saying something racist. Anyway, I find it all terribly confusing.

We fixed a Sunday for the two of them to come round. Tom wasn't much help with all this. He really wasn't. From the moment I first told him, he just seemed to find the whole thing a bit of a joke. "Don't mention the war!" he'd say. Or make out the day was going to be a disaster, "just like 'Apocalypse Now'" he'd say then burst out laughing. Then he suggested we make her some dog stew instead of Sunday roast. I politely reminded him that it was the Koreans not the Vietnamese who were notorious for eating dog meat but he just called me a spoilsport.

Well then, D-Day arrived. Mikey turned up in a white collarless shirt looking like he’s just stepped off a boat from the Far East. Pleased as punch, he made the polite introductions. Her name was Bian, pronounced “Bee-Ann”. She was a spindly little thing, looked like she’d blow away in a strong wind. Mikey had said she was beautiful and….well, I s’pose it’s all in the eye of the beholder. And our boy certainly seemed to be doing a lot of beholding. He was handling the girl like she was made of porcelain.

She was all…..terribly polite and smiling and bowing, a bit like you see the Japanese do. On the one hand, it was a pleasant change from the bold and brassy entrance of that awful Sue but it also seemed so…… how can I put it, submissive. Mikey didn’t seem to mind a bit. Maybe he was tired of being under the thumb, I dunno.

We all sat down and then another small bone of contention sprang up. We were told that Bian spoke good English but what he meant was she spoke a smattering of pidgin English with a heavy Vietnamese accent and a fair number of misunderstandings in between.

She found the roast pork dinner I’d cooked a bit overwhelming. Like most English people, we don’t think anything of having a good Sunday roast in the middle of summer. Tom said something about Vietnamese pot bellied pigs and she couldn’t quite understand and it all became even more confusing. Mikey was attentive and patient and understanding which was all very good but…..but it gave me the impression of someone looking after a difficult child. I wondered what on earth they talked about when they were alone with each other. Maybe they didn’t talk. Maybe they just occupied their time with…..you know, other things.

I asked her what she did for a living and she said she worked in a restaurant. Then I asked her what her plans were and she said she wanted to marry a nice man in England and settle down and have lots of babies. It was the way she looked at Mikey as she said it that unsettled me. Even Tom quickly glanced at me. We just didn’t see this as anything like a serious relationship. Why would we? Neither Tom or me looked best pleased about this domestic turn of events so I think the conversation – or whatever it was - quickly turned to something else. It was all a bit…..unsettling, like finding yourself in a boat full of foreigners all speaking different languages and you can’t get off.

The day ended. Bian left us as politely as she’d arrived. I honestly couldn’t read my son’s face to see what he was thinking. Was this the kind of future he had planned for himself when he chatted up a waitress?

As it happened, things didn’t turn out that way. Mikey can be a bit naïve but he’s not totally stupid. He put a quiet halt to the proceedings. I mean, Bian could barely speak a proper sentence in English, they had nothing in common, they seemed physically incompatible, she had very few skills or qualifications and, oh, there was just one tiny little thing nobody remembered to mention – she was an illegal immigrant. She was working cash in hand and on the lookout for a nice Englishman to provide for her. I looked up her name afterwards on Google. It said Bian in Vietnamese means “A woman of secrets.” Well, you’re not wrong there.

I suppose our strange Sunday lunch wasn’t a total disaster - at least nobody mentioned the war.

MEETING THE FOLKS #3 - LOVELY LISA

DOROTHY ADDRESSES THE CAMERA. SHE LOOKS A BIT WORN OUT.

OK, Tuesday, August 26th. Kylie - disaster. Even her own parents didn't like her. Bian - you couldn't find a more incompatible partner for my boy if you tried. It wasn't quite 'Apocalypse Now' as Tom kept joking, but it was a bit ‘Calamity Bian. I’m not one to interfere in my son’s dating arrangements but I was beginning to despair of the boy ever finding a decent long term girlfriend. He hadn’t had any trouble in his teens; how come he’d lost his taste buds in the last year? Tom told me not to worry, he was still finding his feet. I said he keeps tripping up, that’s why he can’t find his feet.

So now Mikey gets a bit wary when I ask if he’s seeing anyone. He knows he scored a couple of own goals recently. I can sort of tell he’s met someone by the phone conversations. They’re all a bit subdued and secretive. You don’t talk to your friends in that way…..and if his face glowed like that when he was talking to his best mate Luke then I’d start to worry.

So, who is she? I asked Mikey.

Huh, who? he said.

Got yourself a femme fatale…..or a friendly assassin, maybe? I replied, smiling.

Or a Dominatrix from Soho? chipped in Tom a bit too enthusiastically.

Judging by the look on Mikey’s face, I think we overstepped the mark. He glanced at us from one to the other. He put his hands on his hips like a little boy trying to make a point and he said: “Actually, her name’s Lisa, and she’s a really nice girl and we get on amazingly and she even said she really wants to meet you and come over to the house for Sunday lunch.”

Okayyy, I said. How many languages do we need to learn?

Just one. Just bloody English! the schoolboy shot back.

I glanced over at Tom and shrugged. He shrugged back.

Okay, I said, tell your new perfect girlfriend we’ll be delighted to have the two of you over next Sunday.

And tell her to leave the handcuffs at home, said Tom helpfully.

* * * * *

Sunday arrives once again. There are no dietary requirements so I made a full proper English roast beef with all the trimmings, Maris Piper roasters in goose fat all fluffy on the inside and golden crispy on the outside, honeyed parsnips and buttered sprouts, home made stuffing and gravy. What could go wrong?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing went wrong. Lisa was lovely. In fact, Tom and I referred to her as ‘Lovely Lisa’ after that first visit. Good looking girl, same age as Mikey, attractive brunette with pretty brown eyes. And nicely dressed, long skirt and a blouse, no…..impropriety. Great manners, minded her P's and Q’s, quick to laugh at Tom’s terrible jokes, seemed to adore Mikey, always touching him in a nice affectionate way.

I asked what she did for a living and she said she takes care of properties so I guess she worked for an estate agent. She asked in a really respectful way if she could have a guided tour of the house since we were obviously so amazing in the way we looked after our home. How could I say no to such a charming young lady? She cooed and gasped as I showed her each of the pristine bedrooms and bathroom. Obviously, I’d had a really good clean-up before she arrived. Just in case.

What can I say? Lisa was funny, bright, easy-going, polite and…..and, well, great company. Mikey seemed as pleased as punch, like any previous mishaps were just a training ground for this one. They left after a lovely afternoon of a fine roast (even if I do say so myself), a very decent Bordeaux provided by Lisa and fun and chit-chat. Tom put his arm around me as they drove off and said Well, she seemed nice, didn’t she? They came again three weeks later. It was just like before. They seemed more like a couple this time, like they sort of belonged together. Mikey had grown up and found a mature woman with a great personality. This time, I’d become even more optimistic. We’d only met Lisa twice but already I was having these misty thoughts of an engagement and……well, you know. (SIGHS) You know.

* * * * *

Later that week as we were going out, Tom shouted down from upstairs “Have you seen my cuff-links?” At first I thought he’d just mislaid them. Then my beautiful emerald earrings couldn’t be found. And Tom’s dress watch. And my engagement ring, not worth much ‘cos we didn’t have a lot in those days but…..but priceless in other ways. “Have-you-seen-my-cuff-links?” With those five words, my stupid dreams for Mikey turned into ash.

It wasn’t easy but we informed Mikey as best we could. I thought he’d be really defensive about her but, reluctantly, very reluctantly, he confessed he was having his doubts when he was round her flat and picked up an exquisite ladies’ watch engraved with somebody else’s name. He said she snatched it off him and said it was her mother’s or something.

So, I said, you had your suspicions but didn’t think to mention it to us? And you brought her round the house, your family home to steal our most precious things?

Well, he shrugged, when you put it like that…. Sorry, he said.

* * * * *

The police caught her when she got careless. Turns out she was a kleptomaniac, like a magpie obsessed by shiny things. She couldn’t help herself apparently. Seems all too convenient to me, just an excuse for being a common thief. We got everything back except Tom’s watch. I learned two lessons from this experience……One, when someone tells you they “take care of properties”, it can mean all sorts of things. And Two, my son is an idiot and probably always will be.

THE BIG REVEAL

A MAN OF AROUND 40 IS SEATED. HE IS SLIGHTLY UNSHAVEN, CASUALLY DRESSED AND LOOKS A LITTLE TIRED. HE STANDS UP AND ADDRESSES A GROUP.

Hi everyone. I'm Lawrence.....and I'm an alcoholic. (HE BURSTS OUT LAUGHING). Ha, I-I've been wanting to say that for years. It's like, well, it's just classic, isn't it, like "Women and Children first!" or "Take me to your leader" or "Go ahead, punk, make my day."

'Course, when you're actually here and surrounded by you stoney faced buggers it's not quite the same, y'know? I mean, frankly speaking, some of you look like you could do with a couple of shots to put a smile on your face. (SMILES) Alright, alright, no need to look so freaked out. I know the score. Confession time, isn’t it? The big reveal. Pour out my aching heart and grovel for all the terrible things I’ve done. (PAUSE) Truth is – and you’re really not gonna like this – truth is, what I should of said was “I’m Lawrence and I’m not an alcoholic.” Now that would’ve made a bit more sense, y’know? A lot more sense. And if you think I’m less than enthusiastic about being here, well I’ve got a bit of a secret. (LOOKS AROUND CONSPIRATORIALLY). Truth is, my wife Janice, she put me up to it. I’m serious. She said to me, Larry, she said, I want you to take yourself off to the AA. I looked her straight in the eye and said I am not going to the AA – there is nothing wrong with that car! (GRINS, THEN STOPS). I am gonna have to change my material.

(GLANCES AT HIS WATCH). So, she’s going on and on about me having this “problem” like I’m impotent or I’m going loopy or something. In fact, she’s gone on and on about this alleged problem for as long as I can remember. And the nag definitely has more to answer for than the nag-ee as far as I’m concerned. She says I need to get “sorted out” and maybe I could meet some kindred spirits. I laughed and said the only kindred spirits – Boom! And she cut me short just like that. I guess she’s heard all my booze jokes before. I mean, this….this ‘thing’, it’s all part of married life, y’know? There’s all this give and take, push and pull, swings and roundabouts, ‘cept in my case, there was an awful, awful lot of ‘take’. In fact, a very unnecessary piece of ‘take’. You know what she said? You know what she actually said to me? If I don’t sign up with the AA, then she’s removing my….my, y’know, conjugals. Denying me my you-know-what. Seriously, in this day and age. It-it’s like you may as well take away a man’s right to have food and drink and somewhere to piss. And the worst of it, the worst of it is I haven’t done anything wrong, y’know? I mean, Christ, what man doesn’t like a drink now and then? Honestly, she talks about me like I’m a drug addict or something. It’s not like I’m going out mugging people for some crack-cocaine, is it? Well, is it? The way she acts you’d think I was doing something illegal. She says I’ve got a problem ‘cos I’m stashing bottles away in secret places. (LOOKS EXASPERATED) Well of course I am! If I didn’t, she’d pour it all down the drain like she’s done before. Protecting your booze is like…..well it’s like “An Englishman’s home is his castle.” It’s my God-given right to defend my home and even have a drink now and then, y’know?

Oh, and…..and you know what? It doesn’t end there. Not by a long chalk. So, I’m the breadwinner, right? I’m the one who brings home most of the wages. She’s just got a small part time job, doesn’t pay much. And she actually has the gall to say I’m drinking the money away. “Our money” she calls it. Frankly, I work bloody hard for it so I can do what I want with it. And the way she talks, it’s like I’m down the ‘offy’ every night buying out their entire stock. Women, they just exaggerate. Everything’s a huge issue. And she…..she just doesn’t let it go. Now she’s started saying I’m short-tempered. Me?! I’m the most amiable bloke you ever met. She says I’m snapping at her all the time. Well, wouldn’t you get a bit irksome if your spouse was nagging you like there’s no tomorrow? I mean, who does she think I am, the Dalai bleeding Lama? It’s like, ever since Adam and Eve, there’s always gonna be a bit of a fallout, y’know?

(SIGHS) You’d think, wouldn’t you, that all my problems were in the home but…. just like anyone else, I got my own stresses and strains. So I take a nip of vodka into work just to keep the devil at the door. Why wouldn’t I? People going on at me all day, telling me I’m not up to the job. People who’ve been there less time than me. It-it just gets under a man’s skin, y’know? I had a row, this steaming row with a workmate. You know what he said to me, he said I had a problem and I should “seek help”. Seek help?! Cheeky bastard. You know what I said to him? I told him I’d “seek help” getting some colleagues who weren’t on my case all the time. Honestly, you go into work and it’s like being with twenty different versions of your wife.

So, all I’ve gotta say is, these things are all…..they’re all a matter of perspective. If I get a bit tipsy now and again, that’s nobody’s business but mine. And being a little bit drunk once in a while absolutely doesn’t mean I’m a drunk, y’know? You see how easily these things get confused? Course you do; that’s why you’re here.

So there you have it. I’m a man with a taste for the good stuff in which I occasionally indulge. And it’s all turned into fake news by people who really should know me better. Shame on them.

(GLANCES AGAIN AT HIS WATCH) Well, must go. Gotta see a man about a dog. (GRINS) Nice, er, chatting to you all. Toodleloo. (WALKS AWAY)

THE SERVANTS OF THIS HOUSE

A WOMAN IN HER EARLY FIFTIES, SMARTLY TURNED OUT IN BUSINESS SUIT. SHE'S COMPOSED AND FOCUSED BUT SERIOUS.

Mr Speaker, my Right Honourable friends and colleagues. (PAUSE) Seventeen years ago, having won my constituency by a large majority, I was honoured to have played a part in winning a general election and to have earned a seat in this prestigious house. I’ve since won that seat three times and I remain indebted to certain mentors in my party and to my constituents for their continued support.

At the time I felt, perhaps with some naivety, that we were a forward looking institution, ready to propel ourselves into the twenty-first century, that the bigotry and sexism from times past was just that…..in the past. The respect I believe I deserved as a working MP, regardless of my gender I thought was a given, my natural due. I was dismayed then angered by the demeaning comments from a (thankfully) few number of my male colleagues, all of them old enough to be my father and, apparently, still living in some sort of nostalgic fog of good old fashioned 1970’s chauvinism. When the compliments about my appearance degenerated into lewd suggestions and provocative innuendos, my formal complaint to the powers-that-be resulted in more of a wink-wink, nudge-nudge slap on the wrist than anything like a justifiable penalty. It seems that the Old Boy’s Club is still alive and kicking.

This was not acceptable conduct by anyone’s standards. And it never will be. In my personal experience, this kind of behaviour has diminished somewhat, partly through official if desultory reprimands but also from my growing a thicker skin, learning how to counter-attack and probably succumbing to the advance of years and making myself a less attractive prospect. (THIN SMILE) I suspect, however, that the temptation of some of my male colleagues to succumb to their worst instincts is ever present.

If this were all, if this was my only cause for concern, then I could conceivably put it behind me and move on into what Churchill euphemistically called the “broad sunlit uplands.” Let me say first that I’m immensely proud of the gains I’ve made within my borough. Working with the council to reduce the number of library closures, saving the community centre from demolition, working with disaffected youth and preventing a British born citizen from being deported to Afghanistan where he would have been killed….it’s all made the hard work worthwhile. I’m deeply thankful to the party faithful and my assistants who’ve worked behind the scenes to ensure that the rough and tumble of local politics all…..fits into place.

I’ve always thought the opposition were to be regarded as some sort of mortal foe, never the twain shall meet and all that. It came as a bit of a surprise, shock even, to learn that we had common ground on certain peripheral issues and I was able to work with a few MP’s from the enemy trench. We may come from opposing sides of the House with our own ideological agendas, but after a bit of wrangling, we were able to attain certain objectives for the general good. I’ve developed a grudging respect for their years of experience and even regard one or two as my friends. They’re not quite the satanic ogres I was lead to expect…. well, some of them anyway. (SUBDUED LAUGHTER)

(LONG SIGH) Some – and I know it’s only some of you - may have got into politics for much the same reason I did. I genuinely wanted to make a difference. I wanted to empower those who were disempowered; I wanted to play some small part in helping enrich the impoverished; and I wanted to speak up for those who had no voice. In time I came to realise that these high ideals came with a price tag….and sadly, it’s a price I’m just not willing to pay. Because there are some here who have forgotten that we are the servants of this House not its masters.

The greatest in the land have their weaknesses, their own personal Achilles heel. Any of us can fall prey to overweening ambition, envy, sexual desire, insecurity, material greed or just downright ruthlessness. But sometimes, the rank dishonesty and forced departure from some of the ideals we’ve set ourselves is….well, it’s a thing to behold. There are those among us on both sides of the House who are long in the tooth and know how to play the game. They know how to initiate those extra-curricular activities to suit themselves, to suit their prestige, to impress the mistress or bolster that off-shore account. The shameless gerrymandering, the expense claims that are anything but, the quid pro quo’s that are only ever conducted verbally, the paper trails that lead to nowhere, the quiet deals behind closed doors with corporate sponsors, wish lists for certain individuals in exchange for sizeable donations, all those “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” under-the-table arrangements. And the opposition needn’t look so smug; the worst of you are willing participants in the same dirty race. Whether we go back in history to paid votes and rotten boroughs or leap forward to the present day, for a certain number of my morally bankrupt colleagues, the song remains very much the same.

I’m sure there are a number of you who, even now, are saying “Silly cow! Where does she think she is, Disneyland?” Of course I don’t but I do believe that as Parliamentarians, this is a calling as much as…..no, more than anything else and it should be approached with passion, with integrity, with boldness and with good heart. We are the sum of the people we represent.

(PAUSE. LONG SIGH) It is with the deepest regret, Mr Speaker, that I am resigning my position as minister of Parliament for reasons I believe I’ve made obvious. I hope and trust in the House I am leaving that the unscrupulous do not speak and act for the conscientious.

Bless you and may God go with you.

Thank you.

OUR LIFE OF BALANCE

A NATIVE AMERICAN, TALL AND PROUD, STANDS DRESSED IN HIS FINEST REGALIA. HE SPEAKS SLOWLY, CHOOSING HIS WORDS CAREFULLY.

Black Robe, you have come to us with an open heart. You have spoken to us of your love for the Great Spirit and your desire for my people to follow him as you follow him. This son of the Creator sounds to us like a good human who walks the Red Road in peace and virtue.

We have listened carefully to your words. Now I, Masquait, leader for my tribe, will answer.

You say that we are not living in God's grace. Look around you, Black Robe. My people are strong and content. The corn and squash grows with vigour, the fish and deer meat is smoked so that we do not hunger in the winter, the forest provides us with all we need. The water is clear and good to drink, our children have full bellies and the women work hard and their wisdom is sought in council matters while our men freely hunt for the village and protect their people. How is it that you say we are not living in God's grace? We give thanks for the land and all living things upon it and regard all that we have as sacred.

You say it is forbidden for us to hunt on "Sun-day" for this is God's day. We do not understand this. We count the days according to the moon and the change in the seasons. Know this, Black Robe, when the rain gives life to our crops, when our children play in the river, when we find a herd of deer after tracking them.....for us, every day is God's day.

Again I say to you, we respect you for your love of the Creator and his blessed son, the holy man. Why do you not accord us the same respect?

We are not a warlike people and yet sometimes we fight other tribes. We fight because some of our young men want standing and reputation by winning war honours. We may fight to avenge a wrong or we fight to gain captives to make our people stronger. But, Black Robe, know this....we never fight over our love for the Creator. We come together for ceremony and kinship but how each man and each nation conduct themselves with God is a matter for them.

You say that your faith will make better men of us. It has not made better men of your people who have built a settlement only a day's walk from here. They have cut down the forest, taken all the fish from the lake and slaughtered the wild animals with no thought for the needs of their children or grandchildren. They have not treated our women with respect and shot at our men who came only to trade. And they have destroyed our sacred grounds where the bones of our forefathers lie. These are precious to us. What would you think, Black Robe, if we were so inclined that we ruined and burned your places of worship? You say it is Christian to forgive. Would your Christian people forgive such a thing?

You speak in great reverence of your great book. You say it contains power and truth and we may learn wisdom from it. I tell you this, we have no need of your book. Each man and woman has their own spirit medicine, each village their own Holy person and elders who give us the light of their years of experience and insight. They are blessed grandfathers and grandmothers to all our children.

You say that you will live among us and teach us to "read" and so understand this book. What use is this to us? We can read the sky and know when rain is to fall, we can read the growth of our crops, we can read the movements of the trees and the flow of rivers and the lifeways of all wild things in the forest. This is our book, Black Robe.

The Creator made all - the earth, the mountains, the lakes and rivers, the forest and the meadows and all of life within it including us, his children and even you and your people. Our beliefs and the way in which we embrace our world is sacred to us. These are the revered lifeways of our ancestors and this has been so for many generations. It is the centre of where we are and who we are in the Great Circle of life. We cannot walk away from the blessings of the Great Spirit and our life of balance. He has given us this land so that we may thrive and this is how it has always been. We cannot accept a faith unknown to us, a faith in which we need to be instructed by a strange people who do not know how to live in this land.

If you wish you may send some of your young men to stay with us. We will teach them how to bless the spirit of all living things, to be grateful to the Creator every day. (SMILES) We will teach them to live in the forest in a good way and how to become human beings.

Until then, go in peace Black Robe. May your path be clear and your life be lightened by the blessings of the Great Spirit.

I am Masquait and I have spoken.

A PLACE TO KIP

A WEATHERBEATEN MAN WITH GREYING BEARD AND DISHEVELLED CLOTHES. HE LOOKS AROUND 60. HE COULD ALSO BE IN HIS LATE 40'S.

Well, you 'n' me been on the road a while....a long while now. We seen our share, 'ain't we? Traipsin' up 'n' down to near midnight lookin' for a place to kip an' then moved on by the coppers when they didn't like the look of us. Mind you, I remember, that one with the ginger 'air and he seemed alright, even got us a cuppa tea sometimes.

An' y'remember that doorstep down Alperton way? The shoe shop near the big street light? The ol' west Indian lady? Said her eldest was inside for this, that and the other. Food she bought us was good 'n' hot....though that jerk chicken had a bloody kick to it, eh? Ya gotta give some people their due, they come up with the goods sometimes.

An' you can't knock the shelters can ya, not really. Trouble is, they's full o' people like us....'cept not like us with all their gripin' and whinin' and snorin' and coughin'. Some of 'em's grateful, some of 'em ain't. Gimme the open road anytime. Ya never know what's round the corner but at least you're not at the beck and call of others. There's good 'n' bad in that, I s'pose.

Still, the road's not safe either. Those blokes layin' into us that time. (SLOWLY SHAKES HIS HEAD) There weren't no call for that. I mean, if you give someone a kickin' 'cos you ain't got nothin' yourself, well that's one thing. But kickin' the crap outta someone just for a laugh. That ain't right. It just ain't right. Their mothers must've dragged 'em up somethin’ awful to think they can do that to people.

It's been a long haul, ain't it? Day to day, week to week, month to month...then year to year. Didn't think it would come to that to be honest. Summers were good though. More people about. So long's we 'ad water and a bit o' shade. Winters? Well, we know all about them don't we? Don't matter how many layers you put on yourself, that wind still bites into your bones. People more inclined to give ya somethin' though. They's thinkin' "Shit, that could be me sittin' there freezing me arse off." But....y'know it's all luck o' the draw, innit? And luck don't last forever.

We're not gettin' any younger are we, me ol' mate? We been through some times but even the open road, it's gotta end somewhere. Just don't want it to end at the bleedin' crematorium. Freezin' my bollocks off last night and it's only November. I can't.....I just can't do this shit any more. They offered me a place. It's not great but it beats the crap outta sleepin' in doorways and benches. Said they'd even try and find me a job, nothin' fancy, just somethin' to keep me goin'. I was always good with me 'ands and I got common sense. Maybe that’s all I need.

So....that's it then, me ol' mate. You been a good companion, can't deny that. You never complained, never whined....too much. Couldn't 'ave asked for better really. It's time to make a go o’ things before I start runnin' out.....runnin’ outta time, then run outta luck…..

(SIGHS) So long, brother. See ya around…..

WE SEE THAT HE'S BEEN TALKING TO HIS REFLECTION IN A SHOP WINDOW. HE WALKS AWAY FROM IT.

FAIR GAME

FROM AN E-MAIL….

Hi Clarissa,

You may not remember me. I'm Sharon from High School. We weren't exactly friends but I certainly remember you.

I came back to visit my mum and I bumped into Lizzie in Costa's. We had a coffee together. She didn't seem too happy about the idea at first but I told her I didn't bear a grudge about all that stuff from the past. I know it's been eleven years but I was surprised the two of you hardly ever see each other. You were inseparable at school. You and Jenny and Florence. The Gang of Four, remember?

Lizzie left the kids with her sister. Scream a lot, don’t they? The sister didn’t seem too happy about the arrangement and was staring daggers at me. Anyway, we had an interesting chat about ‘old times’. Lizzie seemed to be quite wary of me, as if I was about to slap her at any moment – which is a bit ironic.

Whether you have a good recall of our school days or not, Clarissa, I should remind you that you and your friends were not very nice to me. Not nice at all. I’d like you to read this email through and see what I have to say. You may even be surprised by some of it. For starters, if I’m coldly honest with myself, I must have seemed like fair game to anyone looking for a victim. The new girl in town with a thick Devon accent, keeping mostly to herself. And I wasn’t exactly an ugly duckling but you’d never have found me on a catwalk in Paris.

I was also a bit brighter than most which was a great help with my GCSE’s but not so great for social interaction and fitting in. Nobody likes a swot do they? It made your little band of tyrants seem even more stupid than they actually were and pushed your petty tyranny to even greater heights – or lows.

And it really didn’t help that Mister Ferguson only had beady little eyes for sweet Clarissa with her flashing smile and equally flashing fifteen year old cleavage. This, of course, made him too eager to look the other way when the Gang of Four dug their collective claws into hapless Sharon with the geeky specs.

Bear with me, Clarissa, this letter is more than just a crude condemnation of your behaviour but some things just need to be said.

As you’ll recall, it was mainly the other three, Lizzie, Jenny and Florence, who were the willing foot soldiers in this strange little quartet of spite. They were the ones falling over themselves to deface my school work, ruin my packed lunch with all sorts of foul substances and even one time, stealing my specs and returning them in pieces. It’s like they were all vying for your attention which, of course, they were.

They had a particular enthusiasm for name calling, all of them apparently dreamed up by yourself, the mastermind. You may not have been a gifted literary student but you were certainly a genius of the gross insult. Even some of our classmates picked up on it. You were the Svengali figure (look it up) with your trio of acolytes prepared to do your bidding. You always managed to stay in the background letting others do your dirty work, the inventive nicknames, the schemes and scams to perpetuate a daily session on ‘Shitty Sharon’, but always careful to keep your hands clean. At the time I despised you more than the other three because of your cowardice.

And you know what, Clarissa? If the aim was to wreck my life or destroy my self-esteem or just make me miserable, then it didn’t work. It didn’t work at all. In fact, if anything, it had the opposite effect. My mother and I moved from Devon to make a clean break from my dad who, to be honest, wasn’t the best father to me and certainly not a loving husband to her. It wasn’t easy but that kind of disruption to your life sure has a way of making or breaking you. Well, it made   me. It toughened me up for the big bad world ahead. While you and your little demon-bitches were obsessing over how to inflict some home-grown pain on me for your warped sense of self-gratification, my Mum and I were going through the emotional grinding machine of a traumatic separation from my intimidating father. I’m not asking for sympathy. A lot of teenagers would probably collapse under the twin burdens of a distressing parental divorce and relentless bullying; I know, I’ve encountered enough of them in my line of work. No, I’m just saying to you that I had bigger fish to fry than to waste time crying myself to sleep at night because Clarissa Evans had a bee in her bonnet about me. I used my contempt for you and the Gang of Four as a coping mechanism. Why do you think you never saw me shed a tear? Why do you think I never complained to any of the staff? At the age of fifteen I quickly realised that if I didn’t pick myself up off the ground and develop some self-respect, then no-one else was going to do it for me. It actually made me more determined to get on with my life, more resilient to the childish assaults and safe in the knowledge that I was better than all of you in every way. It was a testing ground that made me stronger, more capable in prioritizing the things that really matter. I was able to help out my mum because she needed support from me more than I needed it from her.

Eleven years on and I graduated with a degree in psychology. I have a busy career as a counsellor and I live in a modest flat with my partner in west London. I counsel mostly young people some of whom went through a similar experience to myself except that many of them went under whereas I found a kind of inner strength to swim to the surface.  

So, Clarissa, although you certainly didn’t mean me any goodwill, I nevertheless want to thank you for inadvertently giving me the courage to find myself. They say ‘Love conquers all’ but a good old dose of hatred is also quite motivating.

One more thing. Your old friend Lizzie told me that throughout the Gang of Four’s hunting season, you and your sister were also enduring a divorce from your parents. As a qualified counsellor, I can guess that you were so stressed and disempowered at the time that you needed somebody else on whom to project your frustrations. While you and I could never have been friends, we would at least have found some common ground if you’d taken a softer approach. What a terrible waste.

Regards

Sharon Hepburn

THE WAY HE WAS

A MAN IN HIS LATE 50'S IS AT A PODIUM. HE'S WEARING A CASUALLY SMART JACKET, A BLACK LEATHER WAISTCOAT AND A BLACK TIE.

I first met Leon when I was twenty years old at a Blues gig. I can't even remember who the band was but in those days, I'd just roll up to anything that sounded vaguely promising. I dragged along Nicole, my girlfriend at the time, but she wandered off somewhere.

I caught sight of this guy next to me. We were the same age and he was wearing what looked like a sort of subdued version of a Sgt Peppers jacket, black with epaulettes and braiding. It had a distinct military look about it but the guy wearing it wouldn't have been accepted into this or any other army in a hundred lifetimes. His hair was frizzy and a little wild and held back by a purple sash. He was mixed-race (half Irish, half Jamaican) though he could have come from any place or any race. Around his neck was a miscellaneous assortment of charms and trinkets. He may have resembled a walking stereotype of a 1960's hippy but somehow it all fitted him naturally like a velvet glove.

Despite his regalia, what really caught my attention was his hands. He was completely focused on the band's lead guitarist while his long fingers were moving in various rhythms and I realised he was trying to duplicate the notes and imaginary chords. The song finished. I turned to this strange dude, smiled and said "Hey man, nice moves" and we became the best of friends for nearly four decades.

Leon hit it off with my crowd almost immediately….my slightly demented dope-smoking, heavy drinking bunch of rocking party animals. (GLANCES TO HIS LEFT) Some of you jokers are here now, a bit thinner on top and a bit wider round the middle. (SUBDUED LAUGHTER). He mixed in almost seamlessly and my friends became his friends. It's a bit of a cliché to describe Leon as "a free spirit". He didn't set out to be a maverick or to flaunt authority or bend the rules most of us grudgingly live by. It's just the way he was. He moved to the rhythm of his own heartbeat and nobody else’s.

As a friend though....as a friend, Leon was the best. Almost without knowing it, he became a part of our lives. Whether it was roaming the streets of Amsterdam, dropping acid at Glastonbury, meeting up in 'The New Inn' or just sitting around in the park, he was an essential part of the crew, full of fun, quick to laugh and sometimes quick tempered, he always had your back and you can't ask more of a pal than that.

We were once invited to a party in Greenford by one of the barmaids. She said it was fancy dress. Leon said he had to “see a man about a dog" and he'd be along afterwards. We all made an effort, turning up as Dracula, Jimi Hendrix, a viking and what have you. Leon turns up late. He's in his usual gear. Sgt Pepper jacket, black leather waistcoat (the same one I’m wearing now), scarlet trousers, a bullet belt and a yellow sash around his thigh. All the guests who didn't know him were gushing at how amazing he looked and if there was a competition he'd win first prize. He looked a bit bewildered and said he'd totally forgotten the gig was fancy dress. We just fell about the place. Much later the four of us - still dressed as we were - drove to Stonehenge to watch the sun rise over the sacred stones till the Gendarmerie caught us and sent us packing. But, hey, that's another story.

In our endless single-minded pursuit of the fairer sex, we were jealous of Leon’s sex appeal. Women were drawn to his flamboyance, his wicked charm and his devil-may-care attitude to his own existence but they were exasperated by his fluid temperament and phenomenal inconsistency. He was no more likely to remain in a committed relationship than he was to have a lifetime career in the civil service. Behind all that fun-loving, live for the moment persona, there was a darker, uncontrolled, more serious side to him. Everything has its price.

I guess that was one of the things I liked about Leon. Behind the mischievous hedonist was someone with a raw intelligence. I’m not talking about university degrees and academia. I mean that insatiable curiosity about the world and the people in it. Leon was never much of well-travelled guy but he certainly did a lot of exploring with his mind. Only he could come up with something like “I reckon God is seeing a therapist. He creates Paradise, everyone makes a mess of it and millions of dudes are calling him out to make it all better. That’d drive anyone nuts, right?” We had some doped-up, rum-soaked conversations well into the night about life, the universe and everything, most of it probably a load of gibberish but it all felt very meaningful and existential at the time.

There’s no question that Leon lived and died excessively. As he grew, kicking and screaming into middle age, he was more and more beset by life’s trials and tribulations. When his mother asked me to give the eulogy, I told them I’d be a “Speaker for the Dead” meaning I’d honour the man and celebrate his life but I wouldn’t put him on a pedestal and gloss over the less praiseworthy aspects of his life. Leon had an addictive personality – in all ways. Behind the rogue-ish grin was a man wrestling with his own personal demons. Booze and drugs gave him some sort of respite but they also unleashed his darker side and, as we all know, eventually consumed him.

But the real burning passion that kept Leon going and all of you would agree with me, was music. It was the one thing that kept him from the brink for so many years. We’ll always remember Leon’s mad enthusiasm for Hendrix and the Beatles and the trippy years of Pink Floyd, his passion for psychedelia and colour and carnival. Part of him was like a kid on Christmas morning who never wanted to grow old. Some of you will remember when Leon used to walk around in summer with a 12 string acoustic strung across his back and he’d play “Horse With No Name” and “Sunny Afternoon” and “Norwegian Wood” in parks and pub gardens. I’d join in and harmonise and while we often got some strange looks mixed with a bit of applause, no-one ever threw us out.

Music was Leon’s liberation and self-fulfilment. He was a crazy combination of all the characters he sung about or listened to. He was, of course, Sgt Pepper and the Fool on the Hill, he was Eazy Rider and Voodoo Chile and Johnny B Goode. And he was Floyd’s Crazy Diamond still shining despite those self-destructive demons trying to pull him down. But most of all, Leon was Mr Tambourine Man, a born troubadour and free spirit, trying to lead us like a modern Pied Piper to a better world in which we would all be excellent to each other.

Goodbye, my old mate – and may you finally rest in peace.

BE KIND

A WOMAN, HANNAH, IN HER LATE 20'S. SHE'S ATTRACTIVE, NO MAKE-UP AND WEARING A ROCK T-SHIRT. SHE'S SITTING ON THE GROUND. THE SOUND OF THE OCEAN IS IN THE BACKGROUND. SHE SETS UP HER PHONE FOR A VIDEO.

I've come to the coast. I started making this video in my flat but....well, it wasn't really appropriate. I needed to be here, where I can breathe and just be surrounded by (SWEEP OF THE ARM) all this.

(LONG PAUSE) I'm dying. Shock. Gasp. P'raps not so much to my friends and family. They've known a while now. Either gushed helplessly or bitten the bullet and sort of hope it’ll all go away. Fat chance.

No need for detail. Some cancers kill you, some don't. This one does. What the docs like to call "aggressive" though I can't get my head round any cancer being passive. They don't really know when....when I'll be gone but it's my thirtieth birthday in seven months and no-one's putting money on me being around for it. It wasn't too long ago I dreaded being thirty. It seemed too old, too 'adult'. Now it seems way too young. Funny really.

I decided to say what I wanna say before I'm too out of it on medication or I have to wear a stupid wig or I start slurring my words or whatever. Incoherence isn't very attractive especially when you're sober.

The docs aren't sure about me driving for any long distance so Steve drove me here. He's keeping his distance, letting me get on with this. He's been a rock, an absolute rock. I'm so blessed to have him in my life and then when all the tests showed positive or negative or whatever - I still get confused - he didn't do a runner and leave me to it. I hope my brothers'll keep an eye on him afterwards. Same for my parents. They haven't handled it well at all. I mean, who would? "You're our Number One daughter" they used to say to me. I had to politely remind them I was their only daughter. An old joke but somehow it sort of bound us together.

You might think I’m really calm and collected talking about my impending death like it’s a TV programme I’ve just watched. Honestly, you wouldn’t think so if you’d seen me when all this came out….the tears, nightmares about falling into darkness, losing my rag with people who love me and-and were almost as stricken as I was. It wasn’t good.

(PAUSE) It’s behind me now. For the most part. I think I just burned myself out. I realised there’s nothing I can do. I don’t wanna go, of course I don’t, but there comes a sort of settling in, like going down with a ship without a lifeboat….or to add to the nautical crap, it’s like being pulled along with the tide and all you can do is hold your breath and see where it takes you. ‘Cept I already know where it’s taking me. (LOOKS AROUND) Y’know, there’s a reason I came here to talk like this. I wanted to offer some, I dunno, some words of advice. Pretty stupid, huh? Just because I’m dying, doesn’t mean I’ve got the answer to life, the universe and everything, does it? Maybe you’d better read the bible or look up Confucious or some seventeen year old on YouTube who reckons they know it all.

I can say something about how I feel. How I got really resentful and kept saying “Why me?!” like I was being singled out by God or something and nobody except me was suffering and everyone else could just get on with their lives. That kind of self pity, it comes easy when you’ve got no self-control over events, over your own life. But all I was doing was just getting angrier and more unhappy and making things really difficult for those around me. There’s a Children’s Cancer ward in my hospital. Some of those poor little kids don’t even make it into adolescence. Compared to that, I’m….well, I’m lucky really. I mean, look at Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain. They all died at 27. I’ve actually got two or three years on those guys. See? It’s not all downhill. You can always salvage something from a bit of bad news. (HALF SMILE)

Y’know, half my friends are embarrassed to be around me. They look at their feet, their phone, their watch…..anything but my face. But Shanti? Ha, you can always rely on Shanti to look you in the eye and say what’s on her mind. "Hannah," she said, with that curious look on her face. "Hannah, what do you love most about life and what will you miss the most?"

What can I say? I love everything about life and if you catch me in the wrong moment, maybe I’ll hate it all just the same. Like anyone else really. I s’pose if I think about it, I’m a bit of a Nature Girl. Always have been despite living in a city. It sounds like a stupid cliché if I say I wanna feel the wind on my face and hear the roar of the ocean and eat wild strawberries and see the leaves fall in Autumn. But…but it’s true. I love those things. I’m not ashamed of it. So, that’s what I told her. "And what about the things you’ll miss," she said. Well, how am I to bloody know?! I’m not going on a sabbatical; I’ll be too dead to miss them. Shanti, I said to her, sometimes you can be a bit of a twat.

"What about regrets?" she asked me. "Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention.” Nothing I’ve done really. I’m a good girl I am….up to a point. But not having a child, a little girl. I’ll never get to…..it’s just as well we didn’t, what with everything.

And then Shanti said, "what would you tell your daughter if-" and that’s when I told her to shut up and get real. And she said, "what about everyone else?" and I…..really, that was what gave me the idea to do this vid. So, if there’s one thing I wanna say that maybe did change for me was that people were whining about stupid little things like the poor picture quality on their phone or the boss keeps calling me “love” or Dad ranting about his sat-nav in the car or so-and-so said this-or-that about whatever or-or any of that stuff. They’re just stupid, stupid little things to be worked out. You can’t live a proper life with those nagging problems dragging you down. And you shouldn’t be dying with them either.

Another cliché for you. “Life’s too short.” Well, guess what, for some of us, it really is too bloody short. So just….stop the bickering and the gripes and saving face and lying to yourself and everyone else and saying one thing to someone’s face and something different behind their back and-and get a fucking perspective.

Sorry if I sound like a preachy sanctimonious little bitch but I’ve got three pieces of advice before I sign off: Be Kind. Be Kind. Be Kind. And like Jimi Hendrix wrote: “If I don’t see you no more in this world, I’ll meet you in the next one. Don’t be late.” (SMILES) Love to all. Ciao. (TURNS OFF VIDEO)

KING O’ THE WORLD

A MAN IN HIS MID-THIRTIES IS STANDING IN THE DOCK. HE IS WEARING A JACKET BUT NO TIE. HE HALF SMILES THEN ADDRESSES THE JUDGE.

"Thank you, yer Honour.

First....well, I put me 'ands up to everythin' I was charged with. Everythin' that is 'cept for the audi in Belsize Park and the house in Elms avenue two year ago. Nothin' to do with me, those two . I think the Gendarmerie have been gettin'a bit ahead of themselves (TURNS TO COURT) ain't that right, DI Mills? Lookin' for that inspector's job are we? (BACK TO THE JUDGE). Nothing like fillin' in the gaps, is there?

Let's face it, I'm a dishonest man, yer Honour. Goes with out sayin'. Thievin' stuff's what I do. But I'll tell ya this, standing here in court where I been had up bang to rights....at least I'm honest about me dishonesty. But DI Mills over there, looking like the cat that got the cream, well he's......he's dishonest about his honesty if you know what I mean.

So....yeah, I did those cars over. Turned a tidy profit on 'em an' all. That warehouse in Alperton....the plumber's van in Willesden....and a few houses in the area. (LONG PAUSE). I s'pose this is where I tug me forelock, hang me 'ead in shame and apologise to the court for me wicked ways. My Brief says I should “beg the mercy of the court” and say I've had a rotten life and fell into crime and please give me another go of it 'cos everyone needs a second chance, y'know? Like maybe I should turn to God or take up poetry or jigsaw puzzles and it'll make a new man o' me.

(SHAKES HIS HEAD). The truth is, yer Honour…. I like thieving. Seriously. Ever since I was a little nipper, it's all I ever wanted to be. When my mates was watchin' Westerns and horror films, I was watchin' stuff about bank robberies and car chases....'Snatch', 'Fast and Furious', 'Lock, Stock' and all that Scorsese stuff about the Mob. Couldn't get enough of it....the idea that you could lie in bed all day, then prowl the streets at night like....well, like, y'know, Batman, but takin' stuff that people are too stupid to look after.

That buzz you get when you take a motor or when you do over a house and you're never sure it's totally empty. It's like a rush, your 'ead's swimmin' and your heart's racin' like the clappers and when you make off with the gear and it's like-like you're king o' the world and nobody can touch you, they can't even come near you...(PAUSE).....'cept that no-one's lucky all the time, eh?

(SMILES TO HIMSELF). So, ya know what? Go ahead, you do your worst, judge. And maybe I'll see you again in a few years. (WINKS)

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

A MAN IN HIS LATE SIXTIES LOOKING A BIT TIRED. HE'S STARING WITHOUT EMOTION AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN. HE SIGHS.

Right. It's on. Good God, the bloody thing actually seems to be working. (PEERS CLOSER) My lips are moving anyway and that's got to be a sign of something. Ironic really, I s'pose. Using a computer to whine about computers. (PAUSE) I don't want this to be a mad rant, it's just..... something I want to get off my chest, reasonable like and calm, no trouble to anyone. Get these little quibbles out there then I can sit down with a cup o' char and get on with my Sharpe novel.

So, to start. It's the lingo. Now I'm not a stupid sort of a bloke, I can put a sentence together. I mean, I have been speaking this language for more than sixty years. But....but there's something about this computer lingo that just leaves me cold. When my son bought me the laptop, he said "Welcome to the twenty-first century, dad" and then he buggered off and left me to it. I gave it my best, honest I did, but, God, it's like being picked up and dropped on another planet and you haven't got a clue what's going on or what the hell everyone's saying.

For starters, I worked out early on that there isn't a manual that comes with this. None. There's these instructions somewhere inside that tell you how to use the computer but, trouble is, you need a dozen Degrees in computers just to find out where they are. I mean, you get a new piece o' kit, a-a laptop or a smart phone or some other such gizmo, and these youngsters they just hit the ground running and there's no stopping 'em is there? How do they know all this? Nobody seems to teach 'em, they just have this secret underground computer slang and they automatically know this stuff like they were born with it.

Try as I might, I can't get my head around all these words and things, They might as well be double-Dutch. I was brought up to believe that words actually meant something but now it's like they all mean something else....apples and cookies and androids. There's even a Trojan horse in there somewhere. And there's me thinking I knew my ancient Greek stories.

And what about all my bits and my bytes? And then just when you think you got a handle on those, along comes megabytes and gigabytes and God knows what else I'm taking a bite out of. Puts my corned beef sandwich to shame it does.

Since my son's too busy to help his old man, he sent round Petra, my grandaughter to come round and give me a hand. Weren't much help to be honest. Don't get me wrong, she's a bright lass, honest she is, but she did the same as those bloody manufacturers and designers and experts - they all assume that when they give me instructions I already know just what they're talking about so's I don't really need 'em in the first place. She was talking so many words to the dozen about surfing and servers and hyper links and hyper text and what have you, it all made me a bit hyper myself and I just said "Look love, there's juice in the fridge, oreo's in the jar; just sit down and let me try and get on with it before you give your ol' grandad a heart attack.

(SIGHS) I know I wasn't born into this world where everything moves faster and faster and they take pictures of themselves all the time and use their phones like it's physically attached to 'em like an umbilical cord that'd kill 'em if you snipped it. I was already in my forties when Gary was coming home from school and raving about computers like aliens had just landed in the back garden. (SMILES) I s'pose in a way they had. And I'm not such a crusty old dinosaur that I thought I didn't need to make an effort. I just....well, I just got a bit lost along the way is all, like.....like being swept away by a big wave and everyone’s riding the crest of it and all I can manage is a mouthful of sand and seawater. All I want really is to do a few useful things without either my head or my computer blowing up.

So that's it really. Not really so much of a rant, just a bit of a tap on the wrist. I'll master it in the end. I was a signaller in the army for twenty-three years so I must be able to get something right. (LOOKS AT HIS WATCH) It's eight-thirty and Petra's long gone. Here I am back where I started. I've said my piece. Not sure if I'm any further down the road. Still feel like a stranger in a strange land. But you know what? (STANDS UP) My grandaughter tried teaching me what HTTP stands for but I've already made it my own. Obviously it means "Here's To The Pub." Make mine a pale ale. Cheers (SWITCHES OFF LAPTOP. GOES TO DARK)

WHY ARE WE HERE?

A FEMALE VICAR IN HER FORTIES. SHE HAS A ROBUST FACE. SHE LOOKS GRIM AND DETERMINED AS SHE SURVEYS HER AUDIENCE FOR A FEW MOMENTS.

Why are we here? I don't mean why are we here on this earth or what makes us tick. Those are questions best left for philosophers and poets. No, I mean why are we here in church on this fine Spring morning? Surely some of you have better things to do on a Sunday. Plant those runner beans in the garden, wash the car, take the kids for a run round the park perhaps. Maybe some of you will be glancing at your watches waiting for the Rose and Crown to open its hallowed doors.

Are we here to worship God as a Christian community, to learn from the teachings of Christ our saviour and endeavour in some small way to follow his example in our daily lives? To come together in fellowship with the holy gospels as our road map through life? Or do some of the congregation feel that it's something of a weekend chore, do your two hour penance and get a free pass through the gates of heaven? Maybe Sunday service is like a moral safety net…. Conscience appeased then it's off down the pub to get bladdered.

I'm sorry, all of you, if I seem a little harsh today. My apologies to those many brothers and sisters sitting here who continue to selflessly devote their time and energy in sustaining our community and helping those unable to help themselves. Sadly however, it has been brought to my attention that an incident occurred during the week which did not portray St Stephens in a good light. Some volunteer parishioners were gathered here going about church business when Peter, the beggar from the high street, came through the doors. Peter fell on hard times some years ago and he's survived only through the generosity of others. And last Thursday, he came into this church, our church, not to beg for food or money. All he wanted was to sit for a while and pray. To sit in silence in this sacred place and pray. And he also asked for a drink of water. And he was turned away. He was turned away!

This is a house of God. All are welcome. Anyone who is in need is especially welcome. We had the opportunity to show a fellow traveller seeking the light and guidance of the Lord some compassion, some generosity, something akin to the many examples set by Jesus. We could have bathed in God's grace for doing his bidding to his followers and the world; offer a helping hand to a man in need of spiritual sustenance. Instead, the doors to this sacred place, this shelter, were closed to him and even water, the very stuff of life, was denied him. Remember Matthew 5.42: "Give to the one who asks you and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you."

(SHE SIGHS. LONG PAUSE) I was told that a parishioner said to the man “We don’t want your kind in here” and then he left. “Your kind.” I don’t even profess to understand what that means. Isn’t the whole notion of Us and Them the very antithesis of who we are? Didn’t Jesus ask us to love our brothers, our neighbours, even our enemies? Did he not walk among the poor, the hungry, the sick, the lost? If, as a united parish, we’re unable to accept others who are adrift or in need of help then we are not truly united in our vision. In fact, it is we who are lost.

When you look at a man or woman and their appearance is fundamentally different from yours in one way or another, what you see and how you react is recorded in the eyes of God. The Creator knows your heart, he sees what you’re made of. Do you remember the words of Christ on the mount? “Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Feed the poor and lift them when they’ve fallen or resort to petty tribalism and deny a searching soul a place to sit, shelter from the storm and, yes, even a drink of water.

I don’t mean to preach but you can’t get away from the fact that I am your preacher. (HALF SMILE) If I am to be shepherd of a flock then I’d rather some of the sheep didn’t go astray. I’ll finish with a story told to me by a friend of mine….

There was a beggar at a church door. He heard the congregation singing inside. As a young man in better times, he too had been part of a choir and still possessed a semblance of a rich tenor voice. As he approached the door, it was suddenly shut in his face. He knocked loudly on the church door to be allowed inside but the more he knocked, the louder the choir sang to drown him out. Disconsolate, he was about to turn away when he realised there was a man standing next to him. The man was about thirty, had a middle-eastern appearance and was wearing a robe and sandals. He hair was long and he had a beard. He looked kindly at the beggar, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and said “Don’t worry about it; I’ve been trying to get in there for years.”

Again, I ask you…why are you here?

IT'S NOT ME, IT'S YOU

A PERSONAL VIDEO FROM A LAPTOP IS SWITCHED ON. A WOMAN IN HER EARLY THIRTIES IS ON SCREEN. SHE IS WEARING A LOT OF MAKE-UP, HAS PAINTED EYEBROWS AND LARGE EARRINGS. SHE'S SERIOUS THROUGHOUT.

Paul, by the time you see this I won't be here. I've gone to Seville for a few days. Yes, I know we were planning to do this together but, you know, things change. I just needed a break from everything and….well, from you really. I’ve gone away with Luke, he’s one of the trainers at the gym. I know, what a cliché, right? Still, it could’ve been my karate teacher I suppose, I mean, he certainly knew how to pack a punch. (SMILES)

Paul, listen, I don’t want you getting all upset. The writing was on the wall if you really think about it. I mean, I saw it if you didn’t. I s'pose you want some long drawn out explanation don’t you? Well, I'm not like a counsellor who’s nearly down on her knees begging the two of them not to break up. It's been nearly two years we were ‘together’ and it was two years of hell as far as I'm concerned. Do I have to make a list? No, but I will anyway…..

I hate the way you gurgle your mouth after you’ve already brushed your teeth; I hate the way you always say Alicia Keyes is “derivative” and “synthetic”; I hate the fact that you actually listen to music from the 1970’s just like my dad and the way you both laugh at me about it like I’ve done something wrong; I hate that stupid silver belt you wear when you go to concerts (or “gigs” as you call them) thinking you’re still 22; I hate the way you end emails and texts with a double kiss – it really makes me cringe; I hate the way you eat marmite on toast as if it’s some sort of delicacy; I hate the way you won’t have a glass of wine with me and you’ll only drink your revolting ale; I hate the way you keep a photo of your mum in the lounge – she’s dead, Paul, get over it; I hate it that you won’t get an android upgrade even though the face on yours is totally cracked; I hate that beaten up old car you won’t get rid of because “it still goes” (Luke’s got an Audi A5); I hate you being a fan of ‘Game of Thrones’ with all those stupid zombies and dragons – maybe it’s about time you grew up; I hate the way you think you can sing and everyone goes on and on about you having this great voice even though I’ve got a great voice ‘cos all my friends tell me but you’ve never once said a thing; oh, and I really hate it when you tell me my friends are stupid and shallow – they’re not, they’re just like me.

So, as you can see, it isn’t me, it’s you. Obviously, by the time I’m back next Sunday, you won’t be here. I’m keeping the flat ‘cos Luke is going through a bit of a bad patch and he needs somewhere to stay…. though I doubt he’ll be spending much time in the spare room. We’re paid up for the month so Luke can stay here rent free for nearly three weeks. I know how much you hate waste, so I guess you ought to be pleased. It’s obvious which gear in the flat is yours – it’s all the crap so don’t forget to take everything you know I won’t want. I’ve withdrawn my share out of our joint account. Well, my fifty percent plus an extra twenty-five percent for all the trouble and bad habits and aggravation you put me through; in any case, we needed extra funds for Seville. What’s the point of a holiday if you can’t spend a bit?

So, that’s it. I’d say it’s been a fun couple of years but if you’d tried a bit harder to see things my way and not been so selfish, it wouldn’t have come to this. And if I never hear that ‘Game of Thrones’ tune again, I’ll be a very happy woman.

Look after yourself, Paul, I’m sure you’ll find someone else you can dote on without actually giving them anything.

There’s half a lasagne in the fridge.

Ta ta for now.

SHE REACHES FORWARD AND THE SCREEN TURNS TO BLACK.

DEAR DIARY….

A WOMAN OF AROUND THIRTY LOOKS INTO HER LAPTOP SCREEN. SHE SEEMS TO BE PLUNGED IN THOUGHT. SHE PRESSES PLAY TO RECORD.

Dear Diary,

Hello again. It has been a long while, hasn’t it? For lack of a suitable confidante, you’re all I have to talk to right now. Well, here we go….

So, what happens when the dream you’ve had since you were a little girl, the very thing you’ve craved since childhood…..what happens when that time finally comes and it’s not the rosy, golden-coated, sunshiny miracle show you were expecting? What happens then?

“I’m getting married tomorrow.”

Even if I say it out loud, it sounds like I’m referring to someone else, like there’s somebody else in the room. I just feel a bit detached, like I can’t quite get my emotional head around it. But why? Why?

Eight months. It’s been eight months since a handsome stranger called David spilt his coffee over me in Costa’s then opened a conversation with me. He told me later he spilled it on purpose ‘cos he needed an excuse to talk to me. Who does that? Why not come over and say hello? And God, yes, he did have a certain understated boyish charm about him despite his adolescent opening gambit to get my attention. And those searching brown eyes and a cheeky smile. How could I say no?

And yes, it was pretty good at first in that first flush and blood rush excitement when you’re getting to know each other. I mean, it still is in lots of ways. David was bright, and funny, he knew how to make me laugh, not just with stupid jokes but the stories he’d tell about his days in the army or the merchant navy. Or just finding the brighter, lighter side of things.

And yes, he’s attractive but he can also be a bit detached in ways that women find a bit irritating, like a bear that’s retreated to his cave. It was the same in bed. A bit like a military operation without any reconnaissance. If you know what I mean.

I guess the first doubts started creeping in over my old friend Matt. This scruffy laid back hippie had been my compadre ever since school. I’m even mates with Ally, his long suffering wife. She says I’m the sister he never had. And that’s just how it is. Ally doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body; I mean, this is the twenty-first century, right?

But David? Well, that’s a different story. There was never any kind of explosive argument, just questions, quiet but persistent questions that drip-dripped into your brain like Chinese water torture. I’d answer something, he’d seem satisfied then five minutes later, he’d ask something else. He just couldn’t let things go.

“Has he ever touched you?”

“Have you been on holiday together?”

“Did you share the same room?”

“Do you send each other Valentine’s cards?”

“Have you ever kissed?”

As for David, he has no woman friends. You date women, you live with them or you marry them. And that’s it. Like the classic ‘When Harry Met Sally’ scenario, he says men and women can never be friends so when it comes to other people, he invents secret liaisons and romantic subterfuge. He never actually told me outright that I couldn’t meet up with Matt for a coffee or go round for lunch (even if Ally was cooking) but it was pretty clear he wasn’t happy about it. As for the four of us going out together, it just wasn’t an option; my feeling was that Matt and Ally didn’t really like him but didn’t want to hurt my feelings. And I guess David felt the same way.

So, despite myself, I no longer see one of my best friends any more. In fact, a few of my friends have trailed away which is a bit sad. But the thing is, you have to balance out the good with the….well, the not so good. He’s decent company, interested in doing new things. And he does make me laugh. It’s easy to forget anything when you’re laughing. And let’s face it, after several years without a serious boyfriend, it’s good to have someone on my arm, especially my handsome beau.

I often get the feeling I’m the only person in his world, the way he looks at me so intensely sometimes. In fact, it can be a bit unsettling. I wonder what’s going through his head when he does that; it’s almost like he’s in a mini trance. I know David looks after me but sometimes it feels like being escorted by one of the Kray brothers. There’s a certain kind of dominance which feels out of place and out of time. When we go out somewhere, he always has to be the one driving. I’m never allowed to use my car. He jokes about women drivers but my impression is that he feels he should be in charge, as if sitting in the passenger seat is somehow beneath him and he’ll have to relinquish control. David has to be in the driving seat – and I’m not just talking about cars.

I suppose it was inevitable that he was gonna pop the question. He’s quite traditional so the whole marital thing was part of his life agenda. He actually did the whole bending down on one knee and the waiter arrived on cue and presented the ring in a small serving dish. All very romantic and didn’t the other diners just love it? The only thing is, it just wasn’t him. I felt like he was playing a part in a film, like it was just a few lines he rehearsed but didn’t fully believe in them. And when he asked….y’know they say when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes? Well, when David asked me to marry him, my whole future life and all the possibilities and pitfalls flashed before me. What went whizzing through my brain between his question and my answer? Well, for one thing, I ‘celebrated’ my thirtieth birthday last month and time is marching on….tick-tock, tick-tock. David may be a bit complex and emotionally detached but if I say no, what if no-one else comes along? Ever? Am I gonna end up like some Victorian spinster trying to be an ageing independent maverick while secretly yearning for married life and a gaggle of children?

And the second thing….the other thing was the photo. That photo. We’d gone to a friend’s wedding and we were dressed up as you would and I asked someone to take a shot of us because….well, I suppose I wanted to imagine how we might look on our own wedding day. And at first, I liked the image with me holding onto his arm, him dead smart in a finely cut charcoal grey suit and me in that nice sky blue number. I’m smiling a bit too girlishly and he’s just looking rather enigmatic like you don’t really know what’s going on behind the eyes. Then I looked again and I realised his hand, from the arm I was holding, his hand was clenched into a fist. A fist! I mean, what the hell is that all about? And the friends who wanted me to marry him said “Oh, he just doesn’t like having his photo taken” while the friends who weren’t all that keen on him said “That’s the writing on the wall, hon. It’s all spelled out for you.”

And I swear, all of that stuff went through my mind in about three seconds. Even then, with all those people looking on and a quiet fear about his reaction if I said no….even then, I guess my answer was the obvious one. “Yes”, I replied, “yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

And now? Now it’s 10.45 on my wedding night. David said he doesn’t want me to have a big hen night because I’d be the worse for wear on our wedding day. In any case, I’m not sure I could muster up enough of the old crowd any more. So I had a quiet dinner with Josie and Steph, my bridesmaids.

He didn’t have a stag do. Not because it’s in keeping with his principles about being fresh for the day. He just doesn’t really have any good friends. The Best Man is a reluctant colleague from work since my brother clearly didn’t want to do it.

They say everyone has doubts on their wedding night. It’s a big jump, a huge change to your life. And I’m sure we’ll be OK and make a good stab of it. It’s just that….at the back of my mind, constantly trying to resurface is that photographic image of my husband to be with a dark unknowable expression. And that clenched fist. 

THE WELCOME MAT

A MAN IN HIS EARLY FORTIES IS SAT IN A BARE ROOM. HE IS AFRO-CARIBBEAN, WELL DRESSED AND CLEAN SHAVEN. HE LOOKS RESIGNED.

(SIGHS) Sergeant, you keep asking me over and over why I attacked Gary Mason. And I keep telling you it all depends on what you mean by the word "attack." You....you're turning Mason into some sort of victim, as if I'd been stalking the man then suddenly jumped him in an unprovoked assault.

You keep asserting that my response was out of proportion to the name calling. How do you know? How do you know what's really in a man's head and heart when he reacts to something? Everyone....nearly everyone's got a story to tell, something that makes them what they are. We're the sum of our experiences and my story, it's not much different to a lot of other people in my....my position. You really wanna know why I turned on Gary Mason? You still looking for a reason? Bear with.

(LONG PAUSE) My parents, they were both from Trinidad. They came over to this country in 1977 as a young newly married couple. To make a better life for themselves from the relative poverty of the Caribbean. They thought the UK would be a good place to settle down, earn a decent wage, bring up kids and give them opportunities. And the reality? They were barely off the boat before the skinheads and the National Front were hurling stones and abuse at them. And not just the NF. Ordinary working class English people, the so-called salt of the earth. So much for the welcome mat.

But they bit the bullet and got on with it. Mama worked hard as a mid-wife for the NHS, dad went down the usual route of London Transport as a bus driver. My brother Anthony and I were born in the 1980's. Our parents were a bit unusual. They held on for a while before they had us. Maybe they were testing the water.

I did OK at school. There were enough black kids around in those days that we could hang out together. But the teachers, they were always....how can I put it, tainted by suspicion. When white kids hung out together they were called a group of friends; when black kids did the same thing, we were called a gang. Words are important. I learnt that early on. Words can define who you are in the eyes of other people, they sort of shape you whether you like it or not.

I began to realise by my early, mid teens that it didn't matter how hard I worked, the dice were loaded against me. I kind of took after my passive father and told myself to do my best and try not let it get to me.

As for Anthony, he....well, I s'pose he took more after my firecracker mama. She didn't take any crap, that woman. Anthony was just like her; if someone gave him any grief, they were liable to lose a couple of teeth and a sore head in the process. Thing is, you keep on lashing out like that and soon enough, they'll wear you down then snap you like a dry stick when the moment's right. The system was never geared to help people like us and I reckon Anthony knew that from the start. He was a bright kid. He had potential but...but he got more and more involved with some brothers on the wrong side of the tracks. Mama didn't encourage him but she didn't take him to task either. She earned a lot of respect from everyone at the hospital but all it takes is one stupid woman saying she didn't want her baby delivered by "a foreigner" that starts to upset the apple cart.

So, my dear bruv, tired of ignorant loud-mouths painting their own devils on his skin, pulled a blade and severely wounded a gang rival. If you had a generous disposition, you could argue that Anthony was courageously defending his culture but to most people, myself included, it was just a thoughtless and violent act and the start of his life as a career criminal. In any case, the gang member he stabbed was a Pakistani boy which muddied the waters somewhat.

As for me? I tried to keep my head down and get on with things. I managed to get into a decent college for an HND in Business Management. The course was good. It was a change of direction and I made a lot of friends from all over the place. The folks were pleased but Anthony, fresh out of jail, called me a sellout and a coconut. I loved my brother, still do. But we just went our separate ways. We don't even talk the same; he says I speak like the enemy.

I guess things didn't really kick off again till I graduated and started work. Just when you think the bad old days of the NF, the skins, racist coppers with hungry truncheons (sorry, Sergeant), and signs saying 'No Blacks' were all a thing of the past, I found out the song remains the same.

I got a decent job up town and enjoyed the work. But after eleven years of high performance and good results, I was still being passed over for promotion so many times I thought I had rabies. And outside of work, out on the road, it didn't seem to matter how well I was dressed, your fellow officers always had some sort of problem with a black man driving an Audi A3. I lost count of the number of times they pulled me over, the hard expression on their faces saying "Guilty" before I could show them the paperwork.

But the problems took a turn for the worse when I started dating Patsy. Patsy's a redhead Irish girl with skin so pale she looks like a ghost. I've heard that the largest minority in London is mixed race couples. Try telling that to Patsy's family who refuse to meet me despite my impeccable manners and 45K salary.

And try telling that to some of my associates who tell crass jokes about black and white couples when they think I'm out of earshot.

Try telling that to the barman at my regular pub who insists on serving people who've come in after me.

And try....try telling that to the gang of drunks who started mouthing off that I was taking advantage of "their women". Patsy had something to say about that, I can tell you. It didn't stop them from beating the shit out of me like an angry man kicking a defenceless dog. Anthony and his crew wanted to hunt them down for some "righteous justice" but I felt that was less about supporting his older brother than just sticking it to a bunch of white guys. So I lectured my wayward bruv on the perils of violence and he reluctantly - very reluctantly - backed down.

And all these things, one after another, they-they eat away at you, bit by bit, like a slowly dripping tap on your head till...till one day, something happens and....and you've got nothing left. Nothing decent.

Gary Mason? He was the endgame. He was the sum of all my experiences. When he came up to me last night, someone I'd never met, and started screaming at me "fucking nigger!" Told me to get out of his country, the place that's been my home for 39 years, before Mason was even born, when he looked me in the eye like some sort of demon and screamed even louder that he hated me. That's when I just did it. I unleashed all the stuff that's been latent, the sheer injustice of it and yeah, that's right, I beat the living hell out of him 'cos it was all I had left.

All the patience, all the turning the other cheek, the half-smiles when you wanna grimace, gritting your teeth when you wanna shout out, it all deserted me. All of it. 'Cos it was the only answer I had left.

So, there you have it, sergeant. You and the other officer here, you can lecture me about "reasonable force" but I have to tell you that beating up Gary Mason was the most reasonable thing I've ever done.

(SIGHS) I'm finished. Do what you have to do.

THIS I PROMISE

A MAN IN HIS MID-30'S IN PEAKED CAP AND GREEN ARMY FATIGUES IS SPEAKING INTO A MICROPHONE. HE IS FLANKED BY TWO SOLDIERS STANDING TO ATTENTION AND ARMED WITH ASSAULT RIFLES.

People of San Carrera!

The great day has arrived!

I stand with you today after years of struggle against Ferdinand Garcia and all the foul apparatus of his regime. You have suffered a decade of abuse at the hands of this corrupt dictator who lined his pockets with foreigner's gold while your children went hungry. When you demonstrated for our national resources to go to The People, his soldiers cut you down in the street. You were arrested, imprisoned, tortured and yes, even executed for the crime of demanding justice and accountability.

Garcia claimed to be a friend to the working people of San Carrera, he promised that your lives would improve beyond measure. He lived a life of wealth and luxury in The Palace of Gold while you went without basic amenities and bread was rationed and power cuts became a part of your lives. He entertained foreign dignitaries and wealthy sponsors from other lands to seize our assets; but these things are not for the taking - they are the livelihood and birthright of The People.

My friends, you have given your heart and soul and your blood for the revolution. And I and my army of freedom fighters thank you for that. I thank you for the faith and trust you have placed in me to restore our beloved country. We will not rule as a junta but as a force for good. This I promise.

I have to tell you now that within the last hour, former Presidente Garcia was captured trying to escape the country. His men were righteously eliminated. Garcia himself was hung from the nearest tree like the common criminal he was. Some have said to me "He should have received a fair trial" but I ask you, friends and comrades, would you give such a man free publicity on the world stage, to perpetuate his lies? No! His fate was sealed and, in the name of The People, I ordered his immediate termination.

When we first began fomenting rebellion in our mountain hideouts, we vowed that if the hated Garcia was overthrown, we would introduce a free and fair election for the position of Presidente. Naturally, these things take time to arrange so in the meantime, I have been asked to stand as defacto Presidente till it is time for me to humbly step aside. I pledge to honorably serve you as a loyal and patriotic servant of The People. Until further notice.

Of course, it is only fitting that the leader of a country rule from a residence befitting his esteemed position. So, I will be ruling from the Palace of Gold though, obviously, it grieves me to do so.

Comrades, I have to tell you that regime change does not, cannot happen overnight. This is the real world, not the American’s Disneyland. Regretfully, the camps and prisons created by Garcia will remain in operation while the former soldiers and servants of the last regime will be obliged to undergo a radical programme of.....re-education. This is so they can be accepted back into society. I know that many of them are your brothers and sons and fathers who were drafted into the army against their will but they have been tainted by Garcia and they must be....retrained so that they will not be a threat to the glorious revolution. I know I speak for The People.

We have achieved a glorious victory but our work is not finished. Sadly, the rationing of food will continue till we can return things to normal. I ask you to bear with us a while longer.

Unfortunately, the curfew will also remain in place for the indefinite future. It is with the deepest regret that I have to tell you that there are subversive elements among us who seek to undermine the success of the revolution. They are anarchists and trouble makers and counter-revolutionaries who want to destroy what we've started. They are among you, scheming and planning to bring back Garcia's regime. My people, we will root out these saboteurs and hunt them down like rabid dogs and they will be held to account. Trust me on this, my friends.

I have already initiated extraordinary powers for the security of our country and appointed my dear brother, Alfonse, to be The People's Judge. He will crush these elements in the name of San Carrera.

Never relax your guard, my compadres! There are enemies everywhere, in every nook and cranny, even living amongst you now. Help us to find them so that we can take care of them in the appropriate manner. Failure to do so will be regarded by the new regime as assisting the Garcian counter-revolution - and dealt with accordingly.

So, my good long suffering people of San Carrera, once again, I thank you for your sacrifice. As a lifelong friend of The People, I promise you that things will get better. In good time.

Meanwhile, never relax your guard from the enemy within and have faith in your new Presidente to restore the country to justice. Return to your jobs, labour for San Carrera with love in your hearts and always remember - work makes you free.

Viva la revolution!

CANCER OF THE CAREER

Paul Hawthorne,

Executive Director

TAURUS INVESTMENT SERVICES

Dear Paul,

You asked me the other day if I was feeling alright. I gave you the classic English response that everything was fine. But it's not fine. In fact, it's not been fine for quite a long time now.

Remember, you joked about me never leaving the firm because I've been here for three and half decades and now I'm "part of the furniture." I may have laughed at the time but it stuck in my mind and, to be honest, it hurt.

The truth is, Paul, this is my resignation letter. From the time I joined the firm as a fresh faced trainee, I had always taken pride in the company, our professionalism, our self-confidence that naturally came with expanding success, but also the hands-on way in which we dealt with our clients and treating them with respect, the cameraderie amongst the staff from the Chief right down to the cleaners.

I had clients tell me that we were one of the few firms they felt they could trust, a place where promises were honoured and they were listened to. Our front line staff were mature beyond their years, socially skilled and we pulled together as a team.

It was a source of pride for me to tell friends and family it wasn't necessary for me to seek employment elsewhere because 'Taurus' fulfilled all my needs. It was my second family. Home from home.

Well, that was then and this is now.

Paul, what the hell has happened to 'Taurus' in the last twelve or so years? Our entire ethos has been distorted by those who don't seem to have any kind of vested interest in the company except, of course, for the shareholders. We're sleepwalking through our working days and seeing the clients as nothing more than stats.

We've naturally adapted to new technology to keep up with our competitors and enhance our efficiency. Our social media profile may well have gained us more 'hits' but has resulted in fewer face-to-face meetings; ironically, our increased means of communication has resulted in less real time with clients in which we can build rapport and develop a solid working relationship. In short, we're barely talking to anyone anymore.

Those hard-working, keen as mustard, energetic, ambitious men and women who were the driving force behind the company have now moved on and been supplanted by under 25's with no skill set and the personalities of mannequins. And those who stayed? They just got older in mind, spirit and body, chugging along the road like a burned out car. I ought to know - I'm one of them. Our profits may be up, Paul, but in many ways we're virtually bankrupt.

'Taurus' may once have been the place in which I would learn and grow and aspire to be better than I was but now, I fear, this stilted environment is having a degrading effect not just on my position here but on my life in general. I think I'm suffering from cancer of the career.

Paul, I fear the tide is coming in fast and, like Canute, I'm unable to stop it. My time is done here. New pastures await.

While I may have banged on a bit, please consider this my formal letter of resignation.

Sincerely,

MARTIN JACOBS

WHEN THE LIGHT STARTS TO FADE

AN OLD MAN WITH A SILVER BEARD. HE’S AROUND 70 DRESSED IN OUTDOOR CLOTHING. HE’S IN A FOREST GLADE AND STANDING ON HIS OWN BY A GIANT WEATHERED OAK.

Well, my ol’ friends. Here we are. Here we are at last. Fifty-five years to the day. I were not much more than a boy when I were waged as a ‘pprentice to a forester. Lore, I were so wet behind the ears, I couldn’t tell a beech from a birch. And ol’ Luke, he may a’ been as rough as you like but, say what you will, he gave me every chance to make somethin’ of myself. I may’ve got the odd clip round the ear when I messed things up but he showed me the ropes he did. How to lay hedgerow, coppice the hazel, cut back the undergrowth, takin’ down dangerous trees, markin’ trails and spoor, learnin’ all the wildlife and the plants and all the ways o’ the woods really.

Course, most of it, you learn as you go along, pick it up, take it in like a sponge. Make it your own. After a while, you get a sense o’ things like when some animals know a storm’s comin’. When those lads started a fire and couldn’t put it out, I knew somethin’ weren’t right even before I could smell the smoke. It’s like a pricklin’ of the skin. Y’know somethin’ just ain’t right when the forest is out o’ sorts, out o’ balance. You just grow into it and before you know it, it’s like you were always here.

I got tuned in to the chorus o’ the wood. The foxes cryin’ out like demons, the rustle o’ mice in a thicket, the faraway call of a buzzard, the blackbird singin’ melodies and the cuckoo announcing the Spring and the barn owl hauntin’ the night. That’s been my music since I were fifteen. And I wouldn’t change it for anythin’.

(PICKS UP A HANDFUL OF EARTH) The number o’ times I walked these paths, the ground sometimes soft from Spring rain, sometimes hard with Winter frost. Through wood and copse and bracken, over the many years, my footfall grew quiet, so quiet I was like them Indians in America when they just melted into the land. And then it got so’s I’d barely even make a sound and the foxes and squirrels and rabbits and even the deer, they wouldn’t even hear me coming. But…..but that was then and this is now.

(SIGHS) Them in town, they says I’m just too old to keep on workin’ the forest like I’m one o’ those brittle conifers that crack and fall to the ground. Course, they didn’t use the word “old”, they said I’m a “senior citizen” and I need to enjoy my retirement. Trouble is, and it hurts me to say it, I s’pose they’re right. My hands can’t grip a billhook the way they used to what with the arthritis and some mornin’s it feels like my poor ol’ back ain’t got no bone. And my eyes are gettin’ dim, ‘specially when the light starts to fade.

(RUNS HIS HAND DOWN THE TRUNK OF THE OAK) And you, my ol’ friend. I seen you in all your guises. When your buds turn to leaves and your leaves open up to the sky then turn and fall down to the ground. And when you stand in Winter’s cold, creakin’ with the wind and waitin’ for another Spring. You’re always changin’ but you never change.

And still here after God knows how long. Four, five centuries? You survived many a storm and you survived the axes and chainsaws o’ mankind. Generations of oak have risen up and fallen and here you are, as tough as old boots. You lost limbs to lightning but you just keep on goin’. Like some of us, you just keep goin’.

(SMILES SADLY, LOOKS UPWARDS THEN PATS THE TRUNK) Time to go. Farewell to you all, my kindred, my life’s work.

Farewell.

(TURNS AND WALKS AWAY)