A Different Kind Of Crazy


You know the kind of girl, a wonder for a weekend, nightmare by a week. “I was her rock, her centre and her ballast” was what she called me,  within our first hour of meeting, lying in her bedroom, surrounded by a party, shortly after sex. Talk about the jackpot, had I won it ? You bet your life I had because she was so beautiful, strong and yet fragile: something out of films, or maybe an explorer, but certainly something special: unique you know.

And then she started shouting. Screaming  because I dropped the kettle. Life as we know it had ended and it was all my fault. And then she said “Sorry, I cannot help myself sometimes” and I was young and still thought I could fix some things so of course I put my arms around her and said, “I’ll love you always” which is not so good because I’m slightly north of crazy myself. Well “out there,” if you want to know, and being someone’s “rock” sounded slightly scary.

And then there were the tablets I took so we could share together and she would not be lonely, tripping out to nowhere, living in a kaleidoscope. discovering “Real” together.  Turns out to be a kind of hell, “Real” I mean. Didn’t say that in the brochure. Wish someone else had told me, but we knew too much by then. Knew everything in truth, except the need to listen.

I was in my twenties, setting off on that road, or was it a maze, leads us beyond the range of comfort, or normal or average conversations, and now I swear by nothing, because the face I see in the mirror is me turned into  Stranger. And you might help me if you’ve got a minute. Tell me where I lost myself. Could you do that ?

Am I making any sense this time, it’s just the way it sounds right, but we see what we wish to see, and then it all goes pear shape. “Ain’t that the truth,” .  The truth is all I know for now, but I’ll forget that in a minute.

Posted in character, community, creative writing, Environment, faith, Fiction, Life, Love, Relationships, Uncategorized, values, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

Born Surplus To Requirements


Late in September, some decades ago, a short episode of unremarkable intimacy, coloured by manners more than passion  and governed by ritual rather than appetite, ended the day of a man and wife. This infrequent coupling, occasioned by the man’s diffidently expressed appetite and the ladies “strained-against” sense of duty, was a residue of those dimly recalled times, sometime in their past  when the need to share and be all to each other was the driving force of dialogue, and being free to love their only wish.

Gone were the days when these episodes, lit by passion,  fuelled their mutual discoveries of each other. Now, years into a marriage burdened by  children, weighed down by routines and all else, they did not need another mouth to feed. Thus it was when she said some weeks later, at the breakfast table, “I’m expecting,” her husband raised his eyes to hers in shock, laced with an undiscussed apology. He knew how much she wanted the peace to dream,  and how a new mouth to feed, and sleepless nights and nappies needing changing did little to excite her imagination.” What will be will be” was all she said.

In the first flush of courtship and then marriage, the line was said in jest, part of a conspiracy in dialogue, their secret code, which marked them as a couple, but now it had iron in it’s tone and so her husband quickly drained his cup and said, “I must be off to work.” The office was his refuge now, where simpler goals could be identified and managed. Back at home, the name he gave this house, where money always seemed to be a problem, his wife,  who hated interruptions , felt the burden growing deep within her: a new demand to act as if motherhood was touched with infinite patience, unblemished by exhaustion or the need for peace.

In this house, where music once was played, although of different tastes. Where laughter could mark the passing time, the needs of faith, pride and social custom prevented them  saying singly and together, “We’re tired of this, and each other, and all we long for is some privacy, where we can think and feel and wonder, unburdened by life’s drudgeries.

Into this world I came uncelebrated, and surplus to requirements,handled with the skill of those who sought the minimum of contact, and who faced each new disruption with unease. Now, I am all I know, and that dimly, but with the knowledge gained as best I can, I launch myself at life and ask the basic question, “Can you tell me please, what love is ?”

 

Posted in character, childhood, creative writing, faith, Fiction, Life, Love, Peter Wells, Relationships, Romance, values, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 31 Comments

Age and Wisdom


Meeting Ronnie Crouch for the first time at what was to become “my local” shortly after moving into the area was an experience. He was a sprightly,  slightly elderly gentleman, with a glow and smile about him which draws the attention of those still wading through the chaos of their own making, otherwise known as middle age. Just the kind of bloke I like to get to know, so I said to him as I stood at the bar waiting to order my drink, “Well the sun seems to be shining then” and he smiled at me and raised his glass in salute.

We started chatting on this and that and nothing, as people do, and then, prompted by curiosity, and moved somehow by his unscarred optimism I asked, “What keeps you young?”. He replied, “Since I could stand on my own two feet I’ve only been interested in four things, Booze, food and sex and shelter,”

” Not too bothered,  with the ancient Egyptians or consequences of global warming then” I said. “Couldn’t care less.” he replied. I’m old enough to know that anyone who wants to run a country these days is a bit gone in the head, so after a century or ten of mankind getting it as wrong as he can. I’m  sticking to simple pleasures while they are available.”  He paused briefly and then added. ” Its a bit like giving a gun to a five year old, letting mankind manage his own affairs”

“Bloody hell” I said, “We’re going a bit deep aren’t we,” and he smiled. “When we were primitive enough to be frightened of something other than ourselves there was some hope, but now we think we know it all and can do what we like so sure enough, we are gradually messing up anything we can see, and most things we can’t” I looked at him anew then, because I could see that the “Booze, Food, Sex and Shelter” thing was more a protest statement than a philosophy I asked him , “What’s the strangest thing you’ve  done?”

“I climbed up to Machu Picchu last year” he said, “And I can tell you I was out of breath when I got there.”  I was surprised and impressed because the guy was clearly already in his seventies, and he continued . “I sat down and took  out a Big Mac and a Coke, to toast that ancient civilisation, with the cuisine of the modern age.” He  looked at me as if he was telling me something, but I’ve no idea what it was

It was time for me to go, so before left I asked him what his tip of the day was, and quick as a flash he said, “There’s no such thing as fresh wisdom.” That’s Ronnie for you, every glib aside had an aftertaste , and every casual observation was drenched in his experience . He was the most complicated man of simple tastes I ever met.

Posted in character, community, creative writing, faith, Fiction, humour, Life, old age, Peter Wells, Uncategorized, values, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

Etiquette and Meeting A Lone Lady On A Towpath


Here I was, or there, or even here and there.  Well, OK. On a towpath, walking back quite early in the morning after sampling the local brand of fresh air, lightly seasoned with diesel fumes and a sprinkling of cement dust from some roadworks when I spot a lone lady walking towards me at a current range of approximately two-hundred yards,

I do not like this happening. In the country life is simple. As you pass her you would say, “Vegetables failing again Doris” or “Hi there, how’s your Mum” and with complete strangers a simple, “Bit chilly eh?”  and onwards you would go with, in my case, my mind firmly fixed on a plate of scrambled eggs and some decent conversation with my much loved goldfish, Jacinta. In London things are more complex.

A claxon sounds on the bridge and all senses and instincts go to action stations. “Keep it light, Keeeeep it Light, no panicking among the nerve-endings paleeeese” says our noble leader, who speaks from somewhere in the centre of the brain. Now the range is only 150 yards and you can see she is wearing a nice blue dress, tucked in at the waist with a matching belt. Some reckless molecules from the waist region suggests you say, “Lovely dress if I many say so, and worth discussing over breakfast,”  while remaining out of slapping distance in case your invitation is declined.

Ninety yards and time for sensible suggestions only if we may. Heart rate rising slightly, and a sense of unease evident in thickening neck symptoms.  “Eye contact and a brisk but courteous nod” suggests someone from the earlobes, while other canny folk say, notice something interesting on the other side of  the river and walk past without comment.

Almost too late for strategy meeting now as we approach the twenty-five yard mark. No more suggestions seem forthcoming and a glassy grin, rich in unease and discomfort floods across your face and you open and close your mouth weakly in the manner learned from Jacinta,  who has no wardrobe to speak of, the shameless hussy.

The lady looks at you and is clearly alarmed by evidence of palpitations and mouth flapping, together with some head-nodding to show that, strangers we may be, but we are all companions in the world village apart from some rough-necks on the Ukraine border, a number of folk in the middle east, and other places where head nodding may result in execution.

Still for better or worse, apart from her moving as near to the fence as possible to maximise distance, the moment is over, and a pleasing absence of humans is evident between you and the gate you are seeking. Now all that matters are the eggs and the prayer that you hope to never meet her again.Botched first meetings are always made worse by the clumsy efforts to explain them on re- meeting.

For example. You meet her three days later, and she is getting as near the fence as possible, and quickening the pace. You serve towards her and raise your arm to demonstrate there is nothing to worry about. “I say” you gush, “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you the other day, I was………” Sliding sideways she just manages to get past you and scuttles on at speed. You have managed to create an “incident” from poor planning and your clumsy efforts to put her at her ease.   There is no manual for what to do on the third meeting.

Posted in character, community, creative writing, Environment, Fiction, humour, Life, Peter Wells, Relationships, Uncategorized, values, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

A Short List of Life-Saving Kitchen Tips


Following on from my Slackers Guide to Success, a small village on the edge of Delusion, I passed through once on my journey to Professional Oblivion, I thought I would slide a couple of catering tips out for those who seek to save the time spent by the misdirected, moving pots and pans around the kitchen: time they could use more profitably looking out of the window, wondering what went wrong with their life, and checking out obscure channels on the Television. My current favourite is a programme developing the new craze for “Bath-time Yoga.” The warning to “Avoid Unnecessary Splashing” always draws a smirk from my tired lips as I raise a life-saving cup of tea towards them.

First tip, and obvious when you think of it, always have a drawer full of take- away menus. Even at dinner parties, where my Thai green chicken curry is famous, a slick piece of pre-guest arrival telephonmanship, followed by a discrete conversation with our microwave, offers guests the chance to enjoy the very best in cuisine while allowing me to save enough energy to thrill them with my conversational gymnastics and cork-removal expertise.

Second tip. Never sneer at a meal served “en croute. ” Remember, only a tin opener stands between you and catering paradise. Recently, in a brief flirtation with “High-Living” we purchased three tins of crab meat. Open tin, add a little lemon and a few particles of coriander to add that “je ne se quoi ” to the flavour,  (Otherwise known as “What the hell is that?”)  and welcome yourself to a session of crunch by crunch ecstasy: no washing up involved.

Accept any invitation offered from a distance of no more than three hundred yards, to allow a good chance of returning home safely after another prolonged period of corkmanship but at someone else’s expense ( yippee ), or at least labour. Look up “Jokes” on google  I have noticed that making people laugh helps them overlook the odd wrinkle in your un-ironed shirt, but I must not foist all my wisdoms on you at once.

Where would I be without my “Slackers Guide to Housekeeping” but a lack of motivation means I must save those pearls for next ti

Posted in character, community, cooking, creative writing, employment, Fiction, humour, Life, recreation, Relationships, skils, Talent, Uncategorized, values, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

The Slackers Guide To Success


Owing to a natural lethargy this will be a short article, written in those small gaps between a mid-morning nap,  luncheon and the afternoon snooze. Still, in the brief time available, let me slip a couple of life-tips into the ether. The question is, how does an undirected unambitious man of moderate ability, that is most of us, make anything of himself in this complex and driven world?

I’ve no idea, of course, but lack of knowledge never stopped anyone giving advice so lets plunge in with  two ‘low-effort goodies’ which helped get me to the top of the Health and Safety Department at my county council. A pinnacle of achievement unhorsed, to mix my metaphors, when a rogue hair dryer  electrocuted a visiting dignitary and my head rolled in the customary manner, leaving me free to offer my advice and observations to the world. Needless to say the wife was delighted with the extra company.

Breezing past my own personal tragedy, my first tip is this. As a junior in a departmental meeting, when the head honcho finishes speaking, and regardless of the content, you look round at everyone in the meeting and say “I think that point is crucial.” Chuck in a bit of head nodding and direct eye contact to  add cutting edge gravitas.

Second tip: never walk  anywhere slowly. You are a driven man on the cusp of success. Walk at speed, and make sure you have a file under your arm, even if you are going to the toilet for a quick sip of  vodka. Only go for smoke breaks  when you notice some pretty heavy dude is also outside, and then praise him or her with out mercy or accuracy.

Finally, because a smart man always gives three tips for the price of two, do something for charity, and if you can’t be bothered, pretend to anyway. Act a bit tired a couple of days a week, revealing during the day that you were “Up pretty late, doing something you’d rather not expand on for the less fortunate then us.” On no account refer to the TV programme you were actually watching. Remember, the hard truth: even Slackers have to concentrate, on occasion.

That’s about all I’ve got time for now, as pillows need plumping and heads must settle down to a soft period of day-dreaming involving some beauty in a United Nations uniform asking me for the secrets of world peace.

 

Posted in character, community, creative writing, Fiction, humour, Life, Peter Wells, recreation, Talent, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 17 Comments

Isolation and the Social Voyager


The house that was meant to be my home became the space I lived in. Over a short period of time, it seemed to me, I had met people, made friends, been loved and loved others in return, although not in equal measure, and through accident, carelessness and weakness of character, I had lost it all again. So I found myself, in my mid-twenties, entirely alone and without support or reference points. The phone did not ring, and no one cared if I lived or died. It was a strange place to be for one so young. My food was delivered by van so there was no reason to leave the house, apart from my visits to the cinema which was my one escape. Watching lives moulding together on the screen filled me with a painful inexpressible emotion as I saw what others had and I did not. I watched people sitting near me, and sharing snacks and sometimes leaning in and kissing each other, or chiding children to be quiet. I saw them involved in the normalcies of life from which I was excluded.

I am a natural fitter- in, chameleon, a member of the crowd, but now I had no need to mingle any more. I could do what I liked and I would always eat but I had no function or need to interact apart from socially, and I had destroyed all that. I had grown up largely free of ambition or specific dreams: I did not wish to be a surgeon, or an architect or anything else you can imagine. I just wanted to be normal and loved, and yet I found myself as far from that place as a man can be. I did the basic cleaning in those rooms I inhabited, but largely I allowed the house to look after itself and, I noticed over time, that if I went for a walk along the landing, or peeked into rooms I had to enter, I would see a thickening carpet of dust settling over every surface. I wondered how, with all the windows closed, such volumes of dust could find their way to all this furniture. I filled my day with such idle thoughts, the answers to which I never found, and never cared enough to investigate. I drifted into stagnation, a depression if you like, when I had everything a man could want apart from interests, recognition and the love of others.

In case you are worried, this is a piece of fiction.

Posted in character, childhood, creative writing, Environment, faith, Fiction, Health, Life, Love, Peter Wells, Relationships, Uncategorized, values, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 27 Comments