No fixed address

This is one of my first attempts at poetry. I decided to give it a try after hearing the talented Hollie McNish perform her poem Megatron. It’s a new way of writing for me so any comments are appreciated. (NB this poem has nothing to do with giving birth or is anywhere near as good (as Megatron or giving birth!))

I’m having a midlife crisis, or perhaps I’m just indecisive. Because at 35, is life passing me by or is it just expectation telling me a lie?

That by now I should be getting somewhere or got there already, my career path on an upward arc, the angle holding steady. 

A profession they like to call it or an occupation, you know, the thing that defines you when having a conversation.

You can see it in their eyes when you get asked the question, and answer that the thing you once studied isn’t included in your present direction.

That actually you’ve changed your mind, multiple times in fact with no fixed interest keeping you on track.

Why does it have to be that we are tied to one address, frowned upon if we move about and take up temporary residence?

What’s wrong with not following a single road, why can’t we veer and take in the view, stopping off if we feel like it and learning a thing or two?

Just don’t do it for too long, or else you’ll end up: what? No chance at being the CEO, stuck in a place that ambition forgot?

House prices are a joke, they say pensions no longer exist. Why take the trouble to grind the same old stone, who’s system is this?

So here’s to the indecisives, the start stoppers and the unsures. The ones who still don’t know, but continue to grow in several directions.

The chancers, the samplers, the in and outs, the toe dippers and the skimmers, the what’s it all abouts.

There might not be a mortgage receipt to show for it or a five star CV, but experience is golden and the memories are free.

 

Flammable materials

Her little arms flop around my sides while I push her up and down with big breaths. I try to  imagine how it must feel; the heartbeat, the airway, the warmth, as womb like as possible since exiting the real thing.

In this moment, I know exactly what I’m doing. No doubts, no distractions, just the purity of looking after a helpless being that needs my care and protection.

Then you come in and I feel tension stab at my bubble. At least you can’t shout at me for not helping, but still it’s there; a flame waiting to spark.

It’s source is tiredness, the deep and withering kind. This is added to by frustration at being denied a life in order to care for another. Additional combustion comes from a sense of guilt about daring to feel that way.

All that’s needed are a few words.

What’s the matter?

Nothing!

And we’re off.

Redcliffe subway wins award

Redcliffe Street underpass has won Most Intimidating Subway of the Year.
Judges visiting Bristol for this year’s National Urban Decay Awards, noted how the subway’s darkened entrance, blind corners and sunken ceiling all contributed to a sense of ‘dread and uncertainty’, making it the favourite of the category.
Local residents were thrilled with the award. Rosary Farce said ‘it’s the last place on earth I’d ever want to go, except maybe with a hatchet and chainsaw. There’s not many places you can say that about in Bristol. Well, maybe a few.”
Councillor, Tim Reid, said the community had a love-hate relationship with the subway, as in they love to hate it. “It’s long been a talking point for the local community as a place that contributes to personal safety fears and general uneasiness within the neighbourhood. It’s fantastic that this is now being recognised as something to be proud of.”
Swindon was the overall winner, however, receiving the Gritty City award for being “generally bleak all round.”

Not in this family 

Gayle held the pot to her abdomen as she stood in the middle of the front garden.

“How about here, Sophie? What do you think?”

Sophie contorted her mouth and looked down at the gravel space that was plugged with tufts of grass. Then she shrugged.

“Okay.”

“I think this is a good spot,” added Gayle. “It’ll get plenty of light.” She bent down slowly, her hands trembling a little under the weight. She set the plant down and then straightened up. Only then did she realise she had broken a sweat across her forehead.

“Mum,” uttered Jane, by her side. “You should’ve just let me…”

Gayle hissed and backhanded the air as if preventing the words from ever arriving. Jane shrunk and Gayle returned her attention to Sophie.

“You must remember to water it everyday, especially when it’s hot. Then, one day it will grow into a bright, yellow sunflower.”

“Say thank you, Grandma,” murmured Jane.

“Thank you,” replied Sophie, twisting on the ball of her foot and breaking into a grin.

Gayle looked at her fresh, sun-blushed face and then to the gap in her lower front teeth, which Sophie tongued habitually as if it was the source of some new and delightful flavour.

Gayle smiled back, feeling satisfied. It seemed the spirit had merely skipped a generation.

“Well, it should brighten things up a bit,” said Jane, looking up at the pebbledash facade of the new house.

Suddenly, Gayle wanted to tell her how it meant so much more. How the flower was a symbol of hope, of a new beginning and soon, how it would be something to remember her by once the things growing inside her took hold.

But she didn’t, of course. It wasn’t the way. Not in this family. She could only give her doe-eyed daughter a hard look as she turned to her, side on.

“Cup of tea?” asked Jane.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Vanquishing evil

They gathered in a circle, their feet sinking into the muddy ground at the centre of the clearing. Overhead, clouds loomed, as if closing in to hear the passing of the judgement.

“Brethren, it is a dark day,” said Martha. “Once again, the Lord has punished us with this tempest. Do you not see the fruits of your doings? Must we keep suffering for all our sins?”

She glared at the group of wretched individuals who hung their heads as she spoke. “Unclean we are; unclean, pitiful things. You leave me no choice. Offerings must be given, more sacrifices must be made.”

In the centre of the group, Lorna was listening dutifully. But in her chest, a weighty breath bounded about and she could hold it no longer.

“How can we have sinned?” she blurted. “Do we not do everything you ask of us?”

Martha’s arm shot out like an arrow. “How dare you question God’s judgement?”

For a moment, Lorna faltered as all eyes turned on her. But her anguish was unabated. “We have nothing left, can’t you see?” she replied, clutching at her ragged clothing. “Why would a just God want us to live this way, in the dirt?” This last word, she hurled, and it echoed about the clearing like a thunderclap.

Before Martha could respond, another member of the group spoke up. “Yeah, what have we done?” said Victor, from behind curtains of white, matted hair. “Everyday, I work the fields. Anything that’s harvested I share with the villagers. I’ve never taken anything for myself, only given, yet still you say I’ve sinned.”

“Behold these blasphemers,” bellowed Martha, throwing her arms wide. “They choose to go against the one true word. Tell me, brethren; what punishment should befall them before they bring about even greater sufferance?”

But now, a steady murmur was passing amongst the group as others voiced their own grievances. Martha continued to declare and gesticulate, but her commandments were drowned out as collective anger boiled over into hysteria.

With gnashing teeth and wild eyes, the mob advanced on Martha. A hail of hands and feet fell upon her body, muffling her screams. After a minute or two, she no longer resisted the blows and the crowd erupted in jubilation.

Lorna danced among her fellow villagers, as they clasped each other by the shoulders and celebrated their actions. Despite the dark skies, she looked to them, thanking the heavens for an end to their misery.

Once the excitement had died down, the villagers looked again at the ravaged body of their former leader lying on the ground. Lorna stood with them, waiting for some sense of righteousness to emerge, a sign that justice had been served.

“We’ve done it. We’re free!” she cried, grabbing the sleeve of her nearest neighbour. But her words seemed hollow and out of place. A few others echoed her cry, but their elation also fell flat, like a spring fete in a rainstorm.

Lorna let her hand fall by her side as the last whispers of joy left her. Then there was only the sound of the wind and the beating of her heart.

Are you creative?

I’ve been on the hunt for jobs lately and have found myself amused, frustrated and straight-up perplexed by a few ads I’ve come across. In particular, the controversially named ‘creative’ positions (which generally amount to advertising roles, but worded in incredibly flamboyant ways). In my view, these are an insult to genuinely creative people who produce work of artistic merit or expression. They also talk a lot of bollocks.

In response, I decided to write my own job ad. I hope it will entertain others who are in a similar position and provide some light relief from the weird (and sometimes pretentious) world of job searching.

Happy new year!


 

Hi!

Are you a creative genius with a surgical eye for detail, a smile carved onto your face and a genetically modified amount energy? Are you a leaper not a jumper, faster than a calculator and everybody’s friend, with at least 5 years experience working in Photoshop, InDesign, Illustrator, Powerpoint, Excel, felt tip pens, international politics and subterfuge?

Then you might have what it takes!

Here at Amazing Incredible, we don’t do things by half, we do them by a whole and a half!

You might also have noticed (because of your eye for detail – if you didn’t then you’re already fired) that we love to use exclamation marks! That’s because everything we do is amazing (and incredible)!

We work with the world’s top brands (even though every other company says that) to make their wildest dreams come true (we produce ads). But more than that, we strive to make sure everything we do for our clients is so eye-wateringly spectacular that they actually leave us with tears in their eyes. After all, we want people to be in love us, not just pay us.

The Good Stuff

– Free grilled quinoa on toast every morning, a pint of coffee and sourdough macaroons

– Tricycle racing around our own purpose-built track (on the roof!)

– bouncy balls

– knitting

– an office orangutan

What we ask for in return

  • You’ll be bold first of all, preferably have a beard, possess bombastic design skills, bounce with energy (did we mention beard?) and love other great-sounding words beginning with B!
  • You must be a team player but also enjoy working on your own, be consistent yet adaptable, bleed creativity and also be hyper-numeric; in other words, an extremely conflicted individual!
  • You will literally shit ideas.

Pay

Who cares when we’re such an extraordinarily fabulous company to work for?

Benefits

10% off beard combs from John Lewis

Free Friday drinks at Wanko’s Gin and Sourdough Pizza Bar

Stupid games to play (because Google do stuff like that, don’t they?)

More coffee!

If, after reading this, you’re not feeling physically sick or experiencing the shakes, send us an email at howdypartner@ai.com telling us how you would keep the fires of creativity burning from atop the gleaming spire of our brand-building beacon.

Muriel

The grandfather clock had long since stopped, but now I missed it’s ticking.

On summer visits it had kept a stern watch over us, while we stuffed toasted cheese and biscuits into our mouths. I wondered now if it had simply been counting down towards the inevitable, a faithful minion to the God of time.

I turned my head slowly, letting my eyes fall on the pictures. As sure as her familial stories, the faces stared back; Dad at Bunesson, Muriel as a girl guide and the fallen film-star sister, beauty preserved before her marriage to alcohol.

I waited for a trembling finger to rise and the breathless stories to come. But only silence pervaded.

In her chair, the cushion sagged with an invisible weight.

For my great-aunt who passed away last month, aged 95.